In Need of Advice
I awake shivering. I am cold - freezing cold - and the reason is obvious, for Watson's place on my mattress is vacant and devoid of warmth, thus indicating that he has been absent for quite a time.
My first thought is that the fellow is probably in the washroom, as I have not permitted him to leave the bed to visit it and he has been fevered - he probably has been feeling the need to wash himself and change his clothes. However, I cannot hear a sound - no running or splashing water from the washbasin, no movements - all is still and I am deeply troubled. Might he have collapsed somewhere in a faint? The noise should have alerted me if he had, but something must surely have disturbed me. Besides, I have already witnessed a fainting spell in him - something that I would never have imagined to be a possibility where my robust, staunch Boswell is concerned - and I cannot help but worry that it is this cold, which he must surely have already been catching when I returned, that must be the cause of his previous one simply because he never faints.
Fearing for my dear - my only - friend, I hasten from my bed. I am about to run to my bedroom door when a strong sneeze sounds from behind it. Is it possible for a fellow to sneeze while unconscious? Even if it is possible, the muscles slacken somewhat in unconsciousness and so a sternutation would no doubt sound very different in such a state. Perhaps the fellow has simply gone into the sitting room so as to be away from my ceaseless fretting and hovering - I would have done the same before now - and I slow my ragged, panicked breathing, still my trembling hands and snatch up my dressing gown as I force myself to think rationally.
The fire has not been lit, for there is no glow to be seen beneath my door. For how long has Watson been lying or sitting in the cold and dark? Does he intend to make his damned cold worse?
Brushing aside my building anger and concern for the moment, I quietly enter the sitting room and look about me. Watson is seated upon the settee, his head turned very deliberately away so that I cannot see his face. The fire has indeed not been lit, though the fellow did have the sense to pull on his dressing gown.
"Hello Holmes," he mutters without turning to meet my gaze. "I am all right old fellow. Go back to bed."
He does not sound all right! His nose is clearly blocked, his voice is rasping within his throat - he sounds almost as if he has been crying. Oh! Suddenly, his unwillingness to meet my gaze makes perfect sense to me and I approach his back, being careful to avoid any possibility of catching even a glimpse of my Boswell's face. I can see that his shoulders are shaking and that the glass of whisky that he has in his hands is almost being spilt by the action. 'All right' indeed! Ha!
With slow, deliberate movements I place my hands upon his shoulders and gently caress his collarbone with my thumbs in an attempt to soothe the fellow. "Would talking to me be of any help to you?"
I hear him sniff and he places his glass upon the coffee table to pull a handkerchief from up his sleeve. "I am all right Holmes," he repeats quietly.
"In that case, you should return to bed before you make that wretched cold of yours worse," I respond just as softly.
He sniffs again and blows his nose. His shoulders are still quaking, but not as much as they were. Poor Watson! What can have upset him so?
"Is there anything that I can do for you?"
My Boswell merely shakes his head forcefully, dislodging a tear from his cheek and causing it to land upon my hand, and attempts to wave me away. I square my shoulders.
"Watson... I have no intention to interfere, but it is clear to me that you are grieving and I would prefer not to leave you alone - one should never be left alone in such a condition and least of all a man of your calibre..." What the deuce am I saying? Well, perhaps my sleep-deprived brain knows better than I do, for his shoulders are relaxing beneath my fingers. I nod to myself and press on. "You do not have to say a word if you would prefer to order your thoughts in silence - you know that that is always my preference - but I cannot and will not leave you while you are so obviously disturbed."
I feel him draw a deep breath, followed by another. His shoulders continue to shake slightly as he does so, though he does seem to be calming. Good!
"Would you like to sit down Holmes?"
Without a word I pat his uninjured shoulder and then make my way to the hearth to light the fire. I will not have my Boswell allowing that damned cold to worsen, even if he is himself quite indifferent. When did the fellow cease to give his own well-being any thought at all? I am not accustomed to facing a self-destructive Watson and this situation terrifies me.
Once I have successfully kindled a cheerful blaze in our fireplace I seat myself beside my dear friend. Again I am careful to avoid looking into his face (hurting the doctor's pride will most certainly only serve to have me ordered from the room) and simply take his hand in mine, squeezing gently.
"Thank you Holmes. I am so sorry..."
I hear the sob that threatens to completely overpower his ability to speak as he attempts to apologise for I know not what and hastily assure him that there is nothing to be sorry about.
"You have suffered much," I note quietly, feeling a lump come to my own throat as I consider just how much of the suffering of which I speak was caused by me. "No, no! You have nothing to apologise for."
I would again add my own apologies, but I know that I am not the cause of my friend's current emotional state and I do not wish for him to believe that I am so arrogant and self-absorbed that I could think that I am.
There, he would appear to be calming down now. His sobs are becoming less frequent and he has almost ceased to shake entirely. I slowly draw closer to his side and slip an arm about his shoulders, immediately causing the fellow to tense and turn a rather unnerving glare upon me. I stop at once and withdraw my hand. What the deuce have I done wrong?
"Go away," my companion orders me in a very quiet - and relatively calm and measured - tone of voice.
Go away? "What have I done wrong?"
"Just go away and leave me alone!" he shouts at me, causing his voice to become hoarse and choke him.
I do not need to be told again - it is clear that my presence is only upsetting him further. I stand quickly and retreat to my bedroom, feeling very confused and dejected. What have I done to upset Watson so? I had thought that my support had been of help! I throw myself onto my bed and cover my face with my arms and sheets.
In the next room, I can hear the sound of Watson's choked sobs. I am sure that he will not be able to hear any sound that I might make but still I ensure that my own tears fall silently.
When I next awake, there is a dull, grey light streaming in through the gap in my bedroom curtains, informing me that it is now daylight (albeit not so very light). I groan and rub a hand over my aching forehead as I sit up and look about me. I have been sleeping above my coverlets in my dressing gown and Watson is nowhere to be seen. Watson! The memory of what ever it was that occurred in the early hours of the morning come flooding back and it takes all of my self-control to keep myself from succumbing to despair a second time in one morning.
It is high time that I confess to needing help.
I drag myself from my bed, ignoring the protestations of my cold, stiff body and pounding head, and wash with the near-freezing water on my washstand from the night before. I then pull on the first suit that I take from my wardrobe (I must thank Mrs. Hudson for washing and ironing the clothes that were in my bags), snatch up my coat, hat and cane (but forget my muffler and gloves) and leave the house as quickly as silence will permit.
As I hail a cab I make a hasty decision. I shan't visit Mycroft - my brother knows less about friendships than I. Who can I turn to? Lestrade. The inspector would seem to be quite a kind man, for all his arrogance that he aims toward me, and Watson has told me that they have become quite close in my absence. Perhaps he will be so good as to help me for Watson's sake. I can only hope that he will.