Fear for a Friend

I take one look at Watson as I half-drag him into the hall and reach a decision. He cannot possibly climb the stairs, so I lift him into my arms and carry him. The fellow does not even give a word of protest and that troubles - frightens - me. It is this concern and alarm that enables me to manage the stairs while bearing him in my arms, for it would not be an easy task were I in perfect health. I hasten my ill friend into the sitting room to prepare him for bed before the fire. Thank God that he has left an overnight bag here in anticipation of my needing care.

Poor Watson! He is shivering violently and I can see how exhausted he is. I would have a good mind to shout at him, to tell him just how foolish he has been, but I cannot. I shall have a word when he has improved and not before.

"Come along old fellow," is all that I say as I again lift him into my arms.

My Boswell is quickly put to bed in my room, wrapped in thick, warm rugs and made as comfortable as I can manage, but there is no hearth and he is still shivering vigorously. Not knowing what else to do, I quickly throw myself into a nightshirt of my own and scramble into bed behind him, wrapping my arms about his chest and pressing myself close to his back. I feel the fellow jerk with a mighty sneeze.

"Are you all right?"

"I think so Holmes... But you should keep your distance. You have not been well yourself, lately."

Utter nonsense! "I am quite accustomed to cold symptoms," and much worse besides. "I shall be all right."

"That is quite beside the point old fellow."

"No, it is not. Now, do please try to sleep. You must rest. I shall be here should you need me."

"But..." he yawns loudly and I smile.

"That is it. Sleep. Rest. You are by no means alone."

I might be going a little too far but, as I am unable to play while I am employing myself as hot water bottle, I begin to softly hum a piece of music which I composed myself for the fellow. As I gain confidence, I add words to the notes - nothing special; simply words of comfort and reassurance. The sentences neither fit together nor rhyme, but they do seem to be of help to my ill friend. My song continues long after the doctor begins to snore and even after my throat becomes uncomfortable. I want the dear chap to rest as well as possible, unhindered by his grief.

This time, I do not sleep. Even with me pressed close to his back, my friend's shivers remain violent and persistent. He also starts to cough between snores and I listen with regret, not knowing what to do. The fellow is already propped up against the pillows and lying on his side; what more can I do for him?

I know not how long we have remained here when my Boswell's snores cease abruptly and he gives a tremendous sneeze.

"Oh..."

I hear the fellow sniffle miserably but I remain still and quiet. He might return to sleep if I leave him alone.

"Holmes? Are you awake?"

The poor fellow sounds even worse than he did when he took to the bed! I suppose that it is only natural for him to sound worse though - his throat is more than likely very dry and sore from all the snoring.

"Yes Watson. How are you?"

Another groan. "Thirsty. And I would quite like to pay a visit, if I may."

I tug the chamber pot from beneath my bed quite pointedly and then inform him that I shall get him some fresh drinking water before leaving the room. The washroom is even colder than my bedroom, what with the tiles, and I want him to be kept as warm as possible. Besides, I doubt that his poor leg could take his weight after the walk that he forced upon it.

When I return with the water, my friend is sitting at the end of the bed, huddled miserably in the rugs. I pour him a glass, assist him in drinking from it, and then take the used pot.

"I am sorry Holmes..."

"Not at all," I respond quickly. "I have to go anyway."

He grimaces. "All the same..."

"You would do the same for me and we both know it well enough. Calm yourself Watson. Now, if you would be so good as to excuse me, I shall be but a moment."

The fellow has not moved when I return. He is clearly still feeling cold and his misery is plain to see. I sit down at his side on the bed and pull him in close to me. More than anything, I want him to know that he is not alone - something that I am willing to bet had never even crossed the minds of his wretched servants. I always did think that my Boswell was too lenient with them and made far too many allowances for them, for they have never seemed to look after him or his wife adequately.

"How are you feeling?"

He sniffs and gives a shiver. "Better. With you here."

Dear old Watson! I squeeze his shoulder and rest my cheek at his temple. "I would never willingly abandon you. I never wanted to."

"I know. I know that Holmes. Just... Just stay now. Please stay."

I chuckle quietly. "Where could I go, even if I wished to leave you? And do you honestly believe that I would not be lonely without you?" I could - I have - been lonely in a crowd without my Boswell. Even my own brother could not give me the comfort or support that Watson does. Not that Mycroft is a very comforting companion to anyone...

"Are you all right Holmes?" the fellow asks suddenly. "You are very quiet."

I shrug and give his shoulder another gentle squeeze. "I thought that you might prefer peace and quiet. I can see that you are as tired as you are unwell."

"No. I have had a lot of quiet Holmes. Too much."

And so I begin to talk softly. I tell him of the adventures that we shall soon have together and promise much. He needs something to look forward to and I know how he loves excitement.

"If a case were to arrive now..." he begins, only to be interrupted by a fit of coughing.

I shake my head and rub at his back. "That would be no good; you need rest first. When you - nay, when we are both quite well, we shall work all the cases we could ever want. We shall be constantly busy and have endless excitement. If you would join me."

"Nothing would please me more," he assures me with another round of coughing.

Good! "I am glad to hear you say that. I would be lost without my Boswell. Now... lunch. You must be hungry."

He shakes his head and presses himself closer to my side with a sniffle. Now I am worried! After a long trudge in the cold he should be starving, weary or not, and he should have had enough sleep to be able to feel the pangs by now.

"Are you feeling worse?" I ask with concern as I again press my cheek to his temple. It does feel a little warmer than perhaps it should and I quickly rest my hand at his forehead. Oh God! He is quite hot.

He brushes my hand away. "I would feel hot. I have been coughing," he retorts as if reading my mind.

"You should be feeling hungry as well. What would you like? Some fruit, perhaps? That is not filling and it is very good for you."

"I would rather not."

I press myself closer to him protectively. If only I could do something! Watson would know the best action to take, while I am very much in the dark.

"Soup?"

"No Holmes. I am not hungry. My throat is very sore and I have no appetite. Please, do not go on so."

I pat his arm and apologise. When I feel ill, I do not like to be bullied and nagged either and I admit as much.

"I simply do not know what to do for you old fellow. What would you do, if I was so unwell?"

He shrugs. "Keep you warm and see that you at least have plenty to drink, I suppose."

"Are you still thirsty? You did say that your throat was sore."

He nods and then goes into a fit of sneezes that sound grating and painful. I hold him close until the sternutations come to an end and then pour some more water into his glass.

"Thank you."

"Quite all right Watson. Here, let me help; I can see that you are shivering rather violently. I think you should get back in bed when you have drank your fill, if you have no further requirements."

"I am not hungry."

That does trouble me deeply. Perhaps I should send for a doctor.

"I know; you have already told me as much. Right. Well, if you need or want nothing else, you should get some rest."

I take his empty glass away and then make him comfortable once more. I then return to sprawling behind him, keeping myself pressed close to his back with my arms about him in an effort to dispel his chills. I wish I could do more! I have never enjoyed watching my fellow man suffer - especially when the man in question is kind, compassionate Watson.

"Are you sure that you wish to stay with me?"

"If you have no objections," I respond without thinking. Why the deuce did I say that? I should never invite him to object under such circumstances! "And if there is nothing more that I can do. I do so want to help you to feel better."

"You are. Really you are. Only... you must be terribly bored..."

Bored! "Humph!"

"No?"

"No. I am not bored." After three years of separation, I am content just to be near my friend again. I am not quite sure how best to articulate how I feel, however, so I say nothing on the subject at all. All that Watson needs to know is that I am not bored in any case, surely?

"If you are quite sure."

I squeeze his arm. "If I did not wish to be here, I would not stay. Besides, I rather enjoy entertaining you."

It is the truth as well. I have longed to see him smile, to hear his laughter, for years. I hope that I shall do so soon. Real smiles and laughter, rather than the brave attempts of a man in pain. If I can only help him to once again become his old self, I shall be delighted.