From Domina Temporis: Airplane

Heavily references Chaos 29 & 30. Indirectly referenced by Tinsel 12. Sequel to Tinsel 22

A metallic bird, strangely childlike. Yellow, frothy clouds. Living portraits scowling at flapping books.

A shiver trickled down my spine. Pleasantly illogical dreams faded beneath a persistent chill, and ginger movements retrieved an extra blanket. I would need another dose soon, based on the dull ache growing behind my eyes, but early morning sunlight meant I could doze for a few more hours.

Bright blue trees above a roofless flat. A green-faced moon, frowning its displeasure. A sea turtle swimming through the sitting room.

Small noises carried from Holmes' room. He probably intended to go to the Yard this morning, but he would not expect me to join him. I much preferred to stay abed.

Holmes, walking on the ceiling. Ocean waves crashing a sandy desk. A terrifyingly familiar waterfall drenching me with its spray.

Pans clanged in the kitchen, and I shifted against the pillow. Mrs. Hudson must have woken hungry. She did not usually want breakfast yet.

Holmes might have requested coffee, though. Booth's had not been his only semi-urgent puzzle, and with that one complete, he might have decided to get an early start this morning.

No matter. They still would not expect me for another hour or two, at least. Perhaps I could wait until the fever reducer returned my temperature to normal levels. Holmes did not need to know the results of the brawl that had caught Booth.

A waterspout in the sitting room. A leering, gap-toothed insult. Glinting knives on every side.

I jerked awake, barely smothering a grunt when my side protested. Safe. I was safe. Holmes was safe. We were home. That had been yesterday, and Holmes had not been injured. Another position slowly let me drift back to sleep.

Miniature children playing in beakers. Flames licking bare stone. Brass knuckles. Dizzying pain announced itself the moment battle reflex ended its protection.

No. I readjusted again to get my weight off my shoulder. The hot fire lancing my ribs and threading across my side firmly suggested I remain prone, but I had no interest in reliving that fight with every doze. My pocket watch dictated another dose of fever reducer, the thermometer read a temperature closer to uncomfortable than dangerous, and peeling the bandage aside found nothing more than a shallow cut slightly inflamed because I had ignored it all evening. I pressed the tape back into place and curled around my pillow.

Mary, lit by a twinkling Christmas tree. Mrs. Hudson, hiding a bottle of wine in the branches. Lestrade, laughing at one of Mary's witty retorts.

Holmes, frantically trying to stem the blood flowing from his side.

A gasp cut in half as my ribs voiced their displeasure, and I clawed my way upright. Holmes. Was he—

No. Holmes was fine. I had been injured, not him. I heard him downstairs now, probably browsing the morning's newspaper.

"Watson?"

Or paying far too much attention to my room. Deep bruises voiced their displeasure once more as I eased myself back to the pillow, then one hand shoved the thermometer and various packets beneath my pillow when footsteps approached the stairs.

"Watson, are you awake? Lestrade asked us to stop by the Yard this morning."

I did not remember that, but it hardly mattered. Holmes could go alone. Fluffing my pillow ensured I did not break my thermometer before I ignored the question to settle back into the blankets. I wanted to sleep.

.

He frowned at the ceiling as slow readjustments creaked the bed yet again. In the hours that Holmes had occupied his chair, Watson had shifted every few minutes, jumped awake at least twice, and sat up only to lie back down several times. Was something wrong?

Unlikely. Recent years had shown his friend disturbingly willing to hide or even ignore a variety of injuries, but Holmes' wordless vigil had found nothing but lingering soreness yesterday. As Holmes felt that stiff ache as well, Watson probably battled the typical nightmares caused by an altercation.

Except he completely ignored breakfast, and Holmes' call received no more reply than his earlier one had. Silence reigned in that dark room as concern finally sent Holmes up the stairs.

"Watson?"

A blanket-shrouded lump startled at the noise. Watson cracked one eye, his half-asleep scowl loudly declaring his opinion of Holmes' intrusion.

"What?"

And suggesting more than weariness kept Watson in his room. His voice should not be that rough.

"Why are you still in bed?"

"B'cause I w's sleepin'." A slow blink further tied the mumbled words to fatigue. "What d'you want?"

To be sure his friend did not disregard something better treated. He left the door ajar as slow steps headed for the bed. "Lestrade asked us to come to the Yard this morning."

Watson gave a half shrug. "Go a'ead," he replied, eyes closing. "I'll b' down later."

If at all, his tone added. Watson had spent a sleepless night tossing against the covers, a mound of blankets indicated a pervasive chill, and shallow breathing could indicate either illness or injury. Holmes should have checked on him earlier.

"Are you ill?"

"No." Not yet. "T'red. Up late too—" A yawn interrupted the sentence, "m'ny nights in a row."

That was true enough, Holmes acknowledged. Cases, visitors, and patients had all stolen Watson's sleep this week, and he would normally use an otherwise unoccupied morning to catch up on rest.

True enough did not always mean true, however. A simple lie-in would not stretch this late, and the indirect phrasing revealed Watson's attempt to hide a problem. Holmes finally stopped beside the bed.

"Where are you injured?"

Nowhere he intended to admit. A low harrumph replaced rolling out of reach.

"'M f'ne, Holmes. Go 'way 'n let me sleep."

No. Sunlight from the landing glinted off something beneath Watson's pillow. Another glance found the tip of a thermometer, and Watson flinched when Holmes' hand landed on his forehead.

"C'ld. Go 'way."

Watson's face should not be that warm. Holmes made no effort to smother a worried frown. "How long have you been running a fever?"

Long enough to stare at the ceiling most of the night, by the dark shadows beneath Watson's eyes. Shaking hands stretched the quilt as a gesture tried to brush away the question.

"Don' worry about it. 'T's low."

Not low enough. Another moment's contact again registered an uncomfortable heat in Watson's skin, and opening the drapes found several packets of both fever reducer and pain reliever hiding with the thermometer. A used bandage on the desk confirmed a bloodletting of some sort. How his friend had hidden this last night, Holmes would decipher later. Rapid steps retrieved Watson's bag from the sitting room, then careful nudges started searching for the injury.

Amidst Watson's grumbled—and occasionally sleeping—protests. He should have checked on his friend much earlier.

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