"Achoo!"
"Bless you. Here."
"Thanks."
I watched as he took the handkerchief and applied it to his nose, noting with concern that his face was rather flushed.
"You shouldn't have followed me; you're not well enough."
"Like I was going to let you walk into that den by yourself, really Holmes – achoo!"
"Bless you."
"And I only have a cold."
"Yes, and your sneezing brought the whole house down upon us!"
"I couldn't help it!"
"You should have stayed in Baker Street!"
"If I hadn't had my stick with me they would have beaten us both to death – you should be glad I came instead of – achoo!"
I stopped suddenly, seeing his face twist with pain as he hastily turned away from me, swaying unsteadily on his feet.
"Are you ill?"
"No."
This was spoken through gritted teeth, and now that we were under a street lamp I could see he was clutching his side with his good arm.
"You're hurt – that last kick you got! You told me you were fine!" I exclaimed, taking his uninjured arm and letting him lean on me.
"When you're getting slapped back into consciousness amid the sounds of a half-dozen thugs following you is not the time for a full medical report, Holmes!"
I sighed. "Why did you follow me?"
"I'm watching your back."