I shrugged off my coat as I blew through the hall, pounding up the seventeen steps and then up another flight.
Slightly breathless, I gently pushed open Watson's bedroom door and entered.
Hazel eyes fluttered open at the sound, lighting up when he saw me.
"When – did you get back?" he whispered hoarsely, a harsh sound that bespoke of serious abuse to his throat.
"Don't talk," I admonished worriedly as I bent over him, seeing how feverishly flushed his face was, "only just."
"Mrs. Hudson," he whispered.
"Yes, she telegraphed me."
His brows knitted, obviously distressed.
"I should have been very angry with you both had she not," I said sternly. "What is it?"
"Laryngitis," he mouthed, grimacing.
"I'm going to shoot Lestrade," I growled, "what the devil was he thinking, asking you to go tramping about in a driving thunderstorm!"
"You weren't here," came the silent words.
"The bloody idiot! I've a mind to go straight down to Scotland Yard and throttle the fool!"
The corners of Watson's eyes crinkled in a fond smile as he patted my hand.
"You can't see him," he mouthed.
I clasped his hand tightly, seeing the pain he was concealing.
"Whyever not?" I asked, more calmly.
I saw a faint gleam of amusement in his eyes as he again silently formed the words.
"He's home with bronchitis."