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Author's note: Thanks to all who have supported this story. There will be another chapter or two. I am having so much fun. Your reviews keep me going.

Fevers

Chapter 4

"Uhhh. No. Stop." In a fevered haze, he grabbed wildly at the spoon.

Holmes lifted it high. "That's enough, Old Boy. We're going to get this in you, tantrum or no."

Watson hot, dry face rolled side to side. "Vile. Poison."

"No, it's merely the sisters' broth." The smell of it was putrid and Holmes had difficulty not turning away from it himself. He waited until Watson calmed and then he lowered the spoon again. Holmes got most of it in his mouth before Watson sputtered and tried to grab at him again. Holmes moved out of range. He dipped the spoon back into the thick broth.

"Listen, Old Chum, I know it has the stench of a dead body, but it appears to be quite medicinal. The sisters tell me that the recipe is 400 years old. Making one batch of this takes a good six months. It is boiled down more than 50 times, and twice, it is left out until it spoils. Nasty recipe, that. Reminds me of those old wives' tales of treating wounds with moldy bread."

"Prepostorous," Watson murmured.

"Yet, the tale has survived as have the patients who are taking this broth. You know I'm right."

Watson's breathing settled.

"There's no doubt it's terrible, but I think it will save your life. So after each bite, I'll give you a sip of water to ease the taste. You'll behave like a good boy now."

He propped up the pillows behind Watson, and then he delivered another spoonful of the broth. Watson groaned but didn't fight him. Holmes quickly tipped a glass of water at his lips. Holmes grinned. "Good! We'll keep this up for awhile yet. The good sisters tried to have a go at you an hour ago, you know, but you flailed about like a landed tuna. I couldn't risk their delicate bones to your abuse. So you have Dr. Holmes here to keep you in check."

Watson lapsed back into unconsciousness. Holmes eased the extra pillow out from under his head and eased him on his side. "You get some rest now. The broth and I will be waiting."

It was late on the second night that Holmes first heard a wagon. He lifted his head from the edge of Watson's bed and stumbled to the window. Outside, he could see torches blazing, horses, and wagons. He shouted a greeting and then ran for the stairs.

Outside, he noted that there were quite a number of wagons lined up. He yelled for Lestrade. The inspector was climbing off the first wagon. Holmes put his hands on his hips. "Well, it took you long enough."

"We got lost in a game of whist and drank too much. You know the drill," Lestrade murmured as he brushed by him.

Clark jumped off the wagon behind him and wagged a finger at Holmes. "You have no idea what he went through."

Holmes frowned and looked at Lestrade's retreating back.

"Once we got back, the inspector started banging on doors. Had to get real pushy. Even barged into the Home Secretary's office. There was talk of arresting him. He finally went to the papers and appealed to Queen Victoria herself. It was a cheeky bit of work, but aid societies, church groups, and public health committees started showing up. Shamed the police force with their willingness."

"Huh! The good inspector did all that."

"And he hasn't slept for two nights."

Holmes tapped his chin. "It won't do to be contrite. The inspector expects more of me. No, no, I'll have to find another way to show my appreciation."

"Did you find Dr. Watson, Sir? We've been quite worried."

"As well you should. He's quite sick but not from the pox. He has a large infection in his leg."

"Is it deadly?"

Holmes turned to him. "If we don't get him out of here and to the proper facilities, it will be. I need you to find me a wagon to haul him back to civilization."

Clarky looked around. "I reckon these wagons will be empty in a few hours. It shouldn't be a problem, Sir."

Holmes found his way to the steps and sat down. It was a drain on all involved. Every last one of them would benefit from a month in a sanitarium. Still, it surprised him how lightheaded he was feeling.

His chest rose and dropped heavily. His body felt wet, a musky odor wafted up from his skin. He opened his eyes to the daylight. The freckles of Sister Michael smiled down at him. "Your fever has broken, Dr. Watson."

He struggled to his elbows and noted with some mortification that his shirt was entirely laid open. Sweat glistened on the hair on his chest. He looked for a blanket but the nun held his arm firmly. "Your body needs to cool, Doctor. Let it be."

"My own fiancée has yet to see me like this."

"I am a nun not a woman who thinks of earthly things."

Watson looked around. "Where's Holmes?"

"He is busy readying a wagon for you."

"They've come."

She smiled. "The neighborhood is buzzing with food, medicine, and blankets."

"You'll come with me. All of you. This mission is over. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, we'll come. We've done God's work and it's time to rest."

A nun popped into the room with a fresh basin of water. Watson threw an arm across his chest. "Must I be on display?!"

"You'll need a bath before we put you on the wagon. You smell like an old sock."

"Give me a rag. I can bathe myself."

Sister Michael shook her head. "You're as weak as a kitten."

"I'll have my dignity, Sister."

A familiar figure leaned heavily against the doorframe. "Ah, as naked as a baby on his first day. I don't advise arguing with the sister, Old Fellow."

Watson couldn't hide the grin spreading across his face. "Holmes!"

"You'll let the sister bathe you, and I'll stay to make sure your virtue is protected."

"You're no less a tyrant than she is, you old cock."

He smiled. "Get your bath now like a good patient. Then we'll get you home."

Watson complained good-naturedly as the nun scrubbed him thoroughly. It was a good day, and he didn't notice that his best friend eased into a chair with the caution of a man many years his senior.

Holmes harangued Lestrade until he agreed to ride back with them. In the back of the wagon, he spurred Clarky on to regale them with tales of Lestrade's efforts. Lestrade blushed and said nothing while both Holmes and Watson shook their heads in admiration and occasionally uttered exclamations of "Extraordinary, Inspector!", "The queen herself, you say!", and "Good Show!"

Lestrade fell dead asleep on his constable's shoulder, but Clarky did nothing but make sure the inspector was comfortable. Watson noticed that Holmes was fighting sleep himself. The great detective seemed preoccupied with the sleeve of his right arm. While Holmes was the great observer of the world, Watson held the distinction only as the world's best observer of Holmes. He waited until Holmes' chin rested on his chest, and then he reached over and tugged on the sleeve.

On the wrist, Watson saw two telltale spots. He drew in breath sharply.

Holmes' eyes popped open and he pulled his arm away. "It's okay, Watson. I'll get off at the quarantine line. There'll be good doctors and nurses there."

"You had no business here, Holmes. You've never been exposed. I was a fool not to think about what you might do."

"It's sure to be a mild case."

Watson narrowed his eyes. "With you, nothing is minor. I have seen you through illness before. All of the abuse you do to your body shows up every time you get sick."

"Stop fussing, Mother hen."

Clarky looked up from where he was dozing. "Do you Sirs need anything?"

"No, Clarky," Watson hissed sharply. They waited until Clark drifted off again. Then Watson reached over and grabbed Holmes' wrist. "You'll hide this. You will not tell anyone."

"I won't break quarantine, Watson."

"Enough! You're the patient now and you'll do as I say."

Holmes scoffed. "You broke a fever less than 7 hours ago."

With great effort, Watson rose up on his elbows. "I'm your physician, Holmes, and I'm taking you home."

"Use reason!" Holmes hissed.

Clarky shifted and they froze until he settled again. "You're going home, Holmes. It's where you belong. You'll infect no one. There is no better quarantine than our digs at Baker Street."

"And you on your bad leg, infection still oozing out of the wound. How will you help me?"

"The leg feels better. No arguments! My things are there. My medicines. We'll send Mary and Mrs. Hudson out. I'll have little to do but make sure you get your rest."

"It's impossible, Old Friend. At the line, we must say good-bye."

Holmes' head grew heavy on Watson's shoulder. The good doctor let his breathing fall in rhythm with Holmes. He had the strength to do very little at the moment but clamp his hand over Holmes' wrist and stare out the back of the wagon.

Next chapter by Tuesday