Watson did not dignify the comment with a response – other than to momentarily make eyes at the ceiling – removing Holmes’s keys from his pocket, unlocking the door, and manhandling him inside, where he placed Holmes in the chair closest to the door and then lit a lamp. “Don’t move,” he said, pointing at him to underscore his point and reclaiming his cane. Holmes tipped him a jaunty salute and sprawled in the chair most obscenely.





Watson could hear the muffled thud even while across the hall. He simply shook his head to himself and, finished gathering his bag into order, crossed back to find Holmes on the floor, ineffectually attempting to dissuade the dog from licking his ear.

“Good dog,” said Watson, nearly grinning, and he gave the bull pup a light, fond slap on the side. Then he took Holmes by the arms, hauled him to his feet, and led him to a chair by the fire, which Mrs. Hudson had presumably stoked before retiring.

“Dreadful creature,” Holmes said, bleary but irrepressible.

"The dog?" Watson asked, dragging over a second chair and opening his bag over a side table.

"No, you," Holmes said, and Watson gave a faint, genuine chuckle.

"Your head down, please."

"You probably say that to all your patients," said Holmes, leaning on the armrest and bowing his head, and Watson permissibly rolled his eyes as he carefully searched out the contusion hidden in Holmes's hair, more gentle than he had to be.