Despite all evidence to the contrary, I did indeed have other friends outside of my beloved Sherlock Holmes. Before stepping into the threshold of 221B, I had lived a very full life. My army service notwithstanding, I was quite a popular fellow in my days as a youth. My list of friends was long, and only lengthened the older I became. I am tempted to say I regret falling out of contact with most of the lads from my school days. But truth be told, if I had kept up with a good deal of them after returning from Afghanistan, I may not have ended up on Baker Street at all.

​

It was one such fellow, a Mr. Cornelius Warner, who happened to interrupt my appointment with the barber one sunny afternoon in early August. Holmes and I had just returned from abroad, and I was eager to get my face shaved by a proper razor again.

 

Mr. Whitney, with a bowl of lather at the ready, approached me to begin our appointment. “Been a way long?” he asked.

 

“Far longer than I would have liked,” I answered. “Mediterranean beds do not agree with my back, I’m afraid. We returned just yesterday. You could not have pulled me from my sleep last night if you roused me by thunder.” Mr. Whitney chuckled and I lifted my chin. He frothed my whiskers with a quick hand, and swapped the brush for a straight razor.

 

“I don’t leave town much myself,” said Mr. Whitney. “What with the price of meat these days, I dare say I can’t much afford it.”

 

“I share your sentiments, good sir. If it weren’t for the business of Mr. Holmes, I struggle to think if I could leave Baker Street at all.” I closed my mouth and allowed him to work. For a while, all was usual, until a tingle of the barber’s door drew my ear.

 

“So sorry to barge in,” said a voice, “but I was hoping you had a free appointment today? My normal barber is all booked up and I must be trimmed for tonight.” In my seat, my brow furrowed. I had heard this voice, remembered it in the way one might remember a fleeting memory. The longer I pondered, the stronger the feeling became, and I looked up into the mirror ahead of me. Standing at the doorway was a strapping gentleman my age, with handsome features and a head of warm brown, turning oh so delicately to frosted silver at his temples. What drew me the most, however, was the ring on his right hand, embossed with an old, familiar family crest. I was struck with remembrance, and before I could let him get away, I turned sharply in my seat.

 

“Cornelius?” I said. “Cornelius Warner?”

 

The man looked stricken, but after a moment, it melted into a charming smile to rival the sun. “Is that—it is! John Watson!” We laughed together, and he approached me in my seat. We clasped hands in greeting. “My goodness, where have you been, old man? I’ve not seen you in an age! Though it seems only yesterday we were terrors to the school staff, eh, Mr. Watson?”

 

I held up a finger. “I’m afraid it’s ‘Dr.’ Watson these days, dear fellow.”

 

“Is it really? Ha! Old Johnny Johnny made himself a doctor after all! How absolutely marvelous.”

 

“To answer your first inquiry, I’ve been abroad for some years. But mostly, I’ve remained here in London. What about you?”

 

“Ah!” Warner sat in the chair opposite mine and slapped his thighs. “Where have I not been? The far shores of the Caribbean, the frozen heavens of the Himalayas, the wild and untamed savanna of Africa… I’d only just come back from a tour of South America. Have you ever been?”

 

“Afraid not.”

 

“You’d love it! Perhaps the next time I go I shall make room on the boat for your luggage.” I chuckled, and the barber returned to his work. Fortunately, Warner spoke plenty for the both of us. “Though I am planning for a prolonged stay now that I’m back home, amidst the wishes of my dear Uncle Geoffrey. I’m afraid his health has been in decline as of late, and he’s expressed his wishes for me to finally settle in and find a wife.”

 

The barber wiped off his straight razor, giving me a chance to speak. “I cannot picture you a happily wed man.”

 

“Nor can I,” Warner admitted. “Still, I shall endeavor to entertain the old boy until he leaves this world. After that, I believe I shall continue with my globe trotting until my vices or my follies lay me to the ground.” I chuckled and the barber finished a few strokes on my neck. “So what of you? What turns has the life of Dr. John Watson taken in his years as a man? Come, my friend, you must tell me everything.” The barber passed Warner a disapproving look, and he retracted, just a tad. “Perhaps when you are free enough to speak?”

 

I agreed, of course. It had been so many years since Warner and I saw each other last that I was eager to recount all that we had missed. Once the barber was done with me, Warner was given a quick trim, and off we went to the local pub on the corner. There, Warner bought us both a stout, and we regaled one another with tales of our adventures. For as many stories as I had of my life with Sherlock Holmes, Warner had just as many of his time abroad. In respect for your dignity, dear reader, I shall not recount some of the less savory tales told by my old friend, though rest assured, they were quite suited for an afternoon in a busy pub. Over the course of the hours, our table collected many an empty pint glass, as well as the ashes of our cigars. So wrapped up was I in the thrill of such company that I did not notice the daylight hours slip away until much, much later. In fact, had Holmes not come to fetch me, I doubt I would have noticed the moon at all.

 

“There you are, Watson.” That familiar baritone tore me from my conversation, and Holmes approached us both with a perturbed expression on his face. “You were due back home hours ago.” His eyes flickered over to Warner, and I could tell by their bounce that they had taken a quick scan of my old associate for deduction. “We had plans to dine at the Pine Tree Inn this evening. Did you forget?”

 

“Oh!” I flushed, touched slightly by the influence of my drinks. “I am so very sorry, dear boy. I’m afraid I’d lost track of the time.” I turned to Warner, who eyed Holmes as equally suspiciously as he’d eyed him. “Ah, yes, of course. Warner, this is my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Holmes, this is—”

 

“Cornelius Warner, nephew of Geoffrey Warner. Aged 43, studied at Oxford, mostly likely law. Though he has given up the pursuit to become a barrister young in favor of international travel. And an old schoolmate of yours, who’s just come back to town and bumped into you serendipitously at the barber’s.” Holmes smiled, tersely, as Warner sat there, stunned. “Charmed.”

 

“My word,” Warner laughed. “Quite a fine parlor trick, Mr. Holmes.”

 

I could feel my friend’s feathers ruffle in distaste. “Hardly,” he said. “You wear a family crest on your right hand. That is the mark of the family Warner, and in particular, the well respected barrister Mr. Geoffrey Warner, of whom I have had the distinct pleasure in making acquaintance with during the murder trial of Mr. Noah Canton. I helped him prove a severely consequential case. Of course the tragedy of his younger brother and wife made headlines some… what… thirty years ago? I believe your parents were lost to you in a carriage accident, if I am correct.”

 

Unsettled, I glanced at Warner, whose smile had since fallen into a scowl. I cleared my throat. “Yes, very good, Holmes, but I believe that’s all.”

 

“Oh Watson, I’ve only just begun.” Holmes ran his finger down his waistcoat, and went in for the kill. “I suppose you are wondering how I determined your area of schooling? That is a simple matter of logical deduction, Mr. Warner. Taken under the wing of one of the better prosecutors in British courts, what else would your dear uncle have you study? Yet judging from the red clay on your shoes and the rather sun-kissed color of your cheeks, you have recently returned from exotic lands abroad. The tanning around your wrists is substantial, so this was no weekend holiday. What hard working barrister leaves England for so long? Therefore I can only assume that you had abandoned your studies without ever reaching the bar exam.”

 

“Holmes…” I warned quietly.

 

“Then of course there is the detail of your relation to my good friend Dr. Watson here, and your chance meeting in the barber. There are small hairs on the collar of your shirt, Mr. Warner. Evidence of a recent trim. And you, Watson, you had gone to the barber some three hours ago for a shave, yet there is still evidence of soap on your neck. Therefore, you not only must have bumped into Mr. Warner at the barber, but were each so enamored with one another that you did not bother to wipe your neck as you left. The sheer time spent here, at your favorite pub with…” He counted the glasses at our table. “Several shillings worth of stout at your fingertips tells me that you have many years of history between you. And seeing as your ages match, I can only conclude that you were schoolmates. Though why you would associate with a man with such little discipline is beyond me, Watson. It is unlike you to mingle with privileged flunkies.”

​

“Holmes!” I shot from my seat, furious at the spite with which Holmes had embarrassed my old friend. “That is quite enough! I don’t know what has riled you so, but you are being horribly rude—”

 

“That’s quite all right there, Watson.” We both turned to Warner as he stood, leaving a few coins at the table. “I have an appointment to meet anyway. So perhaps it is best we end our meeting here.”

 

I winced. “Cornelius…” An apology hung on my lips, but Warner flashed me a smile. Stepping around the table, he put his arm over my shoulders and ruffled my hair, much like he had when we were boys.

 

“Think nothing of it, Johnny Johnny. I am in town for the foreseeable future. There shall be other nights in the pub. Hm?” I tried offering him a smile, but it was of little consolation. With one last glance at Holmes, Warner left the pub, leaving me in a sorry state of frustration and humiliation. Holmes, who had eyed Warner all the way out of the door, turned to me with a stiff expression.

​

“Johnny Johnny?” he said.

 

Frustrated, I took Warner’s coins to pay our tab, and then made to exit the pub. “That was horrible of you, Holmes. Absolutely wretched of you.” We left the pub, and I threw on my coat with a tug. “Cornelius Warner was an old friend of mine from school, and we had been enjoying a fine evening together until you decided to demean the man. And for what? Because I had been late coming home from the barber’s?”

 

Now no longer playing to an audience, my anger cracked Holmes’ cold demeanor. He tried keeping his eyes away in attempts to look undisturbed, but I could see his throat bob nervously as he swallowed. “We had plans…” he offered weakly.

 

“Then you are free to take your ire out on me,” I snapped. “And not out on my friends.” We crossed the road to our door, my anger having yet to dissipate. “Frankly, after such a stunt, I cannot say if I am even in the mood to join you at the Pine Tree. I would much rather have Mrs. Hudson bring a sandwich to my room for the evening.”

 

Holmes stopped as we reached the door to 221B, his face fallen. I shall admit, I was tempted to apologize, but found myself too prideful and much too angry to try and quell Holmes’ despair. “Your room?” he asked, his voice quiet.

 

I opened the door and hung my coat and hat on the rack. “Yes,” I said, shortly. “My room.” 

 

“John—”

 

“Enjoy the Pine Tree. Good evening, Mr. Holmes.” I could not bear to look at him, and instead stomped my way up the steps and into our flat. I first went to our shared bedroom, where I took my nightgown from the dresser drawer, and then crossed the hall to my old, unused bedroom. Since settling into the master with Holmes, my old room had more or less been used for storage, though it was kept neat and livable thanks to Mrs. Hudson. I worried that perhaps Holmes would try and interrogate me later that evening, but he remained out. I could not imagine that he kept his reservation at the Pine Tree, as it was far more likely that he had walked to clear his head. After weeks in Monaco, I dare say we both needed some time away from one another on top of the disagreement. I loved my dear Holmes, truly I did. But I would be lying to say that his swings in mood were not aggravating at times. Particularly when he took it out on innocent bystanders.

 

I stayed to my old room, and was left undisturbed for the better part of the night. My sleep was minimal, as I found it difficult to slumber peacefully in such an empty bed. I laid awake, wondering if Holmes was as distraught as me, and if either of us was able to swallow our pride and apologize. Not that I had anything to apologize for, really, but prioritizing Holmes over myself was indeed a bitter habit of mine. However, I stayed the course, and resolved to let him marinate in his guilt. At some point in the evening, I heard the cry of Sherlock’s violin. Although I was compelled to surrender, I rolled away from the door, and let the beautiful strings lull me to sleep.

 

When I awoke, the world was silent. I laid in bed for an hour at least, staring at the watch on my table. My surgery appointments would not commence for at least another week, and so my schedule was free. Holmes and I had talked about enjoying our time home, but I could still feel the anger in my belly after the previous night’s display. Eventually, I got up to relieve myself and dress for the morning. Poking my head out of the bedroom, I saw some evidence of his late night. Judging from the plate of uneaten roast on the table, Holmes had not gone to the Pine Tree. I looked to our shared bedroom. The door was closed, and I lingered in the hall. I approached, and laid my ear against it. Hearing nothing, I inched it open just so. 

 

There was Holmes, asleep in our bed on his designated side. He was slumbering soundly, and in his arms was clutched my pillow. He still wore his dressing gown, his face buried into the linens. I shall confess to you now, my faithful audience, that I wanted desperately to stay angry with him. In many ways I still was. And yet, as I walked towards the bed, I could feel that frustration settle from a boil to a very slight simmer. I knelt on my side and reached out with a gentle hand. His hair had become unsightly during the night, and I pushed a stray lock from his temple.

​

Holmes, ever the light sleeper, fluttered open his eyes, and met mine over the pillow. A look of shame overtook him, and he turned away. I leaned forward and kissed his cheek with gentle lips. “I am still cross with you,” I said.

 

“I know,” Holmes replied.

 

I laid down beside him, and Holmes buried his face into my chest. There, I held him firm, and pet the back of his wild hair. “Oh Sherlock,” I sighed. “You must find it within you to manage your emotions.”

 

“I know…”

 

“I apologize for having lost track of the time. But it is no excuse to—”

​

“I know, Watson.” His eyes closed, and he pressed them into my neck, weakly. “I know. And I apologize sincerely. I fear I have no excuse.”

 

A half smile curled its way up my lips. “Yes, well. We are all human, my dear.” Holmes looked up. “Just please, for my sake, try to be more cordial?”

 

Holmes smiled ruefully. Leaning up, he offered a kiss, which I accepted with a kind heart. “I shall,” he said. “You have my word.”  We remained in bed for the better part of the morning. And I think, had Mrs. Hudson not bothered us with breakfast, we might have been there for the rest of the day.