The poor Doctor gave it a game try, but it just wasn't within his power to make it all the way out into the cab. He collapsed before we'd gone fifty yards, shaking like a leaf in an autumn-wind and barely able to gasp an embarrassed apology as we settled him gently upon the floor.
"I am so sorry…" he murmured weakly to Mr. Holmes, who only looked more lost than before. "I suppose…I can't do this after all…"
"And you were dashed foolish to try in the first place," I retorted without thinking, earning myself a glare from the detective which I returned with equal heat.
When I'd helped the Doctor up the first time, I could tell he'd lost weight; definitely malnourished if not dehydrated from fever and mistreatment. And he was out of breath – too out of breath, gasping hoarsely as he slumped backward, eyes closed, against Mr. Holmes.
Knowing the detective as I did, I half-expected him to squawk in outrage and move the man to a position on the floor. But he didn't; he actually sat there and held his friend, awkwardly patting his arm occasionally as I left to find Cummings.
Had someone depicted that situation to me about Mr. Sherlock Holmes when we first met ten years ago, I should have laughed beyond belief.