A/N: Hello there. This is my very first ever Sherlock Holmes fanfic. I don't write very much, so hopefully that will change soon. (actually, I write quite a lot, just never finish anything. I've only uploaded this so that I will finish it.) And it is very short, I do apologize. Hopefully as I get into the flow of writing, the chapters will start to get longer.

This was inspired by me working all day with a sore leg and having to limp around all day. It reminded me of Watson, so here goes... Hope you enjoy! Please review, especially if you see where I can improve!

Disclaimer: We both know I don't own Sherlock Holmes or Dr. Watson, or 221B Baker street, even...


"Watson! It's nearly midnight. Where have you been?" Holmes asked, somewhat alarmed as he had not heard from his friend since luncheon.

He watched, already deducing the answer even before he'd asked the question, as his friend made his way to his chair, his limp more pronounced than usual, and sank slowly with a poorly suppressed groan.

"Watson, why on earth were you out with patients so late tonight? You're clearly exhausted and in pain."

"Tomorrow's Easter." He replied simply.

Holmes cocked an eyebrow. "And that explains you staying out at all hours of the night?"

"Easily. Tomorrow all the local physicians will be spending time with their families. Only emergency situations will be taken care of. I needed to make certain that as many patients as possible would be doing well enough to enjoy Easter with their families. And the doctors too, for that matter." Watson bit back another groan as he reached forward for a cup of tea, giving up midway and reclining back again.

Holmes answered, handing him the cup of tea, "That's...noble and such, but who is going to take care of you tomorrow?"

"I'll be fine." He answered, somewhat crossly, as he sipped his tea, which was rather tepid.

Holmes sighed and sat back, picking up his violin. He played something soft, and one of Watson's favourites. Within just a few minutes, Watson was dozing in his chair, nearly dropping his half empty tea cup before Holmes slipped it out of his hand and replaced it on the table. He drew a blanket around his friend, dimmed the gaslights and went into his bedroom.

At around three o'clock, Watson awoke to a shooting pain in his leg. It was so sharp that he had to bite down on his lip to keep from groaning aloud. He reached for his bag, which he'd dropped next to the chair when he returned earlier, and pulled out a powder for the pain. He glanced across the room to where the water pitcher was, sighed, and slowly forced himself up. He made it about three excruciating steps before his leg gave out completely and he fell to the floor with a cry.

He forced himself into a sitting position and leaned against the settee, drawing in deep breaths trying to focus the pain away. Perhaps this was bad enough to warrant a small dose of morphine. He bit back another moan as he began to make his way back to his bag. He stopped short when he saw Holmes walk from behind the chair. He silently pulled out a clean syringe and the bottle of morphine that the doctor kept for medical purpose only, as he repeatedly reminded Holmes.


Er, ok. So that was it. Let me know what you think. Chapter two will be up by Saturday night. (I hope.)

Thank you for reading! :D