"What sort of man do you think I am?" Watson demanded. Hurt, now, as well as angry, he turned to the window and stared moodily out into the street, because that was easier than trying to look at Holmes just then. He smoked, hoping for some sort of clarity of thought. "I don't take it because I am with you. But no, you apparently believe me so thoughtless as to ignore the suffering of a frightened young woman, and so heartless as to abandon a lover without hesitation over a minor detail. Thank you very much."

He huffed, glaring out at the traffic below as though it were the source of his anger and not the damnably frustrating man in the room with him. The hurt tone in Holmes's voice wasn't lost on him, but he was feeling so very wounded himself at the moment.