Author's Note: Still own only Samira and other OCs, not Watson, Holmes, or Mrs. Hudson. Or Lestrade or Gregson et all.

Well, I am updating as fast as I can for you guys. I am leaving for a trip for my residency in graduate school in a week--I will be gone from July 1 or 2 through the 15. I really doubt that I'll be able to update during that time, just a warning.

Hopefully you'll enjoy this next bit, it will be, I think, a breath of relief for you all. :) Thank you every single person who has reviewed--you guys are the driving force behind my updates. As always, thanks for reviewing me! I really appreciate it. (a hug to all you readers)

Hmm, maybe I'll work on my challenge fic now...

I've added a disclaimer at the bottom...

Holmes

I watch him for two hours, making sure to regularly re-wet the cool cloths and to comfort him when he is in the grips of a nightmare. Watson's teeth have finally stopped chattering and I let out a sigh of relief when I see that his shivering also seems to have lessened.

Please, I repeat silently, please, as I shake the thermometer. His temperature must be down, it simply must… His symptoms are abating, so surely the temperature is down? I nearly miss Watson's mouth when I try to put the instrument in and so I take a long moment to get a hold of myself. No wonder I hate emotional situations so, this is maddening!

Finally I get the blasted thing in the correct spot and I lean back in the chair, taking a deep breath. It is the waiting for this deuced thing that is so horrible—perhaps I ought to experiment with finding a quicker method of temperature taking. Really, though, I should be grateful to Sir Thomas Allbutt for inventing the clinical thermometer and thus reducing the waiting time for a thermometer from twenty minutes to five.

Still, three hundred seconds seems like a grievously long wait and I try to distract myself by considering different ways one could improve upon the thermometer, but my heart is not in it. It seems I cannot get Watson out of my mind even for a moment.

Finally, it is time to take the thermometer out and I do so, but I hesitate before I read the results. Again, another act not typical for me—generally I'm not the hesitant sort—but my Boswell's very life could rest on the result of this temperature taking. If it has once again risen—I shudder at the thought.

So far I have not entirely released the hidden, deep pain I can feel stirring in me, but if Watson dies I will not have even the vestiges of control. The thought of losing him and of losing all restraint is dreadfully disturbing—I have always been one to control my self and try and control the circumstances around me. I cannot, however, control the results of this temperature taking, but I glare at the thermometer anyway, willing it to coincide with my needs. There is nothing else to do, so I hold it up and read it.

It's just over 102. We've done it. We've made it past what I believe is the crisis point.

"Watson, your temperature is coming down," I blurt out with enthusiasm before I think. "We've done it, my dear fellow, you've done it! You'll be fine now, fine."

It's foolish, really, to speak excitedly to one who is not even aware, but I feel rather happy, overjoyed in fact, and I want to share it with him. He's beating it. He's fighting the fever.

This feeling is strange—it's better than solving a case satisfactorily. Much better.

So much better that I can't help but think that as long as Watson is alive, I could give up everything else in my life. A staggering thought, even now, but I can feel the arcane truthfulness of it. We are…attached somehow…attuned to each other in a most unusual way.

I do not believe I want to ponder these feelings over much—I am content enough merely to deal with the rest of this emotional nonsense if it means that I get to have Watson by my side.

With his fever down and his shuddering subsiding, it is now or never when it comes to trying to get him to take some more water, so I pour some into the glass, spilling a little onto the wash stand with atypical clumsiness. I pull my chair as close as possible to the bed and sit down. He stirs as I gently put my arm under his neck and support his head.

"Some water for you, Watson. Please try and drink, you need the fluid."

He groans expressively and his eyelids move, and I know he can hear me. I lift the glass to his lips and lean it forward, just a little, and he swallows. After several drinks, his lashes flutter and he looks up at me.

His hazel gaze is as clear as I have seen it in quite some time and in my surprise to see him so cognizant, I tip the glass further forward than I mean to and he begins coughing. Mortified, I set aside the glass and pat his back gingerly, only letting him back down to the pillow when he has ceased to cough.

"S-so…" His voice is still weak, but it sounds less like two pieces of glass paper rubbing together than it did before. "You tell me…I'll be fine…then...ch-choke me to death."

Watson grins at me, a sickly, pale, I'm-smiling-because-I'm-alive grin, but a grin nonetheless and I return the smile, taking the hand he holds out in mine.

"It is good to hear your voice, Watson, when you aren't delirious or saying your farewells."

He croaks out a laugh. "'Least I had a r-reason to be fr-frantic..."

At one point in time I would have been offended or, at the least, embarrassed, at his words. But we have gone through a lot together tonight, and while I may never let down all my walls for anyone—not even Watson—he has seen the inside of more of my barriers than anyone else ever will. Besides, I am so relieved he is well and his eyes are sparkling with such humor and fondness that I can merely shake my head at him.

"In all seriousness," I say soberly. "How do you feel? Do you have a lot of pain?"

Ever the doctor, Watson considers my question earnestly, obviously going through a checklist of symptoms in his head. "I can handle the pain…and I feel…better."

I look dubiously at him. "You are still not looking your best."

"Thank you, Holmes," he replies and I color slightly. "I am not; in all honesty…" he takes a deep breath, the talk evidently tiring even his supreme reserves of strength. "Feeling well at all, but I still feel better than I did."

That I can understand that perfectly. Before—before he had been close to dying. Watson's eyes droop but he shakes himself out of exhaustion, focusing on my face.

"You had best sleep now, I think," I say quietly. Thank God it will be sleep for once, and not a semi comatose state.

"Only if…if you will, too."

"Not tonight, Watson," I say softly. "I couldn't possibly sleep tonight."

He frowns. "Tomorrow, then? And…and you'll eat something, too?"

The good Doctor is very easily one of the most selfless people I've ever met. And one of the most stubborn, for that matter. "I'll sleep sometime tomorrow," I reply, because I can see it is necessary. "And I'll eat something if you do."

He nods sleepily, his fingers relaxing in mine. "H'mes?"

"Yes, Watson?"

"Thank…you…" and he is asleep.

No Watson, I think to myself, thank you.

Added Disclaimer--Hmm, I just read KCS' brilliant rewriting of 3GAR and I just realized this chapter basically ends in the same way as her did--twas not intentional, I swear I had it written before I read her fic! Sorry K, great minds think alike, I guess.