When I next awake, it is to the sound of hushed voices. Before I am even fully aware of my surroundings, I have a cool hand at my forehead.

"Hello Holmes," Watson says quietly. "How are you feeling old boy?"

"I ache," I groan after a moment. My chest has become extremely painful and the rest of me is not faring much better.

My companion leans closer. "Where do you ache?"

Everywhere! I grimace. "My chest, particularly."

"Is that because you were crushed by a man that turned into a snake?" Wiggins asks as he approaches. "Watson told us the whole story when you were asleep."

I nod and rub at my eyes. "Probably," I do have more to say but I am still rather tired and am forced to pause and yawn into my hand. The long intake of breath irritates my dry throat and I begin to cough immediately afterwards. My chest is set afire by the action and I clutch at it, curling in on myself as I do so with a strangled gasp.

"You did check him over, didn't you Watson?" I hear Wiggins ask.

Tennyson adds something that I cannot follow.

Watson turns on them with a frown. "Of course I did! First I ensured that he was not in danger of exposure or shock due to the cold and then I checked his wounds."

"I'm sorry Watson," Wiggins says quietly. "I know you're a good doctor and a caring friend. It's just that... Mr. Holmes isn't a wimp. If he's like this, the pain must be really bad!"

I grimace and slowly stretch out again; I do not want to alarm my friends. "I am all right. I have a few bruised ribs, that is all."

Wiggins shakes his head and folds his arms. "I've had bruised ribs; they hurt, but not like that. I think Watson needs to take another look at you."

"We should leave the room then," Deirdre announces. "Come on. We can make Mr. Holmes a nice hot drink."

A cup of tea would be most welcome! I smile at them gratefully as they leave us.

"Thank you," I hear Watson say to them quietly. He waits until we are alone and then starts to undress me. "The bruising is not as angry-looking now," he observes after a moment. "Wiggins is absolutely right; you should not be in such pain. What does it feel like? Where is the pain?"

I wince. "The ribs do ache, but my chest itself is painful as well. Behind the breast plate."

"I ensured that you had no water in your lungs," he says, more to himself than to me. "If it is not that, I would be inclined to suspect congestion of the chest, but there is no noise to indicate that you have any when you cough."

"What does that mean?"

He frowns thoughtfully. "You said that the pain in your chest is the worst; that indicates that you are hurting elsewhere. Can you list the other places in order, beginning with the most severe pains?"

I groan. "It would be quicker to list the places that do not pain me. Even my fingers and toes ache!"

"That does sound like influenza," he tells me with a regretful tone. "I feared as much when I first assessed your temperature this morning."

I shiver violently and turn away to sneeze into my handkerchief. "Aaashoo! Attishoo!" I shiver again and moan, wiping at my nose wearily.

"Bless you," Watson says quietly as he dresses me again. This done, he checks my vitals. "Your pulse has escalated. Do you feel all right?"

I nod slowly. "I am still very tired," I mumble.

"You should take some medicine before you attempt to sleep."

I groan. I do not like having foul-tasting substances forced down my throat. In my profession, I have become most distrustful of such things. Not that I have any reason to mistrust Watson, of course; I simply am not the sort of man that would choose to submit myself to the care of another. "And so it begins..."

"I am warning you now Holmes: do not start. Do I have to remind you that Lestrade has said that she will find a different doctor if you will not co-operate with me?"

I groan again. "I am co-operating," I mutter rather defiantly. "I have not attempted to escape."

Watson gives me a thoughtful frown. "Because you are too tired and weak to so much as stand and not due to being remotely co-operative, I fear."

"There may be a sliver of truth in that," I admit with a small smile. Even if I felt able to stand unassisted, where would I go? I doubt that I could outrun my companion in any case.

"I shall ask the Irregulars back in," Watson informs me. "Perhaps you will be less inclined to carry on like an incorrigible infant with them here in the room. No Holmes, I mean it; I shall hear no more 'this is just a cold' talk either. You shall answer to me or have a stranger treat you."

That cuts deeply and I immediately desist. What choice do I have? "Very well Watson, I shall do exactly as I am told." Even if that means taking things that I would not wish upon my worst enemy!

When my Irregulars return, Deirdre is carrying a tea tray and Wiggins has a bag in his hand.

I eye the bag suspiciously, but it does not have a pharmacy logo on it so I relax somewhat.

"We sorted through the shopping while we were downstairs," Wiggins announces. "I know it wasn't on the list, but we got a few tins of soup, as well as the fruit and stuff you wanted. The tins are in the kitchen cupboard."

While Watson is looking through the offerings and praising my Irregulars for a job well done, Deirdre approaches me with a steaming cup.

"Here you are, Mr. Holmes," she says with a bright smile. "This should help."

Ah, tea! I take the cup from her and then frown at the contents. "Purple tea. That is... novel."

She looks nervous, I notice. What reason does she have to be nervous? What the deuce has she given me to drink?

I sip the drink gingerly. Ugh! It is like nothing that I have ever tasted! I swallow it with difficulty and try not to react. The drink is both bitter and sweet and tastes horribly artificial. "What is this drink?" I ask quietly.

"It's to make you feel better," she explains. "It's got all the stuff in it you need to fight this cold off."

Lucky me. Not only does it taste disgusting, but I have to drink it all. I try to at least look as if I appreciate the gesture, which of course I do.

"I know," Deirdre says sympathetically when I force myself to swallow another sip. "I know it's bitter. I could add some sugar, if you want."

I would be willing to try anything! I smile at her. "Yes please."

Watson shakes his head. "Surely it is not as bad as all that? If it is a drink, it is surely intended to be palatable."

"Would you like to try some?" I snap at him. I take another sip when Deirdre hands my cup back to me. There is a slight improvement and I thank her gratefully.

She smiles at me and turns to Watson. "These drinks are meant to help you get better, not pass a taste test. I hate them, but they do work."

It is so nice to have someone so sympathetic on my side where medicines are concerned. Watson would always tell me that it was necessary to take something and see that I did so. Though I must admit, he only ever forced me to take anything at all if he was certain that it was unavoidable.

When I finally finish the vile drink I am rewarded with a glass of water. I drink that gratefully and then lie back. I am still dreadfully tired and I am also cold.

Tennyson is saying something and I try to understand. I cannot and it both annoys and saddens me. I fix my eyes upon him apologetically. "I am sorry," I mumble. "I am too tired... I cannot follow you."

"It's OK," Wiggins assures me on the lad's behalf. "Tennyson just wanted to know if you felt any better."

I nod and try not to yawn. "I think so."

"Is there anything more that we can do before you try to sleep Holmes?" Watson asks.

I shiver and attempt to pull the blankets closer. I am absolutely freezing! "Not unless you can raise the temperature in here any further," I reply through suddenly chattering teeth. "I feel even colder than I did last night."

"Your fever should start to come down soon," he assures me gently. "You will feel warmer then."

I smile and nod. Of course he is right; I only feel cold because of this wretched temperature. I close my eyes and try to sleep, but the shivers are vigorous and my body aches in protest. When my Watson was as ill as this, I would help him to settle with my beloved violin (which is another sorely missed old friend. I wonder what became of it...) but it would seem that I am forced to struggle alone.

"I think we should go and let Mr. Holmes rest," Wiggins decides. He stands and approaches the settee. "Get well soon," he tells me, shaking my hand.

"I shall do my utmost," I assure him with a small smile. "Illness is tedious."

Tennyson approaches me next and I give him an apologetic grimace. "I am so sorry," I begin.

"You're sick," Wiggins says. "You can't help it. Tennyson knows that."

The boy in the hoverchair grins at me and gives me what appears to be a salute.

I return the gesture wearily. "We shall chat later," I promise him with a small, pathetic smile. I have already become tired of this illness!

Deirdre approaches me last. "I hope you feel better soon. I really hate to see you like this."

I take her hand and squeeze it. "I have had worse my dear," I assure her. "Watson is taking care of me and will not permit me to become worse."

She seems reassured now, for a small smile graces her lips. "Take good care of yourself and listen to Watson."

I nod. "Of course."

"We'll call by tomorrow," I hear Wiggins tell Watson. "You might need some extra hands again."

I remember to thank them and tell the compudroid that there is some chocolate in the kitchen that they can take with them.

"Won't you want it when you're feeling better?" Wiggins asks, turning to me.

I shake my head and smile. "You have earnt it. Go on, take it."

"Thanks."

I wait until the sitting room door has closed behind them and then cover my eyes with my arm. I am glad that they are gone; I could keep up my façade for no longer. My head is pounding and I am so very tired.

Watson comes to my side and rests a cool hand on my forehead. "You have been putting on a brave face," he notes.

"You saw how worried they were," I reply wearily. "I would try to keep it up for your benefit, but you can monitor my temperature and vitals without even having to touch me."

He frowns at me. "You should be honest with me anyway Holmes."

He is right and I admit as much. "But I do not like to trouble my friends..."

"I hardly have anything better to do," Watson retorts. "Being made of metal has its advantages. I do not become hungry or weary, for a start."

I try to smile. Not having to slow down to meet the demands of my body would certainly be an advantage during a long case. All the same, I can also see the disadvantages of being made of metal; being unable to taste or smell, for instance. To never smell a rose or feel the sun on my face...

"Are you all right?" my companion is asking me anxiously. I realise that he had continued to speak and that I had not been paying attention.

But of course I am all right! Why would I not be? I only have a cold!

"Holmes, can you hear me?"

Did I not answer him then? "Yes Watson. I am sorry. I must have been... My mind was wandering..."

"It sounds as if it still is," he remarks in what I imagine is supposed to be a calm tone. I know him well enough to recognise that he is trying not to seem scared.

I cough and wince as the pain in my chest flares again. Why does it hurt so much?

"Try to sleep," my companion suggests gently. "I shall be here if you need me."

I nod and again try to smile. I am glad that the fellow is not at risk of falling victim to this illness, but all the same... I wish that he was my dear old Watson! Never before have I wanted his presence like this while I was so very unwell. I feel I need him, rather than simply wanting to see him; I would even allow him to force what he pleased down my throat without a fight! I close my eyes and again try to sleep, knowing that in slumber I shall not think.