Signs of Improvement

Watson is not as hot when he next awakes. He is still pale and his nose and throat are clearly still bothering him, but he would seem to be feeling better. That is a profound relief! I had feared that that unwise walk that we took together might have caused him to contract pneumonia.

He is feeling chilly, however, and it is little wonder - he would always move me to the settee, in front of a warm fire, if I was even slightly unwell. I really should give the chap the same treatment. Were it not for his miserable old wounds he would have been bundled onto the settee long before now, but I know how stiff and sore his poor leg and shoulder would become.

I tend to my companion's needs first, mine second, and then I play for the dear fellow. I still believe that he needs to be distracted so as to keep his mind from his grief.

"Thank you," he whispers when my last piece comes to an end. "That was wonderful."

He would seem to be restless I notice. "Are you uncomfortable?"

"What? Oh. No, not particularly - a little chilly perhaps, but that would be due to this miserable illness," he grumbles with a quiet sniffle, confirming my suspicions. "I must confess that I am bored though. I am accustomed to having something to do."

I tut playfully and wag my finger at the fellow. "You require rest and quiet."

He moans and addresses me with a half-hearted glare. "That is not amusing," he sniffs.

Poor old Watson! He must be feeling rather the more miserable than he means to let on, for a joke like that would usually at least prompt a smile from him.

"Is there anything that I can do for you?"

He shrugs.

I could play chess with him, but that would hardly be fair under the current circumstances. What can we do? My fingers are already weary and aching from playing my violin so much (the cocaine-induced fatigue must still be with me, though I do feel much improved) and I have not allowed myself very much sleep of late. While I am not feeling as unwell as poor Watson, I am not in the mood for any taxing games and I very much doubt that my companion is either. I eventually resort to telling him of my adventures in Europe.

My Boswell listens to my tales with interest, even going so far as to express a desire to take notes. I smile sadly.

"What is it Holmes?" my kindly friend asks of me with some concern.

I shrug. "I have missed you," I respond simply.

"And I you Holmes. I have wanted you with me so very badly that I keep thinking that I must be dreaming."

I squeeze his arm. "My apologies Watson."

He smiles and touches my hand. His fingers are like ice! "You are here now Holmes."

I nod and force a smile to my own lips. Yes, I am here now. "Indeed I am and I intend never to desert you again. But you are so cold! Should I ask Mrs. Hudson to prepare your bedroom and light a fire for you? I would be just as content to entertain you there."

He shakes his head and pulls his rugs ever closer. "I have already contaminated your bed and the sofa; you should have my bed as I have not slept there."

I have never heard anything so ridiculous and I say so. "I shall be all right! Really Watson! I have already told you that I am quite accustomed to cold-like symptoms - even if I were to fall ill, it would be no hardship I assure you my dear fellow."

"Piffle," he snaps back at me. "Honestly Holmes! Colds are both miserable and tiring..."

"As are the after-effects of cocaine," I interrupt him half-humourously. "I shall be all right; my constitution is a strong one."

He grumbles and rubs at his forehead. "I am not in the mood for arguing."

I chuckle quietly. "Excellent! Neither am I. Now, as my patient you should heed my advice. This room is deucedly cold and I should have you made comfortable in your own - in your old room."

He smiles at my mistake but shakes his head. Why are doctors so damned stubborn? With a sigh I press myself close to him so as to give him some warmth.

"I am content here," Watson assures me quietly, while he rests his head at my shoulder. "I must have been wrapped with every blanket that we have in the house at any rate - I cannot possibly be as cold as I feel."

I suppose not. All the same, I would prefer to move him into a room that has a fireplace in it.

"You must be cold though," my Boswell observes suddenly, pulling himself from his drowsy state enough to sit up and gaze at me. "Perhaps you should share my blankets, if you truly do intend to stay here with me."

I accept his invitation readily enough; I am feeling the chill in the room - despite the weight of my dressing gown - and I would rather not give my kindly and fretful companion any cause to become concerned for my health. I only wish that I had thought of that before I decided to partake of the cocaine!

We share some fruit and then Watson gradually returns to slumbering while I continue to watch over the dear chap. I know not what more I can do for him, but at least he does seem to be improving. Perhaps I can cease my fretting and hovering soon - I can see that I am irritating my Boswell.