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They return to Baker Street long after the streetlamps had been lit, when the house is bathed in shadow and Mrs Hudson has retired for the evening. Dr Watson leads the way upstairs with Holmes trailing behind him, deep in his thoughts, his head bowed and eyes downturned beneath the brim of his hat. It has been, to put it mildly, an exceedingly long and taxing day.
As soon as the door to the living room has been closed behind them, Watson resolves to make the final hours of the day as pleasant and relaxing as possible. He removes his coat, hat, and gloves, and drops his cane into the stand by the door, then makes his way around the room to close the curtains and light the fire. Holmes remains by the door, divesting himself of coat and other trappings in silence.
Watson crouches by the fireplace and soon enough, the flame takes hold. He gives it a well-placed nudge or two with the poker so the warmth can begin to fill the room and ease the chill in the air.
His bad leg fails him when he tries to stand up again, and he wobbles on his heels. A hand is suddenly there at his elbow - Holmes, catching him, helping him stand upright. Steady once again, Watson breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Holmes.”
Holmes reaches down with his other hand and presses two fingers to the inside of Watson’s wrist, tapping twice. Doctor, it means to others. Watson, it means to them.
“Ah.” Watson looks up at his friend. He seems distinctly perturbed, the plains and angles of his face sharpened by a frown, the shadows under his eyes accentuated. “Are we to have a quiet night?”
Holmes nods, then releases Watson’s wrist to bring his fist up and circle it in front of his chest. Sorry. He looks away, his eyes gleaming in the firelight.
“It’s no trouble, dear fellow,” Watson insists. He does not pretend to understand precisely why Holmes is occasionally unable to speak, and the reasons can vary - but he has nothing against it. It seems a very simple thing to accept, and of no great inconvenience to him. “What can I do for you? Is there anything you require?”
Holmes tilts his head to one side for a moment, thinking. He lifts both hands, curled into fists, and presses them together between them in a pose that’s almost reminiscent of someone wearing handcuffs. Then he twists his hands one way, and the other; company. Finally, he slowly puts one hand on Watson’s chest, the implication clear; you.
Watson smiles, catches his friend's hand and brings it gently to his lips. “Very well. We shall be gentlemen of leisure, with pipes and papers and naught else but ourselves to pass the time.”
Gazing down at him, Holmes finally smiles back. He lifts his fingertips to his chin and brings them away, then crosses his palms over his chest. Thank you, dear.