Occasionally Sherlock Holmes would find the most irresponsible places to make an observation. Take, for one, the fighting ring. An irresponsible place indeed if he wanted to keep his health about him, which he didn't seem so intent on doing at the very moment, however, this was the bare tip of the iceberg, he had in fact, been quite reckless with his health as of late, and there was only one logical reason as to why that was.
Dr. John H. Watson, and his oh-so-lovely bride, Miss Mary.
Oh, now that was a dreadful thought. Mary Watson. He could barely contain the irritation the thought caused him before a fist connected with his jaw and he was sent staggering towards the side of the ring, clutching at the side of it as his breath left him. Now that was simply annoying.
He could have finished the man seven minutes ago, he was a large man by compare, but so much more inexperienced. Obviously used to relying on his sheer size to win and not thinking someone of Holmes' stature could beat him so much so that he left himself open almost all of the time.
The truth remained that Holmes had been toying with him, allowing this, and as the realization struck him, so did a blow to the lower abdomen, his spine going ridged and immediately he keeled over, blood staining his lips before he felt hands on him, somebody was crouching in front of him, and his head was so dazed that he could barely recognize the person.
A pair of hands nursed his face in them, and concerned eyes stared into the dilated pupils before said man stood up, ordering the fight over.
That would have been the logical thing to allow, but Holmes wouldn't have any of it, and carelessly, he pushed the man out of the way and stepped forward, ducking a right punch and grasping the man at the forearm, slamming his elbow into the side of the arm he held and hearing the resounding crack.
Broken elbow.
Twisting this arm, still in his grasp, behind the man's back, he turned it at an odd angle, and the sickening sound, only compared to a wet 'pop' escaped the joint.
Dislocated shoulder.
Releasing him and relieving a sharp kick into the side of his leg, the man crumbled. No broken bones, just a nice spot of nerves tingling with pain. The crowd went wild, and without another glance back, he slipped out of the ring, picking up a drink on the way out, and his winnings, stowing them into his pocket. He didn't have to be able to see straight to know who the man had been. No one had hands like that, Holmes knew by experience, the man was always having to tend to him after all, but that had been before.
"Holmes!"
The voice cut through his inner workings and he turned, glancing over his shoulder, "I didn't notice your usual bet, I thought Mary must have pull the leash tighter than I'd ordinarily imagined," He responded in that cool, calculating tone. Boarding on a simple amusement at everything he spoke of, as if he observed Humans, somehow apart from them.
"You can't make it home on your own-"
"Ah, now that's where you're wrong. I fully intend on making my way home, indeed unaccompanied, and I will make it, a fractured rib is not going to prevent that, I assure you," He responded, "Why did you come, Watson?" He asked finally, staring at the man in a distant manner.
"I was worried."
"You'll get over it, I'm sure."
Turning on his heel he stumbled home, past the Nanny and her concerned look, and into his bedroom where he collapsed on the bed, ignoring the ball of unconscious fur near the fireplace, only just visibly breathing. He'd been experimenting the night before, and forgotten to put away some of the items. Clearly Gladstone had decided they looked edible enough.
It had been Watson's choice.
He was a stubborn man, after all. He was also selfish, neither of these Holmes denied. And when he'd offered the choice, Watson had gone with his fiance and left Holmes alone. Well, the deal had been made, and Holmes refused to let it break.
If he were to let Watson back in, then what? It would simply be a matter of time before the man left him again on Mary's will. No, if there was one thing Sherlock Holmes wasn't, it was a fool. With this thought in mind, he let sleep take him, the exhaustion in him keeping him in the deathly brace of dreams until past eleven the next day.
He awoke to bandages littering some of his worst injuries and a note settled beside him on a plate of food stating simply 'eat'.
Frowning, he took a few bites of the food, wandering about his room. Surely not the Nanny. He was interrupted by a few content sounds from Gladstone, and the sound of munching.
A note stuck to Gladstone's back read, 'I fed the dog', and Holmes snatched it up with an irritable sound, screwing it up in his hand and tossing it onto the floor to be lost amongst his mess.
The terms of this 'divorce' were simple.
Why couldn't Watson stick to them?