Late Nights
The evenings dragged endlessly those damp weeks of autumn when the chill made my old wounds throb. Usually, Sherlock Holmes would keep me company, but he was away on a case.
I was startled out of my weary slumber by the banging of the front door, which heralded his return. I limped to the door, looking down the seventeen steps. "Holmes?"
The hall lay in darkness. Suddenly, there was a bang and a crash, and I hurried for a light. Holmes was on the floor beside a collapsed hat-stand, looking at me sheepishly. "Wasson?"
He was obviously drunk.