In which Captain Holmes' recovery does not go as smoothly as either her or Molly would prefer.

In spite of Molly's careful cleansing of the bayonet wound with both alcohol and boiled water, a fever set in. Doctor Watson visited daily during that week, a week during which both he and Molly worried for his life. On the night of his crisis, however, she found herself alone with him while Doctor Watson was forced to attend to Colonel Moran, who had been showing worsening signs of extreme digestive discomfort for the last couple of days.

"I fear dysentery," John had quietly confided to her before leaving that day. "And I'm afraid you know what that could mean for us all."

Indeed she did. Dysentery, or the flux as it was more commonly known, was a modern-day plague, causing intestinal cramping, fever, and loose bowels. The blood in the loose stools might come from the tearing of the rectum or from some unknown internal bleeding, and its cause was a mystery. Even the fact that it afflicted more people in the humid southern portions of the continent, especially in the summer months, brought no lessening of their shared concerns; the disease had been known to tear through northern communities as well.

There were many remedies that had been tried, none of which seemed to do more than ease the sufferer's pain. The only two in which John pinned any faith were dogwood bark tea and opium. Molly, who had only heard about the dreadful illness second-hand, could only hope that the colonel was suffering from something less contagious.

But both he and his alimentary ailments, whatever their source, were soon relegated to the back of her mind as Sherlock's fever overtook him. For hours she was subjected first to his delirious rantings and then, more disturbingly, his mumbled protestations of affection, his urgent demands that she not leave him. At first she thought he was mistaking her for his former mistress, but when she gently tried to tell him she wasn't Irene, his response was a weak but snappish, "I know it's you Molly, don't be moronic. 'Spect better of you. Brains. Know you have 'em, use 'em. Here, I mean. Use 'em here with me, can't leave me alone with these idiots..."

His words lapsed into incoherent mumbles as his fever raged. She tried to coax some willowbark tea into him, but managed only a few spoonsful until he knocked her hand away. "Corporal Wiggins!" she called out as she attempted to keep Sherlock from reopening his bandaged wound with his thrashing. The young man came running, pinning Sherlock's legs while Molly did her best to keep his arms still.

They held onto him with grim persistence until well after midnight, when his crisis peaked and he suddenly lapsed back into unconsciousness. She allowed Wiggins to retire for the night after that, keeping it to herself that the captain's sleep was actually a coma from which he would either recover fully...or never awaken.

She spent her vigil pondering the words spoken in his delirium and bathing his brow with tepid water. And when at last he sighed and stirred, one hand weakly coming to rest over hers, she nearly wept with relief.

He was unquestionably on the mend.

oOo

If only a Captain Holmes on the mend were as easy to care for as a Captain Holmes stricken with fever, Molly found herself thinking - with increasing waspishness - during the days that followed.

As she quickly discovered, he was quite possibly the most difficult patient any nurse had ever been forced to attend to. The only positive she could take from the experience was that his wound was healing nicely, although she privately wished more than once that it might heal a tad bit quicker. Then she chastised herself for such selfish thoughts; the man had been wounded, after all, and even if it was in a skirmish with her own countrymen, that didn't make his injury any less painful to endure.

It didn't help that for the next two weeks the only other people with whom she had more than the most fleeting contact were John and Corporal Wiggins - Billy, as he shyly asked her to call him. She took all her meals inside the quarters she and the captain shared; some of the food she prepared herself and some Wiggins supplied from the officer's mess. Sherlock, of course, was restricted to a diet of clear broths and weak tea until such time as he regained his strength - another point of contention between them on which John had to arbitrate during one of his hurried visits.

It was hardly the first time she'd been forced to rely on the doctor for assistance. Only days after John had confirmed that nourishing broths were in Sherlock's best interest - and that he would be given nothing stronger until both he and Molly agreed Sherlock was ready for it - the infuriating man decided to try her patience in a far more worrisome way.

Molly was settled on the front porch, a bowl of peas for shelling on her lap, enjoying the rare autumn sunshine while Sherlock slept. The fear of dysentery had been allayed; it appeared that an improperly prepared bowl of mussels had been the cause of Colonel Moran's illness. The doctor, however, was still kept busy with the other injured soldiers as well as with the usual complaints and ailments common to the season.

It had been far too long since Molly had enjoyed a civil conversation with him - or with anyone, since her conversations with Sherlock could hardly count as civil! - that didn't involve dressings and bodily functions. Oh what she wouldn't give for a good gossip with some of her neighbors back home in Baxton, or a quiet afternoon discussing family or the war with her Aunt Martha.

A stab of homesickness threatened to overwhelm her, and she resolved to write her aunt a letter, even knowing it would be read by Colonel Moran or his abhorrent little spy, Sergeant Moriarty. The man's threats against her dear aunt were uppermost in her thoughts, second only to her concerns for Sherlock, and then only because he was in more immediate danger - or so she consoled herself when guilt overcame her for not putting her family first.

Molly started, nearly dropping the bowl of peas when she heard what sounded like a muffled bang from inside the house. She hurried inside to discover Sherlock not only out of bed, but kneeling in front of the largest of his three trunks of personal belongings, digging through its contents in search of she knew not what. "Sherlock, what are you doing? Get back into bed this instant!" she exclaimed.

He made no response, nor showed any sign that he'd even heard her as he continued to rummage through the trunk's contents.

She bit off an angry exclamation when he tossed a handful of cravats and undergarments onto the floor near her feet. "Sherlock, I must insist you get back into bed at once!" she remonstrated, stepping carefully over the discarded articles and reaching down to grasp his shoulder. "You are in no fit condition for this sort of nonsense! You'll tear your stitches open and risk another fever!"

He glanced up at her finally, a scowl twisting his lips. "Bored!" he exclaimed, then dug further into the trunk. With an exclamation of triumph he pulled out a violin case, caressing it lovingly as he cradled it in his arms. "Just what the doctor ordered." He gave her a haughty stare. "Do not think to tell me I'll not be allowed this comfort, as you've already forbidden me my pipe or even the luxury of a walk to the privy!"

He made as if to rise, wincing and favoring his injured leg but quickly schooling his expression into one of stoic calm.

Molly stamped her foot angrily. "If you don't get back into bed this instant, I will fetch Doctor Watson to force you there, don't think I won't! And then where will your precious plan be, if he's seen coming to your aid so frequently?"

That caught his attention; he glared up at her, still cradling the violin in his arms. "If he's seen coming at your behest, it will only aid in the perception that you have him wrapped around your dainty little finger," he bit out angrily. "Not that it matters much anymore," he muttered, wiping impatiently at the sweat that had gathered on his brow. A sweat that should never have formed from so minor an exertion, Molly noted with increased anxiety.

Still, his words puzzled her, and she knelt carefully down beside him. "What do you mean?"

He turned away, lifting his shoulders in a shrug that was no answer.

"Sherlock?" she said, in softer tones, concerned for both his health and his mental well-being at what seemed to her eyes his very obvious distress. Her concerns for him suddenly turned to concerns for herself as well, and she whispered, "Pray tell me Colonel Moran hasn't become suspicious of us again!"

He shook his head, reluctantly turning back to face her. "No, if anything you are safer now than you have been since your arrival here," he said in a low voice. "Hasn't John told you yet? No, I suppose he hasn't, since your discussions have all been about the state of my injury and what a difficult patient I've been." His lips lifted in a mirthless smile as Molly stared at him, uncomprehending. "Your assiduous attentions to me have eased the good colonel's concerns about you. Having proven your devotion to me through your nursing skills, it's likely that you'll be allowed to return to Baxton once I'm fully recovered, should I request it."

Molly stared blankly at him, his words so unexpected that she wondered for a moment if she'd imagined them. When they finally sank in, she had to fold her hands together to keep the trembling under control. Likewise she had to take several calming breaths before attempting to speak. "I might be allowed to return home? Truly?"

Sherlock gave a half-shrug. "So it would appear." He struggled to his feet, batting Molly's hand away irritably when she tried to assist him. He stood looking down at her for a long moment before speaking again. "I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper," he said, then moved stiffly toward the bedroom, violin in hand.

Molly refused to allow herself to believe that the sorrowful tune he began to play almost immediately had anything to do with the possibility of her leaving him.