"That's what happens when you all but kill yourself, Mr. Holmes – you know as well as I that after two days without sleep you can start hallucinating, and you haven't been eating, either," I snapped testily. The young fool would be needing a doctor if he kept this up, and the only one he would permit near him was likely not going to be in condition to care for him.
I was pleased to see the beginnings of a sharp grey glare. Good.
"Cummings, where's the body?"
"The morgue, sir; I ran up to tell you."
"That's our first real lead in days," Mr. Holmes muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose with a perceptibly trembling hand.
"It'll take at least an hour for the formalities to be completed; these things must be done according to protocol." I coolly held up a restraining hand. "You'll be no good to anyone, least of all him, if you collapse before we find him," I added gently, and saw the blind anger seep from his face.
"Perhaps, for once, Inspector…you are correct," he agreed wearily, settling limply back without further struggle.
"Cummings, fetch a drink while I run down to the morgue, and then see that Mr. Holmes stays in that chair, preferably napping," I directed both in one stern glare. "I'll be back."