A/N: Written for rose_of_pollux on LiveJournal as her prize for the watsons_woes community July Writing Prompts challenge.

Written to comply with the Granada TV series; I took the liberty of timing of my story to correspond with the original air date of the Devil's Foot episode (April) rather than the timing indicated in the ACD story (March).

_Pedis diaboli Prelude_

The winter had been cruelly cold and unusually long, the freezing weather continuing until March. An invitation from my old friend Colonel Hayter to visit him in Surrey was accompanied by a few warmer days and I accepted gratefully, looking forward to escaping the icy metropolis for a time.

Holmes was included in the invitation, as he had been for some years, though he had only accompanied me the one time some ten years ago. I attempted to convince him to join me; he had been quite irascible for some weeks, irritated by a lack of interesting-or even uninteresting-cases. Evidently even criminals did not wish to risk life and limb on the frozen streets in the bone-chilling air.

But he declined, confidently asserting that something worthy of his attention was bound to come up now that the belated spring was finally arriving. I did not argue, and left him in the indifferent company of his syringe.

I spent a pleasant fortnight in Surrey and relished the sprouts of green that were everywhere in evidence by the time I returned. Mrs. Hudson was pleased to see me and confided somewhat worriedly that Holmes had been keeping utterly to himself for several days. She had not actually seen him, only heard him through the bedroom door, so all she could say definitively was that his appetite was lacking, his meal trays being left virtually untouched.

Thus it was with some trepidation that I entered our rooms and glanced about for any signs I could discern of Holmes' state before confronting the man himself. The sitting room was as neat as I had left it, and I immediately noted that Holmes' syringe case was in its usual spot upon the mantel. Whatever his state of mind, I could be reasonably certain that the cocaine was not involved.

I took my bags upstairs and emptied them to give Holmes some time to notice my presence so I would not startle him by bursting into his room. He is almost supernaturally perceptive when he is attending to his surroundings, but when he has sunk into his own mind, it is all too easy to surprise him and he does not take kindly to that.

I was returning downstairs when a burst of coughing from Holmes' room provided a clue about the occupant's welfare. I retrieved my medical bag and waited outside Holmes' door. When the coughing stopped, I knocked lightly. "Holmes? May I come in?"

A vague groaning was the only response and I interpreted it as a yes. The lump on the small bed in the corner could only be Holmes. The rest of the room looked as if it had not been touched in some time, with the sole exception of the water pitcher, which was perched on the edge of Holmes' desk rather than on its stand. A mug was on the floor between the bed and the desk so I picked it up and set it on the desk. In doing so, I also saw several crumpled handkerchiefs under the edge of the bed; those I left where they were.

Holmes was curled up like a child, his back to the wall, and huddled beneath several blankets, his face nearly obscured. Despite the numerous coverings, the pile that was Holmes trembled like a leaf in a gale and I added fever to my mental list of Holmes' symptoms. I carefully pulled back the blanket edges so I could feel Holmes' skin.

His forehead was hot to the touch, and he drew back from my hand with a wordless sound of protest. The slight movement triggered another bout of coughing; I listened and did not interfere, somewhat relieved that at least there was no hint of pneumonia in his cough. His fever was worrying enough, and it was likely complicated by dehydration, for when I tried to pour him some water the pitcher was empty.

He still did not seem consciously aware of my presence, so I stepped out briefly with the pitcher. Mrs. Hudson had just brought up some tea for me; I told her that Holmes was unwell and asked for water. She was dismayed that she hadn't realized the reason for Holmes' seclusion but I assured her that there was no way she could have known.

While Mrs. Hudson filled the pitcher, I took the one from the sitting room and set about persuading Holmes to drink. The first difficulty was his position, for any water was more likely to end up on his pillow and bedclothes than in his mouth. Fortunately the coughing had roused him somewhat, and I was able to coax him onto his back. From there I slipped my arm beneath his shoulders and helped him sit up enough to sip without making as much of a mess.

The trembling that I had seen earlier I could now feel, a bone-deep shuddering that was terrible to behold. The heat radiating from his body beneath his clothes and dressing gown reached my skin unabated by my own clothes, and I momentarily wondered if a drop of water on his skin would sizzle as in a frying pan. I scolded myself for the flight of fancy and focused on the matter at hand.

Holmes turned his face away from the cup at first, a sound almost like a moan escaping his cracked lips. He whispered something I could not understand and when he finished I tried again. The second time some water dribbled into his mouth and I waited anxiously to see if he could swallow without choking. After a moment he swallowed slowly, as if it pained him, but he did not choke or cough.

Reassured, I carefully helped him drink all that was in the cup.

As I withdrew my arm, I noticed that Holmes' eyes were open. It took him a moment to register my presence, but when he did, he whispered, "Watson." Anything else he might have said was cut short by still more coughing. I blotted the sweat from his brow and offered him another sip of water when he'd finished. This time he took the cup from me and propped himself up on a shaking arm to drink. I took the opportunity to rearrange his pillows to prop him up somewhat, in hopes of easing the coughing.

By the time Holmes sank back onto the pillows, the period of apparent lucidity had passed and he muttered about oysters and how my pockets were unbalanced. Since I had nothing in any of my pockets, I knew he was not truly seeing me even though his eyes remained open.

I wetted one of his clean handkerchiefs and folded it over his brow; he closed his eyes and sighed. I remained by his side until I was sure he was asleep, then left the room to speak with Mrs. Hudson.

.

I sat with Holmes as often as I could, hoping to confer some comfort by my presence even when Holmes was not quite aware. I plied him with water and broth whenever possible and gradually he began to improve, his temperature slowly dropping. His feverish ramblings ceased after the first two days, to my relief, and while he was often unaware afterward, it was simply because he was sleeping.

It was almost peaceful, Holmes abed and asleep while I worked on correspondence and considering which cases might make acceptable stories for the Strand. I knew it would only be a matter of time before Holmes was chafing under the restrictions of his convalescence.

At first Holmes was miraculously compliant, heeding my advice about when to eat and sleep. He even waited to venture from his bed until I deemed it would do no harm in light of his rapid recovery. He settled himself on the settee and didn't touch any of his tobacco on account of the lingering cough.

All the while, I waited for something to happen. I knew Holmes too well to be lulled by his unswerving obedience in that first week. And, of course, I was right to expect a problem.

One morning I came down for breakfast only to discover Holmes on the settee with his syringe case open beside him. "Holmes," I said in rebuke and he quickly put it away.

Only hours later Lestrade was on our doorstep with a case and naturally Holmes would not hear of turning him away. "Surely I am capable of listening," he snapped when I tried to interfere. Mrs. Hudson humphed but sent the Inspector up despite her disapproval.

Fortunately, Lestrade's case did not meet Holmes' standards. I could see Holmes' hopes for a good case being dashed as Lestrade spoke, but Holmes' response made it sound like he was far too busy to be bothered with such trifles. "Really, Lestrade, surely it is obvious even to you," he said derisively.

Lestrade flushed. "That is true, Mr. Holmes. I confess I had hoped there was something more to it, and if there was, you'd be just the fellow to sniff it out. But since you say it's as simple as it seems, well, I will cease troubling you. Good day to you."

Just that quickly he was gone again. I suspected he had also come simply to see us, for it had been months since he'd darkened our doorway. Despite his continued lack of cases, Lestrade's complimentary words left Holmes in a better mood and he spent the afternoon updating his commonplace books with the news from while he was ill.

Lestrade's visit was like the stone that caused an avalanche, for we were soon inundated with letters and callers seeking Holmes' help. For days there was a steady stream of both, and Holmes gave them all a fair hearing, no matter how I tried to convince him he was not yet well and needed rest.

Since he would not be deterred, I tried to shoulder as much of the burden as I could. I responded to all of the letters he did not deem worthy of attention. I took notes, as always, when potential clients came in person. I handled the new correspondence and chose when to give it to Holmes.

Holmes, of course, was responsible for the investigative work. At first this did not require much effort, but as the cases poured in, he was frequently gone for hours to resolve several issues at once before returning just long enough to read the letters or my notes and head out again.

These visits only rarely included food or rest, and I worried constantly about his lingering cough and how roughly he was using himself. I voiced that worry whenever I thought Holmes might listen, but he paid no heed. That a certain substance provided fuel for his unwise exertions seemed beyond doubt.

I did not comment on that in his presence, knowing it to be futile. Instead, I offered to accompany him repeatedly, and was turned down nearly every time. I merely went with him to a few interviews, to take notes and serve to smooth any feathers ruffled by his brusque manner. Other than that, I was left behind to manage things in his absence. I was certainly not idle, and even provided advice for a number of inquiries. It was rewarding, yet I wished Holmes was present.

On the one occasion when I confronted him about his unreasonable and unsustainable behavior, he would not be deterred. "I have endured having no occupation for too long, doing nothing but resting and eating. This will not last, my dear Watson, so you must not resent my desire to make the most of it."

So I held my peace even as it lasted for one week, then two, then three. With each day's passage, I grew ever more aware that Holmes was rapidly approaching a crisis. Every time I saw him-and sometimes there were days I saw him not at all-he looked increasingly pale and drawn, though he moved around the room as if he had an excess of energy.

Then, two days I after I had last seen Holmes, I received a telegram from Holmes' brother Mycroft: S HERE STOP REQUEST YOUR PRESENCE FINAL STOP. It was evening, at an hour when Mycroft would be at home, so I immediately left to see what was the matter.

As soon as I arrived I was ushered in to see Mycroft. He rose from his chair to shake my hand and my fears about Holmes' condition intensified. "Where is he?" I demanded rather rudely.

"Resting," Mycroft said mildly, gesturing vaguely in the direction of a closed door down a nearby hall. "It would seem he has been pushing himself quite hard of late."

"Much too hard," I agreed with a grimace. "And it began even before he'd recovered from being ill. I have been telling him for weeks that he needs to slow down, but he only heeds my advice when he wants to."

"You are free, of course, to satisfy yourself as to my brother's condition, but would you object if I contacted another doctor as well?"

"Not at all. Perhaps Holmes would listen to someone else saying the same things," I said with some bitterness.

Mycroft's expression said he knew the feeling all too well. "I will see to it in the morning. If you wish to remain here, you are welcome to do so."

With some hesitation, I accepted the offer and had a message sent to Mrs. Hudson. Only then did I venture in to see Holmes.

He appeared to be sleeping, which was just as well with how utterly exhausted he looked. But even in his sleep he twitched and shifted restlessly, as if the force of will that had brought him through these last days was not quite extinguished. He felt warm to the touch, but whether that was a lingering effect of the cocaine or his fever returning I could not be certain, though he shivered as if feverish.

A bout of coughing shook his shrunken frame and I turned to the bedside table to get him some water. A cup stood beside the pitcher, and I found when I picked it up that it already had something in it. A cautious sniff revealed it to be chloral, and from the amount left I judged Holmes had taken, at most, a sip of the sleeping draught.

By the time I turned back to the bed, having resolved to try to get Holmes to drink the medicine, he had turned from his side onto his back and was staring at me. I hesitated, suddenly unsure of what I should say or even that my presence was appropriate.

"What, no comment about my appearance or my health, Doctor?" he said scathingly, his voice rough from exhaustion and possibly from an irritated throat.

I held out the cup and he took it, eyeing the contents with distaste. "I am merely wondering how you came to be here," I said as he drank. He grimaced and I poured some water into the cup when he'd finished. He drank that more willingly, then sighed.

"I thought I was being followed so I came here to evade him."

"Who would be following you?" I asked, not sure his statement made sense.

Holmes looked chagrined. "It is possible that my pursuer was merely a figment of my imagination."

That took a moment to sink in. "You mean you were hallucinating."

He sighed again and rubbed his forehead as if trying to forestall a headache. "If you must state it that way, then yes, it is possible. Mycroft certainly thinks so."

I wasn't sure what Mycroft had to do with it and didn't want to ask. I was already horrified that Holmes had brought himself to such a state that his formidable powers of observation could not be relied upon.

"Do stop looking at me like that, Watson. I will suffer no lasting damage, I assure you."

"I do not see how you can be so confident of that, Holmes. You said yourself that you may have been hallucinating, so your mind has already betrayed you once. There is nothing that prevents it from doing so again, perhaps even at this very moment."

"Unless you are telling me that you are also an hallucination, I do not see the relevance. A temporary problem with my sight does nothing to affect my ability to reason."

"The problem is not with your sight when you see something that does not exist!" I said with exasperation.

"My pursuer was not proven to be an hallucination, that was merely a possibility," Holmes insisted stubbornly. "Now, if you have not come to take me home, you ought to let me sleep in peace. I am quite tired, you know."

That, at least, was quite true, so I left the room lest I disturb him further by looking at him the wrong way or breathing too loudly.

.

Dr. Moore Agar of Harley Street arrived promptly at 10 o'clock the next morning. I was greatly relieved by Mycroft's choice, for Holmes and I had met him previously; Holmes had commented favorably afterward about the man's intelligence-high praise indeed, coming from him. Of all the doctors in the city, here was one that Holmes might heed.

Dr. Agar spoke briefly with me before going to see Holmes. I told him all I could, including the fact that I did not know everything that had gone on because of Holmes' frequent and lengthy absences.

He spent a good deal of time behind closed doors with Holmes. Having had such conferences with a few of my own patients, I could guess what was being said but I was exceedingly curious how Holmes was taking it.

When Dr. Agar called me into the room, I wasn't sure what I would find. Holmes was pacing restlessly on the far side of the bed, looking just as grumpy as he'd been at breakfast. The good doctor ignored him and addressed me. "I have already spoken to Mr. Holmes, but I thought it wise to speak to you as well. As I told him, I believe he is on the verge of an absolute breakdown. He must have complete rest, starting immediately, lest he find himself unable to continue his work."

It wasn't a surprise, but to hear it in such stark terms was still somewhat startling. "I understand. We will make arrangements to go on holiday."

Holmes snorted and I turned to him. "You and I both know leaving the city is the only way that you will not be tempted by cases," I scolded. "And eating regular meals will not be optional, not if you want to be able to work again."

"Quite right," Dr. Agar interjected. "You would do well, Mr. Holmes, if you heeded Doctor Watson's advice more frequently. I will bid you gentlemen good day, and I hope to see you in better health soon, Mr. Holmes."

I tried to ask Holmes where he might like to go, but he steadfastly ignored any mention of a holiday. Fortunately I had an ally in Mycroft when it came to keeping Holmes from trying to work; Mycroft insisted that Holmes remain his guest until I could make arrangements for our retreat into the countryside. Holmes did not argue on that point, he merely paced his brother's rooms like a caged tiger and snarled at anyone foolish enough to offer him food or suggest that he sleep.

I chose the Cornish peninsula for our holiday on the advice of an old college friend. As we embarked, my only hope was that it would be far enough from the troubles of London to allow my friend the rest for both body and mind that he so sorely needed.