Written for the LiveJournal community Watsons_Woes for their July Writing Prompts challenge. The prompt for day 17 was: Watson's Woes - and another alliteration. This time, whump Watson woefully with an alliterative injury or woe of any severity. A swift stabbing or a gooey gumdrop? It's up to you to invent, write, and deploy!
Part of my Spencer-verse (primarily canon with a few details borrowed from the Granada TV series-in this case, I've borrowed the fact that Watson is not married at the time of The Final Problem). This occurs between the canon stories Final Problem and Empty House.
_A Sick Spencer and A Worried Watson_
My first clue something was wrong was when I woke to Spencer sneezing in my face from his perch on my chest. In the nearly nine years he'd been around, I had never heard him sneeze before, so I carefully sat up and held him in my lap.
My second clue something was wrong was when he huddled submissively in my lap rather than squirming out and bounding away. His eyes were runny as if he were weeping and he sneezed repeatedly, showering my sheets but not me.
In a human, the most likely diagnosis would be a cold, so I decided Spencer must have a cat cold.
The sickly Spencer curled up on my bed while I dressed. When I was ready, he hopped down slowly, as if it hurt him to do so, and meowed pitifully. He hesitated at the top of the stairs, looking up at me, and I gathered that he didn't want to go down. As I picked him up, I wondered how he'd gotten upstairs and whether it was normal for cats to balk at stairs when they were ill.
.
I set Spencer on his cushion by the fire. "Is he all right?" asked Mrs. Hudson as she brought in the breakfast try. "He didn't come to the kitchen for breakfast this morning."
"I think he has a cold," I said, and Spencer sneezed in emphasis.
"Poor thing," Mrs. Hudson said sympathetically.
As I ate breakfast, I doubted my diagnosis and worried it was something more insidious. He truly looked dreadful, draped limply on his pillow. Then I remembered the last time I had a bad cold and how I ached and was so stuffed up that food wasn't appetizing in the least. The correlation between his evident symptoms and those of my past was exact; it should have been reassuring but I was still concerned.
.
When his lethargy and lack of appetite continued for four days, I was quite worried. I had put a bowl of water within a short distance of his cushion so he had water nearby if he was thirsty, but all attempts to tempt him with food had failed. Mrs. Hudson kindly provided broth for him in addition to the usual scraps of meat, and sometimes he drank a bit of it.
There was no feeling quite like helplessly watching Spencer suffer and sneeze, especially since I knew I could do more for him if only he were human. Instead I could only pet him gently, listening to his congested breathing and hoping he would recover soon.
Finally, on the evening of the fifth day, Spencer rose from his cushion to sniff the food and delicately licked up the smallest pieces of chicken soaked in broth. After a small meal, he seemed to think his fur was in disarray and gave himself a thorough bath in front of the fire. Only then did he return to his cushion and curl up to sleep, still moving cautiously but circling in place before settling just like normal.
Spencer's sneezes became less frequent after that and he started acting more like himself. It took at least a week for the last of his congestion and stiffness to subside, but he was sufficiently recovered within two days to return to his usual morning habit of sitting on my chest until I woke up. The first morning he returned, I remained in bed far longer than usual so I could pet him and feel his purr rumble through me, washing over me like the relief I felt when I was certain he would recover.
It is such a small thing to wake up in a cat's company, but I had missed it terribly.