Holmes threw open the door of his chambers, and Knightsbury gave him a mildly reproving look, as the tall detective crossed to the bed hesitantly, wringing his hands in an unconscious expression of his concern. Holmes kept his eyes fixed on the occupant of the bed, letting his analytical mind tell him what he needed to know.
Watson lay there, almost as white as the sheets, propped up on so many pillows that he was almost sitting upright. There was a clean, neat bandage around his head, and he was wrapped in several warm blankets. A low fire smouldered in the grate, warming the room, as Knightsbury began to pack up his bag, which Holmes had already observed was larger and far more ornate than Watson's; Knightsbury obviously served a wealthier client base.
"He told me that he has bronchitis," Knightsbury informed Holmes, as he continued to repack his bag, "I agree with that diagnosis, but he also has a severe concussion. I have administered a strong dose of laudanum for the pain and to make him sleep for a while. He has a mild fever, although I fear this may be artificially low as he was extremely chilled when you arrived – the fever may rise sharply. If it does, you should summon the nearest physician – I have sent word to three competent fellows all within five streets of here that they should respond urgently to your summons."
"But he will recover," Holmes said, in a low voice, as he stood by the bed.
Knightbursy closed his bag with a snap, and turned towards Holmes.
"If he is strong, he will survive it," the doctor replied, bluntly, "the head wound is relatively superficial and did not even require stitches. It will heal without further treatment; I doubt that there will even be a scar. The bronchitis and fever could be dangerous; he was not hypothermic when you came in, which is a blessing, but if the fever begins to rise, summon a physician, and try to keep the fever down with cold compresses."
"What can I do?"
"Try to wake him occasionally and get him to drink warm water or weak tea," Knightsbury advised, "to avoid dehydration. Administer laudanum or pure morphine if necessary for the pain – if you cannot bring yourself to inject it, at least get him to drink it instead."
"I am familiar with the procedure for administering injections," Holmes told him, a trifle testily, "anything else?"
"Do not exhaust yourself, Mr Holmes," Knightsbury said, gently, "you are no good to him if you push yourself to collapse. You looked dangerously close to it when you came in; you need to warm yourself, eat a decent meal, and get some sleep."
Holmes chose not to reply, as Knightsbury hefted his bag and headed for the door.
"I'll send my bill to Scotland Yard," the doctor said, and closed the door behind him.
Holmes head him exchange a few pleasantries with Mrs Hudson, before the sitting room door closed, and, a few moments later, he heard the distant thud as the front door closed as well. Silence fell over the household; no doubt Mrs Hudson had busied herself in the kitchen, and Lestrade was still asleep in the sitting room. Holmes quickly stripped off the clothes he had obtained from Buckhannon's luggage, and changed into his own clothes, pulling on a dressing gown over the top for good measure and additional warmth. He then sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, leaning forward slightly.
"Watson?"
There was no response – his friend was sleeping soundly, and the only sound in the room was the steady, albeit laboured breathing. Holmes reached out, hesitated, and then gently adjusted the blankets a little. Watson did not even stir. There was a gentle knock at the door, but Holmes ignored it. This did not dissuade Mrs Hudson, however, who walked in regardless, carrying a tea tray balanced against her hip as she pushed the door open.
"He's going to be asleep a while yet," she commented, even as she began to lay out cups and saucers on the dresser, "you should get some sleep, you know."
Homes did not reply, even as she pressed a cup of tea into his hands and draped a blanket over his shoulders, before she slipped out of the room and closed the door behind her. Holmes drank the tea without really tasting it, and automatically got up and poured himself another. He found numerous small jobs to do – stoking the fire, sorting some of his case notes, staring out of the window – but he invariably found himself drawn back to sit on the bed. The hour grew later, and Lestrade eventually nipped into the room to give his regards before he left for home. Mrs Hudson retired to bed, and still Holmes maintained his vigil at the bedside, a gas lamp lit low, the crackle of the fire keeping the room comfortably warm despite the chill outside.
Sitting on the bed, Holmes leaned back against one of the bedposts at the foot of the bed, and carefully drew his knees up beneath his chin, taking care not to disturb Watson.
"Oh, Watson," Holmes sighed, at last, breaking the silence, "Why? Why did it have to be you?"
There was no reply; Holmes had not expected one. He listened, his chest tightening in sympathy as he heard Watson's rasping breath hitching with every laboured inhalation.
Holmes had almost dozed off, seated as he was at the end of the bed, when his head suddenly snapped up in response to a noise; one so soft he might have dreamt it. Then he heard it again; a low moan.
"Watson?"
Holmes scrambled forwards, sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning forwards urgently; "Watson?"
Another moan was his only response, and Holmes reached out, turning up the gas lamp slightly. His heart went cold; Watson seemed to be asleep, but he was shivering slightly, and there was a slight flush to his otherwise pale countenance. Holmes reached out and laid his hand across Watson's forehead, and swore colourfully. The fever was rising, as Knightsbury had feared.
Getting to his feet quickly, Holmes poured some water from the jug on his washstand into a large china bowl, and pulled a clean handkerchief from his drawer. Soaking the material in the cold water, he wrung it out, folded it up, and carefully draped it over Watson's forehead, allowing the cold water to soak the edge of the bandage slightly. Holmes thought about removing the wrapping, but decided against it; if Watson became delirious, he did not want to cause any further damage to the recent injury.
Knightsbury had said to call for a doctor, but Holmes knew from bitter experience and conversations with Watson that there was little that a physician could do to control a fever any more than Holmes himself could do, especially with access to Watson's medical supplies and texts. He quietly retrieved Watson's medical bag, fishing out the thermometer. He had observed Watson often enough to know how to take a temperature – still, he had to hold it in place as Watson groaned and muttered feverishly. Holmes checked the reading; 104f. He swore again; any higher than that, and it could be dangerous. He peeled back the blankets, loosening the collar button of the nightshirt Watson was wearing, no doubt after being ordered to change into it by Knightsbury before the other doctor had mercilessly sedated him.
"Watson," Holmes said, speaking slowly and clearly, "Watson, old fellow, it's me… Holmes… can you hear me?"
He got no response except a groan, and a wracking cough that made him flinch. He renewed the cold compress, hovering worriedly beside the bed.
The night dragged by slowly, but Holmes did not rest, maintaining his vigil. Eventually, as dawn broke over the horizon, so, too, did Watson's fever finally break, after reaching a crisis at 105f. Holmes all but collapsed onto the foot of his bed as Watson finally slept, a proper, restful sleep, not drug-induced or broken by fevered rambling.
~*~