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"Where are we going?"

Mr. Gibbs' question broke several minutes' silent cab ride. Holmes braced himself against a hard turn before answering.

"The Irregulars' courtyard. As I understand it, Watson was checking on the Irregulars when he heard the calls for help. The girls stayed there while the Irregulars tried to find you, and Gretta started feeling poorly in the night. I joined the search a couple of hours ago."

"How is Gretta?"

"Watson did not seem overly worried." Some of Mr. Gibbs' obvious concern eased at the blunt reply. "I saw her for only a few minutes," Holmes added, "but she was semi-aware and asking for you and your wife. While she will probably be confined to bed for a couple of days, I do not foresee this becoming any true problem."

The reassurance erased a bit more of the line between Mr. Gibbs' eyes, but he said nothing else as the cab bounced through the streets. Muted surprise appeared when they finally lurched to a halt.

"They live in the East End?"

"They do," he replied, tossing a few coins to the cabbie though his focus remained on Mr. Gibbs. "They claim it is the safest place to hide, though they would also appreciate you not revealing where their home is."

Mr. Gibbs' silent promise let Holmes lead him through the twisting path to that debris-shrouded archway. One hand gestured toward Watson's hunched figure.

"Against the far wall."

Several inches shorter than Holmes, Mr. Gibbs did not have to duck quite as far to enter. Long strides bordered a run across the full courtyard.

"Gretta!"

The girl remained curled in a tight ball, but Watson looked up at the noise, relief evident.

"Mr. Gibbs," Watson greeted. "She's asleep. Her fever decreased quite a bit this last hour."

A distracted thought wondered how Watson had learned Gretta's family name, but Holmes shoved it away to focus on more important matters. Glazed eyes tried to look through him, and Watson's flushed face glistened with sweat. Holmes needed to hurry this along.

Mr. Gibbs did not appear to notice, hitting the ground hard enough to bruise his knees. A slightly trembling hand landed gently on Gretta's shoulder, but the girl still made no response.

"She'll be alright, Mr. Gibbs." Watson's assurance tore the older man's gaze away from his daughter. "She's a brave young lady. She nearly fought her sister free on her own before I reached them, and she kept her head about her, too. Enough to warn me that the man had a knife."

Pride suffused Mr. Gibbs' face. "My spitfire," he said fondly, the term obviously a pet name. "You're sure she will recover?"

Watson immediately nodded as a gesture referenced her side. "Keep her fever down and continue cleaning the wound. I will stop by later today to check on her. Which is your hotel?"

"Mrs. Gibbs will have a doctor waiting," Holmes broke in before Gretta's father could answer. "You do not need to follow."

Mr. Gibbs glanced between them, then understanding flickered into view as he finally noted Watson's evident symptoms. "We will be fine," he promised instead of acknowledging the problem. "I know Doctor Baltram from my school days. He will be able to help Gretta without you coming all the way across town. Thank you for protecting my girls."

"Not a problem at all." Watson made no effort to hide a steadying hand against the wall, and Holmes moved to stay within arm's reach as Watson dug a card from his jacket. "Don't hesitate to contact me at need."

The card disappeared into Mr. Gibbs' pocket, but he merely thanked them again, picked up his daughter, and left. Holmes easily caught the take care of him the other man conveyed silently. Watson could not hide his ill health from a stranger, much less from Holmes.

Or several dozen Irregulars.

"Do you need to stay here, Mr. Holmes? Doctor?"

Watson used his medical bag as a balance as he shakily stood. "No, Jackson. We'll be going back to Baker Street. Will you get us a cab?"

"Yes, sir." A glance at Holmes confirmed the request, and Jackson hurried toward the street. Holmes focused on his friend.

"How bad?"

"Minor." Watson grunted his pain when he evidently moved wrong. "Awkward spot. Slightly inflamed. Needs—" The words cut off behind another pained grunt. "Needs cleaning," Watson tried again, almost stumbling away from the wall, "but not here. Wait until we get home. Let go."

Holmes merely adjusted Watson's warm arm to ensure his friend leaned on him. His other hand easily claimed the medical bag and unused cane.

"Your fever is higher than 'minor.'"

Watson aimed a scowl at his feet. "No, you are just cold, as—usual."

The next step tripped over flat cobblestones. Only Holmes' quick reaction prevented Watson from hitting the ground.

"I am not that cold, and you can barely walk."

"I'm fine."

"You are not fine." Holmes caught another stumble. "When did your symptoms start?"

Watson's attention remained on his feet, though a frown confirmed he considered the question. "Sometime early this morning, I think," he said as they carefully maneuvered through the archway. "Gretta's fever was already rising, so I cleaned it as best I could, took a fever reducer, and focused on her." A piece of debris nearly stole his balance. "My last dose is wearing off."

As evidenced by the growing heat in Watson's arm. Holmes had known that from the moment he made his friend lean on him.

"Where is it?"

One hand waved the question away as Watson shakily climbed into the cab. He leaned back in his seat instead of answering, eyes closed.

"Stay awake until we get home."

Another gesture brushed that aside, too. "I'm awake. Fever reducer 's wearing off. Cab doesn't h'lp."

No, the bumping cab ride would not help, but neither would it let Watson's speech start slurring—or make him repeat himself. A hand on Watson's forehead found his temperature much higher than earlier.

"The infection is worsening."

Watson hummed something like an agreement. "No…w'ter for more f'ver reducer. Clean it. Poultice."

"Where is the injury?"

The answering frown gained a touch of confusion—and confirmed the still climbing fever. "Told you th't alr'dy."

"Tell me again." Watson's awkward posture in the courtyard came to mind. "Is it on your back?"

"Hmm." Watson turned his head away, flinching when the cab jostled him against the seat. "Lower, y's."

He did not elaborate, but Holmes had no time to voice another question before another wince became a long sigh. Watson gradually but notably relaxed, his head lightly thumping the side of the cab.

"Stay awake."

No answer. Watson remained limp.

"Watson?"

Still nothing, but lightly squeezing his arm prompted barely visible confusion. An aborted movement failed to move him further away.

"Watson, can you hear me?"

Confusion deepened to a true frown. "How l'ng?"

How…long? Holmes made no attempt to cover his worry. Had Watson just slipped into delirium?

Possible. Shaking his shoulder brought none of the expected grumbling, but sleep seemed more likely.

"How long what?"

"How l'ng…st'y?" Heavy thought furrowed Watson's brow. "Eight hours? No. N', th't's too l'ng. Can't…force presence. P'sh…away again, but—four w's too sh'rt. M'be…s'x?" The muttering paused, Watson's expression growing more creased. "Y's," he decided. "Y's, six 's good. S'x h'rs, th'n leave. Won't—make 'm le've again. B'tter—t' st'y in m' room."

To stay in his room?! Watson thought—no wonder Holmes had the sitting room to himself so often!

"You do not need to limit your time downstairs."

"Hmm." That noise sounded more disagreeing. "Got…greedy. M'de 'm leave. Lie to me. Can't—do th't again. Could b' perman'nt. S'x hours. M'be five. Four? N', that w's too short. Int'rrupt 'm. Said so."

Fear wrapped its cold grip around Holmes' chest. If he could not fix this—

"You do not need to limit your time downstairs, and I did not lie to you."

"Res'rch," Watson countered, followed by a muted expression of disgust. That confirmed fevered sleep over delirium, but the rambling continued, "Don' need res'rch dirt. Kn'w ev'rything. Lied to me. Don' want me. 'S'ok. Des'rve it. Won'…be greedy 'gain. Don' le've."

"Are you sure you don't want me to come?...Wire me if you decide you want help."

Watson's quiet words bloomed in Holmes' memory, bringing a substantial load of guilt with them. He had been blind. He should have known better than to leave town right after Watson finally started spending more time downstairs, and he should have heard the question Watson would not ask, would barely hint. He was an idiot.

"You do not need to limit your time in the sitting room," he said again, "and I am not going to leave."

Watson obviously did not agree. He shifted against the hard cab but flinched away when one hand brushed Holmes'. Cautious movements let him hunch into the seat corner in a way that declared he fought to avoid Holmes' touch.

"S'ry."

"Do not be." One hand against Watson's opposite shoulder guided his friend to lean on him instead of the hard cab. "Why do you think I want you to hide in your room?"

Watson winced beneath the jolt of another bump. "Des'rve it. Don'—monop'lize time. 'Void. 'Bandon."

Abandon. Was that the root of the change in Watson since Switzerland? Could he feel like Holmes had abandoned him?

"I did not abandon you. I was trying to keep you and Mary safe. You know that."

Something between a snort and a harrumph answered him. "S'fer a'one. 'E's s'fer a'one. I kn'w. 'S alright. Used t'it. St'y aw'y. Don' b' greedy. Won'—won' b' greedy. St'y in m' room."

"No." Two fingers tabbed the pulse slightly elevated with fever. They would discuss this later, of course, when Watson woke, but he needed to address this now as well. "Your decision is built on fallacy, Watson. You do not need to limit your time downstairs. I would not have asked you to take the other bedroom or help with our cases if I did not want you there."

"C'ses." Watson hid his face in his position against Holmes. "'Is cases. Not m'ne. C'n s'lve 'em a'one. Don' need me. Join…j'n a few. M'be four. D'pends on hours."

"No." He cautiously shook Watson's shoulder, seeking attention rather than pain. "They are our cases, and I would not have asked you to help if I did not want the assistance. You know I always say what I mean."

"Research dirt." That sounded like another noise of disgust. "Lied t' me. M'nt to lie. Could've asked. Would've—w'ld 've left. Flat. Room. City. B'tter break than le've." Watson's brow furrowed again, though Holmes saw no sign of renewed confusion. He tried to shift away from Holmes. "Le've? No. Doubt…C'n…hurry…time…"

The mutters grew more disjointed, each sentence containing only two or three intelligible words. What little Holmes could understand bounced between cases, hours with "company," and something about either Holmes or Watson "leaving," but the cabbie brought the horse to a halt before Holmes could draw his friend back into some semblance of conversation. A shadow twitched the street-facing curtain.

"D'ye need 'elp gettin' 'im inside?"

Mrs. Hudson hurried out the door on the heels of the question, and Holmes shook his head in a grateful negative. Their landlady had proven herself more than capable of helping either of them after a misadventure. He much preferred that over allowing the stranger in the flat.

"What happened?" she asked as she helped Watson sit up.

"Infected injury." Holmes paid the cabbie, dropped their bags in the entry, then took his friend's other side. "He fell asleep on the way home. Do not touch his lower back."

She quickly moved her hand, grabbing Watson's belt instead. Watson roused slightly at the contact.

"Wh't are you—no. Lea' me a'one."

"It is alright, Watson." Holmes readjusted his grip to take some of the weight off Mrs. Hudson. "We are home. You need to get to bed."

"Bed." A frown tried to turn Watson's mouth though he made a token effort at standing. "Bed for sl'p'ng. No' aschleep." He paused, then admitted, "Tired."

"Then help us climb the stairs," Mrs. Hudson told him. Clearing the door required maneuvering that nearly cost them their balance. "You can sleep when we reach the sitting room."

"Hmm." Watson's head merely came to rest against Holmes' shoulder. "Th't w's…fast. Settee. Ch'nge the p'llow. Hard."

Holmes tried to scowl at Mrs. Hudson's laugh. "I am not your pillow."

Watson made no reaction. His feeble attempts at walking faded to render him limp between them, his head still on Holmes' shoulder. Even the muted emotion dissipated as he slipped into a deeper sleep.

"Watson?"

Still nothing. Holmes waited until Watson rested safely on the settee before he tried again.

"Watson, can you hear me?"

"No."

Something suspiciously like another laugh escaped as Mrs. Hudson went for supplies. Holmes ignored her to check Watson's fever. Flushed skin burned beneath his hand.

"You cannot hear me?"

"No," Watson muttered. "You're…gone. Back eventu'lly. M'be. Must b' dream'ng." He shifted against the cushion. "Wh're—"

"You are home. Safe. Calm yourself."

The red suffusing Watson's face suggested approaching delirium, but something in Holmes' words or tone still reached him. He settled deeper into the pillow.

"R'ght. Wait for 'm. Said—he'd b' back. 'Ventu'lly. I c'n wait."

"Now," Holmes corrected as one hand moved pillows and quilt out of his friend's way. "I am here now, Watson, and I should not have gone at all. We will discuss that when you are feeling better." The door opened to let Mrs. Hudson hurry through, a bowl of water, the pitcher, and several rags in hand. Holmes quickly stood to drag the end table within reach.

"Anything else?"

"Do we have any honey?" He dug through Watson's bag for a disinfectant and the pouch of cinchona. "I will need it for a poultice."

She disappeared through the door, a promise of "I just bought some" barely carrying back to Holmes' hearing. He focused on searching for this injury.

And avoiding Watson's fists. Holmes' every attempt to move Watson's clothes sparked more fighting. When even talking did nothing, Holmes chose a different tactic. Surprise colored Watson's expression when Holmes abruptly moved away.

"Wh—" Whatever he intended to ask faded just as quickly. Bewilderment briefly furrowed his brow before he resettled with a grumbled "better," and Holmes slowly counted to ten before he tried again.

Which worked. Gradual movements prevented Watson from fighting him, and he carefully nudged the layers of fabric aside to reveal Watson's lower back.

There. Awkwardly just above his belt, blood on Watson's jacket concealed a bright red cut about an inch long. Blood and pus seeped beneath a broken scab made only worse by Watson's position on the settee. Holmes carefully picked off the scab's remains and started cleaning the wound. The pain made Watson flinch.

"No." Deep lines creased Watson's forehead as he tried to move away from Holmes' efforts. "No. Hurts."

"I have to clean it, Watson. You told me to clean it." The promise temporarily stilled Watson's struggling. Holmes used the opportunity to work faster. "I am almost done."

"No." Holmes had only a few seconds before Watson again tried to move away. "You're not here. Dreaming. Don'—don't touch me. Who goes?"

"Just me, Watson." He laid a cautious hand on Watson's shoulder, willing to postpone anchoring the bandage if it meant Watson would calm. "I am done cleaning it. We need to lower your fever."

"No f'ver. Jus' tired." Watson adjusted to take his weight off his shoulder. The wet rag fell to the pillow in the process. "Jus' t'red," he said again. "Let me sl'p. Dream. Dream didn't—push 'm away."

Holmes gently replaced the rag and added two more. "You did not push me away. I needed to research several things, not just soil deposits. If I had known you would get yourself injured, I would not have gone at all. I have told you that I grow weary of these bedside vigils."

Watson harrumphed something to the effect of disbelief before his muttering continued. His temperature did not seem to be rising, however, so Holmes simply kept the cloths cool. He would take a few hours of rambling over the true delirium of a high fever.

"S'x hours? N'. L'ss. Five? Y's, five 's good…"

Though that did not mean he enjoyed listening to Watson plan his next disappearance. He would find a way to raise the topic as soon as his friend woke.


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