He remembered that night especially, for it had been an extremely trying day.
He returned from another fruitless attempt to find a small cottage nearby in which he might invest his dwindling fortune; and evidently the physicians had seen no improvement in response to their stimulus tests for they were unnecessarily brusque.
During the last three weeks, he had formed the habit of spending the evenings sitting beside the unresponsive figure upon the bed and either talking himself hoarse about anything and everything, or reading the country newspapers and an occasional Times aloud.
Tonight, he found he could no longer maintain the façade of cheerfulness that he had been told might be crucial to Watson's recovery. He settled on the edge of the soft mattress and silently took the limp hand once again, wishing with all his heart that he would feel some sort of returning grip.
But nothing. Watson was paler, more worn and frail than he had been even on that awful evening, so many nightmares ago.
He regained his voice at last, and lightly brushed the back of his fingers against the side of the pale face. "Oh, Watson," he whispered to the familiar silence. "Where are you, my dear friend?"
Unfortunately, his vision blurred at that moment, and he completely missed the "unresponsive" patient's momentarily furrowed brow.
.