A/N: here's the next part! Thanks to everyone who read; especial thanks to everyone who's reviewed! :)
The next few days are rather nebulous in my memory. I remember feeling, on more than one occasion, that I was trapped in a burning building and crying out for help…only to find a firm hand clasping my shoulder and to hear Holmes's steady voice, "It's only a fever dream, old fellow, go back to sleep." "You are telling me to sleep? Now that is something novel,' I muttered on one such occasion, and saw him give a small smile, before I slipped back into my feverish dreams.
I know Holmes sent Mrs. Hudson away at my frenzied insistence. He, however, refused to leave, no matter what arguments I employed. He also refused point-blank to send me to the hospital. I made a mental note to ask him regarding that when (I hoped) I would be feeling better—his dislike of hospitals appeared to be so intense that it was bordering on phobia.
About four days after Holmes brought me home, my temperature fell to almost normal, and Holmes could not hide his jubilation over that fact. However, I was compelled to grimly point out that transient defervescence was an usual phenomenon in smallpox just before the eruption of the rash…and of course, I was vindicated in my statement.
The vesicles appeared in my mouth and throat first, then spread in the centrifugal pattern, as they always do; my fever went back up. A day or two after that occurred, I opened my eyes early one morning to find Holmes watching me apprehensively, as if I might disappear at any moment. I tried to give him a reassuring smile (failing miserably in the attempt, I'll warrant) and then…I don't know what possessed me to speak my thoughts out loud; I can only say in my defense that I was near-delirious with fever at the time.
I whispered, "I confess death holds little terror for me any longer…had a few narrow escapes over the years…"
"Please…don't…" his voice was barely audible.
"It's all right, Holmes," I hastened to modify my statement, seeing—or, rather, hearing--his reaction to it. "Don't look so scared…it's not as bad as it seems."
I heard him snort, no doubt because I quoted his own words upon another occasion back to him.
Then I heard him sigh, "Bad enough…"
"No," I insisted. "The vaccination worked after all, you see. My symptoms aren't that severe."
I sought to lighten the moment. "And as to narrow escapes, have I ever told you about the time when the window crashed down upon my instructor and myself?"
"No, not that I recall," he responded with a small laugh.
"Ah. Remind me to tell you of it when I feel better…right now, I'm about to lose my voice altogether."
"I certainly shall."
The next few days are equally vague in my memory; I recall only random snatches. I was aware of Anstruther making daily house calls…and of a girl who's recently had smallpox (and was therefore immune to it) coming for a few hours every day to clean the house and to cook simple meals, as I was too ill, and Holmes too worried (not that he'd ever admit the fact) to eat much.
Finally, early one morning, about two weeks after I fell ill, I awakened feeling more like myself than I have in these last fourteen days. While I still felt extremely weak and the scabbing pustules itched horribly, I no longer felt feverish and my mind was clear. Best of all, I realized that my eyesight was unimpaired. Holmes was slumped in the chair at my bedside, obviously worn out by his lengthy vigil over me. I smiled softly and closed my eyes again; there would be time enough later to talk to him.
