His initial inclination was to claim to feel just fine, but that was a lie, and Lestrade was a friend, and he deserved better. Watson swirled the brandy in his glass, looking at it, and pointedly not at Lestrade.

"I've done better," he admitted at last, with a long sigh. "I think one of the hardest things is that I'm not allowed to grieve as... as I would were I... well, a recognised spouse, I suppose." He sighed, shook his head. "I'm... not sure what I'm to do with myself, now."