Mr. Holmes was still destroying his bedroom in search of a clean collar when the physician came out. He cast a dubious glance at the pounding from below before asking who I was and warning me not to question the Doctor until he was feeling better – which would not be for a while.
Unfortunately, Mr. Holmes chose that exact moment to appear on the stairs, demanding to know what exactly the poor medico meant by that.
"I mean that he's injured, half-starved, dehydrated, and contracted one of the nastiest chills I've seen in weeks," the man snapped defensively.
Mr. Holmes blanched, and the physician lowered his voice when he saw the detective wasn't going to attack him. "That fever is not dangerously high, but enough that he will be quite miserable. He should know what medicines to take and so on but will need your help in fetching supplies; he should remain in bed until his body has recovered."
The amateur nodded, slightly more calmly, but I looked at the doctor. "You said injured," I repeated pointedly. "The head?"
"That, and he appears to have been in a nasty scuffle, though the bruises are several days old," he reported calmly. "That is part of the reason he was having trouble breathing as you said, Inspector; his ribs were fairly badly bruised."