Aftermath of The Dying Detective.

"A neat little mystery," he said, sitting back in his chair and lighting his pipe. "Quite clever in some aspects, though not so clever as to be unique. The springbox, for example. I have heard of very few of them, but I have still heard of them."

"How can you be so casual, Holmes?" Watson burst out, pacing up and down in front of the mantelpiece. "You could have died! What if you had not noticed the spring, and it had pricked you? You could have been lying here these past three days, dying, with no help to be had!" He collapsed into his chair, the day's emotions crashing over him.

Holmes looked over at him with concern. "My dear Watson, I apologise. I had not considered the affect my possible death would have on you, beyond the necessities of the case."

Watson wiped a hand over his forehead. "I know, Holmes. But this has been a trying day for me... do you think Mrs Hudson would mind if I spent the night in my old rooms?"

Holmes offered him a fond smile. "I do not believe she would mind at all."