A/N: My first Sherlock Holmes fanfic, this was written for challenge 001 on the LiveJournal community mere_appendix. Many thanks to medcat for her thorough proofreading of that initial posting; this is the revised story (and I must say it's much improved for having gotten the extra attention!). Any remaining mistakes--especially problems with verb tense shifts--are my own.
Additional note: This fic idea came from the beginning scene of the "Devil's Foot" BBC radio adaptation with Clive Merrison and Michael Williams. The beginning dialogue (up through "Holmes!") is taken directly from that adaptation. There are a few additional notes at the end of the fic.
_Near Collapse_
Dr. Watson stood with Lestrade a block from their target while the Inspector ordered each pair of his men into position around the dilapidated warehouse. He longingly thought of his umbrella, reluctantly left behind due to Holmes' strict instructions concerning their appearance --they must fit in, or the whole operation would be for naught. Even the Yarders wore rough workmen's clothes. All were soaked to the skin already, the steady rain that had plagued London for the past week showing no sign of letting up.
His eyes narrowed as he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure creeping through the shadows toward them. The gas lamps in this part of town were so grimy as to be nearly useless, but Watson was fairly certain he recognized Holmes despite the gloom. Except he'd left the detective snug and dry by the fireside at Baker Street, so what the devil was he doing here?
Watson distanced himself a bit from Lestrade so the conversation --or confrontation-- would not be overheard. He picked his way slowly down the pavement, hampered by the ache in his leg from the weather and the absence of his cane; 'Details, Watson, details!' Holmes had scolded him when he'd tried to bring it along. Holmes waited for him at the edge of an alley, slouching against a brick wall, completely in character. "Well?" Watson demanded, his anger rousing.
"They're in there. The whole gang." He seemed pleased.
"So you were right, then." Watson reluctantly marveled at it, for the signs Holmes had worked from in this particular case had been even more sparse than usual.
"Thought we were getting drowned for nothing, did you?" Holmes chuckled, then broke into a cough.
"Listen to that cough of yours!" Watson said in dismay. It sounded worse than it had even two hours previous.
"Spare me the bedside manner, doctor."
"I wish that's what it was. You shouldn't be out in this! I thought we'd agreed."
"Watson, tonight is the climax of three months' work and you seriously expected me to stay at home with a warming drink?" He chuckled again and shook his head in amusement. "I'm fine!" His words were belied by the coughs that he couldn't seem to hold back no matter how hard he tried.
"When did you last eat a proper meal, or get a decent night's sleep?" Watson scolded. He knew very well that Holmes had a tendency to use himself up during cases, but when these things lasted for any length of time, such behavior was simply unsustainable. And he'd told his friend so, on numerous occasions, for all the good it did.
"I tell you, I can cope with it!" Holmes insisted through the convulsive coughs.
"Do you think I don't know what you've been using to help you cope with it?" Watson asked bitterly. Holmes wasn't the only one capable of observation and deduction, after all. Watson would even go so far as to bet Holmes was under the influence of the confounded cocaine at that very moment; he would wager his medical license on it.
Then Holmes sounded almost like he's choking, and Watson grasped his arms and inquired worriedly, "Holmes?" He didn't respond, didn't seem able to breathe, and slid awkwardly down the wall as his knees abruptly gave way. "Holmes!"
Watson guided him down to sit on the ground and knelt beside him, relieved when Holmes gasped and coughed and his breathing returnd to something more like normal. "Don't even try to tell me you're all right. I do have ears, you know."
"I will be all right," Holmes insisted in a rasping voice, his eyes glinting in the meager light. "Just give me a moment." His hand strays to his coat pocket and starts to pull out the morocco case.
Watson grabbed his wrist painfully hard until he let go of the case. "What, and add overdose to your list of ills?"
Holmes avoided his gaze, and Watson stiffened as he noticed footsteps approaching. He reached for his revolver until Lestrade's voice said, "Everything all right, Mr. Holmes?"
"Yes, I'm-"
"No," Watson interrupted forcefully, looking up at the bedraggled Inspector. "He needs to return to Baker Street immediately. Can you carry on without us?"
Lestrade looked at Holmes, then Watson, and decided the good doctor knew best. "Certainly. We'd appreciate the help, as always, but my boys can round 'em up well enough."
"Good. Could you possibly call us a cab first?"
"No!" Holmes objected, then broke into another coughing fit. "They'll know . . . something is amiss . . ." he managed around coughs.
"Lestrade?"
"I think he's right, doctor. If it can wait until after, it would be for the best."
Watson reluctantly agreed, and the trap was sprung on the unsuspecting gang. Holmes crept around the corner of the alley to sit where he could watch the proceedings. Watson watched Holmes, worried by the detective's meek acceptance of being relegated to a mere observer, and by the trembling that seemed more than what could be attributed to the chill of a rainy February night.
The police wagons soon arrive, and their cab isn't far behind. Watson bundled the unresisting Holmes into it and sat beside him. "You're feeling rather warm there, old chap," Watson remarked.
"And yet I find I feel rather cold," Holmes murmured, letting his head rest on Watson's shoulder.
Soon enough they arrived back at Baker Street; Holmes managed to get out of the cab without help but stumbled when he let go of its support. Watson stepped in and slid an arm around his waist before gently urging him forward as the cab pulled away. Holmes allowed this, and slung his arm over Watson's shoulders as they started to ascend the stairs.
The door opened just before they reached the top. "When I saw Mr. Holmes had left as well, I thought I'd wait up a bit and see if anything was needed when you returned," Mrs. Hudson said as Watson steered Holmes into the entryway.
Watson dug in his pockets with his free hand and pulled out the key. "Mrs. Hudson, would you open our door as well?"
"Of course, Doctor." She waited at their door while they slowly made their way up the seventeen steps, and helped Watson divest Holmes of his sopping outer garments, then took Watson's coat also. "I'll get these hung up for you, and bring up some tea and soup as well. Would a quarter hour be enough to get him settled? He doesn't look at all well."
"He isn't well," Watson answered with a grimace, and both of them watched Holmes sink unsteadily into his chair by the fire. "Give us twenty minutes, please. And thank you."
"It's no trouble at all," Mrs. Hudson assured him, closing the door behind her.
Watson returned his attention to his recalcitrant patient. It took some prodding to get him back onto his feet and moving toward his bedroom, but Watson was persistent and Holmes was too exhausted to put up much of a fight now that the adrenaline of the case was wearing off. Watson helped him undress, dry off, and put on a nightshirt; well, Holmes merely sat on the edge of the bed and shivered while Watson did all of the work, muttering under his breath as he uncovered numerous bruises --that he hadn't known about-- in various stages of healing.
When Holmes was in bed and warming up under several layers of quilts, Watson finally allowed himself to leave Holmes long enough to fetch his own nightshirt, dressing gown, and medical bag. After finally locating the thermometer at the very bottom of his bag and inflicting it upon Holmes, Watson also changed out of his wet clothing. He was just tying the belt of his dressing gown when Mrs. Hudson knocked at their door. Retrieving the thermometer, he read it curiously while he went to open the door for their landlady, who was burdened with a large tray.
"Where would you like it, in Mr. Holmes' room?"
Watson ran a hand through his hair as he considered; he hadn't thought that far ahead. "Yes, that might be best," he agreed finally. He led the way and helped her unload the tray onto the cluttered table beside Holmes' bed.
When the tray was empty, Mrs. Hudson reached into her apron pocket and pulled out the morocco case. "This was left in Mr. Holmes' pocket," she said, pressing it into Watson's hand.
"Ah, yes, thank you. I had forgotten about it," he said, slipping it into his dressing gown pocket. He would put it away --or hide it-- later.
"Ring for me if you need anything else," Mrs. Hudson said as she left.
Watson heaved a sigh and sat on the edge of the bed, and he and Holmes regarded one another silently. Rather, Watson watched Holmes, while Holmes sleepily blinked at the ceiling. "I'm surprised you haven't fallen asleep yet," Watson commented.
Holmes' gaze slowly shifted to peer at him. "Too cold," he mumbled, then started coughing.
Watson helped him sit up, both to alleviate the coughing and so he could drink some of the tea and soup. Holmes sagged against his pillows, clutching the covers close to him as he trembled. Watson helped him sip some tea, then asked gently, "How are you feeling?"
"Rather tired," he admitted, sniffling. "I believe I have a cold. But I'll be all right."
"Your temperature tells me you've picked up at touch of influenza," Watson countered. "And working yourself to the bone has its effects as well. As does going out on a night like this when you're already exhausted and ill."
"I had to see it through," Holmes said wearily, closing his eyes.
"Then you'll understand that now I have to see you through until you're well again." Watson handed him a bowl of soup. "Eat this, and I'll leave you in peace. For the time being."
"Yes, Doctor," Holmes said obediently with a quirk of a smile.
Watson spent the night on the settee to be within call if Holmes needed anything. The hours passed uneventfully, though whether it was because Holmes slept soundly all night or because Watson slept too deeply to hear anything he wasn't certain; he hoped it was the former, but suspected the latter from the weariness he still felt upon waking. After slowly rising and adding coal to the sitting room fire, Watson checked on his patient.
Holmes was curled up on his side, sleeping huddled under a mound of bedclothes. His face was pale -even for him- where it wasn't flushed with fever. A light sheen of sweat dotted his high forehead, so Watson dipped his handkerchief in the pitcher of tepid water and gently pressed it against Holmes' forehead. Holmes opened his eyes and fixed them on Watson's face as if struggling to bring his features into focus; he sighed almost imperceptibly and closed them again, shifting his head to press into Watson's comforting touch. Watson left the handkerchief in its place and went to dress and collect what he'd need to keep Holmes comfortable in the coming days.
The days that followed Holmes mostly spent sleeping, when he wasn't woken by coughing or fever dreams. Watson plied him with food and water whenever he was awake and found it ironic that Holmes, in subsisting on soup, porridge, and toast during his illness, was almost certainly eating more now than he had in the weeks previous.
Holmes' fever rose steadily throughout the first day he was confined to bed. While it remained rather high for several days after, it hovered just below the point where Watson had determined that drastic action -like taking Holmes to hospital- would need to occur. The cough was of equal concern to the wary doctor, as almost hourly he feared he would hear the first signs of pneumonia.
Watson remained at Holmes' bedside almost constantly, trying not to be too anxious but wondering if his friend had finally stretched his iron constitution to its breaking point. He was weak enough to require Watson's assistance for everything, and he was ill enough that he didn't make any fuss about needing assistance. That alone was enough to make it clear Holmes was seriously ill.
Thus it was quite vexing that a telegram arrived from Mycroft on the third day of Holmes' illness, requesting his brother's assistance in some government matter. Watson composed a terse reply--HOLMES ILL STOP NO CASES FOR FORESEEABLE FUTURE FINAL STOP -JW--and Mrs. Hudson volunteered to send it for him. A response arrived at teatime: YOUR OPINION OR HIS -MH. Watson was quite inclined to agree with Holmes' frequent assessment that his brother is infuriating, and again sent Mrs. Hudson with the answer: MY MEDICAL OPINION -JW
When no more telegrams arrived that evening from Mycroft, Watson expected that to be the end of it. Until he emerged from Holmes' bedroom at nearly nine the next morning -it had been a difficult night- and was startled to find Mycroft sitting on the settee, idly perusing the papers.
"Forgive me, doctor, I took the liberty of having your landlady let me in." He spared a glance for Watson and said, "It is fortunate there is nothing in the papers to interest Sherlock. May I see him?"
"Of course," Watson replied, stirring himself from his amazement that Mycroft was here in the sitting room.
Mycroft set the papers down and rose. "If you wish, I will sit with him while you see to your own needs. A nap or a bath, for instance."
His tone was kind, so Watson did not take offense at the hint that his personal hygiene left something to be desired. He was well aware of it, in fact. "Thank you."
Mycroft nodded and disappeared into Holmes' room.
Watson should have known better than to lie down, even for a moment. He was woken from his impromptu nap on the settee by Mycroft's hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry to wake you, Doctor, but I will need to depart in a half hour."
"What? Oh . . . I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sleep so long," Watson said as he scrambled to get up from the settee. "What time is it?"
"A quarter past eleven. I have a lunch engagement at noon, or I would have let you rest a while longer."
"Thank you, you have already been very kind. Just give me twenty minutes."
"Of course," Mycroft replied.
Watson rang for Mrs. Hudson and asked her to send up tea and some lunch in a half hour, then retreated to the bathroom for a quick bath and shave. He was sure he looked quite disreputable, and his mustache badly needed trimming.
Dr. Watson appeared in Holmes' doorway exactly twenty minutes later, looking and feeling much more himself. Mycroft was making notes in one of Sherlock's commonplace book volumes, and Sherlock was sleeping peacefully, most of the bedclothes heaped behind him rather than atop him. "Has he been awake?"
"Once. I had to rouse him from a dream. He was calling for you in his sleep and seemed quite shocked to see me instead."
"I'm sure he was. He's seen only me for days."
"Indeed. Do let me know how he is doing, Doctor. I do not know if my schedule will allow another visit, but I shall see."
"I understand. I'm sure he would be pleased to see you again."
"If he even remembers I was here." Mycroft rose from the chair beside the bed and closed the book in his hand. "I can show myself out. Good day, Doctor."
The fever finally began to wane in the wee hours of the morning in the sixth day of Holmes' illness. Watson didn't allow himself any relief just yet -fevers could wax and wane for days without resolving- but it was the first positive sign since the whole ordeal began. The second positive sign came later that morning, when he woke from an unintended doze to find Holmes looking at him, his eyes clear and alert. "Good morning, Watson," he said in a voice rough from coughing and disuse.
"Good morning, Holmes. I'm glad to see you awake," Watson said warmly.
"What day is it?" he asked, yawning.
Watson had to take a moment to answer. "Monday."
Holmes frowned. "I will have a great deal of correspondence to peruse. But later, I think." He yawned again. "Tell me, Watson, did brother Mycroft visit?"
"Yes, he stopped in three days ago."
"I didn't imagine him, then. Good." Holmes still seemed perturbed, but didn't say anything more. Watson pressed him to take a few sips of water, and he was asleep soon after. The conversation didn't resume until the next morning, when Holmes felt much more awake after another day's rest and asked to see the correspondence he missed.
"I read everything while you were ill, and responded to what I could," Watson told him, starting by handing him the telegrams. Mycroft's initial telegram had gotten caught up in the bunch, so Watson had to explain the exchange that occurred and which evidently resulted in the previously discussed visit.
"Ah, that explains it," Holmes said with obvious relief.
"Explains what?" Watson had to ask.
"Why brother Mycroft deviated from his schedule to pay us a visit. He had to see for himself that I was truly unable to take on his case. It is a much more acceptable explanation than the alternative."
"Which was?" Watson prompted when it was clear Holmes didn't plan to elaborate.
"That I was on my deathbed and brother Mycroft was paying a last visit to his unfortunate sibling."
"Ah, yes, of course. No, your condition was never that precarious, though there were moments when I feared you were nearly there," Watson confessed.
"I see. I'm terribly sorry if I've caused you any worry, my dear fellow," Holmes replied awkwardly.
"I've had worse," Watson said ruefully.
Holmes set aside the telegrams. "Were there any letters?"
"A handful. I also read these and did what I could. Several I copied and sent on to Lestrade; they seemed matters for the police."
Holmes sat back against his pillows and began to sort through the letters, sighing irritably when he saw each envelope had a small note in Watson's handwriting that said 'Lestrade' and a date. "Watson? You said you sent several to Lestrade. Where are the ones you didn't send on to him?"
"Those are all of the letters you received. Perhaps I was a touch too thorough," Watson said.
Holmes glared at him. "I might as well have a look. Those bunglers at the Yard surely can't handle all of them."
Watson quickly plucked the pile from his hand. "I'm sure that isn't necessary, Holmes. They cannot improve if you don't give them an opportunity to do so."
Holmes sulked for the rest of the day.
Watson slept in his own bed that night, for the first time in a week. It was glorious not to be sleeping in a chair, but all the same he was anxious about Holmes, so he was up and dressed rather early. He quietly peeked around the doorjamb of Holmes' room, only to discover the detective's bed was empty. Frowning, Watson went to the sitting room door and was faced with utter chaos.
Holmes was crouching, digging through the piles of papers and odd articles that surrounded his chemistry table, having already strewn heaps of paper all over every exposed horizontal surface. He hadn't yet noticed Watson, and was muttering to himself as he shuffled through a sheaf of paper, then unceremoniously threw it over his shoulder.
"Holmes?"
He was startled and sat abruptly on a pile of paper that proceeded to slide out from under him. "Watson? What are you doing up? I expected you to sleep at least another hour." He coughed as he used the table to pull himself off the floor.
"I had a vague sense that you were up to no good," Watson replied, raising an eyebrow as he surveyed the mess. "What are you doing?"
"I seem to have misplaced my pipe. And the tobacco slipper. I was going to start going through the papers you so kindly saved for me, and I thought a bit of a smoke would be just the thing."
Watson was grateful for yesterday's sudden inspiration to hide Holmes' pipe and tobacco. "Smoking is the very last thing you should be doing when you have a cough like that," he scolded.
Holmes' eyes narrowed. "You misplaced my tobacco for me," he accused.
"It's not misplaced. I know exactly where it is. Safe, and out of reach."
Holmes crossed his arms. "Shall I assume the morocco case is keeping the pipe and tobacco company, wherever they may be?"
"That would be a reasonable deduction," Watson said, trying to hide a smirk. "Now sit down before you cause yourself to relapse. Crossing your arms to hide that your hands are shaking was clever, but you've taught me well. You shouldn't even be out of bed yet."
Holmes sighed and sank onto the settee after sweeping off some old newspapers, a small empty wooden box, and a ball of string. "How long must I endure you controlling my activities?"
"Until I think you've fully recovered."
Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door; Watson opened it. "Telegram for Mr. Holmes, Doctor. Oh! Mr. Holmes! I'm happy to see you out of bed, sir."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Watson said firmly, and shut the door. He skimmed the telegram before handing it over, then went to his desk for a telegram form to write the response.
Holmes read it rapidly. "A case, Watson! Shall I-"
"No. No cases until you've had some time to rest. A fortnight, at minimum."
"Watson," Holmes said commandingly. "It is an easy case. I can solve it without ever budging from these rooms."
"No. As your friend, and as your doctor, I insist. No cases, no work of any kind. You need rest, Holmes. Even if you hadn't been ill, I would still be insisting that you rest. And since you have been ill, it is even more vital that you give yourself time to recuperate. A holiday, as it were. We could even go to the country, if you like."
"The country?" Holmes repeated, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "Remaining in London is perfectly acceptable, thank you. But if I promise not to tax myself, to follow your advice to the letter-"
"My advice is that you take no cases." Watson said, his tone brooking no argument.
Holmes sat in silence for several minutes, obviously trying to think of a way around Watson's insistence. "You may refuse this case on my behalf," he said at last. "It is unlikely to have proven interesting anyway." He rose and handed Watson the telegram, then shuffled to his bedroom.
Watson checked in on him before going out to send the telegram and stop for a bite of breakfast, and found Holmes presumably asleep, his back to the door. When he returned, refreshed from his outing -and overjoyed that it was no longer raining- Holmes was most definitely asleep, if his snores were any indication. Chuckling, Watson settled in his chair by the sitting room fire and started reading a medical journal from the pile of recent issues that he'd been neglecting in favor of accompanying Holmes.
Several hours passed peacefully as Watson read and listened to the occasional sounds drifting from Holmes' room -a bit of a cough, often accompanied by the rustling of bedclothes as he either sat up or rolled over, the thump of his teacup on the wood of the table. Mrs. Hudson brought up lunch, part of which Watson dutifully took in to Holmes, who looked at the bowl of soup and plate of toast and scowled, but when Watson went in later, both were gone and Holmes was again snoring.
Watson used the time of quiet to work on his notes from a few past cases, deciding what to write up next, and organizing his often hastily-scrawled notes into more fully developed ideas and sentences from which to pen the narrative. A lengthy period of coughing from the other room drew him away from his desk and to Holmes' doorway. "Are you quite all right there, old chap?"
"I am not, at present, in need of a nursemaid, Watson," Holmes growled.
Watson grinned. "Call for me when you change your mind," he said cheerily, and returned to his writing.
The story was coming along quite nicely -which is to say, he'd written a whole paragraph and a half since sitting back down- when a hesitant "Watson?" caught his attention.
"Yes, Holmes?" he called back.
"I find myself out of water. And tea. As you said I should not yet be out of bed, it seems you will need to remedy this lack."
"I'm coming."
Holmes watched him as he came to collect the empty pitcher and teapot.
"So you don't need a nursemaid, hm?" Watson teased.
"Just a housemaid," Holmes said. "And Mrs. Hudson fusses too much, so I fear you must do. Though you fuss almost as much as she does, sometimes."
Watson laughed. He returned with more than a full pitcher and refilled teapot, as Mrs. Hudson had taken the opportunity to send him back with a plate of ginger biscuits for teatime and a plate of bread and cheese, "so Mr. Holmes can keep up his strength."
Holmes was reclining against his pillows, appearing lost in thought, a pen clutched between his teeth as if it were his pipe. He did notice that Watson had entered, however, and he turned to survey the new additions to his table with a raised brow. "Only Mycroft would be equal to our dear landlady's attentions," he said with some exasperation.
"Shall I eat all the biscuits, then?"
"That is not what I meant," Holmes said airily, reaching to take two. "Really, Watson, I would have thought you capable of understanding me by now."
"Oh, but I am," Watson countered, a twinkle in his eye as he set down the tray he'd used to convey everything up the stairs. "It's why I brought more lemon and honey for your tea. I noticed you'd run out."
Holmes paused and met his eyes for a moment. "Thank you, my dear fellow," he said sincerely.
"It's no trouble, old chap," Watson replied, recognizing that the lemon and honey didn't really have anything to do with it.
Holmes looked away first and returned the pen to his mouth, only occasionally removing it to take a bite of biscuit or a sip of tea. Watson slowly drank a cup of tea and watched him, finally asking, "What are you thinking about?"
"Hm? Oh, this and that," Holmes said dismissively, gesturing broadly. "I spent a few moments attempting to deduce what problem could be sufficiently troublesome to drive Mycroft to deviate from routine and come here, but I lack sufficient data to formulate a hypothesis," he said aggrievedly. "So I am contemplating upon what subject I should write my next monograph."
"Have you come to any conclusions?"
"Certainly not. It will require going through my notes, which happen to be in the sitting room, and I find I am not particularly inclined to request that you fetch them."
"I would be happy to fetch whatever you like."
"Yes, I know. But I am having sufficient trouble concentrating that it would be a wasted effort."
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"No . . . no, I don't think so," Holmes said slowly. He lapsed into silence afterward, and Watson was content to leave him be. It wouldn't do to interrupt his concentration any further, after all. Watson quietly refilled his cup and took it back to his desk to resume writing.
The afternoon had nearly gone --and with it, the light filtering through the windows-- when Watson finally stood to turn up the lamps against the evening gloom. He went to Holmes' room to mind his lamp as well; his friend was sleeping again, so he left the lamp low and, chuckling, retrieved the pen from where it had fallen onto the pillow, Holmes having fallen asleep with it still in his mouth.
Holmes' cheek felt warmer than it had that morning when Watson's hand brushed against it; that very neatly explained why he had trouble concentrating earlier. Extrapolating to previous events, Watson was fairly certain this also explained Holmes' cocaine use prior to his near collapse -the detective often praised the drug for how it sharpened his mind, and he would have needed the help to continue his work effectively. Watson was also familiar enough with fever to realize that headache often came with it, so he left a packet of headache powder on the table for Holmes when he woke up.
The next day Holmes devoted to catching up on the papers and updating his commonplace book. Watson was quite good-natured about retrieving the various volumes needed, though he had to wonder why Holmes didn't just cut out all of the articles he wanted, sort them according to whatever method he used to determine where they went in his book, and then figure out all of the volumes he needed. Instead, he cut the articles from one paper, pasted those into his volumes, then moved to the next paper, cutting out those articles and then finding the proper volumes, which were often buried under bits of paper or had been shoved aside and lost to the bedclothes.
Once Holmes almost lost the paste-pot in the bedclothes and Watson narrowly averted a crisis when he noticed the pot just before a precariously leaning volume would have tipped it over. After that Watson insisted on holding the paste-pot at all times, which Holmes grudgingly accepted. Watson also made himself a mental note to apologize to Mrs. Hudson in advance for the newsprint staining the bedclothes, for he was certain that some of the bits of paper wouldn't be found again until the sheets were changed and they would no doubt stain in that time.
By the time this enterprise was finished, Holmes was tired and out-of-sorts -not that he would admit it to the good Doctor- and he responded to Watson's attempts to clean up with ill humor. Watson tried to keep his patience, but found it difficult with Holmes being so surly. He tried to appease him by promising to give back his pipe -no tobacco, just the pipe- but even with the precious item returned and in its rightful place, Holmes was only cooperative for a short time.
That evening established a routine of Watson trying to appease Holmes' increasing agitation at being required to stay abed and without work -Holmes would say 'without mental stimulation of any kind,' but Watson disagreed, as there were plenty of things he could do to keep his mind occupied if he were just willing to do them. Being allowed to stand up and walk about the room was the first concession, though Holmes quickly grew impatient with this limitation. Extending his range to the include the sitting room calmed him for a little while, especially when taking a bath was added to sweeten the deal -it was his first real bath since becoming ill. Watson had been giving him sponge baths, but that was dreadfully insufficient.
Sitting and napping on the settee was a major improvement on being stuck in his room, and Holmes took full advantage of it, remaining there from the moment he awoke in the morning until Watson chased him off to bed at night. What to do while awake and on the settee was another issue entirely. Watson forbade any chemical experiments --which was perhaps for the best, as his hands still shook unpredictably and he was growing rather used to seeing them without any bits of sticking plaster-- but it was difficult to find sufficient reading material to keep him occupied.
He did go through his notes, but there weren't enough on any one topic to justify a monograph, and some of the notes, he had to confess, no longer made any sense to him whatsoever. Those he threw into the fire in a fit of pique. Watson, witnessing the entire series of events, wisely chose not to say anything.
Holmes even tried to read one of Watson's novels, he was so desperate for stimulation, but he lost patience six pages in and was rather inclined to pitch it in the fire, too, and likely would have had Watson not noticed the direction of his gaze and intervened. Finally Holmes demanded, "What are you working on?" For Watson had kept mostly to himself at his desk while Holmes had been casting about for occupation.
"I'm writing up a case," Watson answered vaguely, still scribbling so he didn't lose his train of thought.
"Which one?" Holmes pressed, curious which of their many cases had been chosen this time.
Watson finished the sentence and set aside his pen. "The Baskerville hound."
"Ah, yes, that was a good case."
"I wonder what's become of Sir Henry," Watson mused.
"He married," Holmes said thoughtfully, "while I was . . . out of the country. He went abroad on account of his nerves, if you remember, and he met the lady on his travels. I can't seem to recollect her name, but I am certain it is in my book if you care to fetch the B volume."
"No, that is quite all right. I am glad he is happy."
Holmes snorted. "Whether he is happy is more than I can say," he said dryly. "I simply said he is married."
"Men rarely marry with the expectation of being unhappy," Watson retorted.
"You would know better than I." Holmes sighed. "How far have you written?"
"It is hard to say; there are already a few things I need to go back and add. For now, I have just finished our introduction to the Stapletons."
"Read it to me."
Watson wasn't sure if it was a request or a demand. "You always dismiss my stories as sensational and populist," he said, not understanding this sudden desire to hear his latest work.
"They are," Holmes said simply. "The most effective means to keep this one from becoming likewise is to assist you in focusing upon that which is truly important. To do so, I must hear the story."
It was all very logical, but Watson now understood this was simply another way to keep Holmes' mind occupied. And he was more than willing to serve in that capacity, so he settled in his chair by the fire and began to read the manuscript aloud.
Holmes had comments of course, but he managed to keep them back until the end like a normal listener. Watson dutifully took notes on those comments as well as some needed changes he'd noticed while reading. As if in exchange, Holmes brought out his violin that evening and played whatever Watson requested; he tried to claim he was rusty from lack of practice, but Watson couldn't hear a single flaw, as was usual.
The next day found Holmes again casting about for occupation or, at minimum, something to do with himself. After Holmes had paced the length of the sitting room at least four dozen times, Watson grew impatient with his stewing --though from a medical perspective he was pleased by the improvement in his patient's stamina-- and offered his stack of medical journals for Holmes' perusal. Holmes was dismissive of this idea until Watson pointed out a few articles that could have uses in his chosen profession, particularly those on poisoning, gunshot wounds, and an assessment of the study of crime and insanity. After that, Holmes was more than happy to glance through the issues, quickly scanning for items of interest and occasionally snorting in derision at the choice of topic or the lack of scientific rigor (in his opinion) in the articles.
At length he threw one issue on the floor and said, "The useful tidbits are sufficiently scarce to cast doubt on the wisdom of spending money to receive such . . . drivel."
"You read the papers quite devotedly," Watson countered from behind an issue of The Lancet.
"In order to execute my profession, yes."
Watson lowered the journal just enough to give him a scathing look.
"You are no longer practicing," Holmes protested.
"Having only one patient does not make me any less of a doctor," Watson retorted. "Particularly when I am charged with the care of the most difficult man in London."
"Not the whole of the British Empire? I'm insulted."
"I might have said the world, but then you would have insisted that even I have not seen enough of the world to have sufficient data for that conclusion."
"Yes, that is quite correct," Holmes agreed, and picked up another issue from the pile Watson had retrieved from his room, as he generally kept a year's worth of issues for purposes of referring back to them.
Watson sighed and returned to his own reading.
After he was finished with all of the medical drivel in Watson's possession, Holmes devoted his attention to the evening papers, retrieving the morning papers from where he'd stashed them when he noticed there was an interesting development in a case that had sounded quite routine that morning. "Curious," he murmured to himself as he laid out each paper on Watson's desk and compared their descriptions of the event in question.
"What's curious?"
"There's been a murder. The descriptions this morning were unremarkable, but the Yarders have unearthed some intriguing details."
"Don't even think about it," Watson warned.
"Think about what?" Holmes asked with a smirk, still bent over the papers. An untimely cough sent several of them drifting to the floor.
"You are not to be working, Holmes. I will burn the papers if I have to."
"Such dedication, Doctor! That will not be necessary, I assure you. Lestrade has not wired, so they must have the matter well in hand."
Watson snorted. "Or they think they do," he muttered.
But this case out of reach remained on Holmes' mind for the rest of the evening, and he found himself dwelling on it after he retired for the night. He considered from several angles, but was frustrated from coming to any conclusions by a lack of certain key facts and the absence of tobacco in his pipe --having the pipe was better than using a pen, but no tobacco made that question quite pointless.
Come morning, Watson went out for a short stroll and to stop by his club. He invited Holmes to come with him --they both needed the fresh air, and it was an unseasonably pleasant day-- but Holmes declined. Watson thought nothing of the refusal, for Holmes appeared to be descending into one of his moods, and he was not usually inclined to going out without a specific purpose. He left him languidly reclining on the settee, staring at nothing in particular on the opposite wall.
Upon returning, Mrs. Hudson met him at the door to warn him that Holmes had been scraping on his violin earlier, and was now conducting a most vile-smelling experiment. Watson had noticed the stench as soon as the door opened, and was not enthusiastic about going even closer to the source. But if he was experimenting, Holmes must be feeling nearly himself, which was encouraging.
Watson spied the source of the smell as soon as he caught sight of Holmes' chemical table --a viscous, vaguely green substance slowly bubbling in a flask. But Holmes himself was nowhere in sight. Watson turned off the flame beneath the flask and checked the window --already open, good, that would help with the smell-- then went in search of his companion.
Holmes was not in his bedroom, either, but Watson thought he heard a noise from his own bedroom. He stopped and listened, hearing vague mutterings and a stifled oath when something metal hit the floor. He crept up to the door as silently as he was able, remembering at the last minute to avoid the creaky spot just outside the doorway. When he was in full sight of the figure crouched before his locked trunk, he said, "Holmes."
The reaction was well worth the care he had taken to sneak up on the detective, for Holmes visibly jumped, sending his tools skittering across the floor and making him stumble. "Watson," he said breathlessly, swallowing back a cough and endeavoring not to fidget guiltily.
"Haven't gotten it open yet?" Watson observed, chuckling at the sight of Holmes sitting on Watson's bedroom floor in front of Watson's locked trunk, trying to look as if it was perfectly normal for him to be in such a position, and with his lock-picking kit scattered about, no less.
"I haven't been trying for long," Holmes said defensively. "It is an unusual lock."
"Yes, the merchant claimed it was impossible to pick. Knowing your skill in that area, I thought it would be interesting to have." Watson leaned against the doorway casually. "Which are you after, the tobacco or the needle?"
"Primarily the tobacco," Holmes admitted. "But as you admitted they are hidden together, the final decision was delayed until I had them in my possession." He casually began to gather up his scattered tools. "Are you going to unlock it, or shall I continue my efforts?"
Watson laughed outright. "They're not in the trunk, Holmes."
"When keeping an item from someone, it is standard to put said item in a locked container or hidden compartment," Holmes said slowly. "As you have no hidden compartments in our quarters here, that leaves a locked container. This trunk is the only locked container in your possession."
"I suppose you have examined my room for these 'hidden compartments'?" Watson asked.
"On several past occasions, yes."
"I don't even want to know what past occasions excused rummaging through my things," Watson said, shaking his head. "But therein lies your mistake --you did not examine my room again today, did you? No, I thought not. If you had, you would have found both tobacco and needle in a quite obvious place --hiding in plain sight, if you will."
Holmes was rather chagrined, though he tried not to show it.
"If you wish to continue trying to pick the lock, I would be happy to take it off the trunk and let you do so at your leisure," Watson offered.
"Only if I may smoke a pipe while I do so," Holmes said, rising with his kit in hand. He approached Watson and sniffed, his eyes narrowing. "You had a pipe and . . . two cigars at your club."
"I did."
"You are a cruel man sometimes, Watson," Holmes said, brushing past him and retreating to his room, shutting the door firmly.
Watson smirked and went into his own room, also closing the door. He paced around for a while, randomly opening drawers, shifting the bed slightly, opening and closing the wardrobe door, and otherwise making noise for the benefit of Holmes, who he knew would be listening carefully to discern the hiding place. Midway through his noise-making, he took both the tobacco slipper and the morocco case from the bottom of his sock drawer and dropped them on the bed. After a little while of aimless pacing, he removed the lock from the trunk, dropped the morocco case in the trunk and closed the lid, and placed the lock with the slipper on the bed.
Finally, after nearly a half-hour, he picked up slipper and lock and left his room. Holmes' door was still closed. Watson placed the slipper and lock on Holmes' chair in the sitting room and went to find Mrs. Hudson to request lunch.
When lunch was ready, Watson knocked on Holmes' door and announced the fact; Holmes replied with a weary-sounding, "No, thank you." Watson shrugged and let him be.
The post arrived and brought several letters for Holmes, which Watson carefully affixed to the mantelpiece. He would make sure Holmes didn't accept any cases, but at least he could let the man open his own mail.
By teatime the stench of Holmes' experiment, whatever it was supposed to be, had dissipated enough that Watson could finally close the window and work at his desk again --with the window open it had been far too chilly. He decided to have a pipe, suspecting the smell would draw Holmes out of his seclusion, and sat down with his manuscript, his watch open on the desk beside it.
Exactly four minutes and thirty-six seconds later, the bedroom door opened and the room's occupant emerged. He glared at Watson until he noticed his mail and eagerly looked through it. Opening one envelope, he was reading the contents as he moved to his chair and sat down. Almost immediately he stood back up, and looked at the seat cushion in consternation. When Holmes saw the items he'd sat upon, he almost smiled. "My dear fellow, you have become far too devious for comfort," he said, retrieving his pipe and sitting down after pushing the slipper and lock aside.
"I learned from the best," Watson said, snapping his watch closed and returning it to his pocket. "Anything of interest in the post?"
Holmes made a noncommittal noise as he skimmed the rest of the letters. "Evidently I have an unpaid tab at the Diogenes Club despite not having set foot in the place for nigh on three months. Brother Mycroft really is too obvious in his efforts to force me to come see him. The rest are the usual sorts of things."
"Was that a letter from Scotland Yard I saw?"
"Hm? Oh, yes. Lestrade finally deigned to notice that I haven't been haunting the Yard of late; he wrote to say he hopes he won't need to drag the Thames for my body." Holmes snorted.
"I would have thought a telegram would be more his style," Watson mused.
Holmes didn't reply as he re-read the letter from Lestrade before returning it to its envelope and packing his pipe. His first few puffs were cautious, but when his lungs didn't rebel, he sighed in contentment and sat back to think.
The arrival of the evening papers added fuel to his ruminations, and he felt he was quite near a solution. Another telegram to Lestrade should resolve it, but the presence of Watson precluded any attempt in that direction, so he would have to hope the last bit of data he needed was in the morning papers. Or that Watson conveniently chose to leave again. Until then, he would endeavor to defeat the allegedly unpickable lock.
Watson slept later than usual the next morning, having been up until the wee hours letting words flow from his pen. By the time he arrived in the sitting room, Holmes had already cannibalized the papers and some pages were strewn about on the desk. Holmes himself was . . . leaning out the window? "You may keep the socks, as well," he called down, then backed out of the window and reached up to close it.
"Holmes, what are you doing?"
"I should think that is self-evident, Watson. I am closing the window."
"Why were you leaning out the open window?" Watson persisted.
"I was conversing with one of the Irregulars."
"Whom you so kindly gifted some socks."
"Yes." Holmes puffed on his pipe and leaned against the window sill, all but daring Watson to pursue the matter further.
Watson accepted the dare. "Why didn't you have him come up to the sitting room? I'm sure he would have liked some tea and toast with his socks."
"Deduce it," Holmes challenged.
Watson frowned but looked more closely at the scene before him. The papers on the desk all had to do with that murder, of that he had no doubt, and he spied the letter from Lestrade tucked underneath one of the pages, a corner sticking out. But what had the socks to do with it? And why lean out a window?
Holmes watched with amusement as Watson visibly struggled to piece everything together in a logical fashion. While the good Doctor had absorbed a good deal from his methods over the years, Holmes wasn't certain his Boswell would be able to puzzle this one out. But as long as Watson tried to figure it out, he wouldn't interfere.
"Confound it, Holmes, can't a man even have breakfast before taxing his brain so?" Watson grumbled after a while.
"Far be it from me to stand between you and your breakfast," Holmes replied. "By all means, eat. This puzzle will wait."
Watson did sit down and thoughtfully munch on some toast. Then the last bit fell into place. "Wait, I think I have it! But it's quite convoluted."
"The truth can be," Holmes said, sitting at the table with him and pouring himself a cup of tea. "Pray, enlighten me."
"To start at the beginning, we have the murder case in the papers. You were interested in it, I could tell. The morning I went out, you were thinking about it after reading the papers. How you got the Irregular to come below the window I can't guess, but you knew he would be willing to do an errand for you. You wrote a telegram to Lestrade asking a question --something very detailed, I would venture, knowing you-- and put it and some money in a sock to toss down to the lad, since paper by itself would not go where intended. You had the lad stay on the street so he could not be intercepted and the telegram confiscated by me or Mrs. Hudson." Watson paused, looking for any sign that he was correct, but Holmes' face was impassive.
"You told Lestrade to reply by post, because a telegram being delivered can easily be read --by me, primarily, and you knew I would not be pleased about any of it. His answer was the letter you received from Scotland Yard. The papers this morning must have furnished the last bit of information you needed to solve the case, after which you wrote another telegram to Lestrade, tossed it down in the same manner as before, and told the lad to keep the socks. I hope it was a matching pair, though I suppose it won't matter to him. And that is where I entered and wanted to know what you were doing." Watson finished triumphantly, feeling certain that Holmes' lack of disagreement implied his argument had merit.
He wasn't misled. "Well done, Doctor!" Holmes said warmly.
"I just have one question," Watson said. Holmes motioned for him to continue and sipped his tea. "Did Lestrade really joke about dragging the Thames for your body?"
Holmes snorted tea as he laughed. "He did indeed. You may read the letter if you wish."
"I am quite vexed with you, Holmes, even though you solved the case." Watson said when Holmes had sufficiently recovered from the slight incident with thes tea. "Since it is evident that you cannot resist the temptation to work so long as we are in London, we shall go to the country."
"Watson, that is quite unnecessary. I don't need a holiday," Holmes insisted.
"You do need a holiday, and I am going to make certain you get it!"
"I suppose that's your medical opinion?" Holmes inquired, sounding bored.
"It is. Any licensed doctor would agree with me."
"And if I insist that another doctor come here and concur with your assessment before I agree to go anywhere?"
"I'll fetch any doctor you like," Watson said confidently.
Holmes considered carefully. "Dr. Moore Agar of Harley Street. He proved quite competent when we last met."
"I shall go and see him today."
Dr. Agar was more than happy to do a favor for Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, and came by Baker Street after the conclusion of his office hours that afternoon. Watson had explained the situation that morning, and when Dr. Agar arrived, he excused himself on an errand. Having already made some inquiries about places to stay, he now sent a few telegrams to the most ideal spots to secure lodgings.
Exactly what was said between them Holmes never said, but Dr. Agar was more than happy to tell his fellow practitioner that Holmes absolutely must lay aside all his cases and surrender himself to complete rest if he wished to avert an absolute breakdown. Watson began packing his things --and Holmes', too, when it became clear he wasn't inclined to do it himself-- the next morning. Holmes watched him bustling about from where he sprawled on the settee.
Responses to all of the telegrams arrived by luncheon. Watson sorted them; only two had lodgings available immediately, so it was simply a matter of deciding which was better suited for a holiday for Holmes. No, there really was no debate between them. One was simply perfect.
.
"So where are we going?" Holmes asked disinterestedly when Watson returned from sending his telegram.
"The Cornish coast. We'll leave in the morning."
* The subjects of articles mentioned are drawn from actual issues of The Lancet and The Journal of the American Medical Association from late 1896 and early 1897 (yes, JAMA is a bit of a stretch, considering the amount of time it would take to reach London, assuming Watson would have read it at all, but the subject matter was too perfect to leave out).
-Webster, Edwin. Poisoning by Antipyrin; Recovery. Lancet 30 Jan 1897; 149(3831):309. DOI: 10.1016/S0140-6736(01)94345-4
-Abram, JohnHill. Three Cases of Lead Poisoning, : With a Note on a Simple Method for the Detection of Lead in Organic Fluids. Lancet 16 Jan 1897; 149(3829):164-165. DOI: 10.1016/S0140-6736(01)13186-7
-Stevenson, Thos., and Bernard Dyer. Alleged Arsenical Poisoning. Lancet 16 Jan 1897; 149(3829):207. DOI: 10.1016/S0140-6736(01)13238-1
-Hall, T. Greenwood. A Case of Mercurial Poisoning. Lancet 9 Jan 1897; 149(3828):104. DOI: 10.1016/S0140-6736(00)48751-9
-Jenkins, J.F. Report of a Case of Gunshot Wound of the Chest. J Am Med Assoc. 1897; XXVIII(7):303-305.
-Goodall, Edwin. The Associated Study of Crime and Insanity. Lancet 26 Dec 1896; 148(3826):1808-1809. DOI: 10.1016/S0140-6736(01)42331-2
* Dr. Moore Agar's assessment of Holmes taken directly from The Devil's Foot story