I returned to my lodgings in Baker Street with a pounding headache and the beginnings of a sore throat. It had been a long day for me at my practice, as my resident hypochondriac, (whom I shall not mention by name to save him from suffering any embarrassment on his behalf. I shall call him Mr Smith), was convinced that this time he was suffering from cholera or some other life threatening malady. As I climbed the stairs to my rooms, my tired limbs aching, I yearned for my bed and sleep.
Holmes greeted me in his usual manner. He hugged me close and planted a shy kiss on my cheek, his rough chapped lips brushing against my skin. We held each other close, my hands resting under his collar. Holmes smiled at me.
"Well, my dear Watson, I've not seen you all day."
I pulled off my damp over coat, for it had been raining for time, and kissed him.
"Well, Holmes, Mr Smith came to see me again. You know what he's like. Once he starts with a complaint he never stops."
I slumped down into the overstuffed armchair, my aching limbs glad of the warmth given off by the fire. I massaged my bad leg, my head fit to burst at the seams. Holmes placed his hand to my forehead, his head tilted to one side, his brown puppy dog eyes wide with concern.
"Are you ill, mother hen?" my companion knelt beside me, a gentle bandaged hand resting on my knee.
I gave a tired smile. "Do not concern yourself, Old Cock. It's nothing a good cup of tea and an early night can't solve."
A mischievous smile played on my friend's lips. "Well then Watson. Let us to bed."