A/N: Retirement again, first one was "#44 Cripple". And a 221B.


Drag

He dragged himself up the stairs to the attic, tired, bruised and with the single wish to be alone. The housekeeper had long relinquished the key to him.

Had she been as long-suffering as Mrs Hudson... But the fact remained, she was not, and in all probability only stayed because he, too, was slowing down.

He locked the door behind him and fell into a chair, taking the weight off his swollen ankle. It was sprained, most likely, due to his own clumsiness. He had never before dripped on the slippery pathway to the hives.

However, there was no way around it – he was losing his faculty to walk even short distances. The stiffness in his joints lasted long after the damp morning hours had passed, and if it had not been for the flare of pain, he surely would not have fallen.

With a sigh, he looked over to the chemistry set, but he could not bring himself to rise. If this continued, he would soon be dragging himself around on his hands and knees, or, worse still, needing a wheelchair – the pain in the hands was worst, he would depend entirely upon someone to push him... It was not a pleasant prospect at all.

He wondered wearily whether Watson would consider coming down if he asked bluntly.


A/N: Cookies for anyone who spots the alliteration.