The detective noted a strange gnawing in the vicinity of his chest, one that had no connection with gulping a half-cup of scalding tea, when the door opened and the Doctor stumbled silently to collapse in his fireside chair.
Watson was obviously relying on his stick, and besides being half-frozen – ice coated his collar – was holding his arm too stiffly. The detective carefully laid a hand on the offending shoulder as he crouched to proffer a cup of milky, brandy-laced tea. The Doctor's eyes jerked open, a startled exclamation of pain escaping him, but he relaxed when his vision filled with a steaming teacup and the openly worried features of London's foremost observer.
"What happened?" Holmes asked softly, yanking the ottoman up with one foot and perching upon it.
"Ice everywhere," Watson mumbled between sips. "I slipped, grabbed hold of a railing…unfortunately only my left hand caught it. This 's wonderful tea."
Holmes had already decided directness would be the best way to get the ordeal over with. "Watson…" He studied the loose threads dangling from his slippers. "About this morning…I am very sorry, my dear fellow."
Surprisingly enough, the Doctor merely smiled warmly. "Someday, Holmes, you'll learn that logic isn't always correct."
And inexplicably, the icy tension in the room melted, leaving only warmth behind.