Thanks to dilletante2, DancingGrass, bcbdrums, charleygirl, Pompey and Susicar for reviewing.
Also, my heartfelt thank you to Blue Flyhight and Kadal for +faving and +alerting.

And as for dilletante2 and bcbdrums, thank you so much for author alerting me.

Hey, Does this sound slash? Just wondered.. :s

Enjoy:

As you may have gathered from my other stories, my dear reader, my bizarre friend, Sherlock Holmes, has a great many gifts, these include outstanding dramatic skills, the art of disguise and also the incredible ability to not be found when one would wish to be alone, yes, he can disappear so realistically, that, if I did not believe magic a falsehood, I would most certainly believe him to be a magician.

It was the latter of these gifts that wiled away at my patience that afternoon, "Holmes? Where are you?" I called, up the stairs, down the stairs, under the stairs, over the stairs; I looked everywhere.

"Holmes!"

No answer, I tried again.

After about two hours of thoroughly searching the ridiculously small cottage I finally gave in, "Fine," I huffed, "Fine!" I walked down the stairs, calling out, lest he be near enough to hear me, "If you want to spend all afternoon sulking like a child over something as ridiculous as a chicken, then feel free, enjoy yourself! I don't care."

I cared..

The next morning there was still no sign of him and I had been up, worrying half the night.
My eyes were tired and heavy, like my eyelashes were no longer made of hair, but lead instead, and each blink would linger for a longer period, increase my temptation to blink again, my upset mind wandered; perhaps he had gone out, maybe he was staying at the Village Inn, safe and warm, or maybe he was lying on the side of some train tracks after some catastrophic accident, bleeding and hurt, calling my name in desperate mews as the pain cascaded over his body and the gravel around him flourished with the deep red of his blood, perhaps he was lying there, calling my name and wondering, wondering why I wasn't coming to him.

My eyes snapped open again, for a moment my heart raced, my skin prickled, what if he needed me? I told myself I should go to the train tracks, just in case, if he wasn't there then I would keep walking down them till I found him, I didn't want to feel the irony of the scenario that he did indeed lay bleeding, but it was around the corner from where I met the train tracks, and I never thought to turn that corner, no, I would keep walking.

I stood, pulling my coat over my shoulders; no time to wash or change, I hurriedly opened the door, stepping out into the cool chill, medical bag in hand, I reached the end of the path, then I heard him behind me, my heart plummeted to the floor, I turned, a mixture of relief and anger overwhelmed me suddenely, he stood there, a cigarette in his hand, and the cold look of a lone wolf in his eyes.

He was stood a short distance from our front door, looking at me curiously, "Holmes." I whispered, my voice hoarse.

He looked at me, a powerful stare.

"You idiot." I said between gritted teeth, "You absolute bloody idiot!" He only had time to look mildly shocked as I lunged at him, first I hit him, then I held on to him, gasping my relief, he grunted and collapsed into my solid embrace; he knew that there would be no point in struggling.

I could see he hadn't slept well, smell the damp on him, where had he been? In the attic? On the roof?

"You ever do that to me again and I swear, I'll chain you to the front door like and animal." I whispered into his ear, a false smile plastered on my face; I would edit this out of the story later.

"Perhaps you should listen to me next time." He smiled back.

"Don't you be cheeky to me or you'll soon see how good I am at keeping my promises." I whispered in his ear, grasping the back of his neck and giving it an 'assuring squeeze' he gasped as his head flung backwards.

"Sleep well?" He choked.

"Brilliantly!" I lied, marching back to the house.

As we reached the door I saw a chicken stood on top of the shed, Homes didn't notice it, still rubbing the back of his neck, a look of agitation pasted over his features.

Suddenely, it started to run, slipping and sliding down the roof towards us, it gave out a strangled cluck as it collided with Holmes' head, desperately scrabbling at his face, clutching at strands of his hair and ripping at them, it fell to the floor, and, after a moment, waddled away again, leaving Holmes, screaming and struggling against my grip on him, trying to get away.

"Holmes!" I yelled, "Goodness man, see sense!"

He looked at me irritably before throwing himself to the floor with a dramatic wail and curling into a ball there, sobbing.

After a minute I ventured to poke him with my foot, he remained still, his shoulders constantly heaved with the tears, but otherwise he was not moving, I sighed quietly to myself and went inside, closing the door behind me.

A little bit of my lifestyle appears to have slipped through here, don't know what I was thinking when I wrote this; I spend about 25 of my free time either on the roof or thinking about the roof... I'm a spazz bat.