A/N: A 221B.


Exhaustion

I had been out all morning; an urgent call from a patient which kept me from Baker Street.

I knew that Holmes had nothing to do at the moment, having just concluded a complicated case where all the official forces had failed. He had been in the most brilliant mood in the evening, which I suspected to last for a few days at least.

However, Mrs Hudson greeted me with a worried expression. "It's Mr Holmes, Doctor. I don't like the look of him."

"I trust he has eaten?"

"Oh, yes, but that's about it. I have neither seen nor heard him since."

I knew that the blinds of the sitting room had been drawn, but I had thought nothing of it before. "I will go up."

I turned up the gas, flooding the room with warm light that the winter sun lacked.

Holmes lay on the sofa, unmoving, his chest lifting slowly with each breath, but his eyes remained stubbornly shut.

"Holmes?" I hurried to his side, grasping his shoulder, assuming him to be ill, or worse, but he merely groaned and pushed my hand away. "Oh, Watson, do leave me alone. I'm exhausted."

"You were sleeping!"

"Of course. What were you thinking?"

"Don't you think you'd better rest in bed?"