It was I who wrote the telegram to Jackson's wife and Mrs. Hudson who took charge of its delivery. The fever, almost as stubborn as Watson himself, had crept up to just over 105. Jackson had declared war against it and commenced an immediate plan of attack. His weapons of choice included heavier and more frequent doses of quinine and salicylate. And, to Watson's chagrin, cool water treatments. We had been using cold clothes but Jackson felt the water would be more effective at conducting away heat. He seemed to be correct. Certainly Watson started more violently when the cold jolted him out of sleep, as I discovered during a moment of uncharacteristic unpreparedness. While awake he had a better control of his reactions and I was glad both for the sake of his dignity and my jaw.

As for the wretched, relentless coughing, it was only partly eased by whatever obscure herbal concoctions Jackson and Mrs. Hudson devised. There was little else we could do to make him comfortable. The inexorable fatigue would resolve only when the pneumonia did. No one yet has found a way of capturing and bottling sleep, more's the pity; the fellow who could do that would make a fortune a thousand times over.

Certainly Jackson and I could have used such an elixir. Jackson took the brunt of tending Watson, exiling me to the sitting room or my bedroom for the majority of the time. When at last fatigue overtook him, he would allow me to take his place at Watson's bedside for a few hours. In such a fashion we finished Sunday and drifted through Monday into Tuesday.

The pneumonia had halted its declination thanks to Jackson's stringent campaign. On the other hand, I should not like to call his condition improved by any stretch. The coughing and fever continued to drain his energies. It was fortunate he was already propped up with nearly every pillow in the household; he only had an inch or so to collapse back after each coughing fit.

Now he lay listing to one side, lightly dozing with his head turn to rest on one of the top pillows. His lips were cracked and lightly scabbed where the driest skin had split and torn. There was a sheen of perspiration on his brow and that ubiquitous flush upon his cheeks that despite our best efforts never faded. Then too there was that heavy, strained wheeze to his breathing that I had come to despise because it epitomized his struggles.

I sat noiselessly into the chair that had been drawn up to the bed. Jackson had already assured me my duties were only to make sure there was nothing he needed. A perusal of the log he had been keeping confirmed that.

I sighed. There had been no more bouts of delirium since Sunday and as such there had been no more references to Ellie. Or to any of the other girls, for that matter. I was not sure if I should wait for him to return to the topic or if I should broach it first. It may be that he would not even recall the conversation, such as it was. Certainly I would prefer to wait until he was recovered before discussing it.

A shadow of a thought streaked through my mind and I quelled it immediately. Of course he would recover. It simply went without saying. Jackson had said the odds were in his favor; I had no reason to doubt his professional judgment.

Watson suddenly made a choking sound and began coughing yet again, curling in upon himself. I sat frozen by indecision. He did not appear to need any intervention but that harsh, deep hack must have been as painful as it sounded. His eyes squeezed shut with the effort until he finally slumped back gasping.

"Watson?" I whispered, unsure if he was still asleep.

His eyes cracked open and there was a bright glitter to them I did not like. "Holmes," he acknowledged but there was scarcely any sound to it.

"Would you like some water?"

He shook his head slightly to the negative and let his eyes fall shut again. This little exchange repeated a few times before he finally accepted the offer. Even then, he only took a few sips from the glass I had to steady for him before settling back.

I put the rejected glass back on the nightstand and found myself once again at a loss. If there was anything he needed he had but to ask; I hoped he realized that. Finally I voiced that sentiment but softly so as not to wake him if he were asleep.

Watson opened his eyes again and smiled faintly. "I know," he murmured. He convulsed slightly with suppressed cough and turned his head away slightly. "I am so tired of this," he whispered more to the ceiling than to me.

"Being ill, you mean?" I could not help but ask. I did not care to imagine what else he might be referring to.

He nodded weakly. "Always hated it."

"Yes, that seems to be the consensus at 221B," I commented, striving for levity. "You have made note of my own surliness during illness."

Watson made no sign that he heard my words, having apparently slipped back into sleep. I was unsurprised by this but I still did not like it. Despite the exhaustion the sleep he was getting was sporadic and unsatisfying. I waited a few more minutes to be certain he was truly unconscious and not merely uncommunicative.

There was more coughing but no more conversation. After a time Jackson rejoined us, gently taking Watson's pulse without disturbing his rest. I relinquished the chair so he could make a more thorough examination. It was abbreviated though I could not see why.

Jackson turned to me, serious once again. "Mr. Holmes," he said slowly and quietly, with that sympathetic bedside manner so like Watson's, "I think it would be best if you stepped outside."

I paced up and down the landing outside his bedroom, my mind in turmoil. I halted, my heart nearly stopping, hearing his hoarse breathing and coughing cease – then letting my breath out with a hiss as he started again. I collapsed onto the stairs, knowing if I stood for any longer my trembling would cause me to fall. I had deduced the crisis Jackson had anticipated was happening but I had no way of knowing how Watson was faring. All I knew was that so long as Watson could cough, he still lived. Since I could be of no use whatsoever to him now, I allowed myself to sink into fit of guilt and self-recriminations.

I had not even known he was feeling ought but normal until he had suddenly collapsed gasping for breath. Despite the lack of cough, despite all the time I had spent away from Baker Street that week, I should have realized how worn and ill he had become. How could I have not seen the indications? Watson was good at hiding pain from me but not that good. If I had not been so caught up in the Lynch case . . .

I sighed and let my head fall into my hands. The Lynch case. Had Victor not turned criminal the girls might have had access to the school that had so fascinated them and thus avoided their misadventure. I still could not but help wonder why Victor had not simply come to me if he had needed money rather than descend into fraud. There too I was culpable though I had done what I could to make repairs after the fact. Time would tell if that was enough.

Another muffled coughing sound brought my mind back to the present and the problems I could do nothing to solve. I could not ease the burden of his grief, however unwarranted it was, and I could not ease his physical suffering from the pneumonia.

Even disregarding the inexcusable ignorance of what Watson had undergone in my absence, I ought to have extrapolated upon what I already knew of his character. Watson had an innate compassion for others and an overwhelming devotion to me and my cases. I should have factored in how his unceasing altruism would cause him to push his physical limitations past the breaking point. Had I been half as observant as my reputation claimed I would have realized he was in no condition to go tramping through an ice storm with me, even before I had sent that curt telegram Tuesday night. Who knows – perhaps that final exposure to frigid weather had been what finally pushed his health over the edge. I do not often make blunders but when I do they are spectacular ones. This one might even now be costing me a price so high I would never be able to pay. No case was worth losing him, not even one involving a former Irregular.

I jumped to my feet as the coughing from the bedroom stopped again, choking on the lump in my throat – but it started once more and I slumped back. Jackson emerged a moment later and I sprang for him eagerly.

"He's still very ill, Mr. Holmes, I can't lie to you," the physician said soberly before I could bombard him with questions.

"But will he –"

"If he continues to fight, he should pull through. The crisis is past, but his fever's still high and it will still be a battle."

It was not the best news he could have given me but it would do. By Jove, it would do! I found myself grinning foolishly, wringing his hand mercilessly. Fortunately Jackson seemed to be taking my reaction in stride, smiling faintly but understandingly.

I cleared my throat which had constricted tightly at the news. Then I swallowed twice, hard, before I was sure my voice was functional once again. "Thank you," I said quietly and meant it more than I could say.

TBA