He awoke amid the pounding of a thunderstorm and the clock striking ten. How could he possibly have slept for fifteen straight hours? He stumbled into the sitting-room to sort through the post that had lain unheeded for the last ten days…nothing of interest. Finally he yawned, deciding to see if Mrs. Hudson could be prevailed upon for some coffee.
Someone had visited, for there were two distinct sets of boot-print traces (one with an inward twist) on the stairs. Lestrade and that constable, probably, come to interrogate Watson while he slept the day away. He scowled, about to descend after his coffee, when he heard his name being called softly from upstairs.
As he had thought Watson was asleep, and as it was highly unusual for the man to call for anything even if he truly needed aid, he took the steps two at a time and gently pushed the bedroom door open, hearing his name whispered once more.
He was asleep, though obviously not peacefully – curled up shivering even under the blankets as the thunder rolled, one still-bandaged hand unconsciously clenched in the pillow, and distressedly murmuring.
He forgot all about the coffee, and probably could not have drunk it anyhow with his throat constricting in that peculiar manner, as he quietly sat upon the edge of the bed.