"Ouch! Holmes!"
"My apologies – but do hold still, Watson!"
"I'm trying to, confound it!"
I could not help but laugh as I applied the piece of sticking-plaster to the gash on my friend's temple.
"It's not funny."
"Admit it, Watson, it was very much amusing."
"It was not funny."
I sighed, continuing with my work.
"It isn't my fault, Watson."
"It certainly is! When will you learn that some occupations involve a deal of concentration! You cannot just come bursting in and expect the occupants of the room not to show surprise!"
"How was I to know that it would startle him that much!"
"Holmes."
He glared at me with a thinly veiled exasperation.
"When a well-known detective comes flying into a shop, bellowing about being chased by half-a-dozen angry men with knives; and when those men appear outside, looking menacingly into the window while this detective makes very immature faces at them through the glass – it is of no wonder that the occupants of the room are going to be rather jumpy!"
"Well, I am sorry you were the one to suffer because of it," I said, honestly remorseful.
"You should be," he growled, glaring at me.
"Well there's one way to ensure this never happens again, Watson," I said mischievously.
"And what is that?"
"Find a more steady-handed barber."