The Viennese Nurse - (6 Parts)

[Guest]

Only a teaser to begin with, I'm afraid, but more will be posted as and when I write it. This first introduction should be some sort of indication of the style, and the basis for the action. I hope you like Thanks to all you guys who showed enthusiasm for the idea - that definitely gave me an incentive to get writing. I'm enjoying trying out this style as well, so hopefully it'll be as much in character as I can possibly make it. For that reason, it might be a bit thin on the sneezing side of things, at least for the beginning, but I hope it'll be worth it. I apologise for the cheese of the title, but I thought that as Watson was such a romantic, it would be a title he might have chosen.

The basic premise: set in 1891, during the action of the non-canon story by Nicholas Meyer, 'The Seven-Per-Cent Solution', where Sherlock Holmes is induced by Dr Watson to visit Dr Sigmund Freud in Vienna, then just beginning his career as the founder of psychoanalysis, in order to cure Holmes' cocaine addiction. The character of Elsa Vettel (who, admittedly, is rather central, so if you don't like original characters in fandoms, probably best to avoid), is totally my own. I don't own any of the others, although I would very much like to. The story is narrated by Watson, like a real Holmes novel, but it is not supposed to be detailing a mystery, because that is already in the 'Solution'. It was written as a gift to Miss Vettel, for reasons which will become clearer by the end, and is a description of her first meeting with Holmes and Watson.

Some pictures and info: Sherlock Holmes has been played by lots of different actors over the years, most famously by Jeremy Brett in the long-running TV series, and by Clive Merrison in the BBC radio series. Other actors include: the inimitable Basil Rathbone, the troubled Rupert Everett, and the delicious Richard Roxburgh.

In the film of 'The Seven-Per-Cent Solution', he was played by Nicol Williamson.

Similarly, Watson has been played by lots of actors, and in very different ways. Those corresponding with the above Holmeses are: David Burke and Edward Hardwicke alongside Jeremy Brett, Michael Williams and Andrew Saches alongside Clive Merrison, Nigel Bruce alongside Basil Rathbone, and Ian Hart alongside both Rupert Everett and Richard Roxburgh.

The actor who played Watson in the 'Solution' was Robert Duvall.

Anyway, that's about enough links and back story. I hope people like it. Constructive criticism and any feedback at all is greatly appreciated.

The Viennese Nurse

I write the following pages, not to recount the tale of another extraordinary venture of my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, but instead as a record, at her sincere request, of my first meeting with Miss Elsa Vettel, a woman for whom I have always had the highest regard. Although I do not intend for it to be published, nevertheless I find myself falling into the same writing style which I have always employed for my more widely circulated accounts. The meeting falls in the month of November, 1891, and takes place during a small interlude of a week or so which occurred during the events which I laid down previously in the publication “The Seven-per-cent Solution.” It may be remembered that in this narrative, I explained that the plot of “The Final Problem” had been fabricated in order to give a satisfactory explanation for my friend Holmes’ sudden disappearance from public life. In fact, Dr James Moriarty was not the ‘napoleon of crime’, but rather the Holmes brothers’ mathematics tutor, and Holmes’ evaporation from the pages of The Strand magazine was owing to his wish to break the addiction to the drug cocaine from which he had long suffered. It was during this time, spent in Vienna in the company of one Dr Sigmund Freud, a physician and the founder of his school of ‘psychoanalysis’, that this report takes place.

[Guest]

Part 2 - still no sneezing Sorry. I am getting there, I promise. It's such great fun to write this story - I've been sitting with my copy of 'The Sign of Four' and my compendium of Holmes short stories thinking "now how shall I phrase this as Watson would?" I don't think I'll ever be perfectly happy with it, but this seems like a fair attempt for a first section.

Oh, and I forgot to mention: Alan Arkin played Sigmund Freud in the film, and he was wonderful.

“I am afraid, Doctor, that my feet have already trodden too far down that degenerative road.” My heart sank as I heard Holmes pronounce these words in tones of finality. After all our struggles – mine, and his brother, Mycroft’s – to bring him to the one place we hoped might be his cure, he was not willing to undertake the task. I knew from my own experiences as a doctor that breaking from any addiction requires an enormous strength of will. That strength Sherlock Holmes undoubtedly possessed, but if he refused to put it to the task, then no good could come of our meeting with Dr Freud.

The doctor watched Holmes with a shrewd, intelligent eye from behind his desk. I had chosen him as our best hope of success several months previously: the Austrian had been growing increasingly famous in medical circles, not only for his shocking theories of repression and hysteria (which I did not take over-seriously), but also for his remarkable success at curing drug addictions.

“You believe then,” he began, “that a man cannot retrace his steps?” His manner was light and conversational, but his eyes still scrutinised Holmes. I think he had not quite gotten over the events of their meeting a few moments previously: Holmes had utilised his powers of deduction upon the doctor’s life to great effect. Nevertheless, he was determined to fulfill his duty to a prospective patient, and I felt a thrill of sympathy for a fellow doctor in reasoning with Holmes.

“I do, sir. I have tried, and failed. The addict cannot give up his addiction.”

“I have done so.” This bold statement took my companion aback, although only the faintest signs of surprise could be read on his face. Dr Freud continued to watch him, while I observed what seemed to have become a sparring match between these two strong wills. “If you will allow me to try,” the doctor continued, “I can assure you that it will be a great deal easier here than alone. I can employ hypnosis, which will lessen the craving, (for a time), and you will stay here until the period of withdrawal passes.”

There was a long silence as Holmes appeared to consider the prospect. Then finally, and to my great relief, he nodded brusquely.

“Holmes!” I ejaculated, clapping him on a shoulder, while Dr Freud, smiling, went to the door for a moment. “Now you can finally cease slowly destroying yourself on a daily basis.” Holmes gave me a wry smile, and I noted that all the colour had drained from his face.

“Perhaps,” he said quietly. “But at what cost?”

I was saved from answering this morbid question by the doctor re-entering the room, accompanied by another; a young woman. She followed him and came to stand beside the desk, facing us. I was struck at once by her eyes. Although she was neither strikingly beautiful nor uncommonly plain, her eyes possessed a singularly sympathetic and intelligent gaze which, though it hovered only momentarily upon each of our faces, made a deep impression upon myself even so. She was dressed in a plain and practical dress of greyish material, and her entire costume was unadorned, giving an impression of either low means or stringent observance of some puritan faith. Nevertheless, her bearing towards us made it impossible to conclude that she was a servant: there was no air of subservience or deference, and so I found it impossible to infer anything of her station in the household. She made no attempt to speak, but stood in silence beside Dr Freud, who had again seated himself. It was he who introduced us.

“This, gentlemen, is Fraulein Elsa Vettel. She will be your nurse, Mr Holmes.” I was surprised, but Holmes inclined his head as though he had long known the fact. “She will provide the best care possible, for this will not be an easy few days. Also, she speaks English perfectly, so you need have no fears of misunderstanding.” Dr Freud nodded to Miss Vettel, who inclined her head to both of us, and left the room. I confess that I followed her exit, and was left afterwards with my thoughts in some disarray.

“You spoke of hypnosis.” Holmes, of course, was entirely unaffected by the singular young woman’s appearance.

“Yes. I will put you to sleep, and suppress the craving for a short while. That will begin the process.”

“Then let us begin at once,” said Holmes, and I was glad to hear a note of determination in his voice.

Dr Freud took out a pocket watch on a chain from his waistcoat, and stood up. “If you could please follow me.” He led us both to a bedchamber elsewhere in the house. “If you would lie down on the bed.”

Holmes did so, after removing his shoes and jacket, and Dr Freud stood over him. What followed was such a remarkable occurrence that I scarcely have words to describe it. The doctor swung his silver watch in front of Holmes’ eyes, murmuring some words that I could not catch. I saw my friend’s eyelids flutter and begin to close, until after only a few seconds he was in a deep sleep. Dr Freud returned the timepiece to his pocket, and turned from the bed.

“That is hypnosis?” I asked, astonished.

“That is hypnosis. He will sleep for a while, and then become fevered. He may hallucinate and undergo many disturbing experiences.” I nodded gravely. I had treated patients before for opium addiction, and process did not seem to be so very different. “Do you wish to sit with him?” The doctor asked.

“For a while.”

“I will send Miss Vettel in, and send someone to call you for dinner. I presume you will stay with us until this is over?”

“I would be honoured,” I replied warmly.

“Good. Then that is settled. I will have someone take your bags to our guest room.” With a smile he left the room, and I took a seat beside the bed. My friend yet appeared to be sleeping soundly, and so I contented myself to wait.

[Quell]

Hm, intriguing! Can't wait to see where this goes!

I love your stories.

[Guest]

Here it is! And it's HUGE! Yes, sorry about that...it was really difficult to get from where I was to where I really needed to be. The sneezing's still only just starting (admittedly I only have one scene that I actually know about left to write, but I'm sure more will occur when I get there), but I hope people like it. Thanks for the lovely comment, kitten it's really encouraging.

Ooh, when I was hunting for something from the radio series so I could remember how it all sounded, I came across: Bert Coules' (the adaptor) marvellous website. It's got lots of stuff, including, if you go on Sounds, some marvellous little clips of the radio series. And the first one from the Sign of Four is where the novel this fic is based on gets its name!

So yes...here we go...I hope it still hits the mark style-wise; I have been trying, but there are probably bits that wane a little. Feedback much appreciated.

Some moments later there was the sound of a softly opened door, and Miss Vettel entered, carrying with her a large bowl of water and several strips of cloth. Naturally, I sprang up to assist her, and together we placed the bowl on a table beside the bed. Although her face lit up in a brief smile, she gave no thanks, and we returned to our places in silence.

We spent perhaps a half hour in complete stillness save for the ticking of an ornate clock upon the wall. Then Holmes’ breathing became erratic; he began to perspire and toss upon the bed in obvious distress. I recognised the hallmarks of fevered sleep with some trepidation, and saw that Miss Vettel was already immersing one of the strips of cloth. Once she had wrung it out, it was placed upon Holmes’ forehead and held there as he continued to struggle. I made an offer to hold him steady, and when this drew no response from the girl, I mimed the action, thinking that perhaps Dr Freud had overestimated her understanding of English. But she shook her head vehemently, and gestured for me to be seated once more. I obeyed, and continued to watch Holmes. Under this new arrangement, he seemed to calm a little, and I was relieved when, after a few minutes more, his eyes fluttered open and alighted upon myself.

“Watson,” he whispered. I laid a comforting hand upon his arm.

“Not to worry, old chap,” said I, as bracingly as I could manage. But his eyes had already drifted away from me, and he did not seem to hear. Instead he looked in horror at an innocuous part of the bedcover.

“Get them off,” he moaned, and it shocked me deeply to hear the dread in his voice. He began to tug at the sheets around him, evidently in fear of an object only he could see. In spite of Miss Vettel’s earlier instruction to be still, I could not stomach his distress. I took strong hold of both his arms and bore him back onto the bed, as she reapplied the compress to his face and neck.

“Holmes, calm yourself,” I cried, still pinning him down. “It is not real, it’s a hallucination!” In tandem, our efforts finally succeeded in settling him, and he ceased struggling against my grip. I sank back into my chair, thoroughly shaken by events, as Miss Vettel continued in her attentions. In all the disturbance and action, she had still failed to utter a word.

Almost immediately following this excitement, a servant entered to announce dinner. I rose, but Miss Vettel did not move, except to watch us briefly. She inclined her head to me in what I took to be thanks, and I left, more intrigued than ever by this singular, and apparently silent, young woman.

Dinner was a lively affair, as far removed from the gloomy atmosphere of the sickbed as could be imagined. I dined with Dr Freud, his wife, Martha, and their son, Martin, aged five. Once the meal was finished, and Martin taken to bed by his mother, Dr Freud and I sat smoking late into the evening. We discussed a few medical matters of little importance which I will not set down here, but of course the most pressing matter to me was Holmes’ condition.

“How long will the fever last?” I asked.

“A few days, perhaps a week. You say he has been hallucinating?” Dr Freud watched me with his intense, glittering eyes.

“Yes, but we managed to subdue him. Your nurse—“ I paused, gazing into the crackling fire in the grate.

“Ah, you have formed an opinion of her?”

“You said earlier that she spoke fluent English, yet from my experience she does not appear to speak at all,” I replied.

“Yes, she is a curious girl; she came to me as a prospective client, but I saw that she could be of more use to me as a nurse. She has no difficulty in talking to patients, you see.”

“She said nothing to Holmes while I was there,” I protested.

“Because you were there. But do not despair; she may come to trust you in time. And she is unsurpassed in her work.”

I sat and pondered this new information, as Dr Freud pulled thoughtfully at his pipe. He was leaning back in a large armchair, one leg crossed over the other, eyes half closed in thought. In that moment I was reminded suddenly of Holmes, reclining languidly in the sitting room of 221B, his slender fingers pushing down the tiny piston of the cocaine syringe. But in truth, Dr Sigmund Freud could not have been more unlike my companion: he was a small, dark man, endowed with a considerable beard, and his bearing was one of great alertness, forever darting with his eyes around the room. There was nothing of Holmes’ utter focus, bordering, I always thought, upon the obsessive, nor indeed of his long-limbed frame. And yet, in the dancing firelight, among the pipe smoke and leather-bound books, I could fancy that I was back in that sitting room, watching the great Sherlock Holmes once more.

Our companionable silence was broken abruptly by shouting in the hallway. We leapt up together to find the source of the commotion, and as I rounded the corner I saw Holmes, delirious once more, throwing Miss Vettel aside as he attempted to leave the room. Dr Freud ran to her at once, but I was preoccupied with Holmes, who was still lashing out at some horror in his imagination.

“Holmes, be sensible, man!” I cried, pulling at his arm. “This isn’t real!”

He looked around at me, and at length registered my existence. But his face contorted in a look of such venom that I have no doubt I shall remember it to my dying day.

“Get away from me!” He snarled. “What good are you? You’re useless, Watson, useless!” I loosened my grip at once, and, deciding at last upon the best course of action, pulled back my right fist and hit him full upon the jaw. He fell unconscious to the ground. Together, Dr Freud and I returned him to the bed, and I looked around in concern for Miss Vettel. But she seemed unhurt, and completely unaffected by her ordeal, save only that she breathed more deeply. She had already retaken her place beside the bed.

“Come now, Doctor,” said Freud to me. “He will be alright now until morning. It is best that you sleep.” I followed him in a kind of daze, with Holmes’ words still resounding in my ears.

-******************************************************************************************

**************************************-

The next few days passed in much the same fashion. Holmes’ fever continued to rage dangerously high, and he frequently cried out at the horrors he perceived around him, but never again did he attempt to leave his bed. Through watching him, I slowly grew in the opinion that his delusions were not mere random nightmares, but rather the memories of past cases coming back to him now in a more vivid form. He would, I have no doubt, have called such thinking romantic fancy, and yet often I heard him speak of “snakes” and “monkeys”, and once a “red-haired man”. But whether remembered exploits or fever-induced nightmares, they remained as real to him as anything else, and nothing that I or Miss Vettel could do succeeded in throwing them off.

It was over these days also that I discovered more about my companion’s enigmatic nurse. For instance, I soon came to agree whole-heartedly with Dr Freud’s opinion that she was unsurpassed at her job: I could not have asked for a more dedicated, conscientious and reliable carer. She was always in the room when I entered after breakfast, and she remained at her post until after the rest of the household were in bed. In addition to this, I gained proof of the doctor’s other statement about her: by pausing for a moment before opening the door, I often caught brief snatches of her voice, although she resumed her customary silence once I had come in. The only except was that she occasionally murmured “thank you” to me for any courtesy I performed.

I did not spend all my time with Holmes; the task of sitting with him was not easy. After an hour or so of making what one-sided conversation I could (Miss Vettel always left me alone in this, for privacy’s sake), I found myself drained of energy and longing for some other stimulus.

For the remaining hours, I amused myself around the Freuds’ house; reading, entertaining young Martin with tales of England, and writing to my beloved Mary. I regretted now that I had left in such a hurry without any explanation to her, and tried to make amends in writing regularly. I did not explore Vienna alone; to do so felt disloyal to my companion, and I was concerned that there would be some change while I was gone. But there was none, and I sensed that Dr Freud was deeply anxious for my friend’s condition. I had treated opium addicts in previous years, especially in Afghanistan where the drug was easily obtained, and I was aware of the dangers withdrawal held: of permanent damage, and even of death. So it was with a heavy heart that I left my friend’s room each night, and I slept but little, and uneasily.

On the morning of the fourth day, I wearily traced the familiar route to Holmes’ chamber, and paused to listen before the door. This was not, you understand, to spy upon the conversation that was being held, but rather to time my entrance so that I did not interrupt it. But instead of the gentle, musical timbre I had grown used to, my ears distinguished urgency in Miss Vettel’s quiet tones. I pushed open the mahogany timbers with growing apprehension.

Holmes, his pale face still unnaturally flushed with fever, lay uneasily upon the bed. He stirred as the door creaked, and his long eyelashes and slender fingers jerked a little in response. I was surprised by such a reaction; earlier, he had been completely unconscious of all around him, but now he seemed aware of it, and it crossed my mind for the first time in days that he might soon recover. I took my seat hurriedly, and laid a hand upon his arm. It shuddered under my touch, and slowly my friend turned his features towards me, eyes shut and brow furrowed in pain or effort, I could not tell which.

“He is closer today.” I looked up, abnormally startled by what should have been an ordinary occurrence: that of another person speaking, because the only other person in the room was Miss Vettel. I confess it took me some little while for my brain to connect the low, accented voice with the young woman before me, her large eyes averted, and her slender arm stretched out upon the bed as she held a cloth to Holmes’ fevered brow.

“Closer?” I leant in as though it had been an instruction. “Can he hear?” Miss Vettel nodded, still avoiding my gaze. But I had already had my question answered; at the sound of my voice Holmes had begun to stir again, and his brow creased more deeply. I took my chance.

“Holmes, it’s Watson,” I began, still keeping a grip upon his arm. “It’s…it’s John, I’m here. Now listen, Holmes, because you’ve been fighting this a long time now, and I dare say it’s very difficult. But you have to keep on fighting it for a while longer, d’you hear? Or it will all be for nothing, Holmes, you know that. But Dr Freud thinks it may be nearly over now. So just hold on a little longer, Holmes, all right? One…one last drive.” I stopped speaking, unable to go on, and saw that Miss Vettel had finally looked up, and was observing me with those extraordinary orbs. The words I had rehearsed for several days had been said, and I felt sure, though I had no evidence to speak of, that he had heard. Only a “theory”, as Lestrade would scornfully have called it.

I sat with Holmes for the rest of the morning without speaking, but not wanting to leave for all that I had nothing to impart. Concerning Miss Vettel, our roles appeared now to have been reversed; she informs me now that it was my heartfelt words which decided the matter. Certainly, she consented to talk to Holmes in my presence; general words of encouragement and courage, while he continued to react to the sounds around him. Eventually, when she seemed at last to have exhausted her own powers of conversation, she turned to me.

“Doctor,” she began, very quietly. I looked up at once.

“Yes?” I answered in the same tone, in the manner of a hunter taking care not to startle a doe or vixen.

“Are there any books, here in the house, which Herr-…which Mr Holmes has read?” I pondered the question, then left for a moment. Dr Freud was out visiting his own patients, and so his study was empty. It was but a moment’s work to determine the position of his much-thumbed copy of Shakespeare’s Histories which Holmes had commented on at our first meeting with the doctor. I carried it back through, and handed it to the young woman opened at Henry V, Act III, and left the room.

There was no further change in Holmes’ condition until the evening, when Dr Freud returned to check upon him. As the three of us sat in observation, he became quite suddenly still, sighed several times, and opened his eyes, which were clear and alert. It was such an astonishing transformation that I, sitting in the corner of the room, almost laughed aloud. Dr Freud bent over him.

“Mr Holmes?” He asked. “How do you feel?”

Holmes moved his head from side to side and held up each hand, as though to examine the fingernails. “Dreadful,” he pronounced finally, and at that I did laugh. He followed the sound.

“Watson? Watson, is that you?” His tone was so strange that I was sobered at once.

“It’s me, Holmes.”

I was treated to a stare of piercing intensity, and then he spoke softly, his pallid brow creased with exertion. “I remember…I think I remember…awful things. Shouting terrible, terrible things. Was that real, or part of the nightmare?”

I had no hesitation in answering. “That was part of the hallucinations, Holmes.” I do not think that he truly believed me, but he asked no more questions.

Dr Freud explained the situation, one hand deep in his waistcoat pocket. “You have endured a long withdrawal period, Mr Holmes. For now the addiction is over, but it may reassert itself at any time. You will require periodic hypnosis for a while, but I think it is fair to say—“

“I am cured,” said Holmes dryly.

“Well, perhaps not just yet, but you are very close to it. Now you need to rest. Elsa will continue in your care.”

“Ah yes, my nurse.” Holmes turned his eyes upon her. “You did not overestimate her worth, Doctor. I have scarcely heard Shakespeare read so well, other than on stage.”

“I can believe it. Now we will all leave you to sleep.”

I left, and after exchanging a brief “goodnight” with everyone, went straight to my bed. I was exhausted, both mentally and physically, from the past few days of anxiety and worry. I even sneezed a number of times; a rare occurrence for me, although through experience I have found that a sneeze is never alone, but is invariably followed by several more.

“Hah’SHOOOM!” I paused, pressing the back of a hand to my stinging nose. “Hah’TSHOO! H’ISSH!!” Sniffing, and marking it down to the fatigue of the day, I turned out the lamp, and prepared myself for a sound night’s sleep.

[**Some happy little notes: Most of the plot of this section (basically all of it that doesn't involve Elsa) is from the film of 'The Seven-Per-Cent Solution'. That includes the hallucinations of the creatures from 'The Speckled Band' and 'The Red-Headed League' and so on, as well as Holmes shouting at Watson, Watson knocking him out, and then lying to Holmes about it. Also as much of the dialogue as I can remember is included. Oh, and the book of Shakespeare that Freud has open is there, and Holmes quote Henry V, Act III in 'A Study in Scarlet'. Just thought I'd add my ever-growing Holmes trivia on the end.]

[Quell]

My, that IS huge! Not that I mind!

You equals great... this story would still be fabulous without de sneezing, but I am glad it's there.

In closing,

[tma]

GAH!!!! *dies*

Re-reads... pictures RSL- dies again.

The style is absolutely lovely (withor without sneezing) and the sneezing is the yummy icing on the cake.

[Guest]

Next part! I get to write Holmes, and it's so exciting I can't describe it Good job too, because I could feel my writing starting to slide back into my normal style. It's really difficult to write as Watson without Holmes, because all he ever seems to do is describe what Holmes is doing. Anyway, it's so much fun I hope everyone's still enjoying it. Actually, it was only while I was writing this that it really hit me similar House is to Holmes. I guess the deduction technique has become so accepted nowadays that I didn't see the parallels so obviously, especially in the way they speak and explain things. Gah...it's fab! I hope you like this bit.

The next morning, I ventured down at nine, well-refreshed from my much more peaceful repose, and expecting to find myself alone at such an hour. I was therefore surprised to find myself joined by Miss Vettel, who was taking breakfast. She greeted me as I entered, and explained that Dr Freud had seen Mr Holmes before leaving, and declared that he should be left undisturbed for the day. Nodding in agreement, I poured myself a cup of coffee (I had woken with a slight headache and so took it strong to bolster my strength). As we sat together, I found it difficult to compare the self-possessed, forthcoming young woman before me with the shy, reserved girl of the past week.

“Your English is quite exceptional,” I commented, after we had discussed the weather a little. A faint flush appeared in the delicate curve of her neck.

“Thank you. I love languages, and foreign countries.”

“Have you visited England before?”

“No, but I hope to one day, perhaps even to live, if I could afford it.” I nodded, taking a deep draught of coffee.

“I imagine that there would be plentiful work for woman of your accomplishments,” I ventured. “Nurses are much in demand.”

She nodded. “Also secretaries. I am Dr Freud’s secretary at the moment. I will have to take today to catch up with my work, now that Mr Holmes is recovering.”

“Then perhaps I might join you? I mean to write to my wife, and to send some instructions to my practice in England.” She nodded, her large eyes warming in a smile. Together we moved into the morning room; a delightful space with windows on three sides, containing views of the immaculate garden. The walls were, like so many other rooms of the house, lined with books, and several desks were placed to catch the light. It also had the advantage of being adjacent to Holmes’ chamber, so that any entreaty might be heard without difficulty. We seated ourselves in companionable quiet to put pen to paper, and soon the only sounds were the movements of paper, ink and nib, as well as the ticking of an elaborate grandfather-clock.

I confess that my letters that morning were rather disjointed and confused; my wife, Mary, has since declared that I instructed her to take 3 drops of peppermint oil each morning, and a patient whom I saw later tells me that I wrote her a letter addressing her as “my beloved”. In truth, the headache I had woken with refused to abate, and also the old wound in my leg began to ache and throb, although the weather was clear and bright. Both of these nuisances (which I put down to the unusual strain that my body had been under), forced me to pause frequently in my writing, and so the end products were undoubtedly below average.

At eleven, when a maid brought tea for both of us, I struck up another conversation, this time on the subject of the doctor, about whom I was eager to learn more.

“How long have you been Dr Freud’s secretary, Miss Vettel?”

“Elsa, please, doctor. Almost two years; he had had his practice about six months.”

“And what do you think of his theories of the human mind?” I pressed, interested to have another opinion.

She paused; looking for a moment at the garden’s sweeping lawns. “I am not a doctor, so I cannot judge his theories. But the techniques he uses to help his patients are very efficacious. I think you will see that yourself, doctor, when Mr Holmes is a little better.”

I nodded. “His use of hypnosis is certainly extraordinary. But I have read his papers on hysteria,” here I paused, not wishing to sound dismissive of her master’s work. “And I find them very curious. The concept of a ‘subconscious’ mind, separate from what we normally experience of a person, seems to me to be rather over-complex.” Elsa was watching me intently, and I believe that for all her modestly she understood Dr Freud’s work in every detail.

“Perhaps,” she mused, her eyes drifting away from me once more, “but the human body is far from perfect. Why should the human mind be any different?”

I nodded, but before I could reply, I was interrupted by a sudden attack of sneezing. Turning away, and pulling out a white linen handkerchief from the pocket of my waistcoat, I uttered a brief, “excuse me,” before yielding.

“Hah’SHOO!! Hah’SHOOOM!! ISSSHOO!” A little dazed, I sniffed briskly and pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Gesundheit,” murmured Elsa vaguely, as she picked up a letter on the desk.

“Thank you,” I replied, picking up the book which I had been reading. A few minutes of quiet reflection ticked away, as the sun slowly warmed the terraces beyond the window, and the pendulum of the grandfather-clock glinted in the sun. Elsa and I spoke about some matters of little import, but for the most part continued in silence. Then the door was opened, and we both looked up.

“It is as I feared, Watson: you have caught a cold.”

“Holmes!” I exclaimed in alarm. For there stood Sherlock Holmes, wearing a dressing-gown and, for all his period of withdrawal, looking as quick and alert as if he had done nothing more than take a brisk constitutional in Regent’s Park. “You should not be out of bed.”

He shrugged off my protestations, and entered, sitting in an armchair near the bay windows. “Nonsense, I am quite well enough for a few minutes’ conversation.”

I was forced to be stern with him; my medical opinion as well as my concern for a friend far outweighed any reservations I might have due to his intelligence and masterly bearing. “Holmes, this will do your recovery nothing but ill. If you wished to talk, you could easily have called from your room.”

Holmes observed me, lounging in his comfortable seat, with the air of an indulgent parent. I found it infuriating, but could think of no way of persuading him further. After a moment he turned to Elsa. “Let us see what my nurse has to say on the matter.”

She did not look up from her writing, but instead pronounced firmly, “five minutes, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes turned back to me with a satisfied smile, and I folded my arms. “Well then. What urgent news did you come to impart to us? I assure you that I am in perfect health.”

“I am afraid that I beg to differ; you are showing every sign of having contracted a common cold.”

“And what evidence, pray, have you used to come to that conclusion? You haven’t seen me, barring briefly yesterday, since we arrived.” I was more than a little irritated by Holmes’ superior attitude, especially considering the ordeal he had put the household through.

“My dear Watson, my entire professional reputation rests upon my ability to deduce facts about people whom I have never met. In comparison, the condition of a time-honoured friend currently staying in the same house is child’s play.”

I continued to regard him with some bitterness, and was reminded strongly of the occasion when I had tested his powers with my late brother’s pocket watch. It is not in the human nature to take kindly to being treated as an abstract puzzle, and here I felt the full brunt of Holmes’ analytic character. He seemed suddenly to realise this (as indeed, he had done on that parallel occasion), and his expression softened.

“I apologise, doctor, for my brusque approach. But you know from experience that confinement of any kind is not agreeable to me, and this has been the only problem to which I could readily apply myself.”

I relented. “Very well, go on and explain your reasoning. Miss Vettel, I think, has not been treated to one of your great displays of deduction.”

“Well then,” he began, steepling his pale fingers beneath his face, and gazing in apparent reverie at the moulded ceiling. “I began to consider the possibility when I heard your step this morning: it was uneven upon the stairs, from which I deduced that your wound was more than usually painful. As the weather is fine and clear, this must be due to some other factor than damp.”

“How did you know the weather was fair?” I asked.

“Oh, Dr Freud mentioned it earlier. In addition, there was no smell of smoke or damp, which would have been likely if the fires had been lit in rain.”

I waved a hand. “Go on.”

“Then there is the fact that you took several cups of coffee at breakfast,” he continued, resuming his upward gaze.

“How on earth can you know that?” Asked Elsa in surprise. Holmes looked at her for an instant, and then turned to me.

“Can you hazard a guess, Watson?”

I considered; several years of pursuing cases with Holmes had made me a little more adept at applying his methods, but I was still no match for him. “I would suggest,” I mused, “that you knew somehow that the servant removed the coffee pot from the room. If it had not been emptied, we might have taken it in here.”

Holmes nodded emphatically. “Very good! The silver pot makes a most distinctive sound in being cleared.”

“How could you know that it was not I who drank it?” Questioned Miss Vettel.

“I could not, but even at two cups each, I would have deduced that Watson was suffering from a headache; it is his usual remedy.”

I smiled ruefully. “You should come and instruct my servants some time, Holmes, it would do them good to observe my habits a little more. But none of this is conclusive; both of those symptoms could be owing to little more than over-exertion, due to—“

“Due to the worry and distress that I have caused you in the last four days, yes, I know it. And I am deeply sorry for it, both in itself, and because it is undoubtedly responsible for your developing this cold. You must have observed countless times that it is when we are at our most exhausted and run-down that we become ill.”

“That may be true, but no doctor would diagnose the common cold on the basis of your evidence.” I protested truthfully.

“I have not yet finished. You have so far sneezed a total of three times this morning, an occurrence which is, to my knowledge, extremely rare. I can recall only two other occasions during our acquaintance, both of which have resulted in illness. Although my other observations are only circumstantial, I think in total I have sufficient evidence to deduce a cold.”

I threw up my hands. “Can a man not sneeze in earshot of you without having it dissected and deduced from? Very well, Holmes, we shall see who is right. I feel perfectly well, apart from the slight discomforts you described earlier, and I expect to continue so. You, on the other hand, are still recovering from a dangerous fever, and your five minutes is long up.”

Holmes rose, holding up a hand to stem my remonstrations. “I will go, doctor, and rest, for the moment at least. I only hope that the rest of our stay in Vienna is a little more stimulating. I may have been cured of my addiction to cocaine, but I still require mental excitation, or else I shall return to London with my talents so dulled that I shall have no choice but to join the police force!” And with that final exalted remark, he returned to his sickbed.

[**More little notes: I was inspired to write about the mixed up letters from this passage in 'The Sign of Four' (I keep flicking through it to try and find different Watsony ways of phrasing things): "I endeavoured to cheer and amuse her by reminiscences of my adventures in Afghanistan; but, to tell the truth, I was myself so excited at our situation and so curious as to our destination that my stories were slightly involved. To this day she declares that I told her one moving anecdote as to how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of night, and how I fired a double-barrelled tiger cub at it." Ok, please don't compare my writing with that

Other things...I apologise if the Freudian stuff isn't particularly time-accurate - I'm not sure quite when he wrote things, but he mentioned the subconscious in the film as a very new idea, so I think I'm on pretty safe ground.

The time when Watson gave Holmes his brother's watch to examine is probably my favourite moment out of 'The Sign of Four' (except where Watson is totally angst-ridden over Miss Morstan, which is to die for), and it's a very sweet indication of their relationship, which I tried to slightly reproduce there.]

[tma]

*grins like a loon* I'm SO happy. Holmes dignosing Watson. Just thinking about that just gives me all sort of yummy feelings. Especially when you know that he doesn't want to be, but knows that he's not going to be able to stop him either. *evil grin*

very much enjoying this- and it is unfolding very nicely.

[Guest]

Mini-update! I am still writing (sort of), but I can't quite get a handle on the next part, so this is just leading into it. Erm...it's only v. short, but I hope you like.

The day wore slowly on, and my earlier certainty as to my health became increasingly strained. Despite my restful night’s sleep, I felt increasingly fatigued, and as the evening light began to fade, I was forced to cease my perusal of my recent case notes (in preparation of some new literary venture for the Strand magazine). Thus it was that Dr Freud’s return was greatly welcomed, and when he entered the sitting room where myself and Miss Vettel were now settled, we both greeted him warmly.

“Good evening, Doctor,” he said, seating himself in a comfortable armchair, and lighting his pipe, as he did each evening. “And how is our patient?”

“Incorrigible,” I responded. “He has refused to remain in bed. Elsa and myself were forced to subdue him with flattery of his deductive skills.”

“Obviously improving, then,” answered Freud, laughing. “I see no reason to keep him confined to his room any longer. But I would rather he did not roam Vienna.”

I nodded. “I’ll make sure of it.” A sudden, deep inhalation of the doctor’s tobacco smoke caught my throat and set me coughing. As I regained my composure, I caught Freud’s intelligent gaze upon me, but he said nothing.

“Excuse me. And how are your patients?”

“Well, for the most part. Many are responding well to hypnosis, and others to simply talking about their conditions. It is still remarkable to me how dangerous silence is to a case of hysteria.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if one does not talk about a subject, it can take on a forbidden quality, forcing us to think of it more often, and sometimes to feel guilty about our thoughts. This guilt can lead to repression of these ‘forbidden’ thoughts, and thus to hysteria.”

Whilst I considered this inflammatory statements, delivered in tones of complete certainty and confidence, my mind was drawn back to my many exploits with Holmes. How many, I wondered, of the murderers and villains there, could have been analysed and examined with fascinating results by the man now before me.

I was saved from making any comment, however, by yet another attack of sneezing. Fumbling for my handkerchief, I held it pressed over nose and mouth as each paroxysm hit.

“Hurr’SCHOO! H’ASHOO!” These insistent sounds caught the doctor’s attention at once, and I was again treated to his piercing examination.

“Are you quite well, doctor?” He inquired after a moment.

“I’m fine,” I blustered, a little more sharply than was necessary, pocketing my handkerchief once more.

“Watson has caught cold.” Once again, Holmes stood in the doorway, surveying the scene. This time it fell to Dr Freud to remonstrate with my companion, who joined us in the room with the utmost nonchalance, and surveyed me critically.

“Mr Holmes, the hour is late. I have already informed Dr Watson that I will allow you to get up tomorrow, but for the moment it would be best if you remained in bed.”

“Thank you, doctor, I will only be a moment. I wanted to prevent Watson from continuing this deception.”

“Holmes! I will not sit here and be treated as some theoretical problem for you to solve. If I am ill (which I am not), then I shall deal with it as a grown man. I do not appreciate this game which you are pl—“ my breath hitched, and I struggled to continue. “you are play—“ As my voice rose upon the octave, I conceded defeat, and raised my handkerchief. “ASHOOO!! H’ISSSH! ISSSHoo!” Sniffing, I rubbed my eyes with thumb and forefinger. “Which you are playing,” I finished, rather unconvincingly.

“God bless you,” said Dr Freud. I gave a wry laugh.

“My thanks. I think, if it is not disagreeable, that I shall retire early.” Holmes raised an eyebrow. “If I am to be charged with the duty of keeping you from ruining your recovery, I will need to be well-rested.” This drew an appreciative smile from my taciturn companion, and after wishing me good-night, I left them for my room.

[**More mini-notes: forgot to mention in the last post the part where Holmes diagnoses that Watson's leg hurts from his step on the stair happened in the Jeremy Brett TV episode 'The Boscombe Valley Mystery' (I think, although it might conceivably have been 'The Creeping Man').

Errm...yes that's probably it...oh, I stole some phrasing of Watson coughing from 'The Hound of the Baskervilles', because it was lovely.

And Freud's theory on repression is what I can remember from my R.S. Philosophy, so please don't kill me if it's badly paraphrased ]

[Guest]

It's finished!! I have done little else but write today, and it's done! It's been SO much fun to write, and I've loved it, and now I'm just Dying to read some actual Sherlock Holmes But yeah, it's a bit cheesy, but I hope it's still enjoyable. Oh, and there is some blood, so...um...yeah...just warning you.

Thank you all for your comments! They've been truly wonderful and supportive.

Yeah, sorry it's over so soon...but it's quite a long final part!

However, to my dismay, the next morning it became impossible to refute the facts of the matter: Holmes had been entirely correct, and I had no choice but to resign myself to a series of uncomfortable days. Nevertheless, I was determined to do as I had claimed previously, and deal with the situation with all the dignity and stoicism that I could muster.

Holmes was already at breakfast when I descended, noticing once again the pain in my leg and continuing headache, and greeted me with a degree of eagerness which I had not entirely expected.

“Ah, Watson, good morning! I never dreamt that the sight of a few extra rooms could be so refreshing; I am considering writing a monograph on the medicinal properties of short confinements: my own seems to have brought a new appreciation of any change in surroundings.”

I smiled a little, limping to a chair and pouring a cup of coffee. “Perhaps the convicts of Her Majesty’s prisons do indeed return to society improved men,” I remarked, scrutinising the day’s papers.

“Perhaps, although a stay in gaol is unlikely to deter the most hardened of criminals. There comes a time when the only useful penance is the hangman’s noose.”

I made no response to this rather morose view, as Miss Vettel entered, carrying with her the post. She handed me a small but neatly addressed envelope, which I immediately recognised as coming from my wife, Mary. I quickly slit open the dispatch, and read the few lines.

Dear John,

I hope you are well, and enjoying your trip to the continent. All is fine here; although we miss you greatly. Take care, and please do not get into any danger. Return as soon as you can.

All my love,

Mary

Finishing the brief envoy, I gazed into the distance for a moment, imagining the hand which had inscribed it. I was pierced with a sudden longing for England, and for the material comforts it provided. As this was the first time in our three-year marriage that I had left the country, it was natural that as a woman alone she should be concerned, and I was by now used to her anxiety over my exploits with Holmes. Nevertheless this pang of homesickness on my own part was a rare event, and it took some considerable effort to put away the letter and meet Holmes’ gaze.

“Your wife is well?”

“Perfectly. She hopes that we do not get involved in any danger.” Holmes laughed.

“I doubt I shall be allowed the liberty,” he answered, with an ironic look at Elsa. She returned it coolly.

“Not today, at least, Mr Holmes,” she replied, calmly continuing with her own correspondence.

We soon transferred to the morning room once more, and I seated myself with body in one chair and legs on another, to ease the persistent pain in my leg. Holmes threw himself into a chair in his own peculiar fashion and proceeded to stare moodily out at the garden, all his earlier enthusiasm for life apparently evaporated. I ignored this, attempting to continue with my notes for the latest publication, but in truth it was difficult to block out his continued restlessness and shifting of position.

“Is there something the matter?” I eventually asked, laying down my papers and looking at him.

“My mind rebels at stagnation, Watson,” he growled, throwing out an arm at the scenes around him with apparent contempt. I recognised his sudden change of mood with a little alarm; it usually pre-empted his reaching for the cocaine bottle.

“It will not be for long, Holmes. Just try to occupy yourself with something.” I tried to placate my friend, but was aware that my attempt was failing.

“Occupy myself! With what?” Holmes exclaimed in exasperation. “Give me some problem to solve, some puzzle or mystery, but do not shut me from the world, away from all possible intellectual stimulation!”

I winced at the raised tone of his voice, pinching the bridge of my nose to ease the pressure on my sinuses which was causing the headache. It had no effect but to bring to the forefront of my attention a lurking urge to sneeze. Quickly extracting a clean handkerchief, I held it to my face.

“Hah…hah’ASHOO!! H’ASHOOM!!” The violent sneezes cleared a little of the pressure and congestion, but had the side effect of causing a painful throbbing at my temples. “Please don’t shout, Holmes,” I muttered, rubbing my forehead with my free hand. “The fact remains that you are still recovering from a dangerous addiction, and you need to rest. Those are the particulars, and they are not going to change for the rest of the day. If you want puzzles, I suggest you look to the missing persons section of the Times. Perhaps you can use your powers of deduction to help some poor soul.” With this I raised my page of notes, and once more devoted my attentions to it.

For some few minutes there was silence, but it was of that awkward, heavy sort which makes it difficult to concentrate on anything. Holmes continued to brood, although quietly, and the clock ticked away the slow minutes. The stillness was broken eventually by the voices of one of the maids in the hallway, calling for assistance. All three of us sprang up to discover the cause, and as I rounded the corner first, I perceived the scene quite clearly.

The maid, Annaliese, a quiet, hard-working girl of only sixteen, was supporting an older woman who stood in the doorway. The woman, who was dark-haired and small, was dressed in a fashionable but inexpensive costume, and as I took in the tableau, I noticed a gold wedding band upon her finger. Her face, however, was deathly pale, and I rushed forward at once in fear that she would faint. It was as I drew closer that the side of her head came to my field of vision, and a large quantity of blood was revealed. I reached her, and with the help of Annaliese supported the young lady to a chair which Holmes had carried from the dining room.

The woman, whose large dark eyes were rather dazed and bewildered, put up a hand to the side of her head, but, in the hope of preventing her further distress, I took it and laid it in her lap.

“It’s alright,” I said reassuringly, and then to the others who stood nearby. “Fetch a damp cloth and a glass of water. Holmes, help me get her to the sitting room.” Together, we supported her, still seemingly unaware of her situation, to a low couch close to a window which gave good light. By this time Annaliese and Miss Vettel had returned with the items, and I took the cloth. Elsa came close beside the woman, and spoke to her in rapid German, at which point her breathing, which to this point had been rapid and uneven, calmed a little, and she murmured, “Ingrid Brunner.”

Carefully, while Elsa continued to encourage her in her own language, I wiped as much of the blood as I could from her brow and right temple, to reveal the wound. She flinched, but did not cry out, instead biting her lip and staring at me in trepidation. “It’s alright, Ingrid,” I said, still cleaning the wound. “I’m a doctor; you’re going to be quite alright.” I heard Elsa translate.

As the wound was exposed, it became clear that it was not dangerously deep, and the bleeding, which had been profuse in the manner of head wounds, was now slowing. I held the cloth to staunch it, and it stopped in a matter of moments. Carefully, Elsa and I helped the young lady to sit up, and gave her the glass to drink. She was still dangerously pale, but was beginning to look better.

“Miss Brunner,” said Holmes, who had watched the proceedings in silence, but who now leant forward, his eyes glistening, “could you tell me how you came to be hurt?”

Elsa translated, and Miss Brunner answered in German. Elsa turned to us. “She says she was on her way into town, when she felt faint and swooned.”

“Have you been prone to fainting before?” I asked. She shook her head, and spoke.

“She says no, but she has felt unwell for several days.”

“How long have you been married, Miss Brunner?” Holmes asked, and I looked at him askance.

“Six months,” came the answer.

“Well then, the answer is obvious, is it not, Watson?” Maddened, no doubt, by the ease at which his chance of a mystery had been solved, Holmes got up. “I am going to walk in the garden. I trust I am permitted such excitement?” Without waiting for an answer, he left the room.

For once, I had succeeded in coming to the same conclusion as Holmes (it being really a very simple puzzle), and one more question confirmed the diagnosis. I smiled when I received the answer, and said to Miss Vettel.

“You may tell Miss Brunner that she is in no danger, but that she will have to take care of herself over the next few months. She is with child.” Elsa beamed, and translated. I admit that I felt a certain pride and satisfaction as I watched Miss Brunner’s anxious expression change instantaneously to one of joy and elation, and colour began to return to her complexion.

“Please stay here with Miss Vettel for a little while, to recover your strength,” I advised, and left to find Holmes. He was standing by a low wall, laden with trailing ivy, and he turned as he heard my footsteps approaching.

“Have you informed Miss Brunner of the good news?”

“I have. Honestly, Holmes, I feel I shall never understand what drives you. You solve a case, and you seem perfectly averse to taking any credit for it; it always goes to Lestrade, or Jones, or some other bumbling police officer. Even in this you leave the room before she can even thank you for telling her.”

“You had worked it out. You could just as easily tell her.”

“Yes, but do you really get no satisfaction from helping someone else? Is it really just for the puzzle?” I looked at Holmes questioningly. It was a question which had often bothered me, and I expected an answer. He remained in silence for several moments, inspecting the fingernails of one of his pale, slender hands.

“There is some enjoyment from helping another human being, which goes above and beyond the abstract. But it is neither necessary nor sufficient to have them thank me for it. I know it has been done, and that is enough.” Looking up, he met my eyes with his own cool, calculating ones. It occurred to me then, as it has done on so many occasions before and since, that for all that my reasoning seemed slow and methodical, and probably infuriatingly dull to him at times, Sherlock Holmes still found in my person some quality which was useful to him. I was someone to provide the starting points; to bring back to a steady base the transcendent and soaring ideas that sprang forth from that singular intellect; and after so many years, I had long become resigned to my position.

“I intend to take Elsa back with me to my practice, if she is willing,” I remarked, to fill the silence. Holmes nodded as though this news did not surprise him. Indeed, I wondered whether anything I could say would do so anymore.

“Yes, she will make a good nurse. She has that uncommon quality in a woman: strength of character.” I did not bother to protest against this highly misogynistic remark. Instead I turned aside, truly at my wit’s end, reaching into my pocket for what seemed to me to be the twentieth time during our brief stay in Vienna.

“Excu—“ I broke off. “H’ASHHOOO! H’ISSSHooo! Oh, drat this wretched cold!” I exclaimed in exasperation, rubbing at my temples with one hand.

“Bless you, Watson.”

“Thank you, Holmes. I am going in now, to send Miss Brunner home with her good news. I presume you are staying?”

“Hmm, yes, for a little while. You go on.” And with that, he turned on his heel and strode off down the lawn. Smiling to myself, I returned to the house.

After Miss Brunner had left, fully recovered and wreathed in smiles, Elsa and I were left alone in the sitting room. I admit that I felt a little apprehension in approaching her upon the matter mentioned previously. But, bolstered a little by the positive nature of the morning, I ploughed on regardless.

“You said to me the other morning that you would like one day to live in England, Miss Vettel.” She looked up from her writing.

“Yes? It would be wonderful.”

“Then I have a proposition. If Dr Freud were to agree to it, I would like to offer you the opportunity of coming back to London with myself and Mr Holmes. I would be privileged to have you as a nurse in my practice – I have a steady stream of patients who require continuing care, and I had planned on taking on help with it. You would ideal for it.”

For a moment she remained in silence, and I sat, tensely awaiting her decision. When finally she answered, her smile was almost startling in its brilliance.

“I would be honoured, to work for such a kind and proficient doctor. If Dr Freud is willing, then I will come without hesitation.”

“Capital!” Came Holmes’ voice from the door. He entered the room and took in the scene. “And now, at least, Watson has no excuse to detain us here in Vienna.” I smiled a little, knowing that this sudden change of mood was as unlikely to last as his previous melancholic one, but glad for it all the same. And I was wrong, because within the hour, Dr Freud returned from his patients, carrying with him a gift which guaranteed several more hours of satisfying occupation for Holmes. Not a Stradivarius like his own, perhaps, but tuned and of good quality. As the family sat and listened, I allowed my thoughts to wander, and revisited the many times, when I was living at 221B, that I had fallen asleep to similar strains. Soon we would return to England, and life would revert to something like normality. Not that anything could ever truly be commonplace, with a friend and companion like Sherlock Holmes.

[**Last set of mini-notes: I forgot to mention last time that my use of the word 'paroxysm' to describe sneezes was thanks to Brigid's wonderful Wilson drabble, 'allergic', where that word got used and I died.

The bit where Watson puts his leg on a chair, I found in a short story that I was flicking through for writing style (which I have been doing Continually for weeks). I might even be able to tell you which one in a minute...it was 'The Noble Bachelor'. It said "I had remained indoors all day, for the weather had taken a sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal winds, and the jezail bullet which I had brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan campaign, throbbed with dull persistency. With my body in one easy chair and my legs upon another, I had surrounded myself with a cloud of newspapers,..." I thought that was lovely, so I put it in.

I was *this* close to having Watson tell Holmes "If you want puzzles, I suggest you look to the Times crossword", but then I found out that cryptic crosswords were only invented in the 1920s. So I didn't.

I don't actually know if Watson left the country between 'The Sign of Four' and 'The Final Problem', but I thought I'd take the chance. It was only 3 years, so it's possible.

I was Dying to get in a bit with Watson being in control and in charge, so that's why I wrote the part with Miss Brunner; I couldn't cope with him being miserable all the time. It was going to be a proper thing, where Holmes was desperate for it to be a wife-beating mystery, but it was really just her fainting from being pregnant. But then I came to write it, and I couldn't think of any way to do it. So I didn't.

The bit with Watson asking why Holmes doesn't want people to thank him is rather inspired by the the first episode of the 3rd series of House MD, which had a lot of that, and which I watched last night.

The bit just after that bit with Watson explaining his place in Holmes' life I spotted in another short story...erm...gosh that took Ages...'The Crooked Man': "As an institution I was like the violin, the shag tobacco, the old black pipe, the index books, and other perhaps less excusable...I was a whetstone for his mind...If I irritated him by a certain methodical slowness in my mentality, that irritation served only to make his own flame-like intuitions and impressions flash up the more vividly and swiftly. Such was my humble rôle in our alliance."

Dr Freud gave Holmes a violin in the film of 'The Seven-per-cent Solution'. However, Holmes was a lot more depressed after he finished his withdrawal period, and a lot more silent and subdued. But I thought that as I was basically inventing several days, I might as well ignore that for a while.

After seeing "at my wit's end" in a story, which I'm not going to find, I had to get it in there somewhere.

Watson inviting Elsa to come back and work for him in England was The Only part of this post that I had in my mind when I started the story.]

[reggie1]

What a wonderful story and what an accomplishment to write Holmes so well!

[Lynne]

kastrel, that was perfect Jeremy Brett He's my favorite Holmes, by far, and that was a lovely portrayal!

[Guest]

Thanks guys, I'm really glad you liked, and I'm really flattered that you thought it was in character. I love Jeremy Brett's portrayal as well - he was such a great Holmes, and the programmes were so well made.