Author's note: Inspector Lestrade seems to have captured my imagination. I like writing him, though, so it's okay. He's very nice about it, and says that as far as the antagonism that sometimes arises between Mr. Holmes and himself, if you worked with the amateur detective you would be a little antagonistic towards the man as well.
We stopped by the Doctor's practice, just to be certain he had not come in, before heading to his home. I paused to knock at the door, but when no one answered I opened it and went right in.
The rooms were a shadow of what they had been when Mrs. Watson had been alive, and I again felt guilty. It was true that the Doctor, for all his goodness, had few close friends. I should have thought to at least check in on him now and again. I owed him that much.
I quickly searched the downstairs, and found no sign of the man, though it seemed he had been as recently as the night before. I frowned, and headed upstairs.
I needn't have bothered with the guest room, but checked anyway to be thorough. I found his bedroom dark and cold, but there was something-
I sent the young lady downstairs on the pretence of having her check the washroom, as a brief glimpse had shown that he was not there. Once she was gone, I went still and listened.
I heard it then, barely. Someone breathing lightly. I fumbled for a light and went towards the sound. I swore as I found the source.
In the small space between the bed and the wall lay the Doctor.
He was unconscious. It seemed he had hit his head, though I had no idea what had caused him to fall. He was so thin, it reminded me of when we had first met. His face was troubled, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He was also sweating.
I checked to be sure there was no further injury, and struggled to move him out from behind the bed. As thin as he was, it was no easy feat, and I was panting as I knelt beside him in the middle of the room.
He had a fever, but the wound on his head was not bad. I called for the young lady downstairs to bring some water and a rag, and began trying to wake the Doctor up.
His eyes finally opened, and focused upon me in confusion. "Lestrade?" He mumbled. "What?"
I let out a sigh of relief. "What have you been doing to yourself, Doctor?" I asked. "Your receptionist was alarmed when you didn't show up for work today."
Doctor Watson frowned. "Today?" He said weakly. "It was – I was." He frowned.
I was scared. So was the young lady as she set the basin down. I didn't bother trying to reassure her, but instead sent her for my wife. Lizzie was the next best thing to a doctor, when it came down to it.
"What's the last thing you remember?" I asked as the young girl darted off. I reached for the rag and began wiping the blood off the Doctor's face. "You hit your head when you fell." I explained.
He frowned. "It was late at night. I had just gotten in. It was a rather long day, I fear." He considered. "I must have tripped on my way to bed." He confessed.
"Well, you're lucky your receptionist was worried." I said with forced lightness. "Let's see if we can't get you off the floor."
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes not does not belong to me.