It should have been storming. The sky should have been bombarding them with hail, deafening them with thunder, blinding them with lightning. At least then it would have matched how Luke was feeling.
Luke lay curled in bed, one hand clutching his stomach. His head was on fire, and the rest of his body was wracked with chills. He'd felt as if he was going to vomit on more than one occasion, and he ached everywhere. He took a shuddering breath, mouthing the word "professor" in a silent prayer for his mentor to return soon. It was almost 8 o'clock. How long could his dinner appointment take? He adomnished himself, knowing there was no rushing Herschel Layton. Still, if the legendary puzzle-solver would hurry for once in his life, he hoped it would be now.
In an attempt to distract himself from the illness, Luke focused his puffy eyes on a passing snow flurry. It was a beautiful, calm winter night. He wondered if the Professor was thinking the same. Professor... He would know what to do. He would know what to say, what medicines to give, what doctor to call to make Luke feel better.
A car's headlights breifly illuminated the street below his window and Luke sat up in rapt attention. He let out his breath in a disappointed sigh when the car passed without so much as slowing by the brownstone building he called home and flopped back against his pillows. He could barely muster the energy to stay concious, now. He was surprised at how long he'd lasted, sick as he was. He closed his eyes and was greeted with a painful reminder of why he was still awake: the darkness beyond his eyelids roiled and spun in time with his throbbing head.
Luke quickly opened his eyes and his free hand flew to his mouth to contain the bile he felt rising into it. He sucessfully kept himelf from throwing up for the ump-teenth time that night, but had the unpleasent feeling hs wasn't going to be so lucky next time. He needed the Professor.
This time, when a car passed by, Luke didn't bother to lift his head and look. He refused the put himself through the pain of sitting up again. It probably wasn't the Professor anyway. Suddenly, he heard the front door open and the jingle of keys being retrieved and put away. He thought his mind must be playing tricks on him.
"Luke?" The Professor's question rang through the house, and Luke tried to answer, but his reply came only as a soft rasp followed by a cough. "Luke?" he called again, glancing into all of the downstairs rooms in search of his apprentice. Finding Luke in none of them, he set his briefcase in the study and went upstairs to check Luke's room. He was surprised and concerned to find Luke already in bed, and stepped tentatively into the room to check on him. "Luke, are you alright?"
"Professor," Luke whispered. He rolled over to face Layton with his flushed cheeks and bloodshot eyes. "I don't feel well..."
"I don't imagine you do," Layton agreed, hurrying to Luke's bedside and brushing a clump of sweaty hair from Luke's forehead. "You're burning up. Why didn't you tell me you were feeling ill?"
"I'm sorry," Luke rasped, tears blurring his vision. "I didn't want you to miss y-your appointment. I wasn't..." Tears choked back his voice.
Layton managed a smile as he dabbed at the tears with the cuff of his orange shirt. "There's no need to be sorry, Luke."
"...I'm glad you're back, Professor."
"Me too, my boy. Me too."