From Book girl fan: Holmes and Watson in a time of your choosing

Uncomfortable. That hurt. My leg refused that position. My head, that one. A blanket fell off the bed to make me shiver and hunt for it. I tossed and turned against the mattress, desperately trying to sleep.

With no luck. Whether I buried my head beneath the pillows or curled on my side, the strong pulse behind my eyes still made me flinch at regular intervals. Would reclining instead of lying flat help?

No. That made the pain worse, and I quickly pushed the extra pillows away. My neck protested lying on my stomach. My shoulder disliked flat on my back. I did not dare sit up again. Minutes crept by as hours as I sought relief, but my room lightened with a painful dawn to find me still begrudgingly awake. I would get no sleep tonight.

Nor would I be capable of doing anything today. A distracted thought hoped Holmes had not planned on my presence. I had no interest in getting out of bed. The sitting room's mantle clock faintly chimed the hour just before I managed to roll directly into a spot of sunlight.

Which sent a sharp knife stabbing through my head. I flinched—violently. A groan escaped as painfully rapid movements blocked the light with a pillow. I must have forgotten to close my drapes last night. Could I reach them from here?

No. Better to put my back to the window. Did I have any way to get rid of this headache?

"Morn—g, Mrs.—dson."

Also no. As I had not yet restocked from helping at the charity clinic last week, even the bag I had left in the sitting room did not have any packets of pain reliever. My only option was to sleep through the pain.

Or hope a drink would help. An attempt to swallow nearly stuck my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Perhaps I had simply let myself get dehydrated. Where had I left the pitcher?

Downstairs, naturally. I had forgotten to refill it yesterday before coming to my room. Was it worth the effort—and pain—of getting out of bed?

Yes, if the water would kill this headache. I sighed but pushed myself upright, eyes firmly closed against the light and the pain and that horrible second pulse.

"Watson, are you up yet?" Holmes' voice drifted through the floor, vibrant and awake in the manner that meant he had a goal for today and had decided to start early. Distant clinking announced a hot cup. "The coffee is getting cold."

Not as cold as I was. Sitting up had dropped my thickest quilt off the bed, and bending far enough to reach it only increased the pounding behind my eyes. Perhaps Holmes' desk would have some pain reliever. I would ask when I reached the sitting room.

If I reached the sitting room. Necessity kept me on the side of the bed for nearly a minute before the pain decreased from "blinding" back to "bad but manageable," then a firm grip on the headboard helped me shakily gain my feet. Even cracking an eyelid to see the floor did not steady my balance, however. My first step bruised my knee on my end table. The second nearly tripped over the rug. Another thought suggested returning to bed.

But I still wanted a drink. A stumbling two-step detour found a cane, then three in the other direction pulled my dressing gown on under my quilt. Now marginally warmer and less likely to trip, I made my slow way toward the door.

Avoid the bag in my path. Lean against the wall when a particularly strong pulse made the room spin. Fumble for the knob. Pull my quilt high enough to keep it around my shoulders while I opened the door. The small table Mrs. Hudson kept on the upper landing provided a second support, but footsteps sounded below as I reached the top of the stairs.

"Watson?"

I glanced at him but made no answer, focused on readjusting my quilt. The minute winces from my headache jostled the fabric, and I needed the banister to manage the stairs.

"Watson, stay there."

No. Staying here meant I stayed thirsty. And cold. Mrs. Hudson had probably built a fire in the sitting room. The warmth might help my headache as well. Several seconds finally secured the quilt to let me descend one step. Then two.

"You are ill."

Dismay leaked into the words as a cold hand unexpectedly pressed against my forehead. I reflexively shied from the contact. How had he climbed the stairs so quickly?

No matter. Pressure on my arm kept me from falling, but I tried to wave away the attention. I was fine. I just needed a drink.

"You are not fine." He inserted himself between me and the banister, draping my arm over his shoulders as he went. We cleared five stairs before I realized we had moved, and the rapid pace abruptly caught up to make my head protest. Blinding pain removed my ability to do anything but wait for it to pass. He needed to slow down.

"Watson?"

And be quiet, but I could not remonstrate him when my head insisted on throbbing so. Cold again touched my cheek as a softer cadence carried from the base of the stairs.

"Help me get him to the settee?"

No. No, I wanted to let the pain ease, not make it worse, but hands lifted me before I could say as much. My awareness narrowed to blazing fire.

"Watson, can you hear me?"

The words filtered through the haze, dancing in the fog, twisting in the light. A long moment passed before they aligned to gain meaning. Yes, I could hear him.

A cushion moved, then a hand gently supported me to place a pillow under my aching head. Someone needed to close the drapes. I would never be able to find the water while squinting into too-bright sunlight.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"I heard him."

Footsteps echoed in my head, then the light level abruptly decreased. Relief followed as my headache eased from stabbing to a throbbing pulse. I still needed to ask if he had any pain reliever.

Water first. Dehydration could cause headaches, and the stickiness in my mouth said I had gone too long without liquid. Several blinks brought the sitting room into close-enough focus to check the small side table.

"Here."

The table held only a basin and a spare glass, but a heavy weight on my shoulder prevented me from sitting up to search further. Holmes knelt beside me, a full glass in hand.

"When did your symptoms start?"

My…symptoms? I made no answer, staring at him though I greedily drained the bitter glass. What symptoms? A dehydration-caused headache hardly qualified as "illness."

"You are running a fever," he informed me, offering a second glass to sip when I drained the first. "Your words are slurring, and I do not believe you are fully aware of which thoughts escape as speech. Is your vision blurry?"

Somewhat, which I ascribed to fatigue more than anything else. A fever did explain the perpetual chill, though. One hand tugged a blanket higher as I tried to answer.

"Cold all night." My own quiet words echoed painfully more than his did. "Headache started…before midnight?" A moment's thought shrugged away the estimate. "Too busy trying t'sleep. No pain rel'ver."

That sentence blended even to my ears. I pushed the severely depleted glass away to huddle around a pillow, but he abruptly stood. A distant thought wondered where he was going.

"Where did you put the pain reliever you purchased last week?"

Used it. I had used it all and not yet found the time to compound more. I had just told him that.

"You did not." He dropped my bag at my feet to check my fever again. "Mrs. Hudson may still have some. I will ask when she returns."

Why would she have any? She did not usually keep any medical supplies in her rooms.

"You gave her some several weeks ago."

I did not remember that, but the thought fled when he wet a nearby rag from the pitcher and laid it across my forehead. Conscious effort barely resisted dumping the frozen slug to the cushion. Holmes had some reason for putting it there. I could tolerate a cold spot for a while.

A cold spot. A second sent a tremor down my spine, and I finally shoved the third cloth aside to pull a light throw from the back of the settee.

He immediately replaced it. "We need to lower your fever."

Perhaps, but he did not need three icy rags to do it. I wanted to warm up, not freeze to death.

"You will not freeze."

I already did. Was. The throw eliminated the cold draft by my ear, but it did nothing for the shivering settling in my core. One rag splatted against the floor when I curled on my side. Had Mrs. Hudson forgotten to lay a fire in the grate?

No. Flames cheerfully licked a small pile of coal, but the room grew ever colder. I should have thought to move the settee closer to the hearth.

Not that I would get up to do so now. I simply pulled my many blankets tighter and found a comfortable position.

"Stay awake."

No. The water slowly dulled my extra pulse. If the pain eased enough, perhaps I could catch up on the sleep I had missed last night.

"Watson?" Pressure shook my shoulder, then Holmes knelt between me and those mesmerizing flames. "You need to stay awake. Your fever is climbing."

Fever…climbing. Something in me agreed with traces of worry threading his words. Why was a climbing fever Not Good?

I could not remember, and the question fled when the door swung open behind me. Mrs. Hudson bustled into view, a whirlwind of shadow in the flickering light.

"Here we are, dearie." Her tray slowly filled the nearby table. "I'll have some broth up later," she told Holmes, "as well as some tea for you. Do you want anything, Doctor? Some bacon? A few pieces of toast?"

No. Sleep sounded better than food. I ignored her answering frown to kick an extra pillow out of my way. Another pillow wedged behind my shoulder as conversation flowed around me, bouncing between food and light and a few other topics I did not catch. My own attention narrowed to capturing the fire's warmth in my blankets.

And enjoying the lack of pain. A comfortable position and another drink finally confined my heartbeat to my chest rather than my head. The last quilt I could reach draped over the other two, and I burrowed into the cushion to get some rest.

I would have to remember to ask Holmes what about that so bothered him.

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