The bottles lay empty beside the hearth, the last dregs of wine congealing. Beyond the curtains, the sun was threatening to rise and end a long night of stories told, and philosophical questions considered. There would never be a better time to ask.
“Why have you forgiven me?”
Watson, too drunk to stand, made no pretence of misunderstanding. “’S only logical thing to do. We reap what we sow. And I’ll have need of forgiveness come the last trumpet.”
“You?” Holmes scoffed.
“Me,” Watson insisted, his fez wobbling emphasis. “I’d lost my faith in miracles. And look! Here you are!”