daughter-of-raucous

Holmes sat carefully on the bed that had once belonged to the good doctor.  He had seen this room, walked these floors so many times.  But now everything seemed different, fragile, like any sudden movement or rough touch would break the lingering presence of Dr. John H Watson. It was true that he had lived alone before he had known Watson.  But he had been well and truly overthrown by the doctor, everything about him; his personality, his wisdom, his beauty.  It was impossible for him to turn back.  His bohemian soul had been touched, and there was no reversing a change such as that. The detective's gaze settled on his violin, lying where h