A/N: Prompt at the end of this one. :-) Slightly longer than I'd planned - sorry!

Third Time the Charm

It was Winter 1883, and Watson was ensconced in Baker Street, sat in his armchair with legs outstretched toward the fire. A glass rested in one hand, amber liquid listing gently like a calm sea, and the doctor was warm, if not as content as he'd like.

Beyond the windows of the living room the sky was inky black, the moon a finely sliced curve. Mother Nature was stirring, etching frost onto glass and leaving cobbles wet and gleaming, newly polished stones ready to cause the unsuspecting passer-by to lose footing. Watson had already fallen foul to her trap, his leg painfully wrenched from beneath him on the corner of Weymouth Street, taking him out of the perusal of one Benny Conningham Jr., whom Holmes had been investigating for the past month.

He did not like leaving Holmes to finish off the case alone, but Holmes had bluntly pointed out that Watson was a man of flesh and bone with limitations to his health, and thus could not continue in his injured state.

Watson had not liked that, the comment setting his back teeth on edge, but had relinquished his role of observer to two cherub-faced Irregulars. The urchins had an uncanny ability to glide across icy roads without incident, scoffing at Nature's attempts to deter them. Watson rather envied them their folly.

The clock on the mantle struck seven, chimed gently. Watson finished his drink and stood, the pain in his leg sighing into distant memory. As he refilled his glass, he heard the door open downstairs. Holmes's prediction that the case would be concluded on the hour had been correct, as usual.

He expected to hear Holmes's quick footsteps on the stairs so he could be furnished with the final details, but when no sound was forthcoming, Watson walked out onto the landing.

The detective was leaning heavily against the front door, one hand pressed to his hip. A few stray locks of hair fell across Holmes's forehead and the left leg of his trousers was damp. At the doctor's appearance, he straightened, though Watson did not miss the flash of pain which darted through the steel of his eyes.

"Ah, Watson. How are you feeling?"

"Much improved, which is more than I could say for you." Watson descended the stairs, stopped on the third from the bottom. "Holmes, what happened?"

"Nothing of import, my dear fellow," said Holmes.

"So how came you to be injured?"

"It is no matter, Watson," said he, waving an airy hand. "I am fine."

Watson sighed. Two years of sharing lodgings had brought with it the accustom of Holmes returning to their homestead injured on occasion, yet that passing of time did not seem to lessen Holmes's reticence to disclose this. The detective seemed content to let worry linger in Watson, rest like a slumbering creature in the pit of his stomach until occurrences like this one caused it to stir. Watson was growing rather tired of it.

He was about to protest to Holmes that he was indeed not fine when the bell rang. Holmes stepped away from the door to open it, revealed one of the Irregulars that had taken Watson's place huddled on the porch. The lad bustled past Holmes into the warmth of the hallway, fair dancing on the spot.

"Matthews, to what do we owe the pleasure?" said Holmes, his tone suggesting that the boy's timely interruption was not at all welcome.

"You dropped this, Mr. 'Olmes." Matthews delved deep into his coat pocket and produced a single glove.

Holmes gave it the briefest of examinations. "That is not mine."

"Oh, I thought it were. I found it where you fell."

"What's this?" Watson asked.

"It is of no concern, Watson," said Holmes quickly. "I merely slipped."

"Slipped?" Watson echoed, disbelief coating the word.

"Slipped!" said Matthews, with that wondrous tone youth are want to adopt when their elders do something that is both humorous and unexpected. "'e flew! Went right across the ice like that 'orse that broke its leg in Regent's last week."

Holmes scoffed. "I did no such thing."

"Both arms went out like this!" So saying, Matthews attempted to demonstrate, rotating his arms in an ungainly manner.

"Yes, thank you, Matthews," said Holmes. "Now, don't you need to be somewhere?"

Matthews returned his arms to his sides and shrugged. "Not really."

A muscle twitched in Holmes's jaw. Watson took pity on him and dug into his pocket. Matthews soon departed with an additional glove and a joyous grin on his face.

Alone once more, Watson attempted to gauge the severity of Holmes's injury. Holmes shot him a sideways glance.

"I know what you are doing, Watson, and your concern is misplaced."

"I think not. It is clear that you took quite a nasty fall."

Holmes grunted, not quite assent. "The result of my own carelessness."

"It is easily done, Holmes, as you well know from my earlier mishap," Watson assured, the merest trace of amusement in his voice. Then his face grew serious. "Are you badly hurt?"

Holmes's expression softened. "I suspect my pride will feel the effects long after this night is through. However, the case was a success, Conningham was apprehended, and I have escaped a far worst injury than that of our four-legged equine."

"Very well, I will ask no more. Although I have but two requests."

"What?"

"Permit me to assist you upstairs and then you tell me how the case was concluded."

"Oh, I thought you'd have deduced how it ended," said Holmes. To Watson's surprise, he accepted the doctor's help, wincing only slightly as the movement jarred his hip.

"I'm afraid you have me at an advantage."

"I think not." Holmes smiled wryly. "Conningham slipped on the ice as I did."

End

Prompt 04: From Book girl fan – Ice.