"I'm sorry!" Watson screams. His voice drops lower and lower with each plea: "I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"

Sherlock Holmes is not the recipient of his apology; he doesn't even know who the doctor addresses. It's someone only Watson's glazed-over eyes can see. "I tried…I tried," he pants. "I tried…why wouldn't you listen? Why?" He tries to rise again, but Sherlock pushes him down into the pillows. "It's alright, old fellow," he soothes.

"Mary?" Watson questions, his hand groping to touch the person dabbing the sweat off his face.

"No, Watson," Sherlock says gently. This isn't the first time he's asked for Mary.

"Mary's dead," Watson says unexpectedly.

Holmes pauses. This is a conundrum. If he says yes, Watson will most likely go into a fit. If he says no, Watson will either experience brief delusion culminating in anger at the deception or become pale and listless again before the fever flares.

"She's dead," Watson repeats. "Am I dead?"

"Certainly not!" Don't even think it.

"Good," he mumbles. "I'm not in heaven, and I thought hell would be a bit extreme...for a simple Boswell…"

"You're very worthy of heaven," Holmes promises.

"Hmm…" Watson sighs before slipping into a fevered sleep. Act 1 is over, and they have reached the interlude. Act 2 will come soon, and Watson will punch and kick and screech with war, and sob with memory, and revert to a child whining that if Hamish is excused he should be too, but for now there is rest, and Holmes is glad.