Leaning back in his chair, Watson continued to stare, feeling suddenly very cold, very wounded, very frightened, scared in the way he had felt the first time he had seen battle: a growing sense of dread, and the sense he could do nothing to prevent anything that might come of it.

"Nothing happened," he said, his eyebrows raised. "Nothing except what I told you. I took Miss Morstan home, I narrated the evening for her benefit and for Mrs. Forrester's. There was some inconsequential small talk. I came home." Watson shook his head. He didn't understand what was happening, and he felt stupid for it, and he hated that.

Trying to make peace, he tried a different tactic. "Can I get you something?" Watson offered. "Some brandy? Something to eat?" He was no longer sure when the last time Holmes had eaten, but it was worth offering.