One week. Seven days. No doubt Mr. Holmes could name how many hours and minutes, exactly, it had been since the Doctor had turned up – or rather had not turned up – missing.
It had been a vile night, with freezing rain and winds to match; that much Mr. Holmes had reiterated with painful clarity yesterday when the strain of four consecutive sleepless nights and refusal to eat more than a piece of toast had finally broken down the detective's stoicism – much to the Inspector's shock at the sight of the uncharacteristic outburst in the foyer of Scotland Yard.
In that unheard-of (and Lestrade hoped to never see such a look on a man's face again) outburst, the detective had also let slip that he had been the cause of the Doctor's being out in such inclement conditions, due to a caustic, biting remark regarding his work on a case they were investigating.
Mr. Holmes already looked more ghost than man, Lestrade mused as the amateur paced the visitor's room of Watson's club in a relentless shadow, waiting for the doorman to talk to them about the night in question again.
They had better find the Doctor soon, the Inspector reflected uneasily; for it appeared that it was not one man's life, but two men's lives, that now hung in the balance.