A reprint from the reminiscences of John H. Watson

Watson curses his leg.  Usually he manages more than adequately, though his sprint still has the flavour of a limp to it; he holds his own in a fight, and even if the Jezail bullet wound should ache, he has become used to the pain.  But when the floor gives under his foot, the soft tear of rotten wood felt before it's heard, but felt not soon enough, and Watson finds himself in a moment halfway through the floorboards, the ragged edges biting into his thigh, his muscles seize and cramp, and he simply cannot pull himself loose.  Monaghan kicks his stick away, for which Watson growls at him, and then swears vehemently as Monaghan tears off, now free of his pursuit, ducking left, and he shouts to Holmes as his companion lopes up from behind.

'Out the back way, he's headed for back way-- damnit, man, leave it!'

And because they both have their priorities, Holmes does.

He can hear both of their footsteps, and the sounds of crashing, more distantly, and he grits his teeth as he pulls himself up out of the floor, noting distantly the place where the leg of his trousers is torn, the skin underneath scraped enough to bleed, but the wound is less painful than the leg itself.  It takes a few moments for the cramping to cease, and Watson levers himself up, limping over to pick up his walking stick, and then as fast as he can, hurries the way Holmes and the object of their chase had gone.

The sounds of fighting have ceased, and Watson assumes it to be because the chase has taken them away from the warehouse, but as he rounds a corner, he spots a figure lying on the ground perhaps fifty meters distant, and a worry that he'd not considered before begins to beat with his pulse, joining the adrenaline that's already there.

'Holmes!'

The man is of the right proportions to be Holmes, but Watson is dubious that Monaghan would have been able to get the better of him in a fistfight, which meant-- but no, he'd heard no gunshot, and as he nears, Holmes woozily levers himself up on one elbow.

'What the devil,' mutters Watson to himself.

Because it is Holmes-- looks like Holmes, but he's wearing denim trousers like some American navvy, and the strangest jumper Watson has ever seen, and he has no idea what to even begin to make of his shoes.  Watson closes the final few paces, near enough to see the expression of bleary confusion which, even at Holmes's most drug-addled, he has rarely seen on him, and he eyes him dubiously, even as he drops to one knee with the intention to feel the back of Holmes's head for the impact of a blow.

'What are you playing at?  Surely now is not the time for disguises; I thought you'd been shot.'