There was a slow, rattling inhalation of breath that was exhaled even more slowly. Then the chest stilled, rising no more. The poor fellow's body was too weakened, too drained of its strength to fight any longer.
Dr. Ives sighed. Another typhoid victim. His lips were tight and grim but his touch was gentle as he drew the white sheet over the still face, still residually warm from fever. This was the part of being a physician he hated the most. He also hated the part that had to come next: sending a telegram of Watson's passing to his brother.
Shameless plug: KCS and I are collaborating on a new story with Ives. First chapter goes up next week. Yes, bcb, this is the bunny you offered to us!