Adrenaline seeping away like a melting shadow added to his exhaustion and relief made the floor a very appealing prospect, though pitching headfirst for it was not ideal. He had landed against something softer than the stone, but was not about to complain. By the time the world stopped whirling and settled, he was lying on his back, blinking up at the worried face of Sherlock Holmes.
Disoriented, he attempted to struggle up, only to be pushed firmly back against the thin pillow beneath his head. Wait, since when could Holmes keep him down with only one hand? He never used to be that strong…
"It's all right, Watson," he was saying fuzzily somewhere. "Lie still now, my dear fellow. It's over."
Was it? A cold hand was examining what was probably a livid bruise upon his cranium; despite the pain the coolness was wonderful. Why then the exclamation of alarm over his head?
"Cummings." Lestrade's voice. "Call a doctor to meet them at Baker Street. Now."
He blinked and Holmes came into focus again, his eyes lost and warm with concern; obviously needing reassurance. "I'm so glad to see you," the Doctor whispered tiredly.
"And I you, my dear Watson," he replied, his voice uncharacteristically unsteady. "I did not think I would get the opportunity to…apologise for my atrocious behaviour."