Despite the warmth of the bath, Mr. House had still been in some pain as Mr. Carrington had set him gently down upon the bed. He had turned the covers down, and received Mr. House's gratitude with a gracious, silent nod before taking his leave for the night. James was pleased to see upon entering their shared suite that Henry had returned swiftly with their trunks and whatever garments Alice had seen fit to send along. He took great care puttering about the room, rummaging in the trunks; silently grateful to find that she had included Mr. House's finest trousers and shirts, dinner jackets and boots. He found his own dinner jacket and trousers were perfectly pressed as well; and smiled to think of dear Alice pressing their clothes and readying their trunks, waiting for Henry to return and pick them up. She truly was a wonderful woman. Thus distracted, he paid little mind as his employer struggled to remove his stifling trousers and boots and don his nightgown. Even with Henry's assistance it had been difficult at best. More than once Mr. House had loudly proclaimed the effort not worth undertaking; his leg trembling fitfully. Only Henry's soothing words and the promise of his relief once so attired persuaded him to change his mind. Once tucked into bed in his nightclothes, Mr. House gestured impatiently for the vial beside the bed. Henry held it out to him obediently, and James tried not to acknowledge the hunger in his gaze as he filled the hypodermic and dosed himself liberally. Thus treated, Mr. House sank back into the pillows and waited for the morphine to begin to work. Henry stoked the fire, and added coal while James warmed a brick or two to tuck in beside him. The warmth of the room was nearly stifling, but 'twould hopefully outlast the night's encroaching frost. The pain in his leg would return in the cool of the night; as it always did despite however much morphine or laudanum he dosed himself with. There was little to be done, and Mr. House was sadly accustomed to silently suffering in the darkness. It was why he slept so late and stayed abed until the house had re-warmed most mornings.
Sparing a glance for the bed, James found Mr. House's eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and shallow; he was already lost to the drug. Turning down the lamp and drawing the bed curtains, James nodded a good-night to Henry who picked up a cast off blanket and hied himself to the chair beside the bed. He would keep watch the night for Mr. House; watch his breathing and wake him should his breath slow or stop from the morphine.
James sat down upon his own bed wearily, rubbing his nascent beard and relishing in the feel of the stubble beneath his fingertips. The skin on skin contact was invigorating; for a moment he felt sharply awake. Sighing deeply, he settled back against the pillows and struggled to summon the energy to remove his boots and change himself. Accustomed as he was to the unusual hours Mr. House had forced upon him he was surprised to find his eyes had closed of their own accord whilst he had been thinking. He struggled then to prise them open; but darkness settled, and he knew nothing more.
When morning broke, James could not ascertain. He lay in the semi-darkness quietly for a time; absorbing the sound and scent of the great Palace waking up about him. Too awake to sleep, too tired to rise; he drifted to the distant scuffling and voices echoing dimly. He left his eyes closed; childishly resisting the ever increasing light of the room and the subtle, muted footsteps that drew ever closer. When the footsteps stopped; James felt himself fall away from the noise and back into sleep for an instant.
Only to waken abruptly when Henry sat down beside him on the bed.
"Mr. Wilson?" he asked quietly; placing a hand upon his upper arm. "Mr. Wilson?"
"Henry?" James longed to remain abed for a time longer, but opened his eyes dutifully.
"Sir William asked after Mr. House this morn. I told him I could not speak for you or Mr. House, but that I expected you should be awake for tea this afternoon." Henry looked abashed. "Mr. House has stirred, but not awakened. His breath seems strong; I had not the heart to wake him as he has not slept through the night since the very last week of October."
"Forgive me, Henry," James struggled with his own weariness and his desire to remain civil; "but surely if you could not bring yourself to wake Mr. House you could allow me to continue to rest as well."
Henry looked abashed—and amused.
"Certainly, Mr. Wilson. However, I thought you might perhaps want the hour before tea to make yourself ready."
"An hour before—what time is it, Henry?"
"Half past one, sir." Henry smiled as James scurried off the bed looking dreadfully unkempt with his hair standing wildly on end and his cheek lined with creases from the pillow.
"Half past one?" James cried, turning one direction and then another. "Surely I have not slept the day away!"
"Yes, sir." Henry rose to his feet again, moving slowly toward Mr. House's bedroom purposefully. "Shall I rouse Mr. House?"
"Yes. No. What time did Sir William inquire after?"
"Tea time was to be at 2:30 sharp. In the east wing, I believe, sir."
"Then I think it best we rouse Mr. House and dress him in haste." James ran a hand through his own hair distastefully. "Do you think you can manage him for a time?" James asked anxiously. "I am afraid I shall need to tend to myself before I am to be any help to Mr. House."
"Yes, sir. I don't believe Mr. House will desire to shave himself, and he was thoroughly bathed last night, so to speak. I shan't take long to rouse him."
In the end, James found it was he himself who was late. Nearly so, in any case. He had dithered and frittered away his precious hour until the hour had struck, and then again at a quarter past. He had taken far too long in choosing his vest and waistcoat, and had chosen to shave himself lest he appear completely unkempt. At the last, he whet his hair and slicked it down; taking only a spare moment to pull himself straight in the looking-glass before dashing for the door. Of Mr. House, there was no sign; he supposed he had been taken down by Mr. Carrington once more. Only Henry's voice called directions to him as he darted down the hall.
"Down to your left, Mr. Wilson—and straight across the hall. Mr. House was taken down nearly ten minutes ago. You'll find them in the conservatory!"
Scrambling down the steps—James found his hair rebelliously flopped into his eyes as he slowed to a stop at the base of the stairs. With slightly trembling hands, he smoothed his hair once more, and lifted his chin nobly as he followed Henry's instructions before crossing the threshold. Eyes wide, he felt himself blush upon realizing he was the last one to arrive, without even the benefit of Mr. House's handicap to explain his tardiness. He beheld an august party settled 'round the table for tea; with Mr. House situated in a wide, comfortable chair near a well-banked fire. His eyes were tired, but his face relaxed; he was clearly not discomfited in the slightest by the situation. Mr. House smiled in greeting, and James smiled back- even as he felt gooseflesh rise and his blood run inexplicably cold. His only thought was panic—as a voice he had never before heard admonished him sharply.
"You're late, Mr. Wilson. I had expected a more prompt arrival from a fine physician such as yourself."
He could not decide whether it was the chilling tone with which Her Majesty addressed him; or the wide, beatific smile in answer upon Mr. House's face. The only thing he knew with certainty was that neither boded well for a simple tea party.