"Perhaps, perhaps." For a moment, Watson lay puffing, resting and waiting for a moment where he could fight back. He smiled, trying for innocence, but there was a great deal of wickedness in his expression. He was well aware that Holmes was going easy on his bad shoulder. At another time he might have appreciated that; now, we was only inclined to take advantage of it and turn the tables.

When he judged the moment right, he worked his way free, calling on deep physical memories of working out of rugby tackles. Grasping Holmes's forearm, he wrestled his way up, twisted the pair of them upwards and over, tackled Holmes down as he pressed forward with a hasty kiss. He was laughing.

"Do you really think," he chortled, "that I wouldn't take advantage if you went easy on me?"