A/N: For the benefit of those people who haven't read my profile, I'm just going to take the opportunity to remind everyone (especially the anonymous reader who reviewed the last chapter) that I don't write slash. If you really want to read it as such, that's your business, I suppose, but I absolutely don't intend for it to be read like that.

Takes place during the early years, '80, '81ish. Watson's POV.

"I'm going out," Holmes said abruptly, rising from his seat and preparing to do just that.

"But Holmes," I protested, following him. "You know that I cannot in good conscience leave you at a time like this."

"You, Doctor, shall do as I tell you," he retorted. "I am going out. Alone." His cold emphasis on the last word and the pointed glare that accompanied it cut deeper than I cared to admit, and for half an instant, bitterness won out and I had to resist the urge to allow him to do what he wanted to do. But the moment passed, and I was once again in control of myself.

As I collected my own coat and stick and followed my friend to the door, I replied, "As your friend and physician, I cannot allow you to do this to yourself. You haven't eaten or slept in three days, and you can't possibly expect to chase down a criminal in this condition."

"Food is a hindrance and sleep optional," he replied cooly as he started down the stairs. "And as for being my friend and physician, I have no need of your friendship and I can find another doctor, and one that doesn't fuss over me as if he is my sainted grandmother."

I limped down the stairs behind him and followed him out the door, wondering for the umpteenth time if he knew how deep his words cut, but that was of little consequence. "For a genius, you are incredibly dense! You're going to get yourself killed!"

He turned toward me, his eyebrows raised. "Doctor, you are the one who is dense, I fear. You are the wounded army doctor, not I, and I suggest you go back inside; this cold is likely to pain your war wounds."

"I will be fine," I said (rather more coldly than I had intended) as the detective hailed a cab. "It's you I'm worried about."

"Cease your worrying," he said, climbing into the hansom. "It's a bad habit—increases stress, insomnia, all sorts of unpleasant things."

I was slightly surprised when Holmes didn't object to my stubbornly climbing in next to him. Without even a glance in my direction, he told the cabman the address, and we were off, heading toward certain peril and a large possibility of one or the other of us being injured, but at least I was there to make sure that Holmes didn't get himself harmed too seriously.

I was starting to like him.