"I was glad for the Lestrades," Watson murmured. "They were a godsend, even if they don't realise it." And that was a vast understatement. It had been far too easy to fall into the sort of life he had had before he had met Holmes: slothful, aimless, spending his money far too freely. He had had to learn how to be himself in London without Holmes; he had never had to do that before.

He had to think about Holmes's question, though. To say aloud that sometimes he found it unbearable seemed... well, unworthy of a doctor.

"Usually," he said at last. "It can be rewarding. It gave me the funds to let me stay in Baker Street." And it was dull. After patching up men on the battlefield, after dashing around London at Holmes's heels, attending to coughs and headaches and hypochondriacs was unbearably dull. Occassionally there was something interesting, but as interesting usually meant something unpleasant for his patient, even that was a mixed blessing.

And he wasn't sure he liked what that said about him.