A/N: 1st and 2nd parts of an answer to KCS's 2nd prompt table--prompt #92--illness contracted by a patient Virtual cookies to anyone who can identify the source of Holmes's last statement in this story ("I shall never understand the medical mind.") XD

I stumbled into 221B Baker Street weary beyond belief. It was a lovely July afternoon; the sun shone and birds in the trees sang merrily, seemingly mocking my black mood. I limped to my armchair and collapsed into it with a sigh. Sherlock Holmes looked up from his chemistry experiment and raised an eyebrow upon seeing my expression.

"Watson, you're back?"

"Yes," I muttered, not wishing to elaborate any further.

His eyebrow climbed even higher. He carefully laid down his chemical equipment, strode over to the sideboard, and poured me a shot of brandy. After he handed it to me, I took a sip, attempting to calm myself, but the brandy seemed to lodge in my throat. Also, my right hand was trembling so badly that the shotglass would have crashed to the floor had Holmes not slipped it out of my fingers. After setting the glass on the table, he gently inquired, "What is the matter?"

"Surely you, of all people, can deduce that," I muttered bitterly, regretting the words as soon as I said them. "I'm sorry, I…"

Holmes forestalled the rest of my apology by enclosing my still-trembling hand in both of his.

"My dear Watson…it would be obvious even to someone less skilled in deduction than I that something went very wrong with one of your patients, and that, apparently, you blame yourself for it. Now you've always told me that it helps to talk about things like that."

"I'm sorry," I whispered, wishing my voice would hold steady, "I'm not certain I could talk right now."

"If you say that because you believe I might think less of you if you become emotional, surely you know me better than that?" he mildly remonstrated.

"Very well…since you insist," I managed, my voice still not quite steady. "I was treating a 15-year-old boy from a wealthy family…his mother is in her mid-30s, still very attractive and quite a social butterfly. The boy fell ill about two weeks ago; it was just a high fever at first…"

"Go on."

"So the mother would stop by and see the boy for a few minutes in the morning and in the evening, in between attending parties and social events. Then, a few days later, it became evident that the boy was suffering from smallpox."

"Oh, Watson…I'm sorry."

"Thank you, Holmes…but that was not yet the worst of it. He was very ill, and his mother was afraid of contracting the disease, you see…so she would not come into his room. The boy died last night, and he knew he was dying…he begged for his mother to come see him for the last time, or at least to walk past the window of his room so that he could say farewell, but she could not bring herself to do even that. And today, I received a request from one of the physicians in that area to come see the mother. Holmes, we had to send her to the insane asylum. The guilt and grief drove her mad…" I hid my face in my hands, trying to avoid breaking down completely.

Holmes laid a hand on my arm. "My dear Watson, surely you could not have done anything differently?"

"No, I suppose not…yet one feels responsible when something like that occurs…even if I could have done nothing else…"

He smiled sadly. "I shall never understand the medical mind. I have some pleasant news, however. Die Fledermaus is on tonight; would you care to attend?"

I smiled for the first time that day. "Yes, thank you. But I thought you did not care much for Strauss?"

"Nor do I; but I believe you do?"