I am SO sorry it took me so long to write this little piece here. Don't worry, I won't bore you with excuses, just sorry for those who have waited.

Thank you again for the reviews. Especially those who reviewed a second time, after the first five had to be deleted due to the broken link =(

And then I should say that I think the title is not fitting at all, but I can't think of one, any suggestions?

I think I'll leave the story as it is, so don't wait for the third chapter I thought about writing

Hope you enjoy =)

Doctor John Watson stifled a yawn for the…he didn't know how many times. He wasn't sure what he found more annoying. The fact that his 'friends' had turned into uptight, humourless, boring, not to mention rather fat people who only practised in an expensive private clinic these days or that Holmes had been right once again.

Of course, Holmes was usually always right, but not really when it comes to Watson doing something the detective doesn't want. Then the genius doesn't even think about it, he just says what he hopes will stop Watson from doing whatever he is intending to do. Like meeting other friends.

During their study time they had had a lot of fun. Going out in the evenings, drinking a bit, a little gambling, they helped each other learning, it was great. Then they had worked at different places, the meetings became rare, and then, Watson went to war, and the contact stopped completely.

After he came back, managed to get back on his feet after his injury and moved in with Holmes, he tried to contact them, but they'd become very busy people.

Now all of them had wife and children. Of course, that wasn't the boring part, Watson himself hoped he would someday have a wife and child of his own, but well, aren't there any other topics at all?

Only family and the work. Had they no free time at all to speak of? Couldn't they at least try to include him in any of their conversation? Why did Jones even ask him to join them for dinner?

They had met by coincidence, Henry Jones and he, when Watson was on his way home from taking a walk with Gladstone.

They'd come to talk and Watson had learned that his old friends, Henry Jones, James Cole and Charles Brown all worked together at the St. Leonard hospital.

John knew it was a place only the richest can afford. Care for the highest price. He himself didn't like that place very much, not because he couldn't afford it, but because it was that expensive in the first place. What about people who didn't have enough money? Would they throw them out wounded and sick?

But he wouldn't judge his old study partners, at least they were working as doctors.

Watson not so much. Well he does have occasionally patients, but he's not working in a hospital of course. And how could he? He's mostly away on cases with Holmes. And it's not that he is complaining. He liked the excitement of a case and the company of the genius man, his friend… but still, he liked being a doctor as well, and sometimes it was nice to just do what he'd learned to do, to help an ailing man, or woman, or child.

When Jones asked him where was is working now, John had even felt a bit awkward telling the obvious successful doctor that he was not working anywhere but helping the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. Surprisingly the other man had become very interested then.

And in the end, he had asked Watson to join his old friends for dinner.

So here they where…Watson wished he was somewhere else.

His easy going, relaxed, kind friends have turned kind of uptight, strict, conceited. Looks like money does change.

Watson kept on eating his dinner, only half listening while the others talked about how good their home life was going right now, or what 'idiots' they were working with, and just smiled politely when they looked in his direction.

Who would have thought he would be way happier right now if he would be chasing after whatever criminals Holmes is pursuing right now?

Hopefully Holmes didn't do anything stupid while being alone on the case.

Maybe he shouldn't have let him go a…

"John?"

He quickly raised his eyes from his food to look at his company. "Excuse me. What was that?"

James gave a polite smile and repeated his question. "We were asking how you have fared since you got back from Afghanistan?" Oh now, after over an hour, they are asking themselves that. "I saw a picture of you in the Newspaper concerning a case of Scotland Yard and Sherlock Holmes, this…detective, isn't he?"

"Consulting detective, yes." John corrected automatically. "He is my flat mate, I join him on his cases."

"Yes, consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, I've heard about him." Charles said, "He was working for a friend of mine, Thomas, you remember him?" James and Henry nodded, "He said, this Holmes was a rather…strange character?" all three looked expectantly at Watson. So they didn't really care how he'd fared at all. They were just curious.

Watson stopped eating to focus completely on his company. "Elaborate 'strange character'." He frowned suspiciously. "We all have our flaws, Charles. Holmes is of course no exception."

"Of course we do, of course." Conceded Brown at once. "But you see, people say," Oh so it's not only this Thomas, but now it's 'people', Watson thought. "that the detective is almost…freakish in his way. He sees and knows things other wouldn't even think about. He is described as arrogant and unfriendly, in appearance a man of steel with no compassion at all to speak of. You as his flatmate should know it best, I believe?"

John clenched his hands to fists and tried really hard to suppress his anger and annoyance. He wasn't here to talk about Holmes. Especially not in the way his former colleague was doing it. What did he know? Nothing.

He was about to end this issue when the other two began as well.

"Yes. I've heard that as well. The police is supposed to have a problem with that man, too. It seems he is always getting involved in matters of Scotland Yard, hindering them in doing their job." James chimed in.

If Watson wouldn't be getting so angry he would be laughing. So it's called hindering when Holmes does the work the Yarders are too imbecile to do?

"I have also heard about him." Henry joined in, "my neighbour, Mrs. Clark, told me about the people he associated with, her son had seen him fighting in a dirty box ring, in one of the dirty parts of London. And due to his knowledge about the criminal world, people believe he has his hand in one crime or another of his own. An easily believable conclusion, if you asked me."

Henry, James and Charles became engaged in a conversation about what they all 'knew' about Sherlock Holmes and John couldn't believe it. They had been so open to other people during their study time and now? How could people change so much?

All he could hear was, 'a freak, not human, narcissist, criminal, a machine'

And that's it. Watson hit the table with both of his hands in anger and rose to his feet, ignoring the people seated at other tables around them starring at him now, and glared at the men he once called friends.

"Is that the reason you asked me to join you tonight?" he hissed and looked at each of the suddenly silent, shocked doctors. "For your information, he is not only my roommate and associate but also my closest friend. He definitely has his negative ways, no one can deny that and he wouldn't even try. But that you have the audacity to sit here and talk about him, who has helped more people than one could count, including the wonderful Scotland Yard, like some low life person who has no good quality to speak of." He locked eyes with all three of them, but they didn't seem very remorseful, more embarrassed to be the centre of the restaurant.

"You should be ashamed of yourself, talking like that about a man who has done so much for others. He has probably saved more lives than you did in your fancy hospital. You don't even know him and just parrot things 'people' have said or Thomas, or Mrs. Clark, who has obviously failed to mention that Sherlock Holmes had saved her little daughter from the clutches of the widows new lover, who was only after the Lady's money!"

Angrily, he took out his wallet and put the money for his dinner on the table. "If you would be so kind as to pay my dinner when you are ready. I have lost my appetite." And with that he turned, grabbed his cane and went to the men's room to cool off before he would retrieve his coat and leave for home. Leaving behind three embarrassed doctors and a curious staring crowd, staring at them and him walking away, whispering among themselves.

He slammed the door behind him.

Damn. What a waste of an evening.

He leaned over the sink to splash some water in his face and then took a moment just to breath.

Stupid fools.

All he wanted to do was go home now. Hopefully Holmes would be back as well. With his comfortable company this night could still take a turn for the better. Maybe the other would tell him about his case.

But really! What is wrong with people these days? Not only his 'friends' are bad mouthing Holmes, he had heard others before. The detective was well aware of the fact but just seemed to shrug it off.

He always said he didn't care what other people thought about him, it wasn't his fault that people feared the truth Holmes had no problems of voicing. And he was just being himself, didn't bend to society to please other. That should be something to admire, not to insult.

But while Sherlock says he doesn't care, it definitely angered Watson when he hears whispered comments. Usually Holmes is there then, and stops the doctor with a smile and a pat on the shoulder, before he can get over to confront the speakers.

How some humans can just be so…ungrateful. Even man and women Holmes had helped, risked his life for, just tend to talk about his negative characteristics.

Yes, Watson complained as well. About Holmes' attitude, his cloth stealing, his experiments, his moods, his drugs…about a lot. But that was different. Watson had the right to complain. Because it's the way they work. Because he didn't do it behind the detectives back. Because it's not meant to harm. Because John cared.

He sighed. Alright. With a nod to himself he straightened up his jacket and went out of the bathroom. Time to go home.

But when he came trough the door, his attention was immediately caught by a commotion at the entrance.

A mob had formed in a circle, people talking and whispering, dinner tables left and forgotten. What was going on? Somebody fainted? As a doctor he felt the need to investigate, to see if he could help, but among the people he could see Brown, Jones and Cole kneeling. Three doctors should be enough, and he didn't really feel like joining the curious people, standing around unnecessarily.

So he retrieved his coat and squeezed through the crowd so he could finally leave for home.

Women behind him began to screech in surprise suddenly and he could make out his former colleagues talking.

"Calm down, man. We are only trying to help you!"

Then he heard a voice that stopped him in his tracks, making his heart beat wildly. Watson couldn't make out the words, but that only worried him even more.

He turned quickly and now no one was kneeling anymore. One man was backing away from the crowd that was following him. One man that seemed awfully familiar and had Watson hurrying back before he realized it.

With maybe unnecessary force he pushed his way trough to the centre, ignoring the protest of people he shoved aside.

For a second he couldn't help but freeze. He's a doctor, he is not supposed to freeze in this sort of situations, he knew, but that didn't change the fact that he did.

Holmes was leaning against a wall, sluggishly bleeding from a nasty head wound and…his side? It was hard to tell with his dark clothes. Damn. The detective looked almost a bit lost as he squinted at the men closing in on him, his feeble attempts to ward them off obviously unsuccessful.

Two things happened that finally prompted Watson out of his stupor and had him moving faster than his bad leg should allow.

First the almost desperate cry, clearly understandable this time, coming from Holmes.

"Watson!"

And then, Henry Jones made the mistake of grabbing his friend non too gently and pulling him away from the wall, making him hiss in pain.

His eyes darkened at the mistreatment of the injured detective and he stomped over. What kind of doctors were they? Crowding a clearly agitated patient and almost trying force their 'help' on him.

In Afghanistan they could have been shot by their very patients if they overwhelmed them in this fashion. And this was no mere patient. This was Holmes. His friend. His patient.

"Get the hell away from him!" he groused and grabbed Jones' wrist to remove the unwelcome hand on Holmes' arm.

Brown and Cole had already stepped back a little at the fury they'd seen on their former study partner's face, but Jones only had the decency to look surprised.

"John don't be ridicules. This man needs care. We are doctors, you know." The smug way Henry said that made Watson almost feel ashamed to be a physician himself. Hopefully he didn't seem like he feels like a god among men when he announces himself as a medical man.

"And he will get care! But definitely not from people like you, now step. away. From him!"

Watson pushed the man in the direction of the bunch and away from Holmes. "All of you! You had your fill of excitement. Let the man breath." He felt only slightly satisfied, because only a few actually did leave, but at least they went a little further back.

His eyes then fell on the only man who looked worried and a bit anxious, well, maybe man was a bit much, kid was better fitting, he didn't look older then seventeen. It was the Waiter that had served his table earlier and judging from the little specks of blood on his hand he had already been in close contact with Holmes. Hopefully trying to help.

"You." He addressed him more kindly than the others, still the lad looked a bit frightened when he looked up at Watson. "Can you get me some towels or something and hail a hansom for me?"

The boy's eyes widened a bit but nodded eagerly, "Yes, sir." He said more steady than he looked and scrambled away to do as he was told.

Finally, the doctor turned his back to the still watching bunch of people and turned his attention to his ailing friend, who was by now slowly sliding down the wall he leaned up against.

"Holmes?" he asked softly, concerned, shoving his annoyance away for now, his hand automatically going to the wounded man's arm. Gentle over the rough grip from moments before.

Sherlock squinted up at him and his pupils are so dilated, concussion, Watson mused, that John doubts he recognizes him. He should have known better.

"Always nice to see you Watson…well, if my eyes wouldn't betray me, that is." His voice is a bit slurred, the energy that had kept him on his feet obviously spent, but Watson could understand him perfectly. He smiled despite himself, and helped him down to sit on the floor, leaning up against the wall.

"Holmes, old fool, you would do anything to ruin my evening, wouldn't you?" he chided fondly in an attempt to keep Holmes alert and turned his unresisting head by the chin to look at the injury at Holmes temple. Thankfully only a few droplets still escaped, but with all the dried blood caked around it, it was hard to tell how bad it was.

"Pf. I was just-just in the neighbour-ow. Gently, Watson." He winced as John peeled away layers of clothes from his side. "'s ok. Just a scratch."

"That," the doctor murmured when he finally revealed the wound, "is definitely more than a scratch." He examined the injury as good as he could at the moment. "But it could have been worse

"Here are the towels, doctor." The waiter appeared suddenly beside them. "I will get you the carriage right away." And he was gone before Watson could say so much as thanks.

John took one of the towels and wiped away some of the blood, but a lot was already dried.

"How long have you been running around, Holmes? You don't stroll through the streets with a damn stab wound." He could feel some of his annoyance rising again, but this time more born out of concern. Holmes can be so daft when it comes to his own wellbeing.

"I wasn't strolling." The detective frowned. "I was making sure my wounds were being seen to. You always complain when I take care of them myself. Make up your mind." John was sure, had Holmes the energy this would have come out sharper. As it was, it just sounded like tired complaining, bordering on sulking.

How could one be angry at that?

"Next time," he sighed and took a new towel. The bleeding wasn't so bad anymore, but he would still need to stitch it up later. "you refrain from leaving a red trail through the city and go to more immediate help."

"That's absurd. When you are away, how am I supposed to get immediate help?" the consulting detective yawned, he hadn't realised how tired he felt.

"By going to another doctor, moron." Truth was, Watson did prefer to tend to his friend himself, but better Holmes goes to someone else than bleeding out while waiting for him.

Due to a lack of helpful supplies, the doctor took off his belt, intending to use it to press a towel against the damage. Wasn't a perfect solution, but it would do for now.

"You are my doctor. Don't try to push me to someone else so you can have more free time." His eyes closed on their own accord but they shot open again when Watson pushed the cloth to his side and secured it there. "Ow doctor! Do you have to do that?" he hissed irritated.

"Sir, your hansom is waiting outside." Right on time.

"Thank you." John would have patted the lads shoulder, but didn't think he would appreciate a red handprint.

"Come on, old chap. I'll take you home." Carefully he drew Holmes' right arm over his shoulder, put his own left arm around the injured man's waist and as gentle as he could, brought them both to a standing position.

Sherlock grunted and closed his eyes. "You haven't even treated me for dinner yet, doctor Watson," he panted "What do you take me for? I'm not cheap." He tried to bear his own weight as good as he could, but his body refused to do as he wanted, so he leaned heavily on the doctor.

"Sure you are." Watson snorted, "I know the payment you took for some cases. Now come on." Looking around, Watson was not pleased to see that people were still standing around them, watching curiously. Didn't they have anything better to do? And to top it all, Jones stood right in the entrance, blocking the way.

The ex-Soldier stared at the man, feeling himself getting angry again when he didn't move one bit aside.

"Would you kindly let us pass, doctor Jones." He said in a tone that suggested the other better do as he asked.

"So this is…"

"Out of the way, man." Watson hissed and finally the other complied. Without another word, John supported his now silent friend further to the door, but he stopped again when he heard the crowd behind them whispering again, the name Sherlock Holmes falling more than once. He could feel Holmes hand patting his shoulder sluggishly "You know I don't care…" he tried to calm the doctor before his rising fury got the best of him.

"I know you don't care!" he snapped, then took a breath to calm himself, he turned his head to glare at the onlookers over his shoulder, "I hope at least some of you are educated enough to realise, that machines don't bleed."

And with that he led the detective outside, thankfully the hansom was right in front of the house, they just needed to get down the stairs…which seemed endless.

"So," Holmes drawled tiredly, "I take it your evening was already – ahh careful, Watson. – was already ruined." He tried to lighten his supporters mood. But he got a scowl in response.

"I can't say your performance brought me any improvement. I was hoping to safe it by enjoying a quiet evening at home." The doctor dispraised, but at least he didn't seem angry anymore, Holmes would take what he could get.

"But you can still do that. I'm certain I will be real quiet tonight." He yawned as if to proof his point, which at least earned him a chuckle.

"Oh, of that I'm sure."

When the carriage driver saw the two struggling down the steps, he hurried down to open the door of the hansom for them, for which Watson was really grateful.

Almost there.

"It's no problem, old chap. Hope you learned from this pratfall, that you don't need other friends."

"Don't bring me down to your level, Holmes." Watson couldn't help but grin, "I still got my rugby pals."

"Yeah, but…"

"And some fellow soldiers."

"Ok, but…"

"And don't forget, Mrs Hudson always liked me best."

"Now you're aggrandizing. Nanny's trying to poison me, and you never care."

Finally they reach the last step, and both of them were smiling.

The rest of the way wasn't far.

"I think we need to find another establishment to dine, old man." Watson grunted as he helped the severely weakened man into the cab. "After you bled all over the floor, and with that society in there, I'm not very keen on returning."

"Fine with me," Holmes sighed as he could finally relax for a moment, "never liked this place anyway. And the name. New Moon. Absurd. There is no such thing as a new Moon, it's always the same. And this restaurant, can't be compared to a Moon at all. I heard 'the Royal' sets an excellent table." He mumbled and Watson grew a bit concerned when he had problems understanding his friend again.

"Holmes. No sleeping yet." John climbed into the carriage as well and shook Sherlock's shoulder.

The cabbie closed the door and waited for an address expectantly.

"I'm not sleeping, doctor." Holmes protested, "Home, good man. And please don't spare the horses." He said to the driver and let his head flop down to Watson's shoulder. Who sighed and turned to the driver himself, "Baker Street 221b, please." The man nodded and climbed back to his place.

"Wait! Wait!"

Watson frowned and looked out of the window to see the Waiter boy running towards them. He motioned for the cabby to wait, and the young man came up to the hansom.

"You left your cane, doctor Watson." He panted from his sprint. Oh right, thank god the kid brought him his walking stick. It would have been quite a loss. John pulled out his wallet, the least he can do is give him a tip for all his help.

But he was stopped by an "Oh no sir, I don't want your money." And the doctor frowned when the boys eyes fixed on Holmes, now he looked a bit nervous again.

"And you left your hat, Mr Holmes. It fell down when…well when y-you fell down." Watson was about to take the black bowler, when he continued.

"I-I just wanted to say that it has been an h-honour to personally meet you, sir. I love to hear and read about your cases. There are so many people you have helped. You are truly a genius man." He stuttered out and Holmes actually moved his head on Watson's shoulder to look in the direction of the overanxious young man. "I hope you feel better soon, sir." He finished sincerely and Watson couldn't help but feel warmed by the speech. So at least one is honestly appreciating what his friend does.

And it seemed, like he had also rendered Holmes a little speechless, who was still squinting at the lad, much to the doctors amusement.

"Well, I…" he sniffed his nose like he often does. "You can keep the hat." He muttered and

turned his head away again.

Watson chuckled and thanked the now grinning kid again properly who then left to go back to the NewMoon.

The carriage finally began to move, and even though his reunion didn't go as well as hoped, and his friend was still hurt, tired, and in need of some stitches, he also felt a bit contend. He realised that he shouldn't mourn about friends in his past, because there was a reason they didn't make it into his present. He learned that his insufferable Holmes would rather bleed to death before he would go to another doctor, which was just horrible! But also a bit touching. And he got to know that not everyone is talking bad about his partner.

He relaxed into the seat and put his arm around Holmes shoulder, so the detective could lean better against him, and then started to brace himself for when he would have to haul Sherlock up to their rooms.

Well, everything could have gone worse.