Poetry
by ElenaC

I have often had occasion to recount my friend's singular indifference to the various discomforts he is subjected to in his work as the world's first and foremost private consulting detective. His ability to go without food or sleep for days when he is hot upon the scent has been a matter of published record as much as a source of perpetual frustration for me as his doctor and friend. The reader may also be able to imagine my crossness with him when, on more than one occasion, I found that he had been, as the army terms goes, 'walking wounded' during an investigation, simply because the prospect of losing his quarry held greater terror for him than losing a limb.

What I have, so far, not put down in writing is the fact that Holmes, when home and without a case, can be the most lachrymose and snivelling patient that ever tried a doctor's patience.

I refer to one dismal week in November of the past year. My friend had caught a cold – finally! as I could not help remarking, considering that spending a night in motionless vigil in the undergrowth surrounding a suspect's house in the drizzle during that time of year is not exactly beneficial to one's health. He had promptly spent all morning in bed, and when he finally appeared just before lunchtime, still wearing his nightshirt beneath his dressing gown, his nose swollen and his eyes puffy, it required but one glance at him for me to realize his condition.

I rose immediately and wrapped a thick woollen blanket around his thin shoulders. He looked at me gratefully, opened his mouth to say something, and an almighty sneeze emerged. Fortunately, as I was still hovering over him, I managed to dissuade his groping hand from grabbing the tablecloth and put a napkin into his slender questing fingers, which he then used to blow his nose messily.

For a while, he put a brave face upon it, asking in a nasal voice if there was anything in the papers about the arrest of one John Fortescue and chatting a bit about the chase, but when the incessant sneezing interruptions began to wear upon his nerves, he finally subsided and merely sat there with a muttered, "I hate this."

"Maybe you should just return to bed," I told him, not without sympathy. "I'll ask Mrs. Hudson to make you some hot lemonade and a grate apple. And some chicken soup."

He made a face at this, but then, to my astonishment, he did return to his room and lay down without his usual protestation of being 'fit as his Strad'. Quite the contrary; he said nothing and merely pulled the blanket up to his swollen nose, sniffing and wheezing as if he were in the process of drawing his last breaths, all the while throwing me pleading little glances.

I merely smiled and placed my hand upon his brow. "I'm very sorry, dear fellow. Despite all our progress, we have not yet learned to cure the common cold. You're just going to have to wait it out."

He sneezed mightily, his upper body coming off the pillows with the force of it, and then he fell back with a groan. "I hate this. I wish I could die. Everything hurts, Watson. Surely this is more than a mere cold. It feels more like a tropical fever. I may have caught something at the docks three weeks ago during the affair of the missing fob. Are you quite certain it's just a cold?"

"Positive. I am quite capable of diagnosing a common cold, but I can always give you a thorough examination if you prefer," I replied, a trifle miffed at this slight at my professional competence.

He actually pulled the covers over his head. "Thank you, but no," his muffled voice came. "No pushing things down my throat, Watson. Nor anywhere else, for that matter."

I ignored the innuendo, half-hearted as it was. "Very well, then," I said, patting the heap where I judged Holmes' shoulder to be. "I'll be downstairs, taking care of things."

For an hour or so, I made him drink the various concoctions that doctors, in their helplessness, prescribe their patients in this situation, put ointments onto his chest and back (with barely concealed appreciation of his slender physique in my case and even less concealed disgust in Holmes') and diagnosed nothing more severe than a slight fever.

All the while, Holmes kept complaining. The pillow was too lumpy, the sheet kept tying itself into knots, his throat hurt, he hated herbal tea, his back hurt, his head hurt, his eyes hurt, and why was it so bright outside?, all interrupted by frequent sneezes and diligent inroads into the pile of handkerchiefs I had placed upon his bedside table.

At last, he lay quiet upon his side, swallowing against his swollen throat and snivelling.

"Try to get some rest, dear fellow," I told him gently. "I'll be in the sitting-room, in case you need anything."

"I need this to be over and done with, is what I need," he muttered nasally. "And I need you stop fussing. Nothing you've done has actually helped one iota. Now leave me the deuce alone."

This I ignored, knowing that it was merely his clogged sinuses and general self-pity speaking. "Just call me." I rose to go.

"Wait." He stopped to blow his nose and let the used kerchief fall to the floor. "Watson... would you... if you've nothing better to do..."

I picked up the sodden thing. "Anything."

"There's a book over there in the shelf. The one with the blue binding. Would you...? My eyes really hurt."

"Of course."

From his bashful manner, I half expected the book in question to be either a collection of fairytales or a romance novel. To my surprise, it was a well-thumbed edition of Tennyson. I forbore to comment and started reading. Not fifteen minutes later, when I was halfway through Morte D'Arthur, he was asleep. I gently blotted away the trails of moisture upon his cheek and left him to his rest.

Two hours later, he summoned me to his side because he was out of clean handkerchiefs. I brought him most of mine, and, to forestall yet another complaint, a tub of salve for his reddened nose, along with a volume of Keat's poems that I enjoyed. He listened to them as meekly as he had to Tennyson, without once uttering his usual derisive comments on the subject of romance. It almost seemed as if his illness were eroding his resistance to sentiment.

Not one to waste such an opportunity, I next read to him excerpts from a slim volume of poems I myself had perpetrated a while ago, when the romance between us was still fresh and new. Now, I do not by any means claim to be anybody's great poet, but I had hardly begun when Holmes erupted into such a salvo of sneezes that I was hard put not to take it personally.

Eyes streaming, he asked me to fetch him a bowl of water so he could "remove all this mucus from my face".

When I came back, it did not take me long to notice that my little volume had vanished. Holmes lay in bed quietly, and a newborn babe could not have looked more innocent.

"All right, Sherlock," I said sternly, "what have you done with it?"

He blinked at me, the picture of angelic if sodden harmlessness, and made thorough use of the warm water and washcloth before enquiring blandly, "Done with what?"

"You know very well with what." I was bitterly hurt. "It's the only copy in existence. Took me more than three months to write it, and another two weeks to find a printer for just one copy, not to mention the pretty penny I was obliged to pay for it. I swear, if you've done some irreparable harm to it..." I trailed off. Not that I should not put it past him to actually throw the thing into the fire, it was a bit much to accuse him of it before the fact.

"Watson!" he cried, dropping his pretence and reaching beneath his pillow. "Your bull-pup is showing! I was, I admit, about to play a little joke upon you, but seeing as you're about to seriously split a seam, I shall desist for sheer fear of my life. Your little opus is unharmed." To prove it, he pulled it out from beneath his head and handed it to me. "I am sorry, dear fellow. My only excuse is that I'm feeling thoroughly miserable, and you are looking so disgustingly healthy and cheerful that I was overcome by a misplaced malevolent impulse. Please rein in your Scottish temper and forgive me."

I glared at him, checked that my little volume was, indeed, none the worse for wear, and glared some more. For all his brilliance and undeniable greatness, Holmes' occasional bouts of childishness can be quite trying, and never more so when he is being a trying patient on top of it.

But I have never been able to be cross with him for long. Not half a minute later I leaned over and gently kissed his brow by way of accepting his apology. "I forgive you, but as penance, I demand that you cease your complaining for the rest of the day. Your pillow, for example, is no more lumpy than it was yesterday, you know."

He smiled in a commendably shamefaced manner and nodded meekly.

I, for one, was not above using his present contrite mood to heap more poetry upon him, secretly gleeful that he balked neither at Wordsworth, nor, surprisingly, at Whitman. He even swallowed his medicine, bitter as it was, without a peep of protest.

Of course, this malleable mood of his did not survive the night. By next morning, he was as grumpy and irascible as before. But I had a new weapon, and I used it without compunction, for I only needed to wave my little booklet at him to curb his more outrageous demands and grouses.

And, having learned that a sentimental Holmes is a gentle Holmes, if things got really bad, I simply read to him.