"Holmes, is everything all right?" I asked as he started for his room.
He gave me a sharp look, handkerchief halfway to his nose. "You said yourself it's only a cold."
"Yes, of course. It's only you seemed…nothing, really." I flushed and looked away.
He paused before bidding me a goodnight.
Once alone in the sitting room I tried to focus on Henry Mayhew's* first volume, but I couldn't ignore the painful sound of Holmes coughing into his pillow. In minutes I had tossed the book aside and was staring worriedly at his closed door.
He had seemed especially unhappy tonight, even taking his cold into account, and I wanted very much to go knock on his door. If all he needed was a glass of water or someone to take his temperature, I'd still have been willing and ready.
I would do almost anything to make Holmes more cheered or comfortable; sleep mattered naught when it came to friendship. I could already feel an affectionate smile growing at the thought of tending my friend, but as I faced the reality it died from my lips.
Holmes is a private man, and by his earlier behavior I could only suppose he wanted to suffer alone. Unable to bear it any longer I sadly turned down the gas and headed for bed.
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This one was a serious pain in the neck. Argh. DX
*I am referring to the Henry Mayhew of "London Labor and the London Poor."