Title: Simple Gifts
Author: KCS
Characters: Holmes, Watson
Rating: K+
Word Count: 4777
Summary: Written for the LiveJournal Watsons_Woes holiday fic and art exchange. Fulfillment of the wish: I wish for (2): Art or Fic - Sick!Watson. Mrs. Hudson is spending the holidays with her sister. Holmes decides to take care of Watson, himself. Early fic, early Holmes and Watson.
Author's Notes: Since I have no artistic ability whatsoever, it's fic. :) My first Holmes fic other than Challenge 008 in three months, too.

December 23, 1881

10:05 p.m.

The Doctor is ill.

The humor in the above sentence strikes me as in terribly bad taste, but it is true nonetheless. And apparently this particular physician is unable to heal himself, for he is at present occupying the better portion of our sitting room settee, coughing what appears to be part or all of one lung into a well-used handkerchief. Between that and the constant sniffling (and occasional moan due to an obviously upset stomach), I have been unable for four hours to work upon my new treatise regarding the identification and uses of animal hair at rural crime scenes, and have only succeeded in sending a glaring streak of black ink across my page at the last unexpected barrage of sneezes.

The fact that this condition – self-diagnosed as influenza upon a common head cold, though at the moment I doubt his ability to accurately identify symptoms – is certainly not one to develop overnight makes things ten times more annoying, as had the fool taken to his bed like he would have instructed a miserable patient to do three days ago, he would not currently be spreading his bacteria over our shared space and disrupting my attempts to spend this execrably cheerful season in productive research.

In addition to this inconvenience, I am largely thwarted in my endeavours by the inanity of this season's spirit of home and hearth – due to the festivities, the library off St. James's Square closed an hour early tonight, so that after walking the distance in two inches of slush I was forced to turn round and come straight home again as the temperature plummeted to something akin to that of the Arctic wastelands.

Upon reaching my own sitting room, chilled in body and thoroughly incensed in mind, it was only to discover this infernal fellow-lodger of mine, flush-faced and trembling, doing his level best to crack his head open on the back of the sofa, staggering toward it in the midst of a coughing fit loud enough to be heard in Waterloo. I was quick enough to prevent his administering himself a concussion, though not quick enough to dodge when he was violently ill all over the carpet.

Not the most pleasant of cozy tête-à-têtes for either of us; I am uncertain which of us was more embarrassed.

To heap misery upon calumny, there was not even a pot of hot – or even lukewarm – tea awaiting my inglorious return, due to the fact that our estimable landlady feels the need to participate in some holiday knitting-work exchange at a local church function.

Pah. As if any man needs more than one homespun muffler in his lifetime.

And to make matters as bad as they can possibly get without involving my growing bored atop all else, Mrs. Hudson has been planning to visit a sister for the holidays, in Dover.

Naturally, she shall be forced to cancel that holiday in order to care for the man who is currently rushing unsteadily out of the room – poor fellow, I hope he makes it this time. I am a private consulting detective (the private consulting detective), not a carpet-cleaner.

December 24, 1881

12:15 a.m.

Mrs. Hudson has just informed me in no uncertain terms that she has not seen this sibling of hers in over three years, and has spent half of the back-rent I owe her on traveling tickets.

Needless to say, had the Doctor not started rambling in a rising fever at that instant, we might have had some angry words on the subject. At the moment, an uneasy truce has been called until the man decides to stop frightening the poor woman so and coming back to us.

4:45 a.m.

Note to self: Startling a delirious man with a splash of cold water is not an intelligent course of action, no matter how necessary. How the devil the fellow can have such a formidable left hook with that bad shoulder is beyond my not-insignificant ability of comprehension.

Further note to self: I am much impressed with my ability to scribble with only one functional eye.

10:11 a.m.

Mrs. Hudson is quite insistent that the Doctor is out of danger now, as his temperature has dropped back to a manageable level. The fact that his agreement with that diagnosis was delivered in a voice I barely recognized, so exhausted was it, is not encouraging to my state of mind. I have no desire to be left alone with a sick man for even a few hours, much less a few days, but neither can I insist that my landlady remain in this house. Either she or the Doctor would find some way to make my life miserable, probably via forcing my participation in some ridiculously juvenile holiday tradition.

Over breakfast in a frosty sitting-room (the coal is not doing its specified function to warm the room, so cold is it out-of-doors), we thrashed the matter uptown and down, and finally finding myself outnumbered and outmaneuvered at every turn I employed the better part of valor and retreated from the field of battle into my solitary winter of discontent.

She is leaving in one hour, which means I shall be coerced into promising that I shall remain housebound for the remainder of the holiday. I had no plans for enforced sociality, but just the same it is galling to be forced to remain in one's own home simply because one's flatmate has gone and laid himself open to any number of pathogens because of those charity cases in the East End with which he spends entirely too much of his time and fragile health.

I am being summoned by our entirely too maternal landlady. More on this later.

10:55 a.m.

I have now thoroughly destroyed any chance I might have had at making this year-long sharing of accommodations work out for the good. How was I to know that the man was awake and listening while I argued with the Hudson woman downstairs about being forced to stay and take care of a sick and cranky army veteran?

I admit to being entirely at a loss of how to repair the situation (if it is indeed reparable).

Nor am I able to understand quite why this bothers me so; from my previous entry in this haphazard journal, the logical conclusion would be that being curtly dismissed from the Doctor's presence with the bitter statement that he did not require anyone's assistance, much less mine, would be the perfect excuse for me to escape the house and spend these ten days of horror elsewhere – with the simple alibi upon Mrs. Hudson's return that I was following the Doctor's orders and surely he knew best.

Why then, am I still here?

2:54 p.m.

It is a special Providence that I did remain, for when I took my life in my hands to check on the invalided Doctor a half-hour ago I found him miserably feverish, shaking with chill as the fire had nearly gone out in the last two hours. I could see my breath in the room when I poked my head in, and thoroughly reprimanded the man for allowing that condition to progress as I shoveled enough coal on the dwindling glow to heat the city block.

His curt retort, that he was too sick to move and too tired to care, took me entirely by surprise, for the man is such a stubborn mule when his own health is concerned that any such admission bespoke either delirium or simple apathy resulting from his condition.

And now that I thought of it, the man has been rather on the depressed side for nearly a week now.

Any sort of inquiry obviously was out of the question, but as that query faded it gave rise to several more in my overactive mind. Still, diplomacy was necessary if I were to remain in the room; and I could not leave it – if the man were to die of hypothermia Mrs. Hudson would never forgive me.

"Shall I offend you if I remain?" I ventured uncertainly to his blanket-humped shoulder, turned as he was on the settee facing away from me.

"I could not care less one way or the other, just leave me alone," came the not-encouraging response.

Well, at least it was preferable to being dismissed or, better still, the recipient of some choice language he had picked up in his military service.

"Doctor…" I began confidently enough, though I admit to being well out of my depth when it comes to repairing my own blunders (for the simple reason that such occasions where the action is necessitated are extremely rare, almost non-existent). Still, I hesitated long enough to pique his curiosity, and one eye ventured forth from the blanket-huddle as he turned back toward me.

"What."

"I believe…the most direct statement of fact would be that I beg your forgiveness?" I ventured with care to not sound as uncertain as I felt.

An eyebrow rose toward rumpled hair. "That was unexpected," he muttered testily, as if I had unpleasantly surprised him rather than the other way 'round.

No matter; I had done my duty in apologizing – for an unintentional insult, to boot! – and so shrugged all else off. "I did not mean what I said in the way it must have sounded, Watson," I added more confidently, for indeed I had not. "I am simply…unaccustomed to having my plans disrupted by anything or anyone. You were simply the recipient of my frustrations; nothing more personal, I assure you."

Both eyes had peeked out from under the thick afghan our landlady must have given the man sometime this morning while I had dozed off in the chair adjoining the sofa, and now they fluttered unsteadily, as if he were about to fall asleep in the middle of my admirably gallant apologies. Not flattering.

"Good," he finally murmured, apparently losing the battle at last and dozing off, but at least not pouting like a tantruming child. Small improvements were still improvements, I supposed.

He has been slipping in and out of what does not appear to be a restful sleep ever since, and though I am loathe to fully waken the man I may have to if he keeps muttering like he is at the present moment; I probably should take his temperature again at some point and I am well aware he will be as testy as a breakfast-deprived Mycroft if I do.

3:54 p.m.

The Doctor insists that a fever is not dangerous enough to call another physician until it reaches a temperature of over 103 degrees, but I admit to increasing doubts on the matter. Frankly, he looks like Death itself.

Note: Patient in question did not appreciate being told that last. I do believe I have just been sworn at in a Scottish dialect.

6:14 p.m.

Despite my misgivings, the man appears quiet enough now, with the fever dropped back down to hovering just below 102 degrees. After employing every bit of coaxing ability I possess (which admittedly is somewhere between nil and the minimum necessary for my profession) I managed to get a cup of weak tea down him about a quarter of an hour ago, though he looks as if it may not remain inside his stomach for long.

I received a glare comprised of the stuff dreams – nightmares – are made on when I suggested helping him sit up, and so I promptly backed away at my evident offense. Honestly, even after nearly a year, the man's pride is more palpable for observance than my social ineptitude, and just as grating. Pointing out that he looked anything but 'perfectly able to take care of himself' when he insisted upon the fact did not seem to further my interests.

However, after I had managed to create a passable supper of whatever the meaty soup was Mrs. Hudson had left simmering on the stove (by create, meaning ladling it into a tureen without spilling the majority of it), he agreed to sit up, coverlet twisted all round him in a bizarre approximation of a cocoon, and attempt to eat something.

He regarded the steaming mixture dubiously until I reassured him that our landlady was responsible for its taste, upon which he sighed with relief and cautiously blew on his spoon-ful.

"So, Doctor," I began, more at ease with making stupid table-conversation than I had been at this time a year ago. "Illness aside, have you no plans for holiday merry-making, then?"

"With whom?" he retorted with uncharacteristic bitterness, sufficient to pause my own spoon halfway to my mouth in my surprise.

Had the man no family or friends? My own of the latter were non-existent, and my elder brother would die of pure horror at the thought of spending Christmas dinner in the company of anything but the Diogenes's overly-plump goose. But this man was, I had observed, quite willing to make friends if given the opportunity, and did not seem the type to lack for congenial companionship of either sex should he wish it.

Was that, then, the reason behind his slump in characteristic sunniness this last week? I have observed that most men do prefer social activities close to this holiday season, though I cannot think why, and so the conclusion seemed to have merit.

"My apologies, Doctor…I meant no offense," I managed, shoving my spoon in my mouth to negate having to explain myself out of that unintentional metaphorical hole I had dug.

"No, no, none taken," he sighed, setting the spoon down with a tinnish clink. "I'm…sorry, Holmes."

I started. "Whatever for?"

He gave a humorless smile, a sad and lonely gesture so out of character it would have been alarming even without the words that followed. "I'm probably the worst sort of company to have at the holidays…and here you are, stuck in this house because you promised Mrs. Hudson to see I wouldn't die while she was away…"

"First of all, Doctor, I have no desire to celebrate the holidays in any shape or fashion, and as such your company neither detracts nor enhances the 'spirit of the season' in my mind," I pointed out logically. "As to the second, I have already apologized for my lapse in common courtesy, and assure you the regret was genuine."

He poked at a floating potato-chunk with his spoon, nodding silently. The wording of his previous statement somewhat intrigued me, and I took a calculated risk in asking "Why, exactly, do you believe yourself to be poor holiday company? I admit I have no comparison to gauge your presence, but…"

He was about to lie – perhaps prevaricate would be a better word – to me; those are the only occasions I have noted that he refuses to look me in the eye. True to form, he muttered something about not really being in the holiday mood and promptly stuffed his mouth full of potato and beef.

The color draining from his face soon after bespoke how much an error that action had been.

When he finally returned to the room, spent and shaking slightly, I had already effectively disposed of any evidence that there had been food in the vicinity recently. The grateful look he shot me as he more collapsed than sat upon the settee was thanks enough, and he apparently had not the strength to say further.

He started in half-conscious surprise when I lifted his legs onto the seat and then pulled the blankets back up into place. "Is there nothing you can take that will at least settle your stomach?" I asked, thoroughly aghast at the progress of our day's medical discoveries if they could not alleviate such things in a reasonable amount of time.

A terribly deep sneeze buried in the thin pillow was my first answer, followed by a miserable, muffled "Let me know if you discover it."

If I thought I could find a remedy quickly enough, I would try.

8:55 p.m.

Watson has been growing steadily worse for the last ninety minutes, though he insists with more force than I would have credited him with that I am under no circumstances to call another physician away from his family on Christmas Eve, no matter how miserable he becomes. I would disregard the injunction, but for the fact that I should have to summon the man myself as there is no one in the house, and with the Doctor delirious as he is at present I do not think that to be a safe situation.

This gnawing anxiety that appears to tinge my outlook at the moment seems to be deepening as the minutes crawl by; a novel sensation, but one that I should much prefer to experience under different circumstances.

Perhaps he might sleep less distressedly if I were to play my violin? I have never played anything themed with the holiday season, but Silent Night seems to be fairly simple upon first examination.

9:26 p.m.

Now I truly am worried for the Doctor's health. He has been coughing nearly uncontrollably, to the point where he is so exhausted following the spells that he will barely respond to me, and when he does the movement is sluggish and feeble.

When he is lucid enough, we are going to have a thorough and pointed chat about physicians doing no harm – to themselves.

9:46 p.m.

His fever is still rising, and though I have torn apart every bookshelf the man possesses I can find no sure way to prevent its continuance save what Mrs. Hudson has already instructed.

10:20 p.m.

Infernal carolers outside, trilling of peace and joy to merry citizens. Nothing could be farther from the truth at this moment, in this house. What else can I do?

11:43 p.m.

He is resting quietly now, though the fever is hovering dangerously high. For a few moments an hour ago he was lucid enough, asking somewhat uneasily if I had been singing.

I choked on a laugh, and replied that my musical talent extends only to my fingertips, not my vocal chords, and that the melody had been from outside. He only smiled at my self-deprecation, and then his eyes fluttered closed again.

The small respite lasted only about fifteen minutes, however; within that time he was again rambling, tossing restlessly and occasionally coughing slightly, though his breathing did not appear to be wheezing overmuch (the only bright spot in this terrible evening). Within another ten minutes he was delirious again, and I vaguely recognized a few of the words he was muttering in his fever-dreams – places most people only discover through the medium of a geography or history textbook; references to words and items that I could not quite understand.

Then there were names that surfaced – comrades, I assumed, fallen or vanished; soldiers or friends that he would never see again, in all probability. And in that moment while I tried desperately to bring that cursed fever into a manageable range, the epiphany struck with enough force to thoroughly shame me for not realizing it before.

The man had not made many friends, even after nearly a year, for the simple reason that he possibly could not risk losing another. In war time, companionship no doubt was a double-edged sword – to comfort, ideally: or to wound deeply if tragedy struck on the battlefield. And he, a healer – it would have been exponentially more painful.

I no longer wondered at his solitude, so incongruous with his amicable spirit and love of life in general.

The string of names continued, mumbled in a grief-stricken inquiry half-into the coverlet I had tucked around his trembling shoulders, as I clenched my jaw at the knowledge that I had been incredibly slow in realizing this fact.

And then, amid the others, he called for me.

It was unmistakable. Somehow, in the middle of that subtlely-brilliant mind the man possesses but refuses to show except in certain company, I had appeared in that disturbed dream-world.

When had I entered that category of a trusted comrade?

The answer to the question I still do not know, and certainly was not about to discover then; I was rather more engaged in trying to stop whatever ghost of myself he was seeing from haunting an undeserving mind. I have been called cold and even heartless by a few people, in my youth in particular, but even I would never willingly inflict pain upon another, especially one such as Watson.

My nerve finally broke completely when I cautiously patted his good shoulder, trying to wake him from the grips of whatever he saw. He only gave a sort of soft whimpering moan and turned his head away from me. His hand was clutching desperately for something to hold on to; the layers of blankets, the side of the settee, and finally it fastened upon my fingers somehow.

It would have been cruel to pull away. "Watson."

He twisted in the blanket with a troubled murmur, unconsciously tugging at my hand, and I felt some sort of strange corresponding twinge deep inside my chest, one that had already manifested its odd self several times this night. I dearly hope he has not passed that dreadful hacking cold on to me – what a fine reward for my services these last hours!

I tried to make my voice as gentle as possible, which was rather difficult due to a considerable lack of practice; but I did try at any rate. "Watson, it's all right…it's all right, old fellow. Go back to sleep," I said softly, hoping that he would do just that for I had absolutely and entirely no idea what I was going to say to him if he were to come awake suddenly. Comforting bedside manner, thy name is definitely not Sherlock Holmes.

His brows furrowed, but I was pleased to note that he had stopped his unconscious struggling. He still had my hand rather trapped in his own, however, resting close to his head as he settled finally into a curled position, unconsciously guarding that left shoulder, and was quiet once more.

This was highly awkward.

Finally I tried to pull away but he grunted in sleepy protest and merely held all the tighter – what the devil?? I blinked, puzzled, for several long minutes, and tapped a free finger against my lips in bewilderment, trying to decide what the logical course of action for this highly unexpected development might be.

But somehow I could not be irritated, as the logical reaction would dictate. And I was not about to wake him. Both of which statements still puzzle me, though I have been pondering upon them for several minutes prior to taking up this pen (it is my left hand that is trapped at the moment).

I sighed and, hoping to heaven that the maid would not come in early from her Christmas Eve festivities and see this tomorrow morning, settled down without further demur.

And now I see (and hear, for the bells outside are bonging most annoyingly) that it is apparently midnight, on Christmas Day.

I am not certain, but I believe the Doctor's temperature may have dropped.

Thank God.

December 25, 1881

9:15 a.m.

The maid apparently did find us both in that position next morning, for Watson was still out cold when immature giggling woke me in a most awkward and unpleasant jolt. I merely favoured her with my most intimidating scowl, which sent her scurrying, red-faced, downstairs for a pot of coffee. I yawned and stretched, wishing I could feel the fingers on my left hand (they were numb, for Watson had sort of shifted slightly on top of them at some point when he burrowed under the blanket in his sleep).

When the girl shut the door behind her, however, the click woke the Doctor (he is an exceptionally light sleeper), for he started and blinked in the rosy sunlight of an icy Christmas morning for a silent moment.

Then he gave a small yawn and closed his eyes again.

I was not about to let the opportunity pass, however. "Watson. Are you awake?"

"No," he mumbled into his pillow, causing me to laugh despite myself.

I tugged experimentally to free my hand, and he flew wholly awake on the instant, rolling over to blink up at me in bewilderment, and then blushing darkly with high embarrassment as he realised the situation.

I failed to see a logical reason for his mortification; even if it had not been an unconscious action, he had been considerably closer to death than even I liked to come, and I promptly told him all of the above. Quite sound logic, actually.

Again I failed to see why my words should make him blush even deeper, but who am I to fathom the workings of the man's intricately-layered mind?

"How are you feeling?" I asked, for I believe that is the usual question etiquette dictates for such circumstances. Confound it, my fingers were cramped and numb!

"Somewhat…under standard, but better than last night," he admitted, his eyes fastening on my flexing fingers as I winced. "'M sorry, Holmes…I have no idea what –"

"Forget it, Doctor." I waved carelessly, very definitely not wishing to detail what had happened in that darkest hour before dawn the night before.

He smiled; a real smile, not the sick imitation of one he had last night, and I relaxed upon seeing it. "I suppose it's Christmas morning, then," he observed sleepily, glancing at the shaft of cool light filtering through the crack in the blind.

"Astute as always, Doctor." I ignored the frigid scowl he sent me and heaped coal upon the dwindling fire. "There we are."

"Holmes?" I heard from behind me, and turned in time to jump back toward the couch as the idiot was apparently trying to stand up, blankets curling and fluttering into a pile at his feet.

"I would not recommend that course of action," I warned as his legs quivered, and he allowed me to push him back to the furniture without argument, a disappointed look in his eyes. "For a doctor, you are incredibly dense regarding your own health."

He snorted, though apparently not entirely unamused by my testiness. "I was only going to fetch your Christmas present, since obviously I was too sick to give it to you last night," he murmured, leaning back against the arm of the settee.

I dropped the poker, for I had gone back to stirring the coals into a blaze, and felt my ears burn when it clattered loudly. "My…what?"

He cocked his head to one side like an inquisitive puppy. "Don't tell me you hate the season so much you refuse to give or receive Christmas gifts?"

"I…" I gulped uneasily and replaced the poker in its rack, brushing my hands on my old dressing-gown. "…have not had much occasion to give it any thought, Doctor," I finally finished, busying myself with my pipe to avoid looking at him. Occasion until now, apparently.

I was immensely grateful that he decided to go the way of tactfulness and drop the subject. We spent a pleasantly peaceful breakfast of my own doing (even my limited culinary abilities are able to encompass toast and porridge), and I believe both of us were relieved when apparently the Doctor's stomach agreed to keep the meal this time around.

He is at present humming (horrendously off-key) what I believe is supposed to be an approximation of God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen, and slowly working his way through some current literary trash of the day. I am currently residing in my chair beside the fire, which is finally banishing the cold in the air. All is, I believe, as it should be.

Except for the worrisome fact that for the first time in my adult life, I am apparently expected to return the favour of Christmas gift-giving. What does one give a man who seems to have all he needs and refuses to tell anyone what he wishes for?

But only just now, an apparently contented sigh drifts over toward me, and I glance up to see that my friend has apparently fallen asleep, no doubt still exhausted from the illness he kept hidden until the last minute two days ago.

Perhaps in the absence of anything more tangible, I can at least make certain he is not alone. And, just possibly, that may be enough?