There were few people outside of the criminals he arrested that Sherlock Holmes sincerely disliked, but the coroner at Scotland Yard was one of them. He couldn't stand working with him, for the man always thought he was more important than his station. He was qualified for what he did, certainly, but it wasn't his job to speculate as to why someone had been killed or who had done so. His arrogance irked Holmes to no end, and the fact that he actively questioned Holmes' every move was infuriating.

Still, as far as coroners go, the man was one of the best, and Holmes would always act professionally and defer to his medical knowledge. After all, he had a general policy of being polite to doctors and it would do no good to be so petty to the extent that he wouldn't even work with him. Neither was the coroner, who always allowed Holmes into the morgue and always gave him true and honest results, though neither of them hid the fact that they didn't like working together. To Holmes, besides being a knowledgeable coroner and a generally honorable man, the coroner had no other redeeming qualities and there was no use pretending he did. He didn't know why the other man was so hostile in turn, but he didn't care.

That was why being physically tied to him in the dark basement of an arsonist was certainly not the ideal scenario to be in. They were on identical chairs, sitting back to back with their respective wrists tied to each other's behind them, presumably to ensure neither could escape. Holmes grumbled at the other man's expense as he tugged incessantly at his bonds while the coroner was still slumped in his chair and certainly not helping.

"You idiot," Holmes murmured to the unconscious man. "Why couldn't you have just stayed in the morgue?" He pulled again hard, loosening their bonds just a bit. "Don't get me wrong," he continued, trying to free them, "I do respect you. Lestrade and Gregson were quite wrong about this case, and you were correct that the burns the victim had sustained were not accidental. But why did you have to get involved? You knew I was working on the case."

He growled, once more making a hard tug, which seemed to wake his rival. The man groaned miserably as he came to.

"Don't panic," Holmes said. "I'm going to get us out of here... I think." He swallowed hard, regretting now that he had come so impulsively without leaving a note in Baker Street as to where he'd gone. No one would be coming for him.

"Where's here?" the other man asked, his voice weak. "Who are you, what happened?"

"It's me, Sherlock Holmes. I was investigating the arsonists when you came and ruined everything."

"Sherlock Holmes? I tried to save you, if I recall correctly."

"I didn't need saving," Holmes ground out, once more tugging. "You stuck your nose where it didn't belong." He tugged harder.

"Ah!" the other man cried in pain. "Stop, you're hurting me."

"We're in an arsonist's basement," Holmes said, exasperated. "What do you think is going to happen to us? You think we're going to be freed and given dinner and an apology for the misunderstanding? We're running on borrowed time, idiot. Do you want me to patiently wait until we smell smoke to free us? You're going to have to endure a little bit of discomfort."

"Fine," the other man sighed, and Holmes could hear there was genuine pain in his voice. The man wasn't lying, in any event.

"I'm going to get us out of here," Holmes promised again. He didn't like the man, but he didn't want to hurt him. He really was sorry to cause him physical pain, and he apologized once more as he worked to free one of his hands.

"If you can free your hand," the coroner said, "there is a razor blade underneath my collar."

"Your collar? How do you expect that to be a convenient place to retrieve it from? Why would you keep one there?" Holmes was also a bit impressed by the coroner's foresight, but he was too annoyed to give out any compliments even if he wanted to, which he didn't.

"In case my hands were tied in front of me and not to yours."

"Mine is in my sleeve, a much more reasonable place."

"And yet we're not yet free."

"No, we're not, thanks to your little stunt."

"I repeat, I was trying to save you. Your own little stunt nearly got you killed. At least we're still alive."

"For now. We'll be dead soon, if I don't free us. And I had everything under control before you came along. Would it really have been so hard to listen to me and do as you're told?"

"Not in my view you didn't have everything under control. I began investigating on my own because I specifically didn't want more people to die. How was I to know you had infiltrated their group and gotten yourself caught? I didn't know I'd find you here."

"I wasn't caught, not until you tried to free me," Holmes shot back.

"Yes, of course, that's why I found you in a cage."

"I would have earned their trust back if you hadn't come in and tried to free me. You should have left when I told you to."

"Right. That, I agree with. I should have saved myself and left you behind to rot. I tried to save your arrogant, selfish arse despite my better judgment. I won't make that mistake again."

"I'm arrogant?" Holmes demanded. "You, you who attempt to insert yourself in every investigation where you don't belong, you think I'm the arrogant one?"

"I don't belong? I am employed by Scotland Yard, sir. You are the one that does not belong. You come into my morgue, demand my results, use my expertise, and belittle whichever Inspector you happen to be working with. Why they should ever tolerate you I have no idea. Were it up to me you would be barred from ever interfering in an official investigation."

"Interfering? Ha! There are dozens of criminals who have been caught due to my efforts. Were it up to Lestrade and Gregson and the others that never would have happened."

"You are brilliant, I'll give you that, but how does that justify your actions? Where does a man draw the line between embracing genius and standing up for himself? Were I an Inspector at Scotland Yard, I would bar you from interfering with my investigations the moment you insulted me. As it is, however, I just deal with the dead bodies, and so I can do nothing, but your behavior does not go unnoticed and I hope you can appreciate that I do not like you."

Holmes paused for a moment. "And I hope you can appreciate that I do not like you," he said quietly. "You interfere in places you are not welcome. Apprehending criminals is not a place for you. You shouldn't be here, about to die with me. And why are you here? Because you knew I was right and Lestrade was wrong. Lestrade is bound by his profession, and it is that which I mock, not him. I admit I'm not always kind to the man himself, but when I speak of the inefficiency of Scotland Yard, I am thinking of the institution. It's the best we've got, but it needs changes. I just hope those changes happen sooner rather than later. I've even encouraged Lestrade to aspire to be the chief super someday."

"And I understand that there are regulations that govern what the Inspectors can do. I, however, have a bit more freedom, and so I do what I can to aid whatever investigation I feel I need to. Or, at least, if not freedom then certainly less consequences that I care about. After all, what is the worst they can do to me? Fire me? I am a doctor, Mr. Holmes. Someone else will hire me. But you? You're going to end up locked up one of these days if you continue in this vein."

Holmes had the distinct feeling the man was lying, but he didn't have time to dwell on it because suddenly he could smell kerosene. Holmes felt a knot in his stomach. "I have a feeling," he murmured, "I will be dead first."

"So do I," the other man breathed, and Holmes knew he smelled it, too. "I don't suppose you have backup coming?"

"No. I work alone."

"You do? What about that chap I sometimes see you with?"

"Hmm? Oh, you mean the young man who came with me on a case last month. No, he's moved on. No one's coming. You?"

"No. Sorry. I also work alone. Well, unless you count my patients."

Holmes couldn't help it, he chuckled. "You know," he admitted with a sigh, "I'm not upset to be dying with you, Doctor. It will be an honorable death with an honorable man… what do you say, shall we call a truce? Start over? I'm afraid, looking back, that my first impression upon you was not a good one."

"Truce," the coroner agreed. "Please, call me John. If we're going to die together we may as well be on a first name basis."

"It's nice to meet you, John Watson," Holmes said. "Please, call me Sherlock."

"Sherlock Holmes. Good to meet you. It won't be a burden to die with you, either."

"Maybe we won't have to," Holmes grunted. "I'm almost there. Please, excuse me if I scream."

"Of course," Watson replied. "You'd better hurry…"

Holmes did, yelling in pain as he twisted his hand unnaturally to free himself. It was only his impending death and the adrenaline coursing through his veins that allowed him to push through the pain, and he was certain he'd broken at least two fingers, but finally his hand popped free. He only allowed himself a few moments of rest before fumbling to find the razor in his sleeve. With some of his fingers currently broken, however, he found it a hard task and instead pulled his hand away and reached it up, fumbling to find the one in Watson's collar.

He pulled it out just as, in the corner of the room, smoke began to come through the ventilation, which inevitably meant smoke had completely filled the room above them. Holmes cursed, fumbling with one hand to free them. When the ropes finally fell away, Holmes cried in triumph, stood quickly, and ran to the only escape from the dark basement, a hatch which a ladder led up to.

"Please open," he murmured, and it wasn't quite a prayer but may as well have been, for it was answered and with one strong push he opened the hatch and the ceiling didn't collapse on him. He was hit with a wave of heat, though, and he knew he had to move quickly. He turned to look down, reaching his hand out to where he thought John Watson would be waiting to climb up, but instead he didn't see the other man.

"John!" he called, before seeing he was on the floor, still by the chairs they'd been tied on. He ran back, finally seeing the state the other man was in. He was attempting to rise, but one of his legs was obviously injured and he was holding one arm close to himself. In addition, there was blood on his face, and Holmes remembered how he'd been attacked when they'd found him trying to free Holmes from his cage.

"Go," Watson said. "We don't have much time."

"Certainly not," Holmes replied, awkwardly grabbing him under the arms and pulling him up. "I don't have friends, and certainly not friends who were once bitter rivals. I'm not about to lose the one I just got. Besides, Lestrade would have my head. You're the best coroner Scotland Yard has." He was able to lift the doctor onto his shoulder, and carried him to the hatch, hauling them both through.

Upstairs, everything was on fire and Holmes immediately began choking on thick smoke. He vaguely remembered the layout of this hideout, remembered the trapdoor was in the kitchen and in the kitchen was a door that led to the outside. He just needed to find a wall, to follow the wall in a square around the room, and that would lead him to the door. The flames were close, though, too close for comfort and through the thick black smoke he could make out some of the cabinets were ablaze. In just a minute, maybe less, the whole room would erupt around them. He didn't have time to follow a wall around. He had to choose correctly the first time. The next second he realized how he could just make out a difference in the lighting of the room. A difference in lighting meant windows. Windows meant a door. Or, at least, in this kitchen he knew it did, and he lunged towards the wall he hoped would be their salvation. The weight of Watson on his shoulder slowed him, but his brain was a formidable one and had made the correct deduction quickly enough he knew he would make it. He didn't let himself doubt it; they would live. They had to. He found the wall, scrambled with one hand to find the knob. It burned him when he did, but he screamed in triumph, stuck his hand in his jacket, and reached for it again. A few tortuous moments later, they were outside in the fresh air.

Holmes made a few yards and then collapsed, hitting his knees hard, but ensuring he put his new friend down gently before himself lying down on the cobblestones and coughing hard. His hand stung from the burn and the broken digits, and his lungs were screaming from the smoke, but he took his uninjured hand and hit the ground hard in triumph. He'd made it, and he knew he hadn't been exposed to the smoke long enough for it to actually kill him. When he finally came back to himself enough that he could rise, he realized Watson was unconscious beside him. He put his face very close to Watson's until he could hear that his new friend was breathing, and that meant he'd succeeded in saving him, too. Around them, fire crews were already scrambling to contain the blaze, but one of them still came to check on them.

Holmes accepted a burn cream and bandage from the man before assuring him he'd take care of Watson, for the house had been presumed to be empty and no doctor was on the scene. Holmes was determined that he would take care of Watson, too, and didn't mind the burden. He lifted the doctor again, much more gently this time, and got him into a cab. It was then that he realized he knew nothing about him, much less where to go to take him home. He supposed he could riffle through the man's pockets for his keys, but he was tired and that was too complicated. So, he ordered the cab to go to Baker Street on the double and simply hoped Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be too angry with him. He briefly considered taking the man to a hospital, but Baker Street was closer and he'd send for a doctor if he needed one.

She panicked, naturally, when she saw him come into the room with an unconscious, bloody man held high in his arms like he was trying not to spill some great basket of potatoes, but her generous nature compelled her to help him. Watson roused as they were finishing bandaging his head.

"Where am I?" he groaned.

"You're in my rooms in Baker Street, Doctor," Holmes answered. "You fell unconscious back there. What happened? You didn't get up once I freed us."

"I warned you," Watson mumbled, "your pulling hurt me. I've… got a bad arm. And a bad leg. When I tried to stand, the muscles were too cramped to move, and the beating I took made me lightheaded. I was dizzy, and I fell."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"I tried to, but you were already gone. I didn't know if there would be enough time…"

"John?"

"Sorry," Watson sighed, raising his good hand to his head.

"What do you need?" Holmes asked at the same time the living room door opened.

"What the hell happened?" demanded a very red-faced Scotland Yard Inspector.

"Good evening, Lestrade," Holmes said evenly.

"Doctor Watson? Is what I hear true?" Lestrade demanded.

"Look at me. What do you think?" Watson asked weakly.

Lestrade sighed, pushing Holmes away with his hand like he was brushing away a piece of litter and sitting beside the couch where Watson was reclining. "Are you alright?"

"I'll be fine."

"Good. I… John, you know I've always considered you a friend."

"I do. That's why you don't have to say it. Here." he reached into his pocket and produced a ring of keys. "I don't have anything in my desk worth retrieving."

Lestrade sighed, pulling three keys off the ring. "I don't want to do this, but you've been warned."

"I know. It's alright, Lestrade. If you ever need a second opinion, reach out to me."

"I will," Lestrade sighed. "Thank you for making it easy. Dammit, man, why would you throw away your career to go after him of all people?" In frustration, Lestrade struck the cushion of the couch with an open palm before taking a quick, calming breath and continuing. "Come on, let's get you home. Unless you need to go to hospital?"

"No, I don't want to go to the hospital. I'll be alright."

"How did you end up in Baker Street, anyway?"

"You can stay here, John," Holmes interjected, the look on his face clearly showing that he didn't like being quite literally pushed out of the conversation.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. None had ever said so aloud, and he'd never asked why, but in the morgue he had certainly noticed Holmes and Watson didn't like each other.

Watson ignored both Lestrade's' unspoken question and Holmes' offer, instead holding his bad arm close and sitting up slowly. He groaned as his head spun, and he ended up with his head between his knees as Holmes sat on one side of him and Lestrade on the other.

"I don't think I'm going anywhere on my own," he sighed after a few minutes. "Thank you, though, Lestrade."

"Oh, dear, feel free to stay here," Mrs. Hudson said, reentering the sitting room.

Lestrade looked askance at Watson.

"It's fine," Watson assured him. "I nearly died with Sherlock Holmes tonight, and he carried me out of a burning building. I don't think he'll strangle me as I sleep on his couch."

Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow at her lodger, and Holmes cringed, knowing he had a lot of explaining to do.

"What's going on here?" Lestrade demanded for what seemed like the hundredth time. "Are you certain you want to stay here with him?"

"We're friends now," Holmes defended himself. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

Lestrade scowled at Holmes and Holmes scowled right back.

Watson sighed. "Ma'am, thank you for the bandages," he told Mrs. Hudson, and for some reason he was looking down at his hands and speaking softly. "Mr. Holmes, may I use your washroom?"

"Of course," Holmes said, and he gave Watson his arm to help him stand.

"I'll see you again, Lestrade," Watson sighed. "And If I don't, well, I've always considered you a friend, too. Thank you." He held out his hand and Lestrade shook it.

"I hope you recover well, doctor," he said softly. "Goodnight, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." He left as Holmes helped Watson to the washroom.

When Holmes came back into the living room Mrs. Hudson was waiting with crossed arms. "Well?" she asked. "Who is he?"

"The coroner at Scotland Yard."

"What? You mean the one you're constantly complaining about?"

"Yes. We're friends now."

"Just like that?" she asked, raising an eyebrow incredulously.

"Just like that. We… did nearly die together tonight, and I suppose something like that makes a man not want to keep a petty grudge. He gave me his reasons for not liking me and I gave him my reasons for not liking him. Both made sense in their own way." He shrugged. "Now we're friends."

"And you nearly died?" she prompted.

He blushed. "I didn't want you to worry about me, Mrs. Hudson. I told you the case wasn't dangerous because I thought I wouldn't be hurt."

She rolled her eyes. "So what you mean," she corrected him, "is that if you ever tell me a case is dangerous I should go ahead and send your obituary to the newspapers. Noted."

"Don't be dramatic, Mrs. Hudson. Besides, you don't have…"

"Oh yes I do," Mrs. Hudson cut him off. "It's sitting in the bottom of my recipe drawer waiting for a date. Your brother gave it to me during that horrible case when you disappeared without a trace."

"I didn't disappear, Mrs. Hudson. I knew where I was the entire time."

She scowled darkly at him, and he shrunk under her gaze, knowing that wasn't quite an argument in his favor.

"Tonight," he explained instead, "I infiltrated the group of arsonists I've been hunting. They were suspicious of me, and kept me in an old tiger cage until they could verify who I was. Which they would have, for I planted one of my own agents to vouch for me in the bar they frequented. That's when Doctor Watson came to investigate on his own, found me caged, and attempted to rescue me. I tried to tell him to go away, but he still attempted to free me, and got himself caught and attacked in the process. Of course, they certainly didn't believe I was one of them after that and trapped us both together in the basement of one of their hideouts and… well…"

"And they set it on fire?" Mrs. Hudson demanded, aghast.

"It wasn't so bad as all that, not really," he said, but she just shook her head at him and walked away. "Let me know if there's anything else you need. I'll bring up some tea."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," he said meekly, all too aware he wasn't entitled to any favors anytime soon.

He cleaned himself up, changing out of his old clothes that reeked of smoke and dressing in an old dressing gown, leaving a better one outside the washroom for Watson. He sat in his chair, closing his eyes to reflect on what had just happened and devising an alternate plan to catch the arsonists. He was so deep in his own thoughts that he barely noticed when something hit the ground hard and it took his brain a moment to remember that there was someone else in the flat.

"Watson?" he called. "Alright?" The man didn't emerge, and Holmes waited for a few minutes before going after him, calling his name again. He found him sitting on the floor of the washroom with his head in his hands.

"Did you fall?" Holmes asked as if that wasn't obvious. He crouched down and held up his hand. "Can you see how many fingers I'm holding up?" He only held up one to make it easy. Watson peered at him.

"One," he said slowly.

"I didn't ask you to figure out how many, idiot," Holmes chastised him, "I asked how many you see."

"Three," Watson sighed. "I need to lie down."

"This might hurt," Holmes warned him before reaching down and pulling him up.

"Hey," Watson protested, but it was a weak protest and Holmes practically carried him back to the couch.

"You wanker," Watson grumbled. "You could have waited until I was ready."

"You were sitting on the floor, you wouldn't have been ready anytime soon. Lie back, now, and rest. The world will seem brighter in the morning."

"Of course it will, stupid. That's how sunrise works."

Holmes couldn't help it, he laughed. By the time he helped Watson lie back, the doctor's eyes were drooping.

"Thanks," Watson murmured. "It's nice to have a friend, if even just for tonight."

"I'm not pretending to care, even if you don't think so," Holmes said softly.

"Not what I meant," Watson sighed, but before Holmes could ask what he did mean, Watson was asleep. Holmes took the liberty of examining the hard knock he'd been given to the head, cringing when he saw it up close. Watson had taken a bad beating by the gang, would be in quite a bit of pain for a while, and Holmes surprised himself by actually caring as much as he did for the man he'd despised that morning.

He hadn't been lying, of course, when he'd said he was willing to start over and be friends, but he didn't care for people easily. After months of resenting John Watson, it was odd to think like this, to care. How could things have changed so much since this morning?

Then, he remembered how Watson had been willing to stay behind, to die one of the most terrible of all deaths in order not to impede Holmes' escape. He had told Holmes to go without him, had been brave in the face of death. He'd obviously thought they had only moments to escape in and that carrying him would ensure both their deaths, and he hadn't necessarily been wrong. Had they stayed less than a minute longer in the burning building, Holmes was certain they would be dead. He very well could have been killed by his choice to go back to save Watson, but of course he didn't regret it; he was simply glad he was still alive.

There were few men who would have ever been as selfless as Watson had been in the moments when he thought he was going to die, and Holmes knew he would always respect him for that even if they didn't stay in touch after nearly dying together. He hoped they would. Holmes knew he wasn't a good friend, but he did try when the other party did. Unfortunately, no one seemed to. Maybe Watson would be different.

Holmes was still awake when Watson woke, and the other man's sudden movements made him realize just how long he'd been up. He had been sitting and thinking in his chair with his legs crossed and his head leaned back on the cushion. He knew his body had been put through it and he needed sleep, but it was too late now, or, rather, too early, and he hoped his peaceful meditations would be enough rest to get him through the day. If not, an afternoon nap would not go askance, though they did tend to make him stroppy. He rose and stretched, yawning widely.

"What…" Watson groaned, looking around him groggily. "I.." he leaned over, and lost the contents of his stomach on the rug.

"Wonderful," Holmes murmured. "I love cleaning first thing in the morning."

Watson peered up at him. "Huh?"

"Good morning," Holmes said. "Are you dying?"

"Not currently, I think," Watson groaned miserably.

"Good. Clean yourself, then, and I will clean this."

"Sorry," Watson sighed.

"Please, don't worry about it," Holmes replied, surprised that he was being so kind. "At least Mrs. Hudson can't claim I ruined this rug. Believe me, I've ruined plenty."

"Sorry," Watson repeated. "I'll find a way to pay for it."

Holmes shrugged. "Don't worry about that. I would have soiled it somehow, I'm sure."

Watson attempted to rise, but fell on the floor. Thankfully, he landed away from the mess, but looked just about as pathetic. Holmes sighed, grabbing him by the arms and lifting him.

"Hey!" Watson groaned. "Stop it. Do you enjoy hurting me?"

"Do you enjoy being so obstinate?"

"Let me go!"

"Fine!"

Holmes did, and Watson grasped the back of a chair, screwing his eyes shut. Holmes waited patiently for him to admit he needed help, but instead Watson's knees buckled and he ended up on the floor again.

"I told you," Holmes said, but Watson didn't answer. "Watson?" he knelt beside the other man and touched his shoulder, realizing he was unconscious. "Idiot," he murmured. Really, though, he felt guilt begin to gnaw at his gut. Perhaps he had hurt Watson after all? He arranged Watson on the floor so he was lying flat. Then, he found some smelling salts and waved it under Watson's nose. That finally woke him.

"Get up," Holmes said. "Either on your own or swallow your pride and let me help."

"Damn you," Watson said with a scowl. "Just help me up so I can leave your living room and you'll never have to see me again."

"Who said I never want to see you again?" Holmes asked as he lifted the doctor and helped him to the washroom.

"Doesn't matter," Watson sighed. "I'll be gone soon."

"Gone? Did you lie to me when you said that that you're not dying?"

"Not dead… well, probably not. But you just saw me get fired last night, and so I won't be hanging around London for long. Besides, I'm sure that since I didn't make it home last night my landlady has already thrown my things into the street and taken a new lodger."

"What?" Holmes asked, genuinely confused.

"She hates what I do, er, did," Watson replied with a small little shrug. "She's a superstitious old bat who thinks that I bring home the stench of death from the morgue and that ghosts will follow me home. She's been making my life hell for a while now and I'm certain she'll be happy to let me go. She's predicted at least a hundred times that one of the murderers I autopsy will drag me down to hell, and I'm sure that's what she thinks has happened."

"Where will you go?"

"The hospital, probably. For a job or to be admitted, whichever comes first. I'll be lucky if they'll offer me so much as a receptionist's position, though, and I'll likely have to leave for the country to make a living. Setting up a general practice in London would be too much."

"Why wouldn't they take you? Aren't you a surgeon?"

"I used to be. Getting shot ruined that."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Eh, what're you going to do?" Watson said with a shrug. "I'll find something."

"John," Holmes said slowly, "last night Lestrade said you threw away your career to come after me. What did he mean by that?"

"You know what he meant," Watson sighed. "I knew you were in trouble. I couldn't just sit around while I knew what was happening. I have a conscience, even though I hated you until yesterday. I'm still not terribly fond of you, you know, but I like you better today than yesterday. I'm also an idiot who decided your life was worth losing mine to preserve. I guess I was a soldier too long; I'm a bit of an impulsive man of action when I know there's danger."

Holmes frowned. "I was afraid of that," he murmured as he stood. "I'm going to go clean the carpet," he said louder. "Tell me if you need anything."

When he had finished and made his way back, Holmes wasn't surprised to find Watson was once again slumped on the washroom floor. He laid his hand on the other man's forehead and felt that it was too warm to be good. He took the injured man by under his armpits and lifted him just enough to get him out of the washroom and lay him on his own bed. Watson groaned miserably.

"I'll get up in a minute," the doctor murmured, but Holmes had the impression that between the beating and the fever, Watson's mind wasn't quite working correctly at the moment.

Holmes sighed, and rifled through the other man's discarded jacket in the living room. He found the key ring he'd seen the previous night, and thankfully Watson's address was on one of the keys: no deductions needed. He found Mrs. Hudson and told her Watson was ill and he was going to pick up some of his things.

Just as Watson had predicted, he found that his new friend's landlady was gossiping to anyone who would listen that the evil spirits from the morgue had finally dragged the coroner down to an early grave. Watson's things had already been thrown into a trunk that had been dragged to the door. Holmes had barely begun to introduce himself when she saw the key in his hand, snatched it from him, and patted him on the arm condescendingly.

"I'm so sorry about your brother," she cooed insincerely. "Here are his things, and I've closed the books on his account so don't worry about any outstanding balance. Matthew!" she screamed, making Holmes flinch, but he didn't interrupt her. "Matthew! Get over here and move this trunk out. The brother is here!"

The next thing Holmes knew, he was riding back to Baker Street in a cart with Watson's trunk in the back. He hadn't corrected the lady; what good would it have done besides give her reason to deny giving him Watson's things? He secretly hoped she would see Watson in the street someday and think that she, too, was afflicted with ghosts. It wasn't a kind thought, but it would serve her right for behaving so abominably towards someone she thought was a grieving relative.

After seeing what Watson had been living with, it didn't surprise him when he came home to see Watson keeping his head down around Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson, who was perhaps the kindest lady in the empire, was fretting over him and attempting to get him to eat, but Watson was trying to turn down her food and apologize to her for staying too long.

"That looks wonderful, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said with a smile as he entered onto the scene. "Watson, are you feeling well enough to eat?"

"I need to go," Watson murmured.

"No," Holmes said, "you really don't. I know it's late into the morning now, but I've got your things sorted and since you were fired yesterday you're not expected at the morgue. I fear you will make yourself even more ill if you don't rest."

"I… thank you," Watson murmured. "I appreciate this."

"Of course," Holmes said, silently ushering Mrs. Hudson out.

Watson barely did anything besides push the food around on his plate, however, and he kept grimacing oddly.

"Thank you for getting my things," Watson murmured when he was done. "I'll be going."

"Why? Where are you going?"

"I don't know. You know that."

"And are you still feverish?"

"I... yes."

"So stay. There's a room upstairs, and Mrs. Hudson likes you already, I can tell. Plus, frankly, you look like death. You can always leave later if you want to."

"I don't think…"

"And if you refuse," Holmes said, his voice leaving no room for argument, "I'm taking you to the hospital. I'm not about to see you end up dead on the streets somewhere. Come on, let's get you to the upstairs room and you can lie down."

Watson closed his eyes and nodded, seemingly defeated. Holmes didn't like that look on him, not even though it meant he wasn't arguing. He was optimistic that it was temporary, however. John Watson was a man with a fire in his heart, not the kind who would lay down and be defeated for long. He was simply sick at the moment; he and Holmes would be back to bickering soon enough. For the moment, though, the doctor allowed Holmes aid him in getting up the stairs and was soon asleep once more. Holmes lingered with him for a while, assessing his condition and wondering if he should send for a doctor. He had hoped that the food and extra sleep would have helped him, but he didn't look better. Still, Holmes was sure he'd recover, and decided to just let him rest.

Mrs. Hudson must have seen the worry on his face as he descended the stairs, for she raised an eyebrow at him.

"So you really are friends?" she asked.

"Yes," Holmes said. "I guess so. I care about what happens to him. Oh, and Mrs. Hudson, I'm sorry if you felt he was rude."

"No, Mr. Holmes, I didn't. I felt that he was scared." She chuckled dryly. "I haven't had a man scared of me for a long time, I assure you."

Holmes grimaced and told her what he'd just experienced with Watson's former living arrangements. Watson was a good doctor, but it seemed that somehow his self-confidence had been beaten down. Mrs. Hudson, as Holmes predicted, had quickly become fond of him, and agreed to let him stay after hearing what he'd been put through. They agreed they'd be good Samaritans while he was ill, and, if he wanted to continue in Baker Street afterwards, they would work out an arrangement when he was better and back on his feet.

Which he wasn't, not for nearly an entire week. Instead of recovering, his fever only spiked. Holmes briefly considered taking him to the hospital, but remembered how he'd told Lestrade he didn't want to go. Instead, he and Mrs. Hudson cared for him, and Watson slowly recovered. He spent long days not quite well enough to return to normalcy but able to spend long hours sitting and talking with Holmes. Holmes, in turn, very slowly felt like he was earning the doctor's trust. He would have thought that he'd done that when he'd put the man on his shoulder and carried him out of a burning building, but becoming friends slowly wasn't so bad.

Watson, naturally, had gained his whole and entire trust that night they'd survived nearly being burned alive, but he didn't blame the doctor for not trusting him right off, too. Just because he was quick to admit he'd been wrong about doctor Watson didn't mean Watson also had to admit he'd been wrong about Holmes. He would, though, eventually. Holmes was sure of it.

Holmes had set a trap and apprehended the arsonists and Watson had almost recovered enough to start looking for work again when Lestrade came to visit once more.

"What do you want?" Holmes asked him, annoyed.

"Where's Watson?" Lestrade asked. "When he left you, where did he go?"

"He didn't go," Holmes said. "Where would he have gone? You fired him, he got kicked out of his home, and he's too ill to be left in the streets."

"He's… here? But it's been a week!"

"Yes. And?"

"And so how ill was he? Is he alright? I need to talk to him. Can I come in?"

"No. He's asleep, or at least he was. What do you want from him?"

"That's his business," Lestrade said with a tight frown.

"What's my business?" came a weak voice from above them. They both turned and saw Watson leaning on the railing. He smiled, seeing Lestrade. "Good morning, Inspector. It's good to see you."

Lestrade pushed past Holmes to get into Baker Street. "Good morning, Doctor. May I speak with you for a moment? Alone," he amended when he realized Holmes was right behind him.

"It's alright," Watson said softly. "I haven't had much to do this past week but sit and talk with Sherlock Holmes, and I swear that I could tell him my eyes are brown and he'd somehow be able to deduce from that information that I'd been born on a Wednesday. He practically knows more about me than I do."

Lestrade frowned but nodded. "Doctor," he said, "I'm sorry I didn't come visit you earlier. I didn't realize how ill you were, and I was hoping when I saw you next I'd have good news."

"And do you?" Watson asked as he took a seat in what was quickly becoming 'his' chair by the window.

"Yes. You've been on a medical leave of absence this week, doctor."

"I… I have?"

"Yes. Not that it seems that's far from the truth. Will you be well enough to come back Tuesday?"

Watson, who had been seemingly hopeful, deflated. "I appreciate it," he murmured, "but it won't work now like it didn't work before. I used to hate Sherlock Holmes, and I still tried to save him. Now that he's… a friend, do you really think I would still sit by while he investigates dangerous criminals alone? No, Lestrade. Thank you, but I can't."

"Be a consultant with us, then. You know that you're the best we've got. I've had to pull a lot of strings and make a lot of excuses in order to keep your name clean around Scotland Yard, but I've made it that you can come back if you want to."

"I… thank you," Watson said. "Yes, of course I will for as long as I can. I'm not quite in top shape yet, but I'll be there when you need me."

Lestrade smiled. "I was hoping you'd agree. Are you, well, really staying here with Sherlock Holmes? Or is that just until you recover?"

"I'll be staying in Baker Street for at least this month," Watson said with a grin. "If Sherlock Holmes and I can refrain from murdering each other, we'll see what happens after that."

"And you're certain you actually want to do this?"

"Yes. Believe me, it surprised me, too."

"John…"

"You're the one who used to tell me he wasn't all that bad, if you recall," Watson said with a small smile.

"I know. But I never imagined you'd do something crazy like befriend him."

"Neither did I, I assure you."

Lestrade shifted from foot to foot, but nodded. "I'll see you later, then, Doctor. Mr. Holmes." With that, he was gone.

"I don't think he likes me very much," Holmes murmured.

"I didn't like you more than he doesn't," Watson reminded him.

"And do you now? Like me, I mean."

"I think so."

"Enough to solve a mystery with me?"

"Certainly."

"A potentially dangerous one?"

"Of course."

"Then I have a letter to show you which I received yesterday. I believe you'll be very interested in its contents."

"You received it yesterday, you believe it may be dangerous, and yet you've done nothing about it?"

"Potentially dangerous, but not pressing, Watson. Don't be an idiot, I'm not neglectful."

"I will disagree with that," Watson murmured. "I don't think I've seen you eat for three days now."

"That has nothing to do with how I conduct my investigations."

"As a doctor, I can assure you that's untrue."

"And as the world's foremost consulting detective, I can assure you I know what I'm doing."

"That's not a real thing."

"Yes it is!"

On the landing, Mrs. Hudson clutched a tray of tea, listened to their bickering, and smiled to herself very slightly. They were fighting like they were old friends, not old rivals, and she had a feeling doctor Watson would be staying. the two of them were gone for a few hours that day, and Mrs. Hudson could hear they were still bickering when they returned.

"I hate you," Watson was saying. "What a stupid thing to do. Get upstairs and sit down. I'll get my medical bag."

Mrs. Hudson sighed; what had happened now? She arranged a tea tray and brought it up to find John Watson was stitching a cut near Holmes' eyebrow.

"It wasn't that bad," Holmes mumbled.

"You should have been tactful," Watson lectured him.

"I was tactful!"

"You antagonized a man who you knew had killed his own grandfather in his sleep for an inheritance that wasn't even very substantial. He was obviously desperate. You calling him out like that certainly does not count as tactful."

"I wanted to finish the case quickly," Holmes grumbled. "Ow! You've worked on corpses too long; you're a terrible doctor."

"You got smashed on the head by the man's cane, that is not my fault. The area is sensitive, and that is not my fault either. I told you this would hurt, but had your eye been hit I assure you it would have hurt more."

"It is your fault; I did it for you. If you hadn't been so tired I wouldn't have ended the case so quickly and wouldn't have been attacked. If you couldn't spend a few hours on an investigation you shouldn't have agreed to come."

"I was not that tired. I told you that."

"You did tell me that, but you were lying and you know it. That's why I put myself between you and him when he swung; I knew you would have been too slow. You're welcome for that, by the way."

"It wasn't necessary. I'm not slow, and I can take care of myself."

"Right. That's why I've saved your life several times now."

"It was me, Sherlock Holmes, who kept him from landing another hit and spilling your brains on the carpet. I think our score is pretty even."

"No. I'm still on top…want another chance to even it?"

"Why? You can't seriously have another case already?"

"Of course I do," Holmes sniffed indignantly as Watson finished the stitches. "I told you, I'm a professional."

Mrs. Hudson had been watching them in silence, but she eventually couldn't help but laugh at them as they argued like schoolboys. They looked over at her and each grinned slightly. From that, she knew they both knew they were being a bit ridiculous.

Watson thanked her for the tea, and she gave them a warm smile. She could tell they were one their way to becoming friends for certain, and she had a very good feeling that would be good for them both. And, as it turned out, she was right.

What If: Holmes and Watson were rivals?

Thank you for reading my story. I sincerely hope you enjoyed. If you take the time to leave a review, I appreciate you.