Dr. Watson stamped his feet in a futile effort to warm himself. The only sounds were the crunch, crunching of the snow beneath his boots and the whirring of the wind. He shivered as it rounded the corner and hit him full on. A little ways down the street, the great detective, Sherlock Holmes, was performing similar actions.
Somewhere, a bell chimed the quarter, and then the second. Still the two figures remained at their respective posts, waiting. The plan was to prevent the fourth in a series of murders that had taken place across London. After the second murder, Holmes had discovered the murderer left clues in the advertising section of a particular newspaper. He had correctly predicted the location of the third one, but arrived too late. As unfortunate as this was, it gave him the precise time that the murderer struck; a quarter to two in the morning.
Holmes reviewed these facts under his breath between shivers. He wished he had thought to bring his heavier coat, and a muffler would have felt splendid right about now. The cold felt like it was slowly seeping into his bones. He suppressed a cough and resumed stamping his feet.
At his post, Watson was losing patience. According to Holmes's calculations, a murder should have happened fifteen minutes prior, directly in front of him, but he had seen and heard nothing.
From the darkness shrouding the opposite street corner, came the sounds of a scuffle and a muffled cry. Watson hurried towards it.
"Holmes!"
"I do believe we have our man, Watson. "
"Good heavens."
A short fellow in a tweed coat struggled in vain against Holmes's chokehold. Holmes himself had a trickle of blood trailing from a nostril but otherwise seemed unharmed.
"I'd better get Inspector Lestrade," said Watson.
By the time Scotland yard was content with the account of what had occurred and the weary detectives reached Baker street, dawn was just beginning to color the horizon. Holmes retired to his room after instructing Watson not to disturb him for any reason, orders which the tired doctor had no intention of breaking.
It was late afternoon by the time Watson awoke. Despite his nighttime adventures he felt refreshed and decided to go for a walk. Upon leaving his bedroom, he saw Holmes curled up in his armchair facing the fire, his back to Watson.
"Ah, Holmes I didn't know you were up."
No answer.
"I'm going on a walk, I'll be back later."
Still no reply from the chair.
Watson shrugged, and grabbing his coat and hat, left the flat.
Some hours later he returned. Holmes was in the same position he had been in when Watson left.
"Good evening Holmes," he puffed cheerily, hanging up his coat and hat behind the door. Holmes seemed to ignore him.
"Oh come now Holmes, you can't be asleep, not with all the noise I've made. We should celebrate; another dangerous criminal off the streets, thanks to you. I stopped by the Yard, and they were very grateful."
Holmes did make a sound then; a groan, followed by a hoarse coughing fit.
"Holmes!"
Watson hastened to the chair his friend was sitting in. Holmes was curled up in the chair holding his side as his whole body shook from the effort of coughing. His brow creased in pain as he sat, shivering under his dressing-gown. His face was white, except for two feverish spots of red upon his sharp cheekbones. His eyes were closed and he didn't respond when Watson took his pulse.
"Holmes!"
Watson tried to rouse the detective in vain. The only sound in the room was the alarming rattle coming from the sick man's lungs. Holmes began to cough again, gasping and heaving for air between wheezes. Watson kept his hand soothingly on his shoulder until the fit subsided. Then the doctor left his friend for a moment in search of his black bag and calling for Mrs. Hudson, he settled down to perform his duty as a physician.
For three days and nights, the great Sherlock Holmes lay ill. Inspector Gregson and Inspector Lestrade along with other members of Scotland Yard dropped in to ask after him and to leave cases that needed the detective's attention once he recovered. Somehow the news had spread and all of London waited with bated breath to hear of any change to his condition. Mrs. Hudson was kept busy, when she wasn't assisting the doctor, turning away reporters and inquisitive visitors. Past clients sent gifts and offers of aid and well wishes. Every evening, a representative of the Bakers Street Irregulars arrived to inquire as to the health of their friend. Mrs. Hudson always had the same answer.
Watson slept very little during this time. A bed had been made up in the living room for the detective both for convenience and proximity to the fire and Watson stayed in a chair at the bedside. The doctor tried every cure known to him but nothing seemed to have an effect. Holmes still lay, propped up by pillows, growing paler and weaker with each passing hour. The silence of the sickroom was punctuated only by hacking coughs from the sick man. During this time he was rarely conscious, lapsing on occasion into delirium when his fever rose.
His fever peaked on the second day after a seemingly endless night. Watson fought to bring his fever down all night, locked in a desperate struggle with the angel of death. But with the dawn came hope and he at last succeeded in bringing Holmes back to safety. The danger was not over yet by any means but the great battle had been won for the time being.
On the morning of the fourth day, Watson was awakened from a doze by the sound of his name softly called. Hurrying to his patient's bedside he discovered Holmes looking up at him. His eyes were clear, the shine of fever gone entirely. He had regained some color, although the lines of pain and exhaustion could still be traced on the slender face.
"Holmes, you're awake. How are you feeling? Better I hope." Watson rambled as he fumbled with his stethoscope and checked his pulse and breathing.
"Yes, much better. Thank you, Watson." Holmes closed his eyes, worn out by the effort of speaking.
Watson smiled and adjusted the comforter.
"Delighted to hear that my dear Holmes, now you just rest awhile and try not to undo my hard work." Watson settled back in his chair and soon fell asleep himself.
On a brisk February morning, Dr. Watson entered 221 Baker Street, stamping the snow from his boots as he closed the door behind him. Armed with the day's newspaper he ascended to his rooms humming a cheerful tune. Entering the flat he saw Holmes engaged in intensive study of an alarmingly large volume.
"Holmes you really shouldn't be reading at this stage. Your brain needs rest as much as the rest of your body does."
Holmes looked up from his reading.
"Watson, the brain needs exercise in the same way a man running a race needs to exercise his muscles. If he injures one, he still works the others, otherwise, he loses all that he gained. I have let my intellect sit for too long without occupation. Such a delicate instrument needs frequent exercise lest it becomes dull and useless. This treatise on types of clay found in the north of England seemed a good place to start. Unless there's something else?" Holmes looked inquisitively at the newspaper.
"Well, I suppose you have a point Holmes. Some light work might be healthful indeed. Scotland Yard left some cases for you to look over. They might be more interesting than types of clay."
"Ah, let us see then, shall we?" And Holmes reached for the file Watson handed him. "After all, the game is afoot."
