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My friend, Sherlock Holmes, was in a wild mood. Truth be told he had been unsettled since the difficult affair involving the farmer and a gentleman’s cravat. Experience had taught me that forced rest was nearly impossible so I sought to distract him with music and learning. I was but partially successful.



Watson pushed his fist into his old wound, biting his lip to swallow back a groan until the muscle would relax enough. “Do stop fidgeting Watson.” Holmes snapped, pausing the measurement of his newly acquired solution, “you’ll ruin the experiment.”
“Sorry Holmes.” His visage remained fierce until Watson forced himself still.



Watson swallowed a groan and set his teeth, hand pushed into his muscle as he waited for it to relax. “My poor Watson. You should have said. We could have gone to the baths before they closed.”
“I’d rather be sore and know you’re safe than warm but fretting.”
Holmes blushed like a maiden.



Holmes, unusually for him, was neither manic nor sprawled on our settee with a fit of lethargy. This was the most relaxed I’d seen him; he seemed to be prepared to make the most of his temporary lack of cases. We went to the baths that afternoon, and enjoyed their effects well into the night.



“Wounded. In Afghanistan, I presume?” I must have gaped like a fool for he continued, “my dear chap, it’s elementary.”
“Yes” I rallied “and I hope there’s a scarce few who have to go through the same.”
“They can’t fight there forever.”
“Yet sometimes it felt like it’d never end.”