Playing Physician

I awake to the urgent nagging of my body. I have been good, first forgoing pipe and cigarettes as much as possible so as not to anger or upset Watson during my recovery - which must surely be complete by now - and then continuing to do so due to my friend's congestion. Now, however, I have to smoke. I feel that I shall go mad if I do not.

Carefully, slowly, I extract myself from behind my ill friend and creep into the sitting room, expertly avoiding the floorboards that creak. I shiver, realising belatedly that I should have retrieved my dressing gown, and hastily light a fire with shaking hands, as my need for tobacco screams that this prevarication is not necessary. I have to smoke! I need to smoke! I snatch my clay pipe from the mantel, fill it hurriedly and look about me for the matches. Where the deuce did I put them? Ah yes, the coal scuttle.

I sit cross-legged on the hearth rug, hoping that at least the majority of my smoke will be drawn up the chimney, for I do not wish to disturb my Boswell. The fire is not burning well and I am cold, but I shall return to bed once my need for tobacco has been sated. I do not want Watson to awake alone in his current condition.

Though I wish to hurry back to my friend before he misses me, I make use of the washroom first. I hardly want to risk disturbing him again in the near future.

When I do finally return to my bedroom, I find my ill companion lying on his back with his clenched fists waving in the air, as if he is fighting an invisible foe. He probably is. A nightmare. Damn! That must be the last thing that he needs. Quickly, I sit at the foot of the bed and touch his knee.

"Watson? Can you hear me?"

The fellow gives a start and stares at me through glassy eyes as he sits bolt upright. "Bury the needle!" he rasps urgently at me.

I frown back at him. Does he mean to tell me to cease my occasional doses of cocaine, for stimulation, and morphine, to aid my sleep? Is this simply a selection of words uttered at random by an ill man who has just had his sleep disturbed? Dare I ask him?

"Are you all right Watson?"

He blinks and then gives another start, staring at me anew as if I have appeared from nowhere before he begins to cough. No, he clearly did not know what he was saying.

I take his hand and squeeze it. "Hello Watson. I am sorry if I disturbed you. How are you?"

He brings the racking coughs under control, gives a barely-audible groan and begins to rummage under the pillow, most likely looking for a handkerchief. I quickly get him a fresh one from my drawer.

"Thank you," he mumbles before giving his nose a vigorous blow. He does seem to be worsening.

"I think Watson, that you should see a doctor," I inform him tentatively. I do not like doctors - with the exception of my Boswell - at all and I feel rather hypocritical in saying this, but I am concerned that I am not giving the fellow adequate care.

"I am all right Holmes."

I frown at him and study his weary, glazed eyes for a long moment. "You are off your food."

"For God's sake Holmes!" he shouts back at me, sending himself into another fit of coughing.

I draw close to his side and rub at his back. He is hotter than he was. "I know. I know that I often refuse to eat, but you do not; this is not at all like you. I beg of you old fellow, could you please humour me? I only wish to know that I am indeed doing all that I can and that you are all right."

His coughing slowly subsides and he rests his head upon my shoulder wearily. Yes, he is becoming much too hot.

"I think I could manage some grapes," the fellow says quietly.

I nod and rub at his back again. If Watson is prepared to compromise then I shall do the same. I hurry through to the sitting room and retrieve the fruit dish for him.

"If you manage to eat more today than you did yesterday, I shall agree that you are improving and not send for anyone," I promise my friend as I help myself to an apple.

He groans. "That is not fair! It is customary for a fellow to grow worse before he begins to improve."

I force a smile to my lips and pat at his back.

"All right, I apologise. I simply do not relish the idea of being forced to watch you becoming worse while I am unable to do a thing about it. I do not enjoy helplessly watching you suffer."

"I know Holmes. I feel the same when you are unwell."

Unless it is self-inflicted. No! That is unfair - perhaps he simply does not know quite how to react; the fellow does vex himself terribly. I do believe that he thinks that even the weak solution of cocaine that I take occasionally could do me lasting damage, which is of course ridiculous! My constitution is a strong one; there is no need to fret over me and he should know that by now.

I wrap an arm about my friend and rub at his wounded shoulder, remembering not to squeeze it as I would the other.

"I shall tell you what I propose Watson. I shan't send for a doctor now; we shall see how you are and make a decision later. But I shall ask Mrs. Hudson for a cooling cloth and... do you have any cough medicines in that bag of yours?"

He addresses me with a glare intense enough to quite unnerve me. "You refuse to take it when I prescribe it."

"I do not need it," I retort. "But you did say that it is the coughing that is causing your heightened temperature." Ha! Put that in your pipe and smoke it old fellow! I do believe that I have you - you must now either admit that you have a fever that needs tending or that it is the cough that requires attention.

He groans and addresses me with another watery glare. "You are deucedly irritating when you wish it."

I shrug with my hands. "If you become seriously unwell, I shall have no choice but to send you to a hospital. You know that. I would much prefer to avoid that if it is at all possible. Well, unless you would prefer to go and be properly tended there..."

"It is a cold Holmes. I should have quite shrugged off the worst of it within two to four days," he reminds me with forced patience. "There is no need to bother a doctor - and as for packing me off to a hospital..."

"You shan't rid yourself of that cold at all if you continue to refuse to eat!"

He stares back at me. "It is a shame that you are unable to remember that when you are unwell. How many times have I told you as much?"

I shrug and pat his shoulder. "I shall endeavour to listen to you in the future."

"I shall hold you to that."

Yes, he damn well would! I shrug and force a smile to my lips. I would sooner live with his fretting than return to living my life completely alone.

Watson does eat some fruit, albeit with very little enthusiasm. Swallowing would appear to be painful, though he does not admit as much, and the expression on his face suggests that nothing tastes as it should.

"This is what happens when you smoke too much tobacco," I inform the chap. He was always telling me that my smoking habits are probably part of the reason that I am not overly interested in food and it is somewhat satisfying to throw some of his jibes back at him.

My Boswell groans and rubs at his forehead. "It is nothing to do with that. My throat is filled with catarrh and everything tastes foul as a result."

Poor old fellow! Yes, I have suffered with the same affliction and it is far from pleasant. "My apologises Watson. Is there nothing that I can do? I could prescribe morphine, to help you to sleep restfully."

He shakes his head. "It would not help Holmes. The side effects would most likely undo any good that it might do. It does tend to upset me. No. Bring my bag to me, please, and I shall see what I have."

I think I would prefer to tend to the fellow. It is not right that he should have to treat his own ills. "We both know that illness can leave one muddled sometimes. I would feel happier if you would trust me. Now, let me see... When I was unwell during my travels..."

My friend turns to me with such a saddened expression that I fear for a moment that he might weep.

"Are you all right Watson?"

He grips my wrist. "I am sorry Holmes. The thought of you suffering all alone..."

I smile and pull him in close to me, resting my cheek at his hot temple as I reassure him as much as I can. "I remembered your advice. I was all right. You were with me every day; I never forgot you."

The fellow sniffs and rests his head at my shoulder wearily. "I never forgot you either. I did miss you..." he sniffs again and I feel him shiver. "I am so sorry Holmes. I was so confused and upset when you returned that it did not even cross my mind that you might have suffered any hardship or illness and have to fend for yourself... But of course you would most likely have done so - three years is a very long time!"

"It is quite all right old fellow. I know that you have suffered much," I rub at his back. "You need not worry about me; I was quite all right. Really I was."

He shivers again and pulls away to give two rather violent sneezes into his handkerchief. "Oh! Oh... Do excuse me."

"Quite all right. Now... A cooling medicine for your heightened temperature... Hum. Do you need a cough suppressant or an expectorant?" I press a hand to his chest, meaning to gauge his breathing. "Has your cold settled on your chest?" I sincerely hope that it has not!

"Holmes!" my companion bats away my hand. "No, I do believe that I only have catarrh in the throat."

Only! Hum! "Then I take it that you shall want a cough suppressant, so that you can sleep the easier. Now... Is there anything else?"

Watson says not, so I call for Mrs. Hudson, hand her my list of two items and tell her to purchase anything else that might help to alleviate cold symptoms. I then return to my friend's side and offer what little comfort I can. Still I suspect that it is more grief than physical illness with which he suffers, but I am not the best man to decide - I am no more a physician than my Boswell is an accomplished detective.

While we await the arrival of medicine, I chat to Watson and do my utmost to keep him amused (and awake). I would rather not allow him to fall asleep before I can tend to him - that would mean either disturbing him, which would seem unforgivably cruel under the circumstances, or leaving off giving him anything to help until later, which I am also loath to do - he does look and sound dreadfully unwell and I am becoming increasingly concerned.

It comes as quite a relief when Mrs. Hudson sends up the items that we require. She has purchased a great many things that had not occurred to me, as well as those that had, and I quickly tend to my dear friend. I am gratified to feel that I am finally doing something of use; I cannot bear to stand idle while my Boswell is suffering, for he would do all in his power for me and has done so many a time.

Watson is soon as comfortable as he can be. I have him dosed with cold remedies, swathed in warm rugs and have placed a cooling cloth at his brow and a hot water bottle at his feet. With nothing more to do, I take to his side and once more watch over the fellow in my usual protective manner. I hope that he shall manage to sleep now and then perhaps he shall feel more inclined to eat when he awakes. I also dearly hope that he shall soon feel much improved.