The clock had long since passed midnight, yet Dr. John Watson remained awake in the sitting room of Baker Street, a book forgotten upon his knee.

Firelight caught the strong line of his jaw and the weariness beneath kind eyes that had seen war enough for one lifetime. Handsome enough to turn heads and too modest to notice, he listened for the familiar tread upon the stairs. Holmes was, as ever, somewhere between brilliance and disaster.

With a quiet sigh and a fresh cup of tea waiting, Watson glanced toward the door, hoping tonight would end with answers rather than injuries.