It was five in the morning when I was awoken by a crash. It had come from the downstairs sitting room- Holmes' mid-night territory, of course- I was concerned. It was more work than expected to extract myself from the covers, but once the task was complete I had only to descend the stairs to check on my friend.
"Holmes?" I called as Mrs. Hudson appeared from the kitchen.
"What's he done this time, doctor?" the landlady's hands were at her hips, a sure sign of agitation.
"I do not know yet," I hurried to say, "but any damages shall be paid!"
"Not by you, doctor," she told me as I entered the sitting room. I was shocked at the state of the place; books on the floor, papers fluttering out the window, and Holmes laid at the foot of our bookshelf. Now, my readers, I could understand Holmes incapacitated on the floor and the books haphazardly strewn about(though it was worse than on the average day), but the papers flying out the window was a first.
"What, now, Holmes?" I asked as he rose to his feet.
"I was only attempting to reach a book on top of the bookcase." The detective attempted a apologetic expression, but it was lost on me.
"And you managed to destroy the sitting room in the process?" replied I, kneeling down to collect patient files that Holmes, for whatever reason, decided to steal from me. I had only allowed my eyes to leave my friend for a second when I felt a foot perch itself on my shoulder and begin to apply pressure. My leg, for a moment, flared, and I was no longer in control of my actions. I dropped fully to the floor and rolled to the side, bring up my hand as if a riffle lay within it, but pulled up short.
"Really, Watson, I was only after the book!"
"I'm a Doctor, not a stepstool!" I fairly shouted. Looking up at the shelf that seemed to be the bane of my existence, I spotted a ruby tinted object near the edge. "The red one?" Holmes nodded cautiously, unused to my pull-pup temper leaving me so quickly. I snatched a cane from near by and slapped if from its perch, watching it fall to the ground. Holmes reached for the sought-over item, only for me to slap his hand away with the cane.
"Still angry, Watson?"
"Do not presume you can use me as a slave or as any sort of furniture, Holmes," I growled, cane still poised, "if you dare to ever do that again, I will leave Baker Street." Holmes stood shocked at my threat as I turned to leave. "And Holmes?" said I , smirking, "All you had to do was ask."