"Holmes, I have wonderful news!"

The thunderous pounding of my friend's feet on the stairs already announced as much to me. At the sound of his approach I paused in my chemical experiment, speculating on the cause of Watson's exuberance. Usually I would not theorize before holding all the facts in hand, but my curiosity got the better of me in those few seconds before he burst through the doorway of the sitting room.

Watson's flushed face, his breathless words, all told of some momentous event on this dismally frosty winter afternoon. A huge win from the turf? A rich and benevolent patient added to his practice? Some morsel of matrimonial bliss (I think he knew better than to share much of THAT with me). My mind raced over the possibilities.

"Mary -- Mary and I -- well, Mary --" He stopped and caught his breath. A bit more calmly, he said, "We are going to have a child! I wanted you to be the first to know, Holmes! Isn't it wonderful!"

Before I could make a comment, Watson crossed the room and pumped my hand in his.

"I think I have a cigar here somewhere . . . ."

He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out an expensive cigar, which he offered to me. Too stunned to think on anything higher than the most elemental level, I accepted the gift and stiffly crossed to the mantle for a match.

"I wanted you to know first off. And Mary and I -- we -- wanted to ask if you would do us the honor of being godfather to our child. After all, it was because of your case we met and you are my dearest friend." As if suddenly overwhelmed at the whole business, he collapsed onto the sofa. Too surprised to do anything else, I observed him from the mirror on the mantle. "My son -- or daughter. I am going to be a father!" His voice was edging on the hysterical.

An over-the-edge Watson was more than I could tolerate atop this surprising news. I rushed to the sideboard for the standard Watson medicinal answer to every complaint. I poured him a stiff brandy and handed him the glass.

After a few sips he said, more calmly, "The baby will be born in July. And Mary insists on a christening." Now coherent, he actually stopped and looked at me. "I know we're not religious, old man, but Mary is quite traditional in these matters."

I returned to the mantle. "Of course," I muttered, easily recalling the small, modest, but strictly Anglican marriage of the Watsons those few years back. As best man I had been compelled to attend the church ceremony and plod through the duties expected of my honoured role in the event.

Watson was absently drifting with his scattered thoughts, rambling words.

Again.

I forced myself into the role of hearty well wisher. "Congratulations, my dear fellow," was my obligatory comment. A much more decent and proper thing to say than my stinging verbal reaction to my closest friend's marriage announcement. Still glancing at him in the mirror, I said, "Let us celebrate! I shall have Mrs. Hudson bring up my best vintage for the occasion. And we will drink to you and Mrs. Watson."

"And our baby," he added with pride.

"Of course."

***

I watched from the window seat as Watson stood in the chill evening wind and hailed a cab from the kerb. Just before he stepped into the hansom he turned to wave up at me. Not until he had removed his beaming countenance from my sight did I succumb to the black mood, which had tinged my thoughts at the unexpected announcement. The news of a forthcoming little Watson was a bleak prospect for me. For once, without self-recrimination on my ill behavior, I indulged in all the petty and ill-mannered opinions I had, for years, restrained. Thoughts couched from myself and most certainly from Watson.

This new turn of events would mean Watson ever more entrenched in his domestic role of provider, husband, and now father. I already resented his duties which kept him too long from Baker Street, which abducted him from 221B. Now there would be precious little time left for him to spare for the forgotten and lone consultant left behind as a sacrifice to his domestic bliss. I could foresee this distance stretching wider and wider between us until, eventually, I would no longer have a chronicler, companion -- perhaps not even a friend.

I turned from the snow dotted window and paused at the mantle to glance at the missive from a well-placed government official. He offered an intriguing case, which would take me out of the city for some time. Right now the prospect looked very good. An indeterminate time away from London. Who would notice I was even absent from Baker Street? Who would care? Life was so commonplace anymore.

With a sigh of regret at the bleak day, I walked to the desk and sought the only solace left to me. I took the Morocco case from the drawer and retreated to my bedroom.