I really don't want to spoil this, so I'll say at the end which story this set after, though I suspect most of you will know after the first few lines.

I.

They both looked at the water-bloated body, and saw under-pinned the image of a young well-dressed man, who had braved torrential rain to consult a detective.

Said detective wore a self-deprecating twist about his lips as if in penance, his eyes systematically noting every sign of the suffocating death that his client had succumbed to, and the light statement made by lips now turned an unnaturally livid hue reverberating in his ears: 'You have given me fresh life and hope.'

Oh, if only...

Eventually, Holmes gestured wordlessly, and the mortuary doctor replaced the veil of the white sheet over the body of one John Openshaw.

Stepping out into the cool autumn morning, Watson stayed a pace behind Holmes, just at his shoulder, as his friend strode down the street with a façade of purpose - and spoke not one word.

He knew well that brooding would change nothing, and that his friend knew as much. But he also knew, better than perhaps anyone else, how keenly Holmes felt, despite his claims to the contrary.

So no empty words left the doctor's mouth, though a hand abandoned his side to slide onto the thin taut shoulder, and remain there.

It was habit for them both to wander the streets of London if the weather was fair, and they had the inclination, and Holmes often idly deduced out aloud for what little amusement and distraction it provided to the racing engine of his mind.

But today, there was a different undertone as Holmes began to speak, a purpose almost. There was a fever to his words, that almost tripped and stumbled over each in their hurry to leave his mouth, and it was clear to Watson that the reeling off of numerous observations was doing nothing to calm Holmes's mind, as it so often had.

Yet he did not interfere, simply walked and waited, knowing with a certainty that he could never explain that it was the best thing to do, letting Holmes burn the furious energy he seemed to have compressed inside himself, but anchoring him firmly with the unmoving hand on his shoulder.

Eventually, the nervous, jerking speech and accompanying frenetic gestures broke off, and the tautness in the shoulder was replaced by a sagging weariness.

It was then that the lingering hand applied the most gentle of pressures, steering them both to a low-slung wall, and seating them upon it.

Grey eyes searched his face briefly, before they dropped, in that moment visible within them an earth-shattering doubt – but hazel eyes dipped to catch the falling gaze, and pull it, inch by scrabbling inch, back on to firm ground.

"Let's go home, dear chap."

The feeling of relief those few words gave the very human consulting detective were second only to the wordless promise of the warm weight on his shoulder.

Set after The Five Orange Pips.