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Watson had been trying to get to sleep for hours. He had planned on an early night, as Holmes was supposed to be out late investigating a blackmail case. That plan changed at once when he found Holmes in the sitting room, brimming with excitement over the progress to his case.
They had eaten a cold supper, or rather Watson ate while Holmes chattered excitedly about his case, his latest violin composition, and a new local carriage horse that had, in Holmes’ words, “the most remarkably soft pink nose upon the earth.”
Although Watson was exhausted from a long day at his surgery, he listened happily to Holmes’ rambling. During their years apart, nights like this were one of the things that Watson had most missed. Three years after Holmes’ return, Watson still celebrated each night of enthusiastic commentary.
He truly was exhausted, though, and struggling to focus by the time that Holmes at last turned the conversation back to his case. “But I fear there is little that I can do until the Irregulars grace our doorstep, Watson,” he said with a sigh, drumming his fingers on the table. “I must have some little information about the other blackmail targets if I am to see a pattern.”
Watson blinked away sleep and straightened in his seat. “But I thought you hoped to get that information in the public house?”
“Well, well, one cannot score every time.” Holmes sprang out of his seat, locked his hands behind his back, and paced in a tight circuit between the fireplace and dinner table. “The Irregulars will overhear what I could not, even in my disguise, for they draw no attention. And then I shall be able to conduct a little deeper research into matters.”
“Wonderful, Holmes,” Watson said sleepily. Perhaps Holmes would wish to sit, smoke, and contemplate his case quietly.
Holmes apparently did not wish to do anything quietly. Foiled in his case for now, he snatched up his violin, tuned it quickly, and launched into a flurry of playing.
Watson stifled a yawn and checked his watch. It was past eleven now, heading towards midnight. Not particularly late, for he and Holmes often stayed up past midnight, but late enough after such a long day.
He would have no luck whatsoever going to bed, though, and knew better than to try. If Holmes played once he was already asleep, that was no trouble. Watson could sleep through that.
But it was a different matter to fall solidly asleep with the distraction of Holmes working out a new composition, playing the same notes repeatedly at slightly different speeds. And the distraction of Holmes making sharp sounds of irritation at himself for imperceptible mistakes. And the distraction of Holmes pacing between playing.
Of course, it was also impossible to read or do anything of the kind while this exhausted. After considering his options, Watson lay down on the settee and tried to sleep anyway.
Once lying down, it was impossible to stay awake even with all the distractions. He promptly tumbled into a doze, albeit one full of dreams of music and Holmes growling at anything that irritated him. In an odd way, the dreams were still restful. These were certainly very familiar distractions.
A different but still very familiar distraction came shortly after, in the form of a gentle hand on Watson’s shoulder. “Watson.”
Watson struggled to force his eyes open, and became vaguely aware of the sound of children’s voices downstairs. The Irregulars had returned, then. “What time is it?”
“Just after midnight.” Holmes flashed a quick smile at him and patted his shoulder. “I have all the information I need now to unravel this little case. Are you coming?”
With Holmes gone, 221B would be quiet enough for as much rest as Watson would like. Despite that, he returned the smile. “Of course.”
“Excellent, Watson.” Affectionately, Holmes ruffled Watson’s hair, then whirled off. “I’ve already procured a cab, and we leave in five minutes. I know you are a little sleep deprived, but you won’t regret this!”
Head swimming, Watson sat up and rubbed his eyes. He could hardly see straight. “I won’t?”
“Of course not! The cab waiting for us is pulled by the grey that I told you about earlier.” Holmes hurtled past him again, now carrying all of his burglar’s equipment. “The one with the most excellent soft pink nose. That alone makes a little sleep deprivation worthwhile.”
Watson chuckled. “Well, I’m not sure about that.”
Sure or not, in five minutes he was following Holmes downstairs. Perhaps he could manage some sleep in the cab. But even if he could not, he was sure of one thing. Being with Holmes was worth any amount of lost sleep.