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Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or anything associated with him :(

A/N ok, this is my first Sherlock Holmes fic, so I'd really appreciate reviews, hope you enjoy.

I settled into the warmth and the comfort of my armchair in the lounge, reaching for one of my yellow-backed novels, and sighed contentedly. I was relieved at finally being given the blissful opportunity of a moment's peace after hours of chasing down crowded London streets with Holmes after a group of forgers for my friend's latest client.

I was therefore quite taken aback when the voice of my friend sounded only a few metres from where I was sitting.

"I said Watson, how do you feel about dinner at Simpson's?"

My usual response to such an appealing request would of course be in the positive, but I hesitated in my reply at the thought of braving the ice cold air outside, and my old war wounds twinged in agreement.

Of course, this thought process only lasted mere seconds, but my slight hesitation did not go unnoticed by Holmes.

"My apologies old boy, I failed to realise how the current weather was affecting your old injuries…"

As usual, he replied to my thoughts before I myself had the opportunity to process them into speech, and I felt the corners of my mouth turn up into a faint smile. He knew me well, almost better than I knew myself really, and it still warmed me somewhat when he subtlety acknowledged this bond between us.

As per usual, I was too caught up in the inner monologue of my mind to realise that Holmes had been attempting to speak to me, and was now staring at me with furrowed brows and an expression which vaguely hinted at concern.

It was my turn to answer his unasked queries; "I'm fine Holmes, just tired is all. I rather fear I've overexerted myself during that chase from this afternoon. I'm sure I'll be back to normal after one of Mrs Hudson's usual stunning suppers." I gave him a quirk of a smile to reassure him further as I watched the glaze of worry dissipate from his cool, grey eyes.

"If you're sure." he replied thinly.

I suppressed a groan. I knew the usual behavioural patterns of my friend, one has to learn quickly when living with a man such as Sherlock Holmes, and his swift change of mood from a jovial, smug fellow, to one filled with melancholy with a distinct air of despair surrounding him were clear signs of the beginning of one of his famous 'black moods'.

His suggestion to dine at Simpson's was of course a way for him to continue his positive attitude for as long as possible before allowing himself to fall prey of the miseries of his deep, calculating mind, and I have gone and ruined his plans, leaving him to wallow in self pity and suffer in the claustrophobic atmosphere of our flat.

How selfish of me! I should have made the effort, staggering though it would have been, to keep my friend's demons at bay for just a while longer.

I turned to face Holmes, who was now slumped across his armchair opposite me, an eerily blank look dominating his features, and I then turned to the door; there was only one solution.

Rising to my feet slowly, though not as steadily as I would have liked, I walked over to the coat rack, plucked Holmes' coat and scarf from their hooks and threw them over the room towards Holmes, whilst donning my own attire.

Lifting the end of his scarf that was now draped over him from his face, he looked at me with a rather bewildered expression, (quite an endearing look on him actually), and I shot him a grin before saying in a light tone, "Hop to it man, I won't wait forever, and neither will the staff at Simpson's for that matter."

Holmes stood up slowly, at an even slower pace than I had, before walking over to me.

"You don't have to Watson, I didn't-"

I plucked the soft scarf from his unsteady grasp quickly and wrapped it loosely around his pale neck before indicating to his coat, successfully interrupting him and his rare argument about the state of my health.

Warily he did up his coat and looked at my with a stern face, although he knew I could see the fond regard dancing brightly in his eyes, so linking my arm with his, I lead him down the seventeen steps of 221B Baker Street into the cool evening air, comforted by the small smile playing across Holmes' lips and grateful for the support of his strong arm on my aching limbs, and with a much lighter heart than I had a few moments before, I thought with much anticipation of the enjoyable evening that was to be had in the company of my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes.