"Watson, you can't take over Anstruther's patients."
"Oh? Why not?"
I slammed down my pen. "Because you're overloaded as it is. I don't care if he's got bronchitis—I don't care if he has the bubonic plague for that matter, he can find someone else to take over his rounds."
"There's no one else. It's just the way it is." He continued putting on his coat.
"But you've got nothing left--you're completely exhausted."
"I know, but I still have to help."
"Watson—" I clenched my jaw. "That's a mathematical impossibility; you can't have nothing and still keep giving away something."
He paused thoughtfully before fastening the last button. "You're right; mathematically, it is impossible."
"Then how the deuce are you doing it?" I cried.
He merely grinned, tapped his chest, and took his bowler hat from the rack. "See you at dinner, Holmes."
I stepped to the window and pushed the muslin curtain aside, just enough to peep out. I had only a minute to wait until he appeared and started towards a cab. I did not turn away until he was safely inside and on his way.
Then I recalled my question, and his response, involuntarily tapping my own chest as I replayed the conversation.
Yes, Watson, you have a great heart…I only hope it will keep beating.