Holmes reached out and took the doctor's bag from him with one hand, using the other to steady the man as they made their way back up to the house. The noise had obviously disturbed Mrs Hudson, who poked her head out of her chambers sleepily, querying what had happened.
"A cart accident outside," Holmes told her, quickly, "Dr. Watson was attending the wounded, and I profess it is extremely cold out – I wonder if you would be so kind as to make us some coffee?"
"Of course, Mr Holmes – right away!"
Holmes smiled, and turned his attention back to Watson, who was making his way up the stairs with painful difficultly. Holmes stepped up, and, ignoring his protest, took the doctor's arm and assisted him up the steps, into the sitting room.
"Now – sit here, by the fire…"
Watson sank into the chair without further argument, unable to suppress his shivering any longer. His jacket was gone, lost; taken in the cab in an effort to keep the poor milkman warm. His shirt was damp, both from the morning mist, and from the puddles of rainwater and melted ice he had landed in so jarringly when Holmes had pushed him out of the way of the rogue rider. His trousers, too, were wet from kneeling on the ground, and his leg ached so horribly that he groaned aloud as he lifted his feet onto the footstool.
Having made the self-diagnosis and deciding that he was fine, really, Watson rubbed his hands together, trying to stimulate the circulation back into his fingers. He coughed, once, to clear his throat, but having done so, he found he could not stop.
Eventually, he was able to draw breath, and looked up to find Holmes staring at him in a mixture of surprise and concern. The detective held out a glass of water, and Watson took it gratefully with shaking hands, sipping it carefully so as not to trigger another coughing fit.
"My dear fellow," Holmes said, quietly, "I do not think that you should go out on your rounds this morning – you really are not well…"
"But if not I, who else-?"
"No doubt your colleagues will be able to share your workload for a few days," Holmes replied, gently, but firmly; "here – I have your dressing gown; do please take off that wet shirt."
Watson growled something under his breath, reluctantly got to his feet, and quickly removed the shirt, pulling on the warm, dry dressing gown gratefully as he settled back down into the chair again, coughing harshly into a handkerchief. At that moment, Mrs Hudson bustled into the room, bearing a tray of coffee and toast.
"I'll make a proper breakfast at a more reasonable hour," she told them, "my goodness, doctor, you do look pale – was that you I heard coughing? Should I send for a medic, Mr Holmes?"
"That will not be necessary," Watson replied, quickly, before Holmes had a chance, "they will be overworked enough as it is with cases far more serious than my own. It is little more than a chill; with a day's rest I shall be well enough."
"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," Holmes added, already eyeing the much-coveted coffee.
The landlady nodded quickly, and left the room, no doubt to retire to bed for a short while longer. Watson made as if to rise, but Holmes waved him back into the seat, and went to pour some coffee himself. He carried a cup to Watson, who accepted it with grateful thanks, nearly spilling it as his hands shook unsteadily. Holmes pretended not to notice the slight infirmity, as Watson cursed himself softly, and fought to get the tremors under control.
Holmes was concerned at how easily Watson had given in to the suggestion of a day's rest; it was testament to how under the weather the usually stubborn doctor must be feeling.
They sat in companionable silence for a while, broken only by Watson's coughing and the crackling of the fire in the grate. It was almost at a reasonable enough hour to call Mrs Hudson for breakfast and a fresh pot of coffee, when there was a heavy pounding on the front door; impatient and loud. Holmes gritted his teeth and glanced across at Watson, hoping, this time for less selfish reasons, that it was not another medical emergency. He heard Mrs Hudson respond to the door, and heard quick, familiar footfalls on the steps as the wiry figure of Inspector Lestrade burst into the room. Holmes rose quickly to greet him, as the Inspector took a moment to catch his breath; he had been running, but not too far – Holmes recognised the distinctive Baker Street gritty-grey dirt on the Inspector's shoes.
"Lestrade," he greeted the newcomer, as Mrs Hudson cleared away the early breakfast things and went away quickly, "you have attended an incident nearby, and there is something in the nature of that happenstance that has quite startled you. I imagine that the scene is nearby, and recent; there is blood not yet dry on your shirtsleeve where you have checked some poor unfortunate for a pulse…"
"And he still has one, if you and Dr Watson would be so kind?" Lestrade exclaimed, impatiently, "I will explain on the way. Please – we must hurry!"
Holmes was already reaching for his hat and coat, Watson but a few steps behind him, already pulling on his now-dried shirt from earlier in place of his dressing gown, not wasting time on fetching a clean one. It was not until they were on the street outside and Holmes heard Watson's sharp breaths catching in his throat that he remembered that this was not such a good idea. He opened his mouth to speak, but Watson cut him off sharply.
"Which way, Inspector?" he asked, giving Holmes a warning glare.
"This way, gentlemen – follow me!"
~*~
