NB: Next chapter, quite small but I hope you like it J. Holmes is a such a fun character to write!

It was once more three o'clock in the morning - he could hear the chimes of the church bell nearby - and once more, Holmes found himself on the step of a certain house in Cavendish Place, with the door once more being flung violently open.

The furious, dishevelled, moustached form of Watson greeted him rudely.

"For Gods sake, Holmes!"

Holmes swayed, feeling sick. He couldn't remember why he was here now.

"Greetings, Watson," he said gravely. "Isn't it cold?"

Watson threw up his hands in disgust. "Holmes, this is getting - " And then he blinked, and focused suddenly on Holmes' left side. "You're bleeding," he said faintly.

Holmes glanced down at his arm. He was, indeed, bleeding. And quite a lot, he realised vaguely. Ah, he thought. That must have been why he came here…

"Bit of an incident, old boy," he said, waving his arm around until it started hurting, and then stopping abruptly. "Don't worry about it."

"Don't worry - Holmes, you're spouting blood all over my front step and you tell me not to worry! I despair, I really do!" He grabbed Holmes by his good arm and yanked him into the hallway. "Come on, let's sort you out."

Holmes reeled. "Oh no…Don't want to be any trouble…"

"You've already been that, come on." He shoved Holmes gently through the hall and into his office, depositing his patient into a chair and lighting a lamp. The room filled with an amber glow, and Holmes, dripping merrily onto the carpet, relaxed into his chair and watched the ceiling spin.

Watson kneeled opposite him and took his arm, rolling up his sleeve with careful, cold, doctor's hands. "What happened?"

Holmes closed his eyes, relaxing into Watson's touch.

"A small incident with a cheating lover and a gun, and perhaps I discovered who the lover of a client's wife was, and perhaps the lover decided to shoot at me…"

"God," Watson muttered, inspecting the wound with gentle fingers. "Holmes, old boy, you shouldn't be mixing yourself up in trifles like that…"

"Well, I have no choice, do I? Must pay the rent…" He could feel the world pressing onto him, the voice telling him everything, a flood of information, again, as always and all of it…all of it…willing him to sleep…

"Stay awake, Holmes," Watson said. He prodded a bit more, and then said, "It looks like a deep graze. You got off lightly. How long did you run around like this before you came to me?"

Holmes flapped his good hand vaguely. "Two hours?"

"Holmes!"

"I didn't want to disturb you!"

"Honestly!"

Watson applied pressure on the wound in the form of a huge bandage with more force than was necessary, and yanked Holmes' arm up in the air, ignoring his pained yelp.

"Next time," he said. "You come to me immediately."

Holmes' stubbornness reasserted himself, helped somewhat by his now throbbing arm.

"Why should I?" he sulked. "You have made it perfectly clear that you have no interest in what I do anymore by moving out…"

Watson glared at him through the lamplight. "I didn't mean - "

"Forcing me, Watson, to take less exciting cases in order to pay the rent and getting myself very almost shot in the process because there was no one to help me!"

"Your little guilt trip won't work on me," Watson practically snarled. "If you don't like it, find someone else to take my rooms - "

"As if anyone could take your place, mother hen." The words were said bitterly, but there was an undertone beneath it that Watson was no fool to miss.

There was a small pause.

Watson shifted slightly, and inspected Holmes' wound. Holmes stared at the ceiling, already feeling better now that he wasn't running around bleeding everywhere.

"If," Watson finally said hesitantly. "You really needed help…I mean, with cases…"

"No," Holmes said.

"But…you did just say - "

"I was joking."

Watson's eyes met his, and now Holmes was the one who squirmed. "I mean…you have someone to care about you now, you can't go gallivanting off after me…"

Watson's expression turned into one resembling a thunderstorm.

"So have you," he snapped.

Another pause. Holmes sat back, suddenly feeling more relaxed than he had done in a long time, despite his pounding arm. Perhaps it was because this was how he liked it, just Watson and him, and a comfortable silence and a warm room that felt of Watson - his certificates on the wall, his smell, his presence in the air…

Watson gently shook his shoulder. "Don't go to sleep."

Holmes jerked awake. "Hmm? Mmm?"

"You've lost too much blood," Watson said worriedly. He made Holmes hold pressure onto his own arm, then stood up. "I'll make you some tea."

"Earl Grey?"

A fleeting smile, making his moustache twitch in the amber light. "Of course, Holmes."

Holmes relaxed back into his chair with a grin, completely content once more. Mad late night shootings and tea with Watson afterwards…yes, old boy, this was the life indeed…

The clock struck four o'clock, and all, Holmes decided muzzily, as he drowsed in the chair, was well.

Please read and review! New chapter soon(ish)! A BIG THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO HAS REVIEWED SO FAR!