His room was murky in the dark cider of twilight; though I'd had the gas half-on when last I came to check on him, it was now completely off.
"Holmes?"
I heard the rustling of bedclothes.
"Holmes, I let you get away with this during the case, but it's over now. Holding out on your fast is not going to do anyone good, least of all you and me."
My eyes began to adjust to the dimness, and now I could see he was staring at the ceiling, arms crossed.
"I know you're upset," I continued, threading my way around mountains of books and sundry to reach his bedside. "But you have to eat. Look, you don't even have to get out of bed. I brought you some soup."
He groaned quietly, laying an arm across his eyes. "I'm not hungry."
I sat in a chair beside him, feeling my throat tighten as I studied his gaunt face. It wasn't his fault the client had died…why did he have to take everything on himself?
There was a long moment of silence, before his nose twitched and he peered at me from under his slightly-raised arm. "Is that Mrs Hudson's vegetable soup?"
"The very one."
"Well…" He sighed and slowly began to sit up. "Perhaps I could just have a bite."