==Chapter Three==

'Love, the Doctor'

Nothing is so healing as the human touch.
– Bobby Fischer

Sherlock's fever still hadn't abated by the fourth day, and the constant vigil was even wearing on Sally below stairs. Admittedly, their patient wasn't complaining about the quality of her efforts, but she'd have been less worried if he was, it would mean he was starting to get better. His constant coughing was awful to listen to through the ceiling, she could only imagine how much worse it sounded up there! And the other three were looking more and more like death warmed over whenever they came down to the kitchen...

This morning, John was off duty for the moment, slumped wearily at the kitchen table and watching Sally attempt to feed Kathy a bowl of vegetable mash. Kathy wrinkled her nose in disdain at the spoonful being offered her: a small lump of unmashed potato was clearly visible.

Sally sighed, returning the offending lump to the bowl and crushing it with the back of the spoon. "There, that better?"

Watson echoed Sally's sigh and turned to his daughter. "You, young lady, are far too small to be picky about your food."

Kathy made a noise like a raspberry. Where on earth had she picked that up?

"For that matter," Watson continued, "you're supposed to be too young for this at all." She was only about three months old! To his wife: "As long-lived as Time Lords are, you'd think they'd develop slower."

"Mm-hm." Sally let Kathy take the spoon out, who waved it around triumphantly, then put her hand over John's and squeezed it. "Why don't you go to bed, love – I've got this."

He shook his head slowly. "I will, soon." Turning his hand so he could squeeze hers back, he gave her a tired half-smile. "But right here is nice." He needed the time with his family as much as he needed the sleep.

She smiled back tenderly, and leaned in for a kiss, their moment interrupted by Kathy dropping the spoon out of her high chair with a squawk of dismay. "All right, hold your horses!" While retrieving the spoon, "How's Sherlock doing?" Although the shadows under her husband's eyes told their own story.

"Not well," he said quietly. "Still feverish. His immune system has taken a thorough beating and he's having a difficult time making up for that."

"Isn't there anything else we can do? Antibiotics, mayb… oh no, those haven't been developed yet, have they?" Not for another thirty-odd years, dammit...

"No, they haven't," Watson murmured. And the fact that that was technically no obstacle had been weighing on his mind...

"Then again... that's not necessarily a problem..."

He folded his arms on the table and sighed heavily. "I know."

Sally brightened, warming to the idea. "Beth's got the Vortex Manipulator, maybe she and I could... do a little shopping, in the future?"

He frowned. "Shopping? Even I know that you can't simply buy penicillin, darling, assuming that either of you even has enough money." The price of medicine in Sally's time being absolutely unconscionable, and hardly much improved even in Beth's...

"Well, no, not in my time... but what about in Beth's? And even if the rules are still the same, it wouldn't be that hard to get medicine off the black market." Answering his raised eyebrow, "The boys did have to make a few bargains with them for supplies when Time froze. As for money... do you have any idea what just one coin from 1895 would be worth to a 23rd century collector?" Pounds, credits, whatever – it would be more than enough for what they needed, with no questions asked!

"The last thing I want is for the two of you to have anything to do with the black market in any time—it's bad enough that the boys had to do it!" And Holmes would not thank them for it any more than Watson would. He tried to soften his voice, not wishing for a quarrel. "Love, I'm not at all sure this is a good idea."

"Well, have you got any better ones?" Sally retorted. Oh dear, that had come out much sharper than she'd intended! "Sorry, but... Honey, this really doesn't seem like the moment to be worrying about respectability! Sherlock wouldn't hesitate if it was any of us!"

Watson's face twisted — no, Holmes wouldn't, and he wouldn't understand why not any more than Sally did... "Sally... I don't know that I want to use antibiotics."

"What?"

He stared down at his hands, folding and unfolding independently of thought. "Please don't misunderstand me—if I was very certain that Holmes would... if this illness would be fatal without them, yes, I would use them in a heartbeat. But I'm not certain, and..." He looked up, eyes haunted. "What would I do the next time I have to treat someone who's seriously ill? Someone outside this household?" How could he stay true to his oath and everything he believed in and withhold from someone a medicine that would not be discovered for another thirty years?

"Oh, honey..." Feeling like a heel, Sally slid her chair closer and put her arm around John, head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking." Smiling ruefully, "I keep forgetting you won't just be our doctor any more."

He smiled faintly back as he wrapped his arms around her, breathing in her scent. "It's all right, love. It's simply that... there are... so many... advancements, in medicine, within reach, and I can't... I don't want to be responsible for breaking Time again. But knowing that there are medicines and technology out there that could heal things we can only dream about healing right now..."

She squeezed him, a lump in her throat at the pain in his voice. "Yeah..." How many had he lost like that? And now Kathy was starting to fuss in her chair, lifting her arms imploringly.

Watson couldn't help chuckling softly at his daughter's antics. "I'm sorry, little one, we didn't mean to forget you." He let go of Sally and moved to raise Kathy out of her seat, who quieted immediately — she was going to grow up spoiled, but how could they help it, when she was such a ray of sunshine in their lives? "There we go."

Sally kissed Kathy's hair as their daughter settled onto John's lap, then sighed. "It's times like this I really miss the Doctor... Maybe we should call?"

Watson opened his mouth to reply when the doorbell rang. He frowned — that wasn't a sound they'd heard much of late.

"Postman?" Except he'd already been round with the morning mail.

Watson shook his head and handed the baby to Sally, going off to investigate. A young boy, not one of the Irregulars, was waiting with a package on the front step. He paid the boy and returned to the kitchen, frowning as he realised too late that he should have asked the child where the package came from. "There's no return address." He retook his seat and pulled out a pocket knife to open it. "You girls should stand back, just in case." Inside, a note in ruled paper rested atop a cardboard box — but the box clearly dated from around Sally's time, and the handwriting on the note was blessedly familiar.

Heard you might need this.
Love,
the Doctor

Eyes wide, Watson handed the note to Sally.

Sally's mouth fell open. "Oh my God..." And they'd never even heard the TARDIS! "Come on, come on, open it!"

Watson opened the box to find a pill bottle nestled among packing paper — it was a form of penicillin. The label even included Holmes's name and instructions. Watson gave a short, despairing laugh. "Oh, Doctor..." That answered one question, at least...

"Thank you," Sally whispered, wiping her eyes with a shaky smile. "Well, if that isn't a go-ahead, John, I don't know what is!"

Watson nodded slowly. "I suppose so." The weight on his shoulders had hardly lessened: he still didn't know what he would do the next time he had to treat a very ill patient. But the Doctor considered Holmes's state important enough to send help — no, he knew. Somehow, he'd managed to get a prescription, and Watson would have liked to see that! "I should administer the first dose now; from what I've read, fevers can still take a couple of days to break."

"Yes, of course." She kissed him, then added sternly, "And then straight to bed, all right?"

He smiled wryly. "Yes, Doctor Watson." Despite his fatigue, he managed to take the stairs quickly, and poked his head into the Holmeses' bedroom, where Beth was sitting beside her husband, an unopened book in her lap. She looked up in surprise. "Beth?" he said softly. "I have some good news..."

Two days later, there didn't seem to be much change in Sherlock's condition, although Beth understood that even antibiotics could work slowly. She was humming softly as she went to switch out his cold compress, and frowned: his skin glistened with sweat. She touched his forehead — he was warm, but he didn't feel like he was burning up anymore. "Oh my gosh." It was working; the fever had broken. The medicine was working.

"Nngg..." Hot... head hurt... everything hurt...

Beth's heart pounded as his eyes moved beneath closed lids. "Sherlock? Honey?"

That voice... Holmes managed to crack his eyes open, focussing with difficulty. "...Beth?"

Beth suddenly realised she was crying. "Sherlock..." She ran her fingers lightly down his face, then picked up a nearby cloth and started to wipe away the sweat. "Oh, sweetheart..." She could hardly speak when her heart felt so full — she should go get John but she didn't want to leave her husband, not just yet. His grey eyes opening was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Holmes frowned in alarm at his wife's tears, trying vainly to lift his head off the pillow. "What happened?" What had he done to himself this time?

She brushed away her tears. "You caught pneumonia, sweetheart; you've had a fever all this time, but I think it's finally broken."

Good God... And Holmes could see for himself just how serious it must have been, his poor wife looked as if she hadn't slept in a week! He tried to speak, but was cut short by more coughing.

Beth grabbed the glass of water on the nightstand and held it for him to sip. As he drank, she turned her head and called, "John? Mrs. Hudson? Anybody?"

"What's the matter?" Watson hurried in from the hall, and his face lit up at the sight of Holmes with his eyes open. "Holmes!" Thank God... and thank you, Doctor! He came forward and gently gripped the detective's shoulder. "Welcome back, old fellow."

Holmes managed a feeble smile, guilt lancing through him again at how haggard Watson looked, too.

Beth tried to not fidget with the cloth in her hands, needing something to occupy her. "John, is there anything I should be doing right now?"

"Yes, indeed: going to bed," Watson said firmly, though with a smile. "Oh, and on your way, let Sally and Mrs. Hudson know that our patient might like something that isn't broth." Mrs. Hudson would be cooking her heart out over the next few days, he knew!

Beth barely kept from sighing — she knew he was right. "Okay, okay..." She took Sherlock's hand and squeezed it lightly, heart still full to overflowing. "G'night, honey."

Holmes squeezed back weakly, murmuring, "Sleep well, love." With any luck, they might even share a bed again soon!

Watson waited until Beth was out of the room, then let himself slowly collapse into the bedside chair. Now that the first rush of relief was fading, the strain and exhaustion of the past week were finally catching up... as was the anger. Quietly: "You bloody. Stupid. Fool." Only his fatigue kept him from punching Holmes in the face — well, that and the knowledge that it would probably be the coup de grace!

Holmes flinched, cheeks reddening, a lump in his throat which had nothing to do with his cough. "I... I'm so sorry, Watson..."

"Yes, you always are, aren't you?" Watson returned sharply, keeping from raising his voice with immense difficulty. How many times before had they been through this?! "So terribly sorry, Doctor, you've seen the error of your ways... eventually! Once the damage has already been done! When it's all over, bar the shouting! For the love of God, Holmes, do you have any idea what we...?!" He couldn't finish, the knowledge of what could so easily have happened choking him, eyes growing hot and moist, hands shaking. They'd just gotten him back, from Moriarty and from his own foolishness... and even the roar of Reichenbach no longer felt quite so distant. They'd just gotten him back.

Holmes could only lie speechless, suddenly feeling horribly cold despite his raised temperature. What had he done?! Those few minutes in the rain had seemed so trifling, unimportant... and instead they'd almost finished him... And your family, too, most likely! What would Watson have done if he'd lost you for such a stupid reason, what would Beth have done?

Oddly enough, Holmes's stunned, remorseful silence seemed to calm Watson down more than any continued apologies could have done. He dashed his sleeve across his wet eyes, his own face turning red. Putting all that emotional strain on a barely-recovering invalid, what the hell was he thinking?! "I'm sorry, Holmes," he said quietly, heavily. "We'll talk about this later, when you're stronger."

Holmes nodded mutely, blinking hard. He couldn't even reach out and hug his friend, those few inches might as well be a mile while he was this weak!

A faint smile tugged at Watson's lips despite himself: Holmes looked just like a puppy in disgrace for chewing the rug... and utterly miserable, when they both ought to be rejoicing at his surviving the fever! Shaking his head, he levered himself out of his chair to sit on the bed, enfolding Holmes in a careful embrace.

Somehow, Holmes found the strength to lift one trembling hand to rest on Watson's back, breath hitching; pain stabbed his chest at the hot tears falling onto his shoulder. Dear God, he'd come so close this time... and there was still plenty of opportunity for a relapse that could finish him for good! He must do better from now on, for everyone's sake, try his hardest to be a model patient while convalescing. It wouldn't be nearly enough to make amends for what he'd put them all through, but it would be a start nonetheless.