Holmes' contemplations on the eve of Watsons wedding...

His wedding day

I wonder if Watson will be able to sleep tonight. I, myself, will certainly not, and it is not even my wedding, that will take place tomorrow!

He has just gone to bed to get at least a bit of sleep after sitting up with me the first half of this night. His last night in our Baker Street rooms. It has been an awkward situation, and I wonder if he had felt it, too. On the other hand, he is so radiantly happy these days, that there might not be much space for other emotions, let alone reasonable thinking. I attribute this to the many disturbing effects of love. Not that I would understand much of the matter.

Yet, here I am, staring at his empty armchair and slowly becoming aware that I better should get used to this sight…

Oh, there will be much for me to do during those next weeks, I am sure. There is no such thing as a moratorium when it comes to crime, not even during the good doctor's honeymoon, who – nevertheless – will not have the time to occupy his mind with such worldly things… but for the devoted criminalist it will provide an adequate field of activity. On the personal level, I shall not have much leisure to miss him.

Anyway, no sleep for me tonight. As I do not find the heart to disturb Watson's sleep, though, by whiling the time away with my violin, I am once again rummaging through the contents of my drawer, this time disregarding the seven percent solution. No, not tonight.

The little packages are ready and properly fitted with ribbons and wrapping tissue. I have gotten the silver cuff links with the engraved J.W. from the jeweller only yesterday, and for the designated Mrs. John Watson I have bought a jewellery case accordingly, containing also a thin golden chain which might fit to be adorned with maybe one of the pearls Miss Mary Morstan received from Thaddeus Sholto, not that long ago.

Everything is ready, everything is as it is supposed to be. These things are, of course, merely a trifle to give to the best friend (and his lady) a man has ever had, but I assume it is at least appropriate for the occasion.

Having now already dispensed with the violin as well as the seven-percent, I decide to treat myself with the contents of my Persian slipper. I am definitely amazed, now, to find another wrapped package stuck in the tobacco. A small card of obviously Watson's hand is stating "Holmes", and as I am removing the tissue, I am holding a silver cigarette case in my hand, my initials clearly visible on the front. Thank you, Watson!

After contemplating on my friend's gift for a long time, I now arrive at a decision. I will try to give my body a few hours rest now, and tomorrow I will attend the wedding of John Watson and Mary Morstan with the good spirits, such a celebration usually affords. I will wish them all the joy in the world, I will wear my most convincing smile and will even do my best to attempt to a decent dance with the bride. The jeweller's items are more or less a formality. But this will be my real wedding present!

Forgetting completely about the pipe, I am now reaching for my cigarettes to put them into their new abode. As I am opening the silver case, I am holding my breath noticing the engraved inscription on the inner lid. There is Watson's new London address, together with a short message:

I will only be a call away. J. W.