"Just how many hours did you spend awake while I was gone?"

The low complaint slowly filtered through the haze, recognizable a moment later as Holmes.

"Your fever should not have made you sleep for this long. You know better than to go without rest."

This…long? A confused frown never reached my mouth. What did he mean "this long"? And how was he even here? His research trip would not end for at least another few days.

Unless—no. My last memory was three days after his train had left. I could not have slept long enough for him to return. Even a sedative would not do that, if I could have taken one.

"You are not dreaming me, Watson. We have been over that. Open your eyes."

I would, eventually, but not yet. I could not, for one, and for another, I wanted to know where I was first. I last remembered the Irregulars' courtyard. Why could I hear Holmes' voice when he was not even in London, and how had I ended up on soft furniture? Even their best cot could not be called comfortable.

A settee, I realized. The settee. I was home, though I had no idea how. Could I have hailed a cab without remembering?

"You need to wake up."

Possible, however unlikely. I desperately hoped that also meant the Irregulars had found Gretta's parents. I could not imagine leaving her otherwise.

Willingly. Could I have left unwillingly? I had considered contacting Mrs. Hudson for help when I felt my own symptoms strengthening. She might have taken me home and gone back for Gretta. That would mean the girl rested nearby, perhaps just as ill as I had been. I needed to check on her.

A familiar hand pressed against my shoulder. "I am not letting you get up until you both open your eyes and prove you are awake this time."

This time. Alright, so I had apparently been sleepwalking. My churning thoughts had prevented me from sleeping much at all for the last two nights. The lack could easily have turned into wandering.

That would not explain Holmes' presence, though. Mrs. Hudson knew to lead me back to bed, and I rarely grew argumentative. She would have no reason to wire him for help.

"Watson?"

Unless I had been talking, as well? Possible, even probable, however embarrassing. I hoped I had not started talking. My somniloquy had an irritating tendency to revolve around my most recent debate, and Mrs. Hudson did not need to know why I spent so much time in my room.

Nor did Holmes, for that matter. While I rather doubted he was truly here, knowing my only plan for limiting my presence would produce nothing but trouble. As soon as we both acknowledged my traitorous actions at Reichenbach, he would unquestionably throw me out. Better to remain silent.

Not that I had any say in that—at least when ill. The somniloquy that increased with illness had betrayed my thoughts more than once. I frequently wished for a way to glue my own mouth shut when something bothered me.

"I know you are awake."

Yes, but that did not mean I could respond. He knew I always woke slowly, especially when I had no wish to talk. I wanted to go back to sleep. If he was here now, would he still be here the next time I "woke"? I did not often lucid dream.

"You are not dreaming." Long fingers gently grasped mine. "I told you that the newspaper's article brought me home early. Do you not remember?"

No. I remembered nothing more than long, draining hours spent at Gretta's side. Where was she? Was she alright?

"The attempted kidnapping made front page," he continued. "I wired to check on the Irregulars, but no one answered. I found you at the courtyard, taking care of the eldest girl and stubbornly ignoring your own rising complications."

Complications. The increasing pain of an infected injury. Yes, I remembered that much, but I did not recall Holmes arriving. My fever must have been higher than I had realized.

As evidenced by the worry lacing Holmes' words. The thought finally pried my eyes open, and relief immediately tempered concern as I focused on him.

"Can you understand me?"

I nodded, briefly scanning the room before he held a cup of water for me. A few sips eased my parched throat.

"Thank you." My voice remained almost hoarse, but the quiet words banished the rest of Holmes' worry. I must not have spoken while sleepwalking. "How long?"

"I returned yesterday afternoon." The glass clinked against the table though his gaze never left me. "Your fever broke around midnight."

And the shadows indicated it closer to noon than dawn. I certainly felt better for the rest.

"Gretta? Violet and Amy?"

"With their parents," Holmes answered quickly. "Presumably recovering. Mrs. Gibbs had another doctor waiting at their room, and you said Gretta's fever had started to decline. You do not remember that?"

I shook my head, wandering gaze noting the travel bag in the corner and an undoubtedly cold pot of tea on the end table. Holmes had spent nearly a day sitting beside my bed instead of finishing the "research" he had used as a reason to leave. I should give him the option to resume his trip.

"Sorry—" The word broke behind my dry throat. I swallowed and tried again. "Sorry to bring you home early."

He waved the apology away. "I was nearly done by the time I saw the newspaper," he returned, keen eyes studying me. He paused to consider each word. "You do not need to limit your time in the sitting room."

Heat suffused my cheeks, probably obvious though I pointedly looked away. If only I knew a way to stop talking in my sleep. This was not the first time I had rambled on about something better left alone.

Nor was it the first time Holmes had tried to call me on it. A hand on my shoulder once more kept me against the pillow. "Watson, I did not lie to you about my reason for going, and I did not leave because you spent too much time downstairs."

No. I refused to discuss this with him, refused to risk the consequences of where that discussion might lead. Whatever he had told himself, I knew the truth. Only one thing could come out of my betrayal at the falls, and I counted myself fortunate to be allowed to take my old room. I would not push my luck.

"I know," I muttered, easily avoiding eye contact by trying to sit up. "Don't worry about it."

"Watson—"

A weaker effort than I would have preferred still pushed his hand away, but I slowly managed to sit upright on the settee. Careful readjusting hid how much my illness had tired me. I could stay awake for a few minutes—plenty long enough to let him escape back to his solitude. Better to rely on Mrs. Hudson's help than risk my infernal sleep talking leaving me alone again.

"I'm fine. Finish your trip if you want." Concentrated effort fought back a wide yawn. "You said yourself that you were not yet done."

He still saw through me. "You are not fine. Why will you not listen to me?"

Because I would not risk losing his friendship completely. Maybe if I did not entertain the discussion, he would stop trying. An unsteady hand reached for the glass of water he had left nearby.

"I should not have left." The murmur barely reached audible before long fingers closed around mine. A light squeeze made me look at him. "You did not push me away," he promised, "and I did not leave in search of solitude. I had several topics I wished to pursue, and some of them—" The sentence abruptly cut off, then Holmes' ears flushed a bright red. I had been right, then. He had decided to be embarrassed at whatever he intended to look up. The confirmation did not change that I had greedily monopolized his time this last week, but perhaps the research had been primary and the solitude secondary. That meant I might be able to spend more than four or five hours downstairs at a stretch.

Which was a decision for another time. For the moment, Holmes still stared at me, silently insisting I believe him, and I finally managed a tired half-smile. We did not need to discuss this any further.

His hinted frown suggested I did not hide my thoughts as well as I should have, but he said nothing else as I resumed sipping from the glass. I needed several seconds to put curiosity to words.

"What brought you home?"

The question emerged low and heavy with sleep. A flicker of concern announced he had told me this already.

Because he had, I suddenly remembered. He had mentioned something about the newspaper as I woke. I still let him answer, however. I did not recall the full story.

"The newspaper ran an article about the attempted kidnapping. What is the last thing you remember?"

"Midmorning," I replied quietly. "Helping Gretta. Violet's arm was trying to cause a problem, too. You are sure they are alright?"

Holmes nodded firmly. "Very. I delivered the two younger girls to their mother's presence, and I last saw Mr. Gibbs leaving with the eldest. You said that Gretta's fever had decreased."

Good. I would check on them later, provided Holmes would tell me the hotel's name and that the Gibbses were still in town. That could wait until I could stand without shaking.

And until I could listen for more than a minute. Holmes started relating everything after he arrived in the courtyard, but boulders seemed to weigh down my eyelids. I found myself sinking more and more into the cushion, falling asleep no matter that I tried to stop it. I wanted to stay awake, wanted to listen to him talk for as long as I could. If he stayed with me until I fully recovered, I would need to limit my presence tomorrow, but my chin soon rested on my chest. Perhaps I could take an unwelcome nap into account when I decided how long I could chance. Did sleeping in the same room count as monopolizing his time?

Yes, because he would act as if he could not leave me alone. I would have to take myself upstairs earlier than usual tomorrow to make up for this, unfortunately.

"…Then you started muttering about how many hours you could afford to stay in the sitting room…"

Which would be that much harder with Holmes knowing what I tried to do, because of course I would have to fight to leave while desperately wanting to stay. He would not make this easy.

"…and I mean that, Watson. You live here, too…"

Not that he ever made anything easy. I occupied the second bedroom, yes, but this was his flat. His cases. His space. His life. Several comments over the years had made that abundantly clear, and I would not risk making him leave again. Better a few hours than nothing at all. I would have to make do.

"…One of these days, I will convince you I am in earnest when I ask you to become an equal partner…"

Not likely. Not when a single mistake could leave me alone. I was just the lackey, the errand runner whose stupid questions occasionally revealed a path he had not yet taken. We both knew he had no need of me. I would not hope for more when it would only crumble.

"…Are you even still awake?"

No. An attempt to reopen my eyes failed completely, and gentle nudges turned me sideways on the settee before a light warmth enveloped me. His running commentary soon twisted into something about "convincing a stubborn doctor that I asked him to move back for a reason."

Which made for an interesting dream, one that I fervently wished might one day come true—not that I could ever admit as much to Holmes. After a year of avoidance, three of faking his death, and another of mismatched actions and words, I knew better. I would simply have to return to the dream every chance I got.

That was still better than being alone.

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