The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson
5th February
[Open on a blanket-covered lump on the sofa. At one end, dark curly hair is just visible beneath the hem of the quilt.]
John [narrating]: So Sherlock's sick.
[The lump on the sofa quivers.]
Sherlock [muffled by blanket]: Am not.
John: He has a fever, and the sniffles, and a nasty cough.
[Sherlock coughs.]
Sherlock: No, I don't.
John: Would you care to illuminate the reasons behind this sudden illness?
Sherlock: No.
[The camera swings round to John's face, which is wearing an expression of mild annoyance, perhaps mixed with slight amusement.]
John: Sherlock took a swim in the Thames last night. Again. How, you ask? Oh, he didn't fall in, this time. He jumped. Jumped into the Thames. In February.
[Sherlock coughs mightily, and John cringes. The focus turns to Sherlock, and we can see that he is poking part of his face out from the blanket – just two watery eyes. The highlight of pink on his cheeks is just visible beneath.]
Sherlock [defiantly]: You don't catch cold from being cold, John. As a medical professional, you should know that. Really, the quality of your education comes into question...
John [with exaggerated patience]: You're right, Sherlock. But submerging yourself in cold, filthy water can expose you to a wealth of viruses and bacteria, which can and did make you sick.
[Sherlock sighs and shuts his eyes. The scene closes, and reopens a moment later to a very different 221b: it is dark outside, and a fire has been lit in the grate. Hours have passed since the first sequence. Sherlock is sprawled belly-up on the sofa, clad in too-big flannelette pyjamas, his legs entangled with the quilt. His head is thrown back, both arms splayed on the throw pillow to either side of his relaxed face – much like a baby sleeps. He breathes slowly and quietly through his mouth, and his eyes twitch occasionally beneath the lids. John speaks in a whisper to avoid waking him, tightening the frame on the detective's face. He must be sitting on the coffee table adjacent to the sofa, to get this angle.]
John: In his defence, there was a murder weapon at the bottom of the Thames. All things considered... I can see why he did it. But don't tell him that. It was still bloody daft of him, anyway...
[Pause as Sherlock sighs and turns his head in his sleep. John chuckles softly.]
John: Benylin night-time is a wonderful thing...