Continuing from 85:
"No, Holmes – bad idea," he grasped my arm as I retrieved an afghan and spread it over him.
"What is, old chap?"
"Your bed – it's probably – that influenza," he said weakly, "germs –"
"It's all right, Watson," I reassured him, my brow furrowing as he shivered, curling up miserably under the blankets.
"But you won't have anywhere to sleep," he whispered.
"I shall manage. Besides, you are obviously in no condition to be tramping up-and-downstairs and I certainly would rather sleep on the couch than have to carry you."
I was rewarded by a weak chuckle as he took his own temperature. Finally he removed the instrument and looked at it, his face falling.
"Must have gotten it last night," he moaned, setting the thermometer back.
"How high is it?" I asked sharply, knowing how serious influenza could be.
"Not very, just enough to be miserable."
"What can I do?"
"Leave me to die in peace," he moaned, burrowing into the covers, squeezing his eyes shut.
"I believe I can manage that."
As I straightened the blankets and dimmed the gas, I heard the whisper of a laugh under the covers at my pretended callousness.
But even so, I stayed with him until he fell asleep, wondering how doctors could stay sane after so many worried hours spent at sufferers' bedsides.