I am not at all keen on broth. The horrid stuff reminds me of days of illness at home - and, later, boarding school - when I would be bossed by my nanny, governess or perhaps a school nurse while I was unable to defend myself at all. I am not vulnerable in the slightest and yet broth can somehow cause me to feel it. No, I do not like the foul slop at all - and yet, for my concerned friend, I shall submit and eat it.

"This is good," Watson remarks, breaking the silence for the first time since we took to the table. "I had not realised just how hungry I had become - I am finding it difficult to keep from eating too quickly."

His words are most certainly a comfort, for I have been dreadfully worried about the dear chap. Indeed, that helps me to find my own appetite.

"You were hungry!" Mrs. Hudson notes cheerfully when she clears our empty dishes. "Would either of you like anything else?"

Watson shakes his head. "Small amounts taken frequently would be the best way for a few days," he tells her. "I am sorry to have worried you so - we both are."

I nod and address her with a hesitant smile. I know that we have both given her quite enough cause for concern of late.

"Quite all right," she assures us with a kind, motherly sort of smile. "Well, I expect you'll both want an early night so I shall lock up now. Will you be wanting anything else at all? Tea? Coffee?"

I shake my head and lean back in my chair. I feel so very deucedly sleepy now that my wretched stomach is full but I still want to watch over my recovering Boswell.

"Very well then gentlemen. I shall see that your beds are warmed for you and a fire lit in your bedroom doctor. Or will you be sleeping in the sitting room Mr. Holmes?"

I confirm that I shall be sleeping on the settee, causing her to tut quietly.

"We should have that boarded up window repaired if you will insist on sleeping in here. You are going to catch your death of cold."

"I shall be all right," I snap at her. Dash it all! I do not need mothering. "I have already sent for a glazier; he could not fit us in at once but should be here tomorrow. If he is not, I shall send for him again until I become a nuisance, if necessary. Besides, I have plugged every gap with cloth - the worst of the draught has thus been stopped."

"Good! Sitting about in a draught is not going to do either one of you any good at all and poor Doctor Watson is already poorly."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson. I am aware of that and doing my very best. I do not enjoy watching my friend suffer either."

She grumbles quietly as she bustles about the room. "I shall see that your bed and room are nicely warmed in wait for you Doctor Watson. Mr. Holmes..."

"Good night Mrs. Hudson," I dismiss her somewhat abruptly.

My companion attempts to stifle a yawn as our housekeeper leaves the sitting room. The poor fellow looks so very worn, as if he has not had a single night of restful sleep in an eternity.

"I do believe that Mrs. Hudson is right and that we should soon retire for the night," I remark quietly. "You look as weary as I feel old fellow."

He smiles at that. "I am glad to hear you admit to also being tired at last," says he. "I was afraid that I might have to sedate you if you did not wind down soon."

"Ha! I should like very much to see you try it old fellow! I would have to be completely done - all but dead on my feet - for you to succeed."

He gives a shudder at my words. "I sincerely hope, Holmes, that I shall never be given cause to attempt it. If you would only have a care..."

I hastily reach across the table and take his hand in mine, squeezing gently. His palm is no longer too hot and his fingers are not so cold - he is indeed finally improving and the return of his appetite should see him restored to his robust old self speedily. I only wish that I could offer him some form of reassurance - he would undoubtedly recover all the faster if he was not constantly fretting over me.

"I know that you cannot help it," says he with a nod of his head as his honest eyes gaze into mine and his hand returns the squeeze.

I clear my throat quietly and squirm in my seat. "Seeing as we neither of us take nearly so much care of ourselves as we should and each appear to prefer the need of the other..."

His eyes light up with comprehension and he nods, finishing the proposition for me. "Perhaps we should each learn to listen to the other without allowing our pride to get in the way or for our tempers to flare..."

"Though I confess that it may prove difficult on my part - particularly if you recommend or, worse still, insist that I drop or postpone a case..."

"We are both guilty of over-working ourselves for the sake of clients and patients. We shall simply have to learn to put our trust in our friends and colleagues. I do believe that we can help one another."

Perhaps. I must confess that my dear friend's optimism is somewhat contagious.

"If I am to sell my practice and move back here, we are going to have to learn to compromise," the dear chap remarks. "We are becoming too old to quarrel or storm out on one another in a fit of rage."

"We are not old! You only feel old because you have been so horribly unwell and..." and then I stop. Did I hear him correctly? Dare I hope? "You wish to move back to Baker Street?"

The smile slowly fades from his face and it is his turn to fidget. "Well... That is, of course, if the invitation is still..."

"It is! Of course it is!" I find myself interrupting, rudely shouting at him in my vehemence. "How could it not be? How could I not want you here?"

He is staring back at me in shock at my outburst and I slowly calm myself, taking one deep, calming breath after another as I close my eyes.

"Then that is all the reason that I need," says he with a nod. "You are, after all, the closest to family that I have left to me now. I cannot possibly stay on at my practice; though I shall regret selling it, I am sure. Mary bought it for me..."

And all at once he covers his eyes with a quaking hand. I am glad that he cannot see me, for my usually firm lips are trembling slightly and my eyes are also pricking with tears in sympathy and - I realise - a little grief of my own. Mary was a fine woman and a perfect match for my gallant companion and I would have liked to have said a good-bye of sorts - to have at least thanked her for her love and care of my dear friend. Slowly, on less than steady legs, I stand and go to him, placing my hands upon his shoulders. The hand that is not covering his eyes slowly reaches his shoulder to take mine as it rests there to squeeze it.

We remain in quiet for a moment or two. Only the sound of the ticking clock and Watson's sobs and sniffles breaking the silence of the sitting room.

"I am so very sorry," my friend whispers suddenly, causing me to gaze down at him. "What must you think of me?"

My gaze softens as I regard him, his back still turned to me, one hand still covering his eyes, hiding his tears from the world, while the other attempts to comfort and reassure me. What a brave, good fellow my Watson is!

"I think that you have suffered more than any man should," I respond, doing my utmost to keep my own voice steady. "You have no reason to be ashamed; you are not like the cowards that cry for their own sakes - you shed tears because you have a noble, compassionate heart."

"Thank you Holmes. All the same, I am truly sorry that you must see me like this. I know that I must soon get over my grief and move on."

I tense, squeezing my dear friend's shoulders much too tightly. What callous fellow has told him that? A young man, too young and naive to know anything of grief, or a man too cold or stupid to understand? I have seen enough grief to know well enough that a man with a great heart, like my Boswell, cannot simply 'get over it'.

"That is nonsense old fellow; there is no rushing grief. You shall 'get over it' when you are ready and not a moment sooner. For now, you require time, patience and friendship. You shall not weather this alone."

He breaks down into sobs again. I dearly wish that I knew what to do to help the poor fellow, but perhaps simply remaining quiet and giving him my time will be enough.

"I am so very sorry Holmes," my friend whispers hoarsely when his tears have at last ran dry. "I know that such shows of emotion... bother you."

I shake my head and squeeze his shoulders. "Not at all Watson. I wish only that I was of more help to you."

"I know," he sniffs and rubs a hand across his eyes. "I know. I saw the paper that you wrote on when I tossed it onto the fire for you. I did not mean to read it, but... Did you truly mean it?"

"I would not have written it otherwise," I mutter. I did not mean for him to read it!

He scoffs and gives a rather violent sneeze. "Excu-" and is interrupted by another. My poor Watson! "Excuse me. Would you care to tell me just what you meant by 'a true friend would know what to do'?"

I shrug with a grimace. "Lestrade was more of a comfort than I have been."

"Lestrade is also a friend and colleague Holmes. Besides, I was doing my utmost to put on a brave show for him - I cannot help it. I do not like to permit my friends to see me... like this. Were I half the actor that you are, I would also put on a brave show for you, but I could never keep it up for long enough."

"Doing so would not be healthy in any case, as you must surely know." And I care not a jot how he behaves in my company - I wish that I could tell him that it does not matter to me in a way that he could understand. Why can I not make him understand?

"All the same, I am truly sorry Holmes."

"You have done no wrong, there is no need for you to apologise and I am sorry that I am of no help or comfort at all. You would receive better companionship from a snowman."

He laughs softly. "What nonsense! You do more than you know. All the same, I should return to my practice soon - there is much to sort out. I shall have to decide what should be kept and what I can part with."

Then he truly does wish to move back to Baker Street. I should be elated, but I know how painful this is likely to be for my dear friend and my heart remains heavy. I comfort myself with the knowledge that he at least will not be alone in what was once his happy home.

"Should you need an extra pair of hands - or even just some company and support - I would be glad to accompany you."

"Thank you Holmes. I might just take you up on that."

I pat his shoulders. "Not just yet though Watson - remain here until your congestion has eased at the very least. You should keep warm and rest."

"Yes doctor," he retorts in the very tone that I have so often used when he has given me such advice.

I decide to mimic him in turn. I snatch up a rug and wrap it about his shoulders. "I am not at all surprised that you have caught a cold - up all night, no food, out in all winds and weather... You should get into your night clothes at once and rest beside the fire. No rich foods and no tobacco until I say otherwise."

"I am not like that at all. Not over a cold. And I have never berated you in such a manner."

He has on occasion, but perhaps he had been feeling unwell himself at the time. I honestly cannot recall the circumstances. I shrug and permit myself a chuckle. "I was joking old fellow." Perhaps that was a mistake.

He grumbles and pulls the rug closer. Yes, it was a mistake.

"Are you still chilly?" I ask, changing the subject.

He responds with a rather irked sniff. "I have a cold."

"You do sound dreadfully tired as well. Go and make use of the washroom while I see that your bedroom is ready for you - you really should sleep in your own bed you know; yours is the warmest room in the house."

He sniffs again and stands slowly. "Good night Holmes."

"Good rest Watson."

It takes him three days to rid himself of his cough, though the sneezing does persist somewhat. However, the doctor assures me that colds tend to become sneezier (if that is a word - well, I suppose that it is now) as their sufferers rid themselves of the things and therefore it is a good sign. Hum...

Eventually, I can no longer persuade my friend to remain. Now that the window has been mended and I have quite recovered from the incident concerning the cocaine, the chap no longer feels that he should stay. Never the less, I am worried about the dear fellow - supposing he should become unwell again? Would he send for me? Would his servants give him adequate care?

I content myself by stationing Irregulars to watch over my friend (discreetly, of course). I also find myself plenty of reasons to call on my dear companion of old, so that I can ensure that he is all right and knows himself to be alone no longer.

Desperate though I am for a new case, I know that Watson could really do with a holiday before we embark on anything else. Perhaps I should put the money in my now accessible bank account to good use and take him away for a week or so. I believe the Riviera is very pleasant at this time of year.

If he does not find a buyer at the end of this week I shall buy his practice from him myself. Watson always seems happiest when he visits me at Baker Street and I want him back here, safe and sound, under my watchful eye. I can still see traces of that damned cold - particularly fatigue - in him and that troubles me above all else. Well, I shall have him moved in before this month is over and then I shall be able to tend to him. Perhaps he simply requires rest, company and good food (his cook is appalling!) and will recover quickly with a holiday. I do hope so.

I have a cousin that owes me a favour or two. I found him his position at the theatre and he remains grateful. Perhaps he might help me in purchasing Watson's practice. I shall have to research the expected price of such buildings. Perhaps my cousin could keep the building and rent it to a doctor as a secondary income (goodness knows, he could do with it!). In any case, what becomes of the practice is of little consequence to me - my concern is Watson. I do believe that he needs me.