Blind as a Beetle

I watch my slumbering Boswell from my armchair, moving only to add more fuel to the fire. The fellow is terribly pale. Did he look so ill when I walked into his consulting room? Could I truly have failed to notice? He is thinner than I remember as well, but I suppose that that is to be expected; he gained weight due to his contentment when he married so it would make sense for him to lose weight again in his grief.

Watson moans in his sleep and I hasten to his side. I hover over him, wondering whether I should attempt to comfort him or leave him be. I hardly wish to disturb the dear chap.

"Mary," I hear him whisper. His tone brings a lump to my throat.

I take his hand gently and kneel at his side. I shall say nothing; perhaps he will settle of his own accord if I merely offer him some comfort. I may not wish to wake him, but I cannot bear to ignore him while he seems to be upset either. I wish I could have returned to his side sooner! Perhaps then he would not have suffered quite as much.

The fellow sobs in his sleep and I squeeze his hand. I am here and I shall never desert him again. Never. From now on, we shall do everything together. If he agrees. First he shall have to decide to get rid of his practice, for it is the only barrier that remains between us, but that is something that he must choose to do without any prompting from me.

My first concern is my dear friend. He looks almost as unwell as he did when I met him in the laboratory of Saint Barts Hospital and I want to help him. What does the fellow need? I prescribed work, which will at least keep his mind from his grief, but work cannot help him when it is time for rest.

The fellow mutters something unintelligible and I run my free hand over his brow. Poor Watson! My presence does not seem to be enough. He wants his wife; how can I possibly be a comfort to him?

Eventually, I take to the settee at his side and position his head in my lap. The contact does seem to help and he at last returns to snoring. Thank God! It is then simply a matter of talking to him gently when he begins to fret again and touching his shoulder.

"Holmes?"

I jerk awake. How dare I fall asleep when my Boswell needs me! How frustrating that slumber comes easiest now, when I am required to remain wakeful.

"Holmes... Why am I on your lap?" he asks as he stares up at me with some confusion.

I shall not tell him the truth. Watson will only apologise for troubling me or say something equally ridiculous.

"You seemed to be somewhat uncomfortable and I hoped that this would help. Does it?"

He closes his eyes and nods with a sniff.

"You are feeling unwell."

He stares at me anew. "You could have been a doctor Holmes. You see more than I do."

"Nonsense! I know my Watson. You are congested, you are pale, you have dark circles beneath your eyes - which you closed when you nodded, which suggests a headache - and your nose looks a little redder than it should. Need I go on?"

He groans. "No."

I pat his shoulder lightly. "Let me find your bag and get you something for your head. Is there anything else that you need, aside from water?"

"Not at the moment, thank you. But how are you feeling?"

How the fellow can fret over me when he is unwell is beyond me! "I am quite all right, I assure you; I did tell you that I would be as right as rain once the cocaine wore off. You are my main concern at this moment."

With that, I call to Mrs. Hudson for drinking water (and some strong coffee) and fetch over the doctor's bag from inside the door. While we wait for the water, I insist upon taking Watson's temperature, which I am relieved to find is normal. Hopefully, he is simply fagged and has not caught anything serious.

"Aside from the headache, what are you feeling like?" I ask as I watch him massage his temples.

"Congested, as if I am catching a chill," he responds with a poorly-concealed shiver. He is also cold then.

"Nausea?"

"No, nothing like that. I am only tired Holmes."

Perhaps, but I often feel sick when I have not had enough sleep. "Good. In that case, you should have a headache powder and some drinking water and then try to sleep again."

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "I am not sure that I could stand it. I think I would prefer to take a walk."

I would much prefer for him to stay here, in the warm. "If you have caught a cold you should..."

"Benefit from some light exercise," he interrupts. "Besides, I shall dress warmly. Are you coming?"

Yes! I shall want to know that he is all right. "First, I shall have some coffee while you take a headache powder. Then we shall see."

He smiles at me. "If you would take half the amount of care that you give to me of yourself Holmes..."

I hide a smirk. The fellow is no better than I am! "I give myself enough consideration to get by. Ah! Come in Mrs. Hudson and just set the tray down anywhere. Thank you."

Watson swallows the headache powder readily enough and then drinks some of the water gratefully while I enjoy the coffee. It clears my sleepy brain beautifully.

I have scarcely finished my second coffee when my Boswell announces that he is much improved and is ready for a trudge if I am. Of course I am! Our walk was cut short just as I was enjoying myself yesterday and I am not feeling the least unwell. However, I do wish that my friend would stay indoors. Well, I shall see that we are not outside for long even if I have to carry or drag the fellow home.

Things are going to be different this time! I select a muffler for myself from my wardrobe and hand Watson my favoured one. I am not going to have the fellow becoming any worse.

The chill in the air does not help my dear friend to convince me that he is all right. He is shivering even before we have left Baker Street and he is sniffling and sneezing so frequently that his handkerchief remains in his hand, as opposed to in its usual place up his sleeve.

"Do you wish to turn back?"

"No."

"You are unwell, my dear Watson."

He glares at me for a moment and then shakes his head. "I might be able to sleep if I could only wear myself out enough first."

I almost offer to give the poor chap some morphine when we get home, but I know that he would refuse it. What can I do?

"My dear Watson, I wish that I could help you."

The fellow smiles brightly at me, as if I have presented him with a generous gift, and pats my arm. Just knowing that I care would seem to be enough.

We stroll Regents Park at a leisurely pace. My Boswell is clearly all but spent, for his steps are slow and his injured leg is dragging terribly. Were it not for the fellow's pride I would be sorely tempted to carry him. Instead, I shorten my stride and pause to admire the beauty of early spring frequently with my companion; carefully ignoring his weakness and fatigue. Never the less, I watch him closely and ensure that I shall be ready to catch or steady him should he collapse.

It is with relief that I agree when Watson decides that we have had enough. There are clouds looming, obscuring the sun as it sinks lower and causing the hour to feel much later than it is. I am shivering, as I am missing my thicker and longer muffler, and I suspect that it is for that reason that my friend wishes to go home; he appears to be less than enthusiastic. I do know how he feels - there is nothing more unpleasant or frustrating as being exhausted yet unable to find rest. Somehow, I must find a way to help the dear chap.