As we round a bend, a bolt of lighting splits the leaden sky before us, striking an old oak tree in the field to the right and scattering a flock of corvids in a panic.

"Huh! Oh. The storm is worsening," notes the compudroid. He sounds worried.

I pat his shoulder as I approach his side. "Are you all right?"

He turns his head to meet my gaze and I note that he looks far from well. His cheeks are still flushed, while the rest of his face - particularly the skin (for want of a better word) surrounding the mouth - is an unhealthy pallor. He looks as if he is gasping for breath, as well - his mouth is partly open, with the lips trembling.

"I... I am not feeling well. I feel... I think I am tired."

There is no point in asking him what he feels like. Robots are not supposed to feel pain or discomfort and thus he is not likely to be able to understand (much less put into words) quite what he feels.

I pat his shoulder. "Do you want to turn yourself off, for now?"

He shakes his head and then groans, turning to lean forward so that his head is hanging just above his parted legs. And then he makes a peculiar noise, which sounds something like a gasp or a whimper.

"Watson?"

"I feel so strange," he groans.

"Turn yourself off, for a moment," I advise him. "How I wish that I could, when I feel unwell!"

He shakes his head and leans forward again with another of those strange sounds.

"Can you describe the way that you feel to me?" I ask, beginning to fear that there could be internal damage being done.

"I feel... 'dizzy', I think... Huh-huh! It is almost as if I know not where the floor is... Huh-huh..."

This said, a tremor goes through him and his body jerks forward, almost as if he is trying to vomit. Oh. That is not possible, surely? Robots do not have a stomach or oesophagus, so how could a robot possibly feel the urge to be sick?

"Holmes..."

I hold his hand, knowing not what else to do. "All right, Watson. All right. Calm down. You are trying to be sick because you are scared, but nothing is going to come of it. Do calm down."

He straightens slowly. "I am so embarrassed."

With a reassuring smile, I pat his back. "There is no need. I was not feeling terribly well, either, until I had a soothing drink; I never have been very good on rough water."

He again tries to be sick, his body lurching forward while his mouth parts. Ugh! Watching him is making my own stomach protest.

"If this is what you feel like, when your digestion is upset, I can see why you hate it so much. It is horrible!"

At least he is not in any danger of making a mess - I find the threat of humiliation far worse than the horrible feeling in my head and stomach. I rather envy him.

"Try to think about something else," I advise.

"How?" he gasps.

"We're nearly home," Trevor announces. "Not much further, now."

I pat Watson's shoulder. "Nearly there, old fellow."

He nods, his eyes closing, while his workings continue to click and whirr loudly. "I am so sorry."

"When we get you indoors, I must have a good look at you," I tell him firmly. "I do believe that you must be in need of a service, if you are not entirely overdue."

"But... Huh! Huh-huh! We agreed..."

"You have grown worse, since we made that agreement. Surely you know that to be so. If you insist on continuing to run in your current condition, lasting damage might be done. As your friend, I urge you..."

He groans and then coughs into his fist. "Oh! All - huh! - all right, Holmes. Do as you will."

I pat his shoulder again. "Good fellow. Have no fear; we shall soon put you right. Try to relax and to empty your mind."

Despite Trevor's assurance of our approaching his home, the minutes drag by like hours. Unable to do anything else, I remain at Watson's side and watch the banks, trees and reeds crawl by on either side of us while the boat rocks horribly.

At last, the boathouse becomes visible when we round another bend. Thank God!

"The water will be calmer inside, once I've shut the doors," Trevor tells me. "Wait until I have the boat steady, before you go out on deck. I don't want you to fall in - especially not between the boat and the moorings; you could be crushed."

I agree to wait with Watson until he gives the word and cross my legs, leaning back in a languid manner.

Watson casts me an appraising glance. "All right, old boy?"

I nod and give him a tight smile. Do be quiet, Watson - I do not only ever sit like this when I want to stretch my legs.

"How are you both feeling?" Trevor asks without turning his head.

"I feel horrible," Watson admits. "But not quite as bad, now that I know that it is only the part of me which thinks that it is human, reacting as a human would."

I touch his arm sympathetically. Poor Watson!

"Doctor Watson, when were your fans last cleaned?" Trevor asks. "I wonder if you feel like you've got a bit of a cold because you can't breathe properly."

He shudders and raises his fist to his mouth. "Attishoo! Attishoo! Oh. That is rather a personal question, Mr. Trevor."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I know a few things about computers and robots. I've never met such an incredible and impressive robot as you, of course, but... well... If you react in the same way as a human, your symptoms must be caused by something... similar to a human condition. A blocked or faulty fan would make you hot - and you look hot - and it would make you want to try to clear it; most living things would cough and sneeze, if they were unable to breathe properly."

He nods. "Your theory sounds quite likely," he admits, with a round of coughing.

"Where are your fans located?" I enquire.

He frowns at me indignantly. "Really, Holmes! I do not ask you where parts of your anatomy are located."

"You have no need to do so," I retort with a chuckle. "You know the human anatomy as well as I do, if not better."

He runs his eyes over me again, causing my ears to feel hot. I believe I know what it is that he is thinking.

"You do realise that I can be just as personal, I believe," says he in an angry whisper, casting a pointed glance toward my abdomen. "You look so dreadfully uncomfortable..."

I resist the temptation to follow his gaze and instead glare into his face. "Good for you," I retort with a soft growl. "You dare, Watson. As it happens, you are incorrect - I am not uncomfortable."

He shakes his head, casts Trevor a furtive glance, and gives me another appraisal. No doubt, he knows not whether he should believe me or no.

If he decides to embarrass me again, he will regret it. I narrow my eyes in warning at him.

"Your fans," I repeat impatiently. "Where are they?"

He blushes. "They are... behind me. Just above my... hips."

"You could probably do with an outfit that will permit them to breathe," I remark. "We shall worry about that later - one thing at a time. Your fans; can I have a look at them?"

"Here? Now? Like this?" he yelps, wrapping his arms about himself.

"It would be safer to look at them when he is off, Mr. Holmes," Trevor tells me. "And less uncomfortable for our friend, I'm sure."

"You are right, of course," I reply, watching my robotic companion anxiously.

Trevor clears his throat. "I've got some compressed air, back at the house. That should do the trick, until he gets his service. A bit of first aid, before he can see a doctor, as it were."

"Quite so. Thank you, Mr. Trevor," I pat Watson's shoulder. "There you are, old fellow - you are going to be all right."

He nods. "Tha... Thank you."

I dearly wish that I knew more about robots and computers. How I wish to be able to do something for him - to ease his discomfort, at the very least. He always knows what I need, when I am unwell.

"Mr. Holmes, " Trevor calls me from my thoughts. "We are safely inside. Wait for the water to settle down and then, if you'd go up on deck, perhaps you could toss the ropes to my waiting robots. They're going to escort us back to the house with umbrellas, so that we don't get too wet."

Watson casts me a questioning glance. "Will you be all right?"

I nod and address him with a reassuring smile. "Perfectly. The house robots will see that I am all right. Stay here and try to keep quiet and still."

"Well... all right, Holmes."

I go to the French windows and watch the water settle. Just as Trevor said, there are robots patiently waiting at the hitching posts and watching us. Unlike Watson, they show no emotional responses - no concern, anxiety or anything at all. There is no fidgeting or folding of arms and no tapping of feet. It seems strange to see them so still - I have grown accustomed to my robotic friend.

Once the boat has been securely hitched at the posts, the robots assist Watson in the walk back to the house as instructed by Trevor, while we humans share an umbrella and make our own way, arm in arm, battling against the gale and driving rain.

"The weather can change quite suddenly, in Norfolk," Trevor remarks, raising his voice over the wild cries of nature. "It seems to have its own weather systems - the flatness of the land, perhaps. Being so close to the coast must be another factor. Oh, well, the storm will soon blow itself out or move on. I'm sure it'll warm up, once the rain stops and the wind dies down."

I hope so. "Does it often rain here?" I enquire, as he opens the back door and gestures for me to enter ahead of him.

"Oh, not frequently," says he, while he follows me inside. "We are more likely to get sudden storms than incessant rain. Personally, I prefer that to days of drizzle."

I might be inclined to agree, were I not currently freezing cold and dripping wet.

"I'll show you to the shower room," my friend offers. "Or would you prefer a bath? Have you ever had a shower before?"

"May I take those wet garments?" a voice asks from behind me, causing me to turn.

"Ah! Mr. Holmes, this is Jeeves, my butler. This robot has served my family for three generations."

The robot bows and takes my wet coat and hat. "One of the service robots will clean your shoes, sir. Leave them by the door."

"Thank you. My friend, Watson, the Yard-issue compudroid..."

"The Scotland Yard Compudroid, model 7, is in hall, where it is cooler," says he. "It is overheating."

I thank him a second time, ignoring the manner in which Jeeves has decided to speak of Watson as if he were an item of furniture (for the time being) and hurry to my companion's side. I want to put him to rights before I even consider tending to myself - I am not going to suffer permanent damage if I do not immediately remove my wet socks, or take a warming bath. Watson, on the other hand, is badly in need of care and that scares me - never before has the thought occurred to me that his wellbeing might need consideration.