"I told you. I'm fine."
"Clearly," came the sarcastic retort.
His thin shoulder rolled halfway back, allowing him to glare over it at the gentleman behind him. No rain in weeks, yet he was twirling that damnable umbrella as always.
"You know why you always carry that thing about, don't you? That ludicrous crutch of yours?"
"Perhaps one day you'll enlighten me on the subject. As for now, I'm more concerned with your subconscious motivations for holing yourself up in this…" Mycroft looked around and wrinkled his nose, "…and refusing the assistance you – "
"Oh, do spare me the analysis," the figure on the sofa mumbled, burying his face once more in the cushions.
"Yes, well, I'll be willing to forego the deep discussion of your psychological state if you'll simply agree to seek medical attention for the injuries you've sustained on your recent, shall we say, jaunt, around London's more colorful neighborhoods."
"You will, I assume, refuse to leave until I agree?" Exhaling something between a growl and a sigh, he leveraged himself slowly to a sitting position. "Alright. Will that be all?"
"The car is waiting."
"Now?! Honestly, I assure you that I can manage this without – "
"And if you don't? I have a responsibility."
"Since when am I your responsibility?"
"Since Christmas dinner. When I promised Mummy."
"Sherlock Holmes!" the portly man called, stepping further onto the pavement and hoping he wouldn't have to run to catch up.
Sherlock paused for a moment, clenched and unclenched a gloved fist, then spun around sharply on his heel and blinked.
"Mike. Mike Stamford."
Sherlock blinked once more before a look of vague recognition spread across his features.
"Ah, yes, Mike. Well. Hello." He waited barely long enough for the older man to reach him, then resumed his purposeful stride.
"Haven't seen you in a bit. Thought you were busy running about town trying not to get stabbed. What happened?"
"Got stabbed," Sherlock replied humorlessly.
"Oh, ha, um… going the wrong way then, mate?" Stamford said hurriedly, pointing toward the A&E entrance behind them.
"Nope." After a moment, he added, "not spending an entire day contained with the disease-ridden masses waiting for an overworked incompetent to botch routine stitches. And as for smaller surgeries, it's hard to find someone worth seeing who isn't utterly and unforgivably dull."
Stamford let out a chuckle.
"What?"
"Well you're the second person to say that to me today."
Sherlock stopped abruptly, causing the woman behind him to spill her coffee down her jacket and curse. He turned a finally-interested eye toward his accidental companion. "Who was the first?"
Placing the final patient chart in the "completed" bin, the doctor stood, stretched, and opened his door. The waiting room was empty save two men, one of whom was sitting, scrolling through something on his mobile and looking uncomfortable, while the other was speaking over the woman at reception.
"…closed for the evening. And frankly, sir, given your injuries, you would do better to seek assistance at A&E, as I mentioned when you first…"
"…if he had warned me that I would be wasting my time repeatedly explaining to you that I do not, in fact, require an appointment…"
"Mike? What are you doing here? Didn't get enough of me over coffee this morning?" the doctor interrupted, attempting to lighten the atmosphere.
"John!" Stamford jumped up from his chair, visibly relieved. "Was wondering when you'd turn up. This," he motioned toward the tall man now looking smugly at the receptionist, "is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock," he gestured back toward the doctor, "this is Dr. John Watson."