The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that, for Watson, living with Holmes is like having a cat:
You get woken in the middle of the night for no reason, have to listen to its endless complaints, scratching, and "music." You're always the one that tidies up after it. One moment it's all cuddly and purring happily, the next moment it bites your hand. Either it is lying on the sofa all day, not moving a muscle, or it's roaming the neighborhood, leaving you to either follow it around or stay at home worrying your heart out, afraid it might get run over by the next cabby. But then, when it's lying next to you on the sofa, purring and all safe and happy, you forget all the trouble and just fill up to the brim with unconditional love.
Have I summed it up alright?
