I paced up and down the landing outside his bedroom, my mind in turmoil.
I halted, my heart nearly stopping, hearing his hoarse breathing and coughing cease – then letting my breath out with a hiss as he started again.
I collapsed onto the stairs, knowing if I stood for any longer my trembling would cause me to fall.
I had not even known he was feeling ought but normal until he had suddenly collapsed after we returned to Baker Street, burning with fever.
Pneumonia, Jackson had said, fairly advanced. How could I have not seen the indications? Watson was good at hiding pain from me, but not that good.
It was entirely my fault.
And that mistake might be costing me a price so high I would never be able to pay. No case was worth losing him.
I jumped to my feet as the coughing from the bedroom stopped again, choking on the lump in my throat – but it started once more and I slumped back.
Jackson emerged a moment later and I sprang for him eagerly.
"He's still very ill, Holmes, I can't lie to you," the physician said soberly.
"But will he –"
"If he continues to fight, he should pull through. The crisis is past, but his fever's still high and it will still be a battle."