The loan of the blanket was a well meant gesture, to be sure, and it was true that the cold, damp december weather did no favors for my shoulder – but it was also true that I encountered enough nocturnal reminders of my time in afghanistan and the sub continent without the withering temperatures induced by Mrs. Hudson's massive eiderdown comforter for help. I spent a week tossing and turning beneath the fluffy cloud of downy torment in my bed, loath to give my dear landlady offense, before I was forced to acknowledge that my significantly shortened temper and the violet smudges continually darkening my eyes were probably making my state of affairs perfectly apparent to her, whether I meant it to be, or not. At last, at the end of a week, having drained to the dregs my resolve to put up with the borrowed blanket as well as my reserve of patience for Mrs. Hudson's knowing glances, I brought the very thoughtful and entirely cursed comforter down to the sitting room and threw it upon the sofa. I was sick of roasting rather than sleeping. Mrs. Hudson, I am sure, was sick of feeling guilty owing to the mounting evidence of my roasting rather than sleeping. I had concluded that there was nothing to be done but bundle the over-stuffed eiderdown away, someplace out of sight, and speak no more of it.
I found Holmes pacing and smoking before the fire, clearly deep in thought, and looking if anything as though he had slept even less in recent days than I. I had no patience to worry for him at the moment, however, and therefore only inquired tersely: "I suppose you haven't asked for breakfast, then?"
He managed to convey that he had not, that it was stupid of me to have asked, and still more stupid of me to have broken in upon his thoughts with such a question, with one eviscerating, grey-steel glance. It was clear he had no patience for me, either.
221, Baker Street, being a row house converted into separate apartments, had no bell pull in those days, so I thought it prudent to leave Holmes to his irritable pacing and smoking for at least as long as it took to go downstairs and speak to Mrs. Hudson. Holmes generally surmounted any difficulties in communication by shouting down the stairs rather than descending them, a thought which at the time made me all the more annoyed with him, so I informed him of my intentions to see about breakfast myself, rather than leaving him alone as he clearly wished. He acknowledged me not at all this time, but sank down on the sofa beside the crumpled eiderdown, pitching the end of his cigarette into the grate murderously.
I found Mrs. Hudson, saint that she was, already in the kitchen in spite of having received no requests for breakfast, and felt my discontentment abate.
"Good morning, Doctor," she said, with a cheerfulness that seemed remarkable when compared to Holmes' attitude, or my own, of that morning. "Did you need something?"
I paused in the doorway. "Actually, I had come to ask for breakfast," I admitted.
Mrs. Hudson smiled knowingly. "It's a rare occasion that Mr. Holmes gives any thought to food before lunch time. But you tend to rise like clockwork, and always with an appetite."
I must have looked surprised, for she explained: "At least half of what I send up is always eaten, and I doubt that it's because Mr. Holmes has developed a sudden appreciation for my cooking."
"Oh," I acknowledged.
"But you're up a bit early today," she continued, "so you see that I don't have things ready. Not trouble sleeping, I hope?"
"Oh, no," I began to protest, "not at all -" but then wondered if it would not be better to make a clean breast of things. "Although," I added quickly, "I find that the weather has warmed sufficiently that I no longer require the use of your very fine comforter."
Mrs. Hudson frowned. It was a blatant lie, of course, as we were both aware that the temperature had only continued to plummet, leaving the weather miserably cold. Nonetheless, she appeared to understand. "I'll come up and collect it then, if you'd rather."
"Thank you," I replied sincerely.
She had removed rashers, eggs and toast into serving dishes while we had been speaking, and now arranged these on a tray. "You may carry these up, Doctor," she said, indicating our pair of plates and flatware wrapped in napkins.
"Certainly," I said, relieved to have the comforter off my hands at last, and glad to oblige.
"Mr. Holmes hasn't been sleeping either, you know," Mrs. Hudson remarked as I followed her up the stairs. "I hear him pacing, nights. And the temper of him! The late evenings have hardly improved it."
"I'll speak to him," I offered grimly.
"It's alright," she dismissed. "But I do worry for him, with the hours he keeps."
"I think he has a case," I attempted to explain, but she shook her head.
"Only since yesterday. From what I can tell, he's barely slept a wink all week."
Having reached the landing, I balanced the plates in one hand to open the door for her, her hands being full with the tray, and our gossip about Holmes ceased as we entered the sitting room and, as we assumed, his hearing. However we were both surprised to find that our conversation may well have been beyond his ken.
Comically, he was precisely where I had left him on the sofa, save that at some point he appeared to have pulled the discarded eiderdown around himself, and fallen very deeply asleep.
Mrs. Hudson and I both stood and stared for some moments. It was such a rare occasion that either of us saw him quiet or still, except in those instances when he'd come across an intellectual conundrum murky enough to induce a contemplative mood. He was now curled at the foot of the sofa, burrowed into the comforter so that only the top half of his face and his sleep-mussed dark hair protruded, manifestly quite unconscious.
"Do you think he hasn't been sleeping because of the cold?" Mrs. Hudson whispered to me after a moment.
I shrugged in reply. Now that I thought about it, it was true that in spite of my being acclimatized to warmer temperatures, Holmes did not generally cope with cold as well as I did.
"He has no meat on those bones," my landlady continued disapprovingly, shaking her head. "I shouldn't wonder if he's been spending his nights up shivering."
"It looks as though he's finally warm enough," was all I could think to comment.
Mrs. Hudson nodded, then turned to me conspiratorially. "I think we should let him keep the comforter."
I could hardly find cause to object.
The old eiderdown, which was such a torment to me, is to this day as dear to Holmes as his dressing gown.