"Inspector Jones to see you, Doctor."

Mrs. Hudson showed the man in reluctantly; Watson could already tell based on her reaction that the inspector had declined any offered invitation for so much as a cup of coffee. Not only, that the woman also held little confidence that Jones would allow the doctor to finish his own breakfast either.

"Good morning, Inspector." Watson stood and greeted the man, surprised by the worried look in his eyes and the impatience that seemed to run through his entire frame. "What can I do for you?"

"It's Lestrade." Jones did not waste time with pleasantries. "Something's not right, but damned if anyone knows what. He nearly passed out on us, and he's still not talking. I've never seen Gregson so worked up in my life."

"Gregson?" Watson furrowed his brow in confusion even as he reached for his medical bag.

"He's keeping Lestrade awake, but anytime he tries to ask what's wrong, Lestrade clams up tight. Usually he'll at least talk to Gregson, when it's this bad."

Watson followed Jones down to the street and into a waiting cab. "I was under the impression that the two were not exactly close," he offered diplomatically, still trying to make sense of the situation.

Jones looked back at him, distracted. Not like the man at all, Watson thought. "What? Oh, no they don't care for each other, but haven't you noticed? They always look out for each other. And if one's hurt, or sick, usually the other is the first to know."

"But Gregson doesn't know this time, and Lestrade isn't telling?"

"Right."

"And that's cause for alarm." Watson had seen the two men interact enough to know he had the right of it. "Do you think it's because he doesn't want to tell Gregson, or does he seem like he's not quite certain what's going on?"

Jones shrugged. "I honestly can't tell. Gregson can't either, which is odd in itself. Usually it's obvious enough when Lestrade is refusing to answer a question. He just stares at you and doesn't speak. No attempt at distraction, no trying to redirect the conversation. He just goes silent."

"Is he talking?" Watson wanted to know. Jones shrugged.

"Sort of. Nothing that made any sense." Watson frowned.

"Did he seem delirious?"

"No." Jones scowled at nothing in particular. "I don't really know how to explain it, but I've never seen Lestrade like this."

It seemed to take an eternity to reach Scotland Yard, though in actuality it took less time than usual; the roads had been surprisingly clear. Jones stepped down from the cab, Watson close behind. Together the two men entered the building.

Gregson's voice reached them as they approached the inspectors' offices; the sound was measured and steady, low but compelling. The two men quickly became aware that he was reading something aloud. It took a moment longer for Watson to identify what.

"The London express came roaring into the station, and a small, wiry bulldog of a man had sprung from a first-class carriage. We all three shook hands, and I saw at once from the reverential way in which Lestrade gazed at my companion that he had learned a good deal since the days when they had first worked together. I could well remember the scorn which the theories of the reasoner used then to excite in the practical man."

A cough interrupted the man's reading, followed by a second voice: Lestrade, though the words came out harsh and ragged. "I hate you. You do know that? I absolutely, completely, and wholeheartedly detest you with every fiber of my being."

"How eloquent. Been studying the dictionary again?" Gregson's response, though snide, lacked its usual venom. He resumed reading.

"Anything good?" he asked.

Lestrade offered a series of imprecations in a tone that made the hair on the back of Watson's neck stand on end. Gregson simply continued without responding.

"The biggest thing for years," said Holmes. "We have two hours before we need think of starting. I think we might employ it in getting some dinner and then, Lestrade, we will take the London fog out of your throat by giving you a breath of the pure night air of Dartmoor. Never been there? Ah, well, I don't suppose you will forget your first visit."

Jones cleared his throat as Watson took in the scene. Both men were seated on the floor, backs to the wall, knees drawn up nearly against their chests. Gregson held a copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles open and propped up on his knees while Lestrade rested his head against his own.

It was truly one of the stranger sights Watson had come across at the Yard.

"Doctor Watson's here." Gregson told the other inspector. "You will talk to him, and let him examine you, and do whatever else needs to happen, do you understand?"

Rather than argue, Lestrade simply nodded without lifting his head. "Go away," he rasped.

Watching Gregson climb to his feet was a frightening affair, but the man somehow managed it. Setting the book carefully on his desk, the larger inspector excused himself without offering any explanation to Watson, closing the door behind him.

Watson considered the man currently still seated on the floor. He could not see enough of Lestrade to tell what was wrong, but just the fact that he was currently on the floor in Gregson's office with his head pressed against his knees was a clear sign that something was.

"Lestrade?" Watson took a step closer, watching to see how the other man would react. The inspector looked up; dark circles under his eyes were framed by a far too pale face. His eyes glittered oddly, not quite focusing on the doctor as he took another step closer.

Lestrade's head tilted sideways slightly, as if he were studying Watson. The inspector did not seem particularly worried by the other man's approach.

Rather than continue to loom over Lestrade, who generally had to look up to meet his eyes when both men were standing, Watson knelt to put himself closer to eye level. Lestrade still had to tilt his head back to meet Watson's gaze.

"Doctor," Lestrade greeted the other man as if there were nothing out of the ordinary about their current situation. Watson felt his eyebrows lift.

"Lestrade," he returned the greeting. "What seems to be the problem?" he asked, opting to keep his tone casual.

Lestrade sighed. "I'm not-" he broke off, his eyes closing briefly. "Gregson worries too much."

"Jones said you nearly fainted." Watson offered. Lestrade looked uncomfortable, some of the color returning to his face. "He also said you were talking, but not making any sense." Lestrade looked away briefly, his eyes flickering to the side before reluctantly returning to meet Watson's.

"It's food poisoning. That's all. I spent the weekend working undercover over on Ratcliffe Highway." Lestrade looked thoroughly embarrassed. "Gambled on whether something was safe to eat or not and lost. Didn't really have much choice in the matter..."

Watson found himself wavering between annoyance and amusement. Sympathy was a given. "Life threatening?" Lestrade shook his head.

"Worst of it's over," he admitted.

"And you couldn't tell Gregson?" Watson wanted to know. "Jones said he'd never seen the man so worked up. Jones himself was pretty worked up."

Lestrade hunched his shoulders. "Gregson can never know," he intoned fervently, his suddenly wide eyes locking on the doctor.

"Oh?" Watson waited for an explanation. Lestrade closed his eyes and shuddered.

"He's been predicting something like this for almost as long as I've known him," the inspector grumbled.

"That you'll get food poisoning?" Watson asked. Lestrade grimaced.

"He thinks I'm not picky enough about what I eat." The inspector admitted. "If he finds out, I'll never hear the end of it."

"Hmmm," Watson eyed the man before him critically. "I assume your wife is aware of the situation?" Lestrade nodded. "And you've been drinking plenty of fluids?" Another nod.

Watson rose to his feet. "As long as you don't overdo it, you should be fine, Lestrade."

"Great, you can tell that to Gregson," Lestrade grumbled half-heartedly.

"I will," Watson assured him, offering the other man his hand. "And I'll be certain to mention the part about not overdoing it."

Lestrade considered the outstretched arm reluctantly for a moment before accepting the offering of help. It took Watson far less effort to pull the other man to his feet than it should have.

Lestrade swayed slightly, then straightened. "Thank you," he managed, his voice low.

The doctor raised a wry eyebrow. "I assume you'd like to return to your own office? Unless you're enjoying yourself here in Gregson's."

Lestrade shuddered. "No, thank you," he muttered fervently.

He and Watson made their way to the inspector's office, Lestrade trying valiantly to ignore concerned looks from his fellow policemen as they went.

Once there, Lestrade settled into the chair behind his desk with relief, waving Watson to the empty seat across from him.

"I hear you nearly fainted, by the way." Watson offered easily as he accepted the offered seat.

"They'll be watching me out of the corners of their eyes for the next week at least," Lestrade complained.

"You did manage to give them quite a scare," Watson pointed out reasonably. "Was Gregson reading The Hound of the Baskervilles to you when I came in?"