Good heavens...I do not even want to think about how long I have neglected this story! Would you believe that both this chapter and the following have been written since December 10th, 2009, and I have only gotten around to editing this one today? It's positively shameful, it is. Lestrade should arrest me for my appalling crime against the writers race!
In light of that, I don't think anyone even remembers or cares what's happened to Doc Watson anymore, but all the same, I thought it only fair he finally get on his way to recovery. *glances nervously at an unhappy Holmes, who has an enormous pile of cases that have been piling up for six months*
If you do happen to still hold an interest, I hope you enjoy!
Fever
Part Two
For the third time within the hour, I jolted awake as I was nearing the peaceful haven of sleep, and the frustration and illness combined brought a pathetic whimper I should never had allowed another soul to hear.
It had been only an hour, and I was wanting nothing less than to slumber deeply and awaken afresh and well. However, the sleep refused to come, no matter how badly I wished it. My body alternated between hot and cold, making me throw the afghan back one minute in a vain effort to cool down, and shiver as I groped for it again the next. Every limb ached almost as badly as my pounding head, making me wary and unwilling to move the slightest bit from my uncomfortable position on the sette, though I would have much preferred my own mattress. The cool cloth I had placed against my burning forehead had long-since dried out, and I could feel that I was teetering on the edge of lucidness and fever-induced delirium. The spasmodic, barking, painful coughs culminated with it all to prevent any more than a wink at a time of rest.
Given all the symptoms above, however, the thing that annoyed me the most was the fact that I was unable to accompany Holmes on his case. I had wanted nothing more than to assist him on the affair of the missing bride-to-be, and my own disappointment equaled or surpassed his own, I am sure. What a day to attract a dreadful virus from a patient!
As I laid there in the shadowed sitting room (the gaslights were much too far away to attempt reaching), I very nearly wished I had agreed to Holmes' offer to stay. If the remaining sick days were to be as this past hour — and I had every miserable expectation that they would indeed — I had the feeling I would be in a darker mood than one of Holmes' black fits by the time he returned.
As I mulled this over in my mind and once again tried forcing my weary body to submit to the sleep it so desperately needed, the distant sound of the front door faintly closing from down the seventeen steps brought me to full awareness.
Footsteps were creaking up the staircase.
My breath caught in my throat. There were but three people who owned keys to the house, those being Mrs. Hudson, Holmes, and myself. The former two had been gone for over an hour, and Holmes had never once failed to lock the door when he departed, for whatever reason. That left but one possibility: an intruder.
I have lost count of the number of them Holmes and I have encountered over the many years of our agency. Over half the time, the moment they realize they have been discovered, they run, panicked, and we simply call Lestrade to make necessary arrests. Other times, if need be, we manage between the two of us to overtake them, or even I alone if Holmes is not present. Between us, we have taken down as many as seven men at once. I was not able to do it alone; how on earth could I take down even one man, if I myself could scarcely stand?
Panic rose in my chest as the footsteps stopped just in front of the sitting room door. The knob turned and the door swung silently open.
It took me one long moment in the dimness to recognize the familiar thin, sharp silhouette.
"Holmes?" I croaked, as my body went limp with relief.
"I apologize, Watson," said he matter-of-factly as he soundlessly closed the door behind him. "I had no intention of waking you."
"You didn't, Holmes," I answered, dumbfounded at his unexpected reappearance. "But" — I coughed once — "what on earth are you still doing here? I thought you'd left over an hour ago."
"I did, my good man," he answered as he strode over to where I lay. "I went first to the food market. It took me longer than I planned to find the ingredients of that soup Mrs. Hudson practically forced down my throat when I got a little cold about a month ago."
I chuckled a bit at the memory. The expression on Holmes' pale face as Mrs. Hudson all but spoon-fed him her special soup is one that I shan't ever forget; nor is the expression she bore when he at first refused it — even Holmes had been too unsettled to forbid her a second time.
"I then consulted Dr. Anstruther, and he kindly instructed me as to what I should do to chase away your ailment all the sooner." He illustratively held up a bottle of dark-coloured tonic.
"But…Holmes…" I choked on yet another annoying cough.
"My dear Watson," he murmured masterfully, lifting a hand to silence me, "I would much appreciate it if you did not try to speak until you are able to complete a full sentence, there's a good man."
I smiled faintly at him, amused by his self-proclaimed authority over the situation despite the fact that I am the doctor of the household.
He gave a curt nod of apparent satisfaction to himself and disappeared into his room, returning hastily with the dampened cloth.
"Thank you," I barely whispered, succumbing, as always, to his commands. "You did not have to stay." I knew he had already thought of that, but I yet felt it was only fair to point it out.
He read my near-silent words with ease, and a warm, rare, genuine smile spread over his face, his gray eyes glazing with atypical affection. The fire flickered a pleasant gold over half of his usually white face; the right half contrasted in cold, dark shadow of the black night. My mind was only half present, but I thought the two distinct appearances seemed fitting for him — one part of him dark and solemn, aloof and rational, as cool and indifferent as a stone; yet, there was another part, rarer to be shown but just as dominant as the first. At that moment, in my swiftly-fading mind, I could not quite conjure suitable words to describe this half of his good soul. I could only count myself lucky to have the opportunity to, on occasion, see that more sincere part of the great Sherlock Holmes that contrasts so greatly to his outer façade.
"My dear Watson," said he quietly and openly, "how could I have done any less?"
"The case..."
"It is of no consequence, Watson."
Even in my present dullness, the sensation of those words escaping my work-driven friend was stunning; the delightful revelation of what it implied was enough to put my muddled, sickly mind at rest, no tonic needed.
My eyes closed peacefully at last, a contented smile on my face, I'm sure. The afghan, which had been twisted around my legs during my restless attempts to slumber, was straightened and pulled around my shoulders, and a moment later a soft pillow appeared out of nowhere and cushioned my head.
The last thing I remember before Morpheus finally took me was the feel of my dear friend's hand upon my shoulder, his unnaturally soft voice telling me to rest easy, that all was well.
To be continued...
Right. Well, just one more short summary section to go for this one...
Any of my lovely Holmesians/Sherlockians still remember me after all this time? *giggles*
