A/N: Written for KCS and her prompt: "What would happen in SOLI, or another case you want to make up, if Watson actually had done what Holmes recommended, and gotten into a fight for his trouble to follow directions? Flangst, plz, and worried!apologetic!guilty!Holmes."

I hope this little ficlet does her request justice.

In retrospect, what prompted my return to Charlington was that I had never known Holmes to be so genuinely affronting, so utterly disappointed with my incompetence. I had set out with the intent to please him, and while Holmes was adamant I need not trouble myself further by repeating the excursion, the restless night I passed told me otherwise. It might be days before he'd the time to spare for Violet Smith's case of petty intrigue, thus, I was determined to make some use of myself in the meanwhile.

At a quarter to nine that very next morning, having stole out of my own digs at the crack of dawn like some common sneak-thief, I found myself strolling down a lovely country lane, the rich greens and spectrum of warm coloured wildflowers to either side a welcome contrast to the dismal city I left behind. When at last I came to the disreputable public house that was alarmingly active for so early an hour, I was in a relatively pleasant humour, ready to begin my investigations anew. Armed with this renewed confidence, what could possibly go wrong?

The answer to the aforementioned query was not long in coming.

From the moment I entered, the place came to a veritable standstill. The landlord, who had been busy polishing a bar that made the floor of our sitting room appear immaculate, dropped his rag with a heavy hand and glared at me with arms crossed. His biceps, I noted idly, were wider than my head.

"Wot's a toff like you think he's doin' in 'ere?"

"Ah, landlord," said I, cheerily. "A pint of your finest ale, if you please." Digging out a sovereign from my waistcoat pocket, I slid onto a rickety barstool, feigning ignorance to the fact that inn's population was shifting into an overly snug circle around my person.

"Well, maybe I bloody well don't please," he growled.

The situation only took a downhill turn from that point forward. That is, I can only assume it must have, for all I can call to mind after my bad arm was wrenched behind my back is the clamour of the crowd as a massive fist made contact with the underside of my jaw.

I came to my senses in an unfamiliar section of the heath, face down in a bed of thistles. With great certainty I can attest to the fact that disentangling oneself from said thistles may rank as one of the more unpleasant experiences of my life. Not a single inch of bared flesh got away unscathed by the thorny devils.

Judging from the trouble I had purchasing a return ticket to London and the stares of my fellow passengers, I looked a first-rate mess. I'd lost my brown tweed sack coat, my waistcoat was buttoned asymmetrically, the corner of my shirt shredded and protruding from the side of my trousers - which had themselves seen finer days - and my hat... I battled the thistles for it, but in the end, it was the shrubbery that emerged victorious.

I was too exhausted to care about any of it well before reaching the front door of 221B. Heaven only knew how long I had remained out cold; in addition, I lost my way more times than I could count, so that darkness had descended before I stepped off the train. As to precisely what the hour was, I cannot rightly say, for it seems my pocket watch was pilfered by one of the ruffians. All that mattered now was focusing on setting one foot ahead of the other without taking a backwards tumble down our seventeen steps.

Upon entering the sitting room, the sight that greeted me was enough to twist my gut into knots. Somehow, I did manage to make it approximately two feet in before my knees gave out from under me in a wave of dizziness - though I have never discovered whether I faltered due to the concussion or simply from the sheer mortification of having to face Sherlock Holmes and several Yarders in all my disheveled glory. What I can attest to is how the embarrassment was so smothering, I was in the hopes that if I remained curled on the floor as unobtrusively as possible, perhaps they'd not even notice I was there. After disappointing Holmes twice in as many days, it would be as much as I deserved if no living soul ever paid notice to my presence again.

Through the haze, I fancied my name was being called out, frantically and repeatedly. I wondered who this distraught fellow could possibly be - the voice was registering in my addled brain as a familiar one, but that it was not Holmes I was fairly convinced. After all, there was a distinct tinge of fear in his cracking voice, and my friend was afraid of nothing.

Impossibly strong arms considerately lifted me towards the direction of the settee, trembling hands gliding over my facial scrapes as I was laid out upon the cushions. The room spun infernally, so I have only a vague awareness of orders being barked out, Mrs Hudson being summoned for, the gentle weight of a warm rug tucked over me. For a single moment, my heavy eyelids blinked open to the sight of Holmes' blurred but unmistakably spare figure hovering above with his back turned, gesticulating madly and giving a thorough tongue-lashing to a little man who sounded suspiciously like Inspector Lestrade. What I caught of their discussion involved something about not giving a care how late the hour was, the telegram office was still open (expletive deleted) and Dr Anstruther would be compensated generously for being so unceremoniously knocked up. I wondered how, for my own bank account was pathetically low.

Thinking to warn my friend of how my funds were in no shape to withstand a doctor's fee, I weakly tugged at his shirtsleeve. "Holmes?"

The man's reflexes are a thing to behold, for I believe my fingers still brushed the material of his sleeve, so quickly was he perched on the edge of the settee with my free hand clasped in his own. Had I not known better, I should be prepared to swear his eyes raked over me with something resembling concern leaking through the usual stoicism, but most likely I was delusional from having made it through so weary a day.

"Where the devil have you been?" he demanded through clenched teeth.

"My apologies," said I, disconsolately. "I only meant to set things right, yet I've gone and made even worse a hash of matters. I visited the public house like you suggested, and they… I was caught off my guard, there was no way for me to take all of them. See what comes of trusting me with your cases in the first place?"

Holmes' spine went rigid, his grip on my hand tightening absently. He sat there motionless, visibly blanched, so affected was he by my words, though what exactly I had said to stir this reaction, I could not fathom.

"I really am terribly sorry, Holmes!" I cried. "You must believe I would never deliberately spoil your case."

"Hang the case!" he ejaculated. Never before had I imagined him capable of uttering what amounted to blasphemy in his eyes. It was almost as though he valued something in this world more than his work, and that was preposterous!

"Are you quite well?" I wanted to know.

"Watson," said he, sucking in a breath, a small trace of his composure restored, "do you mean to tell me you returned to Charlington Heath? Really, man! What on earth would possess you pull so asinine a stunt?"

"Because I failed you on the first try."

"You have never done any such thing, my boy." Over-bright grey eyes shone down on me before turning away, and for the span of several long breaths, he remained strangely quiet and still.

It was Inspector Lestrade calling out to him from behind that eventually broke into this trance.

"Mr Holmes, your landlady sent Billy out with a message for the doctor, with any luck Anstruther should be here shortly. I trust Dr Watson will be all right?"

Holmes gave a silent nod in reply.

"Wonderful! A definite relief," said the little man with a grin directed at me. "Then if everything is settled, you'll no longer require our presence here?"

"No, you may leave us," said my friend blandly, with a slight wave of his hand. "Your willingness to assist did not go unappreciated."

"Were they here on my account; because I went out without informing you?" I inquired once the door to our sitting room had clicked shut and we were alone.

"Just so," he sniffed. After an extended pause, he added, "You will promise to not hold this against me?"

My translation of this was along the lines of: "will you forgive me for sending you into harm?"

I was on the verge of formulating as coherent a reply as I was able considering my dubious consciousness when the man finally met my gaze with an honest, unguarded expression. There was the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his lips - another would have scarcely made note of the gesture, but I who knew him so well was astonished at the volumes spoken in that simple gesture.

"If you promise to stay here with me through the night."

He said nothing, only shifted in closer. Which was just as well, since I need not have heard his answer. Not when he was looking at me with such unmasked affection in his eyes…