A/N: This was written as a result of discussion of our collab (Wirral Bagpuss' and mine) "Heart of the Matter" with KylaRyan. Much as I tried to shoo off this evil plotbunny, it demanded to be written. The first part is almost unchanged from "Heart of the Matter", but the second part is entirely new.

1903

November 2nd, 9 a.m.

Holmes

I was wearily stoking the fire in the sitting room. Somewhat to my surprise, I found I was still tired from the frantic chase through the back alleys of London last night. Our quarry had been Fossett, a brutal murderer responsible for the deaths of two men, one a retired lawyer, the other a policeman.

Having built up the fire, I sat back in my chair and sighed. Watson had been with me last night and he had struggled to keep up the pace. Both of us were not getting any younger, I dismally reflected, and these chases were taking their toll. Indeed, Watson must have been exhausted by last evening's events as he has not come downstairs yet, contrary to his habits. I decided to let him sleep for a little while longer. Just then, Mrs. Hudson walked into the sitting room with the breakfast tray and the morning papers, and I applied myself to both.

Watson

It was with great difficulty that I awakened that morning. My limbs seemed weighed down with lead and I found I was unusually short of breath, as well as plagued by a vague discomfort in the substernal region. Ruefully thinking that I was certainly not getting any younger, I arose, determined to shake off this strange malaise the best that I could. I stumbled towards my bedroom mirror and, rather to my dismay, saw a pale reflection of my usual self there. No more running around the back alleys of London for me in the next few days, I thought wearily. And as if to emphasise that point, I felt a twinge of pain in my wounded leg. "Physician, heal thyself," I thought glumly. I pulled on my dressing gown and headed downstairs, hoping that a cup (or two) of coffee and some breakfast would set me to rights.

Holmes briefly glanced up from his intent perusal of the morning Times' agony column as I shuffled into our sitting room. His brows drew together in puzzlement.

"Good morning, Watson. Surely you cannot be hung over from the one brandy you had last night after we arrived home…or have you hidden a bottle of liquor under your bed and have been nipping at it on the sly?" his tone was gently teasing and his eyes twinkled.

I couldn't muster the strength to respond to his good-natured obligatory teasing and settled for slumping into my chair instead. I could not suppress a groan as I did so, and Holmes was immediately scrutinizing me with what I could only describe as concern.

"Seriously, Watson, are you quite all right?"

"I—I don't know…" I faltered, trailing off as the vague substernal discomfort suddenly flared into pain severe enough to make me gasp. I pressed my palm to the centre of my chest in a vain attempt to obtain some relief, and as I did, I felt myself break out in a cold sweat. Noting with a strange detachment that the room suddenly looked hazy, I desperately looked in Holmes's direction and saw a blurry image of him leaping out of his chair. I idly wondered what could possibly alarm him so, and then I knew no more.

******