He remembered the next day more vividly. Not because he had finally located a cottage near the cliffs – one that had two bedrooms – but because of what transpired when he returned in the crisp evening hours.
He entered with enforced cheerfulness, bearing an armful of books and the scent of the first falling leaves, to find Watson's physician and nurse performing their afternoon examination. He remained cooperatively outside the door until the doctor motioned to him.
"It's all right; we're nearly through," said the doctor amicably. "Taking his pulse and we'll be finished here. You may speak to him; just ignore us."
Holmes nodded, feeling slightly awkward at talking to his friend with others present, but did so for Watson's sake. He summoned a small smile and bade him good-afternoon, as he had for twenty-one days now, before standing by the bed to tell about the cottage he had found.
He broke off abruptly when the nurse exclaimed aloud. The physician's hand froze 'round his friend's wrist and a look of utter shock froze upon his face.
"What is it?" Holmes demanded fearfully.
The man's frozen expression melted into a ridiculously large smile. "His pulse just skyrocketed, Mr. Holmes. He is responding to your voice, I'm sure of it!"
The nurse jumped when the detective dropped all six of his books.