Due to Rabidsamfan's request for more angst, this continues from #84.
It was past eleven when I finally bestirred myself next morning, having been woken from my fireside doze when Watson came back late from that call.
He appeared to be still abed, which was odd even for him – he must be more tired than he had looked last night.
I poured some coffee and was stirring it when there was a loud crash in the hall. Thinking Mrs. Hudson had dropped a tray, I rolled my eyes and opened the door – only to stop short in alarm.
"Watson! Are you all right?"
He had apparently tripped or fallen – I suspected the latter from his dazed expression. His medical bag, left in the hall last night, was lying half-open beside him as he pushed himself up, face flushing with embarrassment as I helped him to his feet.
"Yes, I'm fine – just dizzy – for a minute," he gasped, rubbing his eyes.
"Are you ill?" I asked sharply, not liking the glazed look I saw therein.
"I – don't know – I was coming down to – get my thermometer," he said faintly, swaying unsteadily on his feet, then suddenly leaning rather heavily into me.
"It doesn't take any deduction to see you're unwell, my dear fellow," I said gently as he feebly resisted my pushing him into my own bedroom and settling him on my bed.