I shivered, turning my collar up, trying to block the water that had splashed out of a gutter-spout onto my already soaked head, drenching the last remaining dry parts of me.
I was soaked to the skin, freezing cold, altogether miserable. Why the devil did doctors always get called out on the vilest nights to bedside vigils?
I'd walked the whole way and had never felt so relieved to see 221b, stumbling up the stairs silently – 'twas past one a.m. and I was freezing, wanting only to slip between the blankets and die to the world.
My teeth were chattering by the time I reached my cold bedroom, opening the door with a shaking hand. I fumbled into dry clothing, shivering miserably, then a knock sounded and a sleepy Holmes poked his head in, clad in dressing-gown and holding a steaming drink.
"What the devil was wrong with the man?" he murmured, "you were gone for seven hours."
"B-bad attack of inf-fluenza." I took the drink gratefully, trembling with chill.
Holmes's sharp grey eyes ran over me appraisingly.
"You're freezing."
"I'm f-fine," I muttered, finishing the drink, "but why the devil did they call me and not a closer physician!"
Holmes pulled an extra blanket from my wardrobe, glancing at me only briefly while spreading it on the bed.
"Obviously they wanted the best."