I would have set my plan in motion the next morning, but a client arrived with a case as I dug through my bag. Four days and a long stakeout in the East End later, our blackmailer was behind bars, but during our long wait, Holmes had insisted we station ourselves in the one spot where the cold wind blew hardest. I decided to modify my original plan, combining the possible results of a driving storm and cold wind with my very real fatigue to use in my second attempt. This plan also had the benefit of requiring fewer medical supplies, and I needed only one thing from my bag, which I would use in the morning.

"Watson?"

I picked my chin off my chest, drowsily looking over to find Holmes staring at me. I had kept myself awake while he explained some of the details he had omitted during the case, but he had finished that hours ago. I had been almost asleep when his quiet question broke the silence, and I hummed a response.

"You will sleep better in your bed," he said, the corner of his mouth rising faintly.

I yawned and nodded, pulling myself to my feet.

"G'night, Holmes," I said quietly, still making only a minimal attempt to hide my fatigue. While not part of the trick I was planning, I saw no reason to hide something that would only make my ruse more believable, and he undoubtedly heard my slow, nearly plodding steps all the way up the stairs.

Holmes had promised Lestrade he would go to the station first thing in the morning, and his movements woke me. He had probably expected me to accompany him, but I listened for the door to close before going downstairs to set up my trick.

"Good morning, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson said from behind me before I could reach the settee. "You just missed Mr. Holmes."

I tensed at her voice, and I forced myself to relax as I detoured slightly to my desk. I could not enlist her help in my ruse, but rudely shooing her from the room would raise just as much suspicion as showing her my dilated eyes. I had thought she had already taken the breakfast dishes downstairs.

"Good morning," I replied, the words slightly too quiet. She would probably assume I was not yet awake enough to speak, and I dug through a drawer to hide my face. "That is alright. He was probably just going to the station to give Lestrade the evidence for the last case."

"He said he would be back for luncheon."

I buried my grin in the drawer. Holmes rarely voiced a promise to return by a certain time, and several years' practice had not diminished her irritation when Holmes canceled a meal. She had complained just the other day about food going to waste when he decided not to eat.

"What did you do to get his plans?" I asked.

A smile leaked into her words. "I refused to let him leave."

I huffed a laugh but made no response, and she eventually continued. "Should I wait to take the dishes? Mr. Holmes requested an early breakfast, but I do not think he expected you to sleep through it."

I shook my head, waving her away as I closed that drawer and opened another. "I am not hungry yet."

I did not have to turn around to see her frown. "You mean you are not awake enough to be hungry yet," she corrected. "I will leave some toast in case you get hungry before luncheon."

I had expected as much, and I was glad she knew better than to think I would want to wait until midday to eat. I would want breakfast soon, but I could not turn around without involving her in our bet, nor could I risk her returning to the sitting room before Holmes arrived. The drops I had used would have taken effect several minutes ago.

Her footsteps faded down the stairs, and the toast disappeared quickly as I moved the settee closer to the fire. Holmes would be back much sooner than luncheon, provided Lestrade did not call him out on another case, and he would see through my trick in an instant if I did not move quickly.

Pushing the settee as close to the fire as I could without risking it starting to burn, I built the fire high then set a half-full glass of water, the napkin with my toast crumbs, and the water pitcher on a nearby table. I wet the napkin just enough to make it appear I had spilled while trying to fill my glass, then wrapped myself in two thick blankets. A third I readied nearby to pull over myself when I heard Holmes on the steps.

Holmes was not the only one who knew how to malinger; I had seen far too many patients over the years to be unable to copy them, and we had spent hours in an icy deluge the night before. Such conditions had caused more than one of my fever patients over the years. I would not be surprised to have truly caught a chill, then a fever, from sitting in the wet cold for so many hours, and as I had taught Holmes almost everything he knew about medicine, neither would he. I just had to make sure I did not take it too far. Most of a diagnosis relied on the patient's words and actions, and I had no wish to forfeit our contest because my acting was too good.

Heat built quickly in my cocoon, and I wrapped myself tightly as I started to sweat. Fever patients often thought they were cold despite their high temperature, and Holmes would undoubtedly feel my forehead as soon as he saw me on the settee. I needed my face to be warm when he did, and the heat would also flush my cheeks, something I could not achieve with makeup considering his proximity.

He would also want to take my pulse, and I purposely wrapped the blankets in such a way as to prevent that. My pulse would not reveal my trick, but it would give him a clue that something might be off. Fever patients often had elevated pulse rates, but the rapid pulse caused by fear of discovery was not the rapid pulse of illness.

The minutes dragged, each seeming far too long when I only grew warmer and more uncomfortable, but less than an hour had passed when the door below finally slammed shut. Holmes' steps climbed the stairs as I quickly pulled the third blanket over my legs, turned my face into the cushions, and laid on the blankets to prevent Holmes from pulling them away from my chin. I started counting when he opened the sitting room door.

He noticed the shifted settee immediately, of course.

"Watson?"

Footsteps moved closer, and I growled as if just rousing. He had complained many times how irritable I could be when I was sick. "I just got to sleep," I grumbled. "Go 'way."

Something landed on his chemistry table, and he moved to stand between me and the fire. I forced a shiver, burrowing deeper into the cushions when the temperature noticeably dropped in his shadow.

"Cold," I complained, readjusting when my shoulder protested my weight. "Quit blocking the warm."

As I had expected, his cold hand landed on my forehead a moment later, and I tried to move away from it, stretching the blankets with my efforts.

His hand did not leave. I opened my eyes to glare at him blearily, still trying to escape the cold touch.

"Your hands are cold," I informed him. "Get off!"

The diluted drops of belladonna were still dilating my eyes just slightly, and a frown twitched his mouth when he noticed.

"How high is your fever?"

"I'm not hot," I replied. "'M cold. An' you're blocking the fire. Go 'way." Patients' vocabulary changed based on their temperature, and while a low fever could be expected after our late night in inclement weather, a high fever would be worrisome. I made sure my words indicated a low fever.

I turned away from him again and nearly hugged the blanket, ignoring the way my stomach growled, and he started trying to take my pulse. I shrugged my shoulder, blocking his cold hand from my warm cocoon as I released another small shiver.

"Cold," I chided, muffling the word in the blanket. "Your hand's cold. Go warm up first."

He continued trying to reach either my wrist or my neck, and I drew my shoulder up to my ear to block his searching fingers. I could not hold the position for long, as it pressed my face uncomfortably into a pillow, and he gave up when I shivered again and tried to bury my head. He knelt next to the settee instead, checking me as best he could through the blankets.

"Were you injured last night?"

I shook my head, knowing the possibility of infection had occurred to him. "Cold, not hurt. Le'me sleep."

His hands ran slowly down my back, what he could reach of my arms, and traveled down my legs, and my silent count was nearing its end when he pushed on my scar. I jerked my leg away, and he checked my other leg for only a moment before his hands froze, then retreated.

"Did I just lose the bet?"

I had been slowly nestling deeper into the pillow, as if trying to sleep despite his examination, and I stilled at the question. A rather rude word slipped out a moment later, and a glance at the clock confirmed my silent count.

"I needed twenty more seconds." I kicked the blankets away and turned on the cushion as I scowled at him. "How did pushing on my leg reveal my trick?"

He could not decide if he was annoyed that he had cut it so closely or pleased to have seen through my attempt in time, and his aggravation kept trying to turn into a proud grin.

"You are more likely to kick me than jerk away when you are sick," he informed me.

Of course. I would not have the restraint when sick to avoid kicking him in an unconscious desire to protect the old wound. I should have thought of that.

His flickering scowl changed to a definite grin at my irritation, but he asked a question instead of commenting.

"Belladonna to dilate your eyes," he said as he helped me push the settee back to its place, "and the heat of several blankets would have simulated the fever, but why were you groaning?"

"Groaning?" I repeated. I glanced at him as I cleared the end table, my confusion evident. "What do you mean?"

"You were not groaning?" he asked. The bag he had dropped on the chemistry table yielded the supplies for his next experiment, and he spread them over the table as I shook my head.

"I have no idea what you were hearing." He shrugged and turned to setting up his experiment, and hunger twisted my stomach again. I started digging through my desk as he refocused his attention on me with a frown.

"Yet you just did it again. Now who is the one hiding something?"

I laughed, placing a tin full of crackers on top of my desk. "That was my stomach, Holmes. Mrs. Hudson came for the breakfast dishes just as I reached the sitting room, and I had already put the belladonna in my eyes. I have eaten nothing but two slices of toast since before the stakeout."

I would pay for it soon enough if I was not careful. Unlike Holmes, I could not skip many meals without feeling the effects, and I kept crackers in my desk for just this reason. They made a useful substitute in the event we went too long without eating on a case, and they were much cheaper than stopping at a restaurant.

They also smelled good, despite being plain, salted crackers, and my stomach growled again as I opened the tin. Holmes did not turn around fast enough to hide his amusement, but silence fell while he finished setting up his supplies. That done, he hesitated for only a moment before disappearing towards his room. I paid very little attention, starting to edit a medical article I hoped to publish in a local journal. His ban on publishing only applied to cases, and I needed the money.

He returned a minute later, and the cracker tin disappeared to be replaced by a plate before I realized he had come from the landing instead of his bedroom. He returned to his chemistry table without a word, and I glanced up to find several pieces of cold meat and two more pieces of toast.

I could not smother a faint laugh, but he studiously ignored my "thank you." I ate quickly before resuming my work. I would wait a few days before making my third attempt.

So close, Watson! And only one attempt left :D

I've gotten so many reviews, I've lost track of who reviewed what. It's a delightful problem to have, and I do hope you enjoyed this chapter!