When I awoke the next time, the terrible throbbing in my head had subsided somewhat to a dull ache. I opened my eyes, blinking at the light, and saw Sherlock Holmes sitting beside my bed, watching me anxiously.
"How do you feel, Watson?" he asked worriedly.
I moved slightly, very pleased that I was not feeling any nausea or dizziness, not yet at least.
"I feel fine, Holmes – I want to go home," I said.
He raised his eyebrows and then laughed, relief filling his strained, pale face.
"Dr. Barton said you were free to go if you felt up to it," he replied with a smile.
"Then what are we waiting for?"
"But…I am not sure I approve of your leaving yet, Watson," he began, his eyes twinkling mischievously at me.
"Holmes, I swear, if you –"
"Easy, old fellow, I was just teasing you!" he exclaimed, laughing at my glare. His next words were abruptly stopped by a loud sneeze, and I just now realized he sounded rather congested.
"I told you you were going to catch pneumonia!" I exclaimed in dismay, starting to sit up.
Holmes cleared his throat and shook his head as if to clear it, putting a supporting arm round my shoulders in case I grew dizzy once again. But I was extremely pleased to discover that I felt fine other than having a dreadful headache.
Holmes helped me up and then his supporting arm tightened once again as he sneezed violently.
"Perhaps you should be staying in hospital, not I, Holmes," I said, a wicked smile crossing my face at his suddenly panicked countenance.
"Let's get out of here, Watson," he growled, and I noticed his voice was rather hoarse. He undoubtedly was coming down with a cold from his coatless run through the rain earlier.
Once we were both settled in a cab outside, I turned to him inquiringly.
"So, Holmes, what did you –"
"Achoo!"
"Bless you. What did you find out from the fellow I tangled with in the street?"
Holmes cleared his throat hoarsely, an extremely disgruntled look crossing his face, and he hunched himself up in the seat as if he were trying to vanish into the corner.
"Nothing, Watson," he said, punctuating his frustration with some rather choice language, "he would tell me nothing other than that he was hired for 'a job' to warn Eckerton he should not have consulted me."
He stopped as another sneeze violently racked his body, and I struggled out of my overcoat and handed it to him. Glaring at me, he refused to take the article of clothing. So I merely threw it at him and most of it landed on him, covering his arms at least.
He coughed again, and an alarm bell sounded in my mind. As always, Holmes deduced what I was thinking from my features.
"You are most definitely not forcing me to drink that foul-smelling cough syrup again, Watson!" he snapped, finally taking my coat and huddling miserably into it, "you are not going to inveigle me into taking that twice in the same decade!"
"I am rather surprised you remember that," I said, trying not to laugh at his childish behavior, "it had to be six years ago at least!"
Holmes muttered something grumpily, sneezing again. Despite my amusement, I was quite worried about him – his face appeared to be rather flushed, either from irritation or a fever. As I watched him carefully, trying to appear as if I were not scrutinizing his behavior, he shivered and pulled my coat closer around him, clearing his throat once more.
Poor chap, by the time we had reached Baker Street he looked utterly miserable. So miserable, in fact, that he did not object when I insisted he change and sit by the fire while I fixed him a hot drink. The fact that he made no remonstrance over my fussing alarmed me more than his symptoms did – it was very unlike him.
My head was throbbing by the time I finished making the hot lemon water, and so after handing the glass to my friend, I started rummaging round in my bag for a pain reliever. I stopped my searching when Holmes broke into a violent coughing fit, and I walked over and crouched beside his chair.
He glared at me.
"Go away, Watson," he growled.
I almost smiled; three years had not changed his disposition when he was sick. But as he sneezed once more and moaned, I grew worried, and I laid my hand on his forehead – as I had feared, he was running a fever.
"Holmes, you are going to bed this instant," I said sternly, hauling him bodily up out of the chair.
"I said go away, Watson," he growled, sneezing once again.
"You are the one who wanted me to move back into these rooms, Holmes – so you are going to deal with the consequences. Now move along," I said firmly, trying to ignore the pain in my head as I pushed him toward his bedroom.
Proof of how ill he was, was evidenced in the fact that he only feebly struggled against my prodding. His fever did not appear to be high, but it still had to make him dreadfully uncomfortable, and he did not protest again when I put him to bed and piled several blankets on him.
I went and got my bag and then took his temperature – as I thought, not a high fever, but enough of one. Holmes's face was flushed and his coughing started up again as I put the thermometer away.
I knew I had to give him medicine, and I groaned at the thought – my head was throbbing violently, and I had no desire to make the pain worse by arguing with a grumpy detective. I bent over Holmes, and his bleary eyes looked at me with a rather pathetic venom.
"Holmes, I have to give you some medicine, or you will not be able to continue this case tomorrow," I tried the logical approach first.
"No."
His flat denial would have been comical had my head not been hurting so.
"Confound it, Holmes, I am in no mood to argue with you! Now you will drink this, or I shall sit on you and forcibly pour it down your stubborn throat!" I snapped, wearily massaging my temples.
I felt that the bandage was damp; the wound must have opened up again. Indeed, I was starting to feel rather nauseous and I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.
Even ill, Holmes's sharp perception had not missed those things.
"Go lie down, Watson," he said hoarsely.
"I will not. Not until you take something for that cold," I snapped.
My inexorable eyes met his, and for a minute we glared at each other. Then the absurdity of the situation broke upon me, and I started to chuckle. After a moment, Holmes joined me.
"Is it just I, Watson, or has three years made you more obstinate than ever?" his hoarse whisper followed me as I prepared a dose of medicine for him.
"Hmph," I snorted, secretly pleased that I had won this battle so easily – I did not think I would have had the strength to carry on much longer.
Holmes's spluttering reaction to the cough syrup and the juvenile faces he made upon its consumption were worse than any child I have ever come across in all my years of doctoring, and it gave me a bit of badly needed comic relief.
I made sure the blankets were tucked snugly in round him and checked his fever once more – it had not risen any. I suspected just a bad cold; probably he would be much better by morning.
As I pulled my hand away Holmes's eyes half-opened once again, and he peered at me sleepily.
"That wound needs redressing, Watson," he murmured before closing them once more, the medicine slowly taking its drowsy effect.
I smiled, turning out the gas and exiting the bedroom.
I rewrapped the deep cut on my head, wincing as I saw the stitches – I was going to have to comb my hair differently for a fortnight to disguise the fact! Then I fixed myself a very light pain reliever, one that would not make me drowsy – I had done enough sleeping the last few days to last me a week – and picked up the book I had been reading.
Lighting a candle, I returned to Holmes's bedroom and pulled a chair up noiselessly beside his bed, intending to keep a vigil to assure myself that his fever would not go up. My mouth curved upward in a smile as I recalled his simple "I forgot" when I had asked him about his coat.
Suddenly I had a horrid thought – Eckerton! He had gone back to work, and those two men were still at large! They would probably find him when he got off from his job!
I quickly went out to the sitting room, wincing as the pain in my head increased with the sudden movement, and scribbled out a quick warning telegram to Eckerton and one to Gregson at the Yard, detailing what had happened and asking for a policeman to escort Eckerton back to his home when he left his employment.
Within ten minutes the missives were on their way, and I breathed a sigh of relief – neither Holmes nor I had been feeling up to par and in consequence had nearly forgotten about our poor client!
An hour later, I received a reply from Gregson, a rather terse, annoying message, but at least he agreed with me about the guard. I finally relaxed in my chair, checking Holmes once more. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully, not coughing as much as he had been before. I settled back and resumed my reading.
Mrs. Hudson came bustling in a few hours later, wanting to know if we needed anything and fussing very annoyingly about my injury and Holmes's illness. I dispensed with her ministrations as quickly and as tactfully as I could under the circumstances, and she soon was on her way to bed.
Around one the next morning, Holmes rolled over restlessly, coughing slightly and muttering something in his sleep. I laid my hand once again on his forehead and was relieved to find that the slight fever had seemed to have vanished.
He appeared to be having no trouble breathing and seemed to be sound asleep, and so I took the opportunity to lie down for a while on the couch, within earshot if he grew restless. And I was very grateful for the rest, for my head was throbbing rather painfully, though the bleeding had not started up again.
I must have dropped into a deeper sleep than I had intended to, due to the pain reliever I had taken just prior to lying down, for when I awakened it was broad daylight, the sun shining with a watery shimmer through the sitting room windows. I moved a little too quickly and moaned as the pain in my head reminded me of the previous day's events.
"Are you all right, Watson?" I heard a familiar voice, a little hoarse, asking me from the breakfast table.
I sat bolt upright, ignoring the throbbing in my skull, and glowered at Sherlock Holmes. He was sipping a steaming cup of coffee and grinning defiantly at me.
"Holmes, you should be in bed!" I said, thoroughly displeased.
"So should you, Watson. Now do stop your fussing and eat some breakfast!" His words were punctuated at the end with a sneeze loud enough that it rattled the china.
I sighed wearily, for I could tell that any further remonstrance from me would be useless. As I sat stiffly across from him and accepted the cup he handed me, I was very relieved to note that his eyes had lost that fevered look and that his face was no longer flushed. His voice was a little hoarse, but he appeared to only have a bad cold, nothing worse. Twelve hours of sleep had helped a good deal.
Somewhat heartened by my mental diagnosis, I rather eagerly dug into my eggs with gusto. Holmes was actually eating – a sure sign that he either was feeling better or that he wanted me to stop my pestering. I did not care which, just so long as he was eating.
"I am thoroughly frustrated, Watson," he said, clearing his throat, "we wasted the whole entire day yesterday thanks to my blundering stupidity!"
I was forced to agree with at least the former statement - we had really accomplished nothing whatsoever besides putting forth a theory about the train being a blind and learning that someone was after Eckerton for taking his case to Holmes.
"I am puzzled, Holmes, as to the motive behind the girls' abductions," I said, stirring some sugar into my coffee thoughtfully, "there have been no attempts to extort ransom from the families or the fiancées – what could be the motive, then?"
"That – achoo! – is the problem I shall devote the rest of this morning to solving, Watson," Holmes said, rising from the table and fumbling for his handkerchief.
As he headed for the mantle to grab his oldest and blackest pipe, I ventured a brief remonstrance about the danger of smoking when he was already coughing and such – and was met with such a baleful glare that my protests died upon my lips.
And when, two hours later, the sitting room's atmosphere set me to coughing, I fled up to my bedroom, taking with me enough writing to keep me busy for a while. But before long my wound was beginning to throb unmercifully, and the painful pulsating of the blood in my head became so great that I was forced to return to the poisonous atmosphere to get another pain reliever from my bag.
The pain was growing worse instead of better as the time progressed, and I was feeling nauseous both from that and the fumes in the room, so I fumbled through my bag as fast as I could to try and locate the medicine. I broke into a coughing fit as a cloud of smoke came my way and staggered as the jarring motion sent a horrible pain shooting through my head, the throbbing clouding my vision somewhat.
Then suddenly I felt a hand on my arm.
"Watson! Are you all right, old chap?"
I was growing dizzy and Holmes grabbed me and pushed me out the door where I slid down the wall to a sitting position. I tried to repress a groan as I rubbed wearily at my forehead.
Holmes was sitting beside me, his anxious eyes not leaving my face.
"I'm sorry, Holmes," I gasped, wincing as another pain shot through my abused skull, "just – got a bit unsteady there for a moment."
"Watson, you should be resting. I did not realize the atmosphere in there was so thick – do please forgive me," he replied worriedly, watching me carefully.
I started to shake my head and stopped with a grimace. "No, no, it's fine, Holmes – I was just coming down for a pain reliever," I said, leaning gingerly back against the wall.
"I shall get it, Watson, just a minute." Holmes disappeared into the sitting room and I heard windows being opened. A moment later he reappeared with my bag and again sat beside me.
I could not help but laugh as I began to rummage through it.
"What is so amusing, Doctor?"
"We pay monthly rent for a sitting room, Holmes; yet here we are, sitting on the floor in the hallway instead of in there like we belong," I said, chuckling carefully so as not to jar my injury.
He snickered and gave me a rueful grin before sneezing once more.
I found the medicine and Holmes got me a glass of water. We were still sitting there, just chatting, when the doorbell rang with a very frantic jangling. Holmes glanced at me, and a minute later we both started as a small commotion took place in the hall. Mrs. Hudson's voice could be heard in a loud protest as well as rapid footsteps on the stairs.
A moment later, the trim figure of our client, James Eckerton, came rushing into view off the stairs. The man stopped in surprise, seeing us sitting rather undignifiedly out in the hall, but he was gasping for breath and obviously had news. Holmes scrambled to his feet, giving me a hand up, and tried to calm the man down.
"Mr. Eckerton, what has happened?" Holmes demanded.
"I – I have heard from Annie's kidnappers, Mr. Holmes!" the young man gasped, trying to catch his breath.
We had a lead at last.
To be continued - thanks for reading!