Chapter 14

"Friendship isn't about who you've known the longest. It's about who walked into your life, said 'I'm here for you' and proved it."

Watson pulled his handkerchief away from his mouth, catching sight of the alarming stain on the once white fabric.

Blood.

He hurriedly tucked the handkerchief into his vest pocket before anyone could see. His medical mind began to assess his own health, searching for an explanation. He'd been a bit run down. Occasional headaches. Not much of an appetite. His leg had ached more than usual, but all that could simply be attributed to a busy schedule and not much sleep. Truly, he hadn't been sleeping well lately. But it was the coughing that tipped the scales as to being something more than mere exhaustion. Even Holmes had noticed and commented on it. Twice. The first time, he had simply sounded annoyed and proceeded to receive a firm reprimand from his wife. The second, the consulting detective had actually sounded concerned. But Watson had waved both of them off. He was fine. Or, he would be after a bit more rest.

Truly.

Irene kept a close eye on their dearest doctor. He was about to leave for his rounds when Irene planted herself before the door. Watson raised his eyebrows in surprise. "May I help you, Mrs. Holmes?"

"Don't you dare Mrs. Holmes me, John Watson!" she said, hands coming to rest on her hips. Watson fought the urge to laugh, half expecting an accusing finger to soon be poking his chest. "Don't think that cough of yours has gone unnoticed. I will not have London's most superior medical mind ignore his own health."

"Irene, I assure you, I am fine."

Now it was she who raised her brow at him. Although hers was an expression of disbelief rather than shock.

"I am fine, Irene," he insisted. "There is no need to worry. Truly."

"John, for weeks now I've heard you sitting up in the parlor most of the night so your coughing fits do not wake Mary."

"Holmes," he called, ignoring the sting of his throat, "would you please tell your wife she is overreacting?"

"Apologies, old friend, but I must agree with my bride," Holmes replied, entering the room with Mary right on his heels. "You've horrid bruises beneath your eyes from lack of proper rest, you've scarcely eaten enough even by my own paltry standards, you've had increasingly painful headaches judging by the reading material piling up on your desk, and your coughing has torn your throat to shreds. Do not think I did not notice the blood stains on your kerchief." At Watson's stunned features, Holmes gave him a pitying look. "Honestly, Watson, it's as though you do not know me at all. I am a detective by trade, you cannot hide such things from me. Though a doctor with your skill set should have been able to easily reach the same conclusion. You, dearest Mother Hen, are ill."

Watson sighed heavily, about to argue just the opposite when a deep cough overtook him, bending him at the waist and snatching the breath from his lungs. Holmes and Irene helped him to his chair to sit down. Mary watched him with her blue eyes wide with concern. "Papa?" she asked in a small, unsure voice. "Is you okay?"

Watson swallowed, taking shallow breaths so as not to aggravate his throat more. "I'm afraid," he whispered, closing his eyes for a brief moment against the pain speaking suddenly caused, "I'm afraid not, my darling."

Irene helped him take small sips of water as Holmes knelt to look his niece in the eye. "Your papa is ill, lovely," he explained, "but we can fix that, can't we?"

Mary nodded eagerly.

"Right, well why don't you go sit on his lap then, hmm? I'd wager he'd like that."

The little girl wasted no time scrambling onto her father's lap, tucking her head into his chest. "Papa," she spoke up with a frown, "you're rattling."

Watson kissed her head. "I know, dearest." He could feel and hear the fluid in his lungs. It was as though finally admitting he was ill had drained him of his strength and made him all the more aware of his symptoms.

"Hush," Irene commanded, "you'll only make your throat worse. I'm going to go fix you some tea."

Holmes smirked, watching Irene flit about and Mary pat her father's cheek affectionately. "I dare say, you'll be well in no time with such excellent nurses, Watson."

Watson smiled softly, nodding as he pulled Mary in closer towards him.

"I love you, Papa," she said, craning her neck to place a kiss on his cheek.

He smiled into her curls. "I love you too."

"How is he?" Holmes asked, entering the doctor's room an hour after Mary had fallen asleep in his and Irene's.

"He has a fever," she told him as she dabbed at their friend's flushed face. "It's not very high though. Hopefully we can keep it that way."

Sherlock Holmes rarely moved as fast as he did when Watson suddenly choked and began coughing. Crossing the room to Watson's bedside, he slid an arm behind his back and held him upright against his own chest as the fit continued. Irene held a cloth to his bloodstained lips. Holmes found himself unable to look at the ruby red substance speckled across the fabric. He had never been prone to squeamish tendencies, but for some reason he was deeply disturbed by seeing Watson so ill. It was too like what he imagined Irene had endured during her bout with tuberculosis. And that damn kerchief of hers…

"Holmes," Watson rasped, his gruff voice pulling Holmes from his dark thoughts. He turned his attention to his friend who was moving out of his arms to rest against the pillows Irene had propped up for him. "Go," Watson ordered, having seen the far off look in Holmes' eyes and making the connection between his own illness and the horrendous period in which Holmes thought he'd lost Irene. "I'll be alright."

"How absurd, Watson," Holmes scoffed, righting himself and doing his best to shove such torturous images to the farthest corner of his mind. "I'll do no such thing."

"Sherlock," Irene said in the gentle but firm tone he had grown accustomed to hearing, "go get some rest. You look tired and I will not have both of you falling ill on Mary and me. I'll watch over John and come for you if you're needed. I promise."

With a deep frown, Holmes pondered her words, finally nodding and gripping Watson's hand tightly. "I'll come back in a few hours."

Watson nodded, giving him a tight smile. His lungs were screaming for air and the muscles in his chest were spasming ever so slightly as he tried to hold back another fit for the sake of his friend. The moment Holmes was out of the room, Watson lost his battle, wrapping one arm around his middle as hacking coughs ripped from his throat. Irene's slender arm wrapped around his back. "It's alright," she soothed, "you'll be alright, John."

Suddenly quite dizzy, he leaned his head on her shoulder. She wiped the blood off his lips and the sweat from his brow. "Just breathe."

Closing his eyes, he did just that, concentrating all his energy on what should have been such a simple task. Finally, she helped him lay back against the pillows, helping him sip from a glass of water. "You don't have to stay, you know," he forced past his irritated throat.

She gave him quite the look. One he was fairly certain his daughter had given him before. "I think I do."

"Irene, I'm a doctor. I can care for myself. You need not feel obligated…"

"Obligated?" she echoed in disbelief. "Is that what you think? That I feel obligated to look after you?"

"Well, Sherlock…"

"Is my husband, yes," Irene interrupted, moving from her chair to perch on the side of the bed, "but John, I care for you too. We may not have always been friends, but I like to think we are on our way to becoming so."

"Yes, I'd like to think so too," he told her honestly. He smirked. "I do apologize if my manner toward you has been less than cordial. I confess, at first I was a bit wary of you. It was alarming to meet someone who could hold their own against Sherlock Holmes" he coughed, waving off her assistance. This time, it was manageable. "And I could see the power you had over him," he continued, albeit a bit breathlessly. "I did not want to see him hurt."

"I would never hurt Sherlock."

"I know that now," Watson smiled. "I've never seen him so happy as the day he told me the two of you were to marry."

"I have," she said, taking his hand in both hers. "When he first told me about Mary, and then when he introduced me to her. His eyes… They positively sparkled, John."

"He does dote on her," Watson agreed. He gave her hand a light squeeze. "He'll make a good father himself one day."

A thoughtful, knowing smile crossed Irene's painted lips. "Perhaps."

He coughed a bit, his throat positively burning, and he reached for the glass of water with a shaking hand. "Allow me," Irene insisted, once again helping him drink. He nodded his thanks, unable to find the strength to summon his voice again, and not all together confident he had much of one left. "Your fever seems to have abated," she hummed, placing a hand to his brow. "Keep this up Doctor, and you may find yourself all but well come morning."

He smiled at that. God willing, he would be. It'd only been a few hours, but already he missed his daughter's company. He loathed the idea of spending another night without her nearby.

"You know, he cares for you. A great deal. He loves me, yes, but you hold a special place in his heart. One no one else could ever claim. You must not think less of him for leaving tonight. We've never discussed it, but I know when he thought me dead, it was for you he continued to fight." Having been fiddling with a clean cloth, she finally turned her gaze to him. "If something were to happen to you, John, I don't know that he'd ever recover."

Watson shook his head, struggling to find his voice, and not only because of his illness. "He'd have you. He'd be fine."

"But no one can take your place, John," she said, wiping away a tear he hadn't realized he'd shed and placing a light kiss on his forehead. "He'd be lost without his Boswell."

It was sometime late into the night when Watson awoke to music. Though Irene was asleep in the chair beside the bed, Holmes stood next to the window. Violin resting between his chin and shoulder, he swayed slightly as he coaxed a soothing melody from the instrument with a flourish of his bow. Watson smiled, closing his eyes and allowing himself to be lulled to sleep by the gentle music.