This update came much quicker than even I thought it would. This is the last part of this fic, but there are more to come soon. Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. I'm so thrilled you all still remember me and this collection of stories!
Fever
Part Three
Three mornings later, I awoke in my own bed to find my fever at last gone. Even greater a comfort was the knowledge that my friend Sherlock Holmes was not, but that he sat in a worn chair at my bedside, his long legs folded against his chest and his head resting limply against the side of the chair.
As I arose from my seat to rest of one my blankets over his obviously chilled form, I could not help but smile to myself.
The fever was so temporary a thing, but the memory of my new friend resting quietly across from me, when he could so easily have been in the midst of some intriguing and stimulating case, was one I should not soon forget.
It was in that enlightening, if seemingly trivial, moment — one of many over the years of intimate companionship — that the reality assaulted me that there was something more to Sherlock Holmes than he claimed in word and action. It was something buried deep down, perhaps so deep that his great, logical brain neglected to acknowledge its existence, but it was, indeed, there.
Like a fever, when kindled, it rose and overtook him, empowering even his mind; it was what caused him to neglect the part of him that declared he and his desires were to come first. When this fever came over him, the symptoms were not chills or coughs, but kindness and self-denial, such that caused him to choose to remain at Baker Street and care for a friend, so unselfish and compassionate a deed.
I have since that time experienced instances as the above, some more evident than others, and yet this one stands out in my mind now as one of the most notable. It was then, as I stood watching my clearly spent friend in the early morning light, that I knew we would together become unshakeable.
Should he have heard my sincere, heartfelt thoughts of that day, he would surely have scoffed and pronounced me "incurably romantic." I have no doubts that he would have been correct in his prognosis.
It had only been a few short months since our move into the Baker Street lodgings, yet this projection of mine refused to waver; it had been quite a length of time since I had put my faith into anything so absolutely. I realize it seems almost absurd that I held such high expectations for our friendship so early after our initial meeting, given the anti-social and solitary inclinations of the young Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
However, as I sit here now on this dim Monday afternoon, watching him doze under a blanket in a different yet somehow familiar armchair, I know beyond all doubt that I was correct. Not even the regrettably great distance between my London home and a certain simple cottage five miles from Eastborne has had the power to vanquish the connection that has lasted us all these years.
Moreover, just as I recognized so many years ago, the life we have unconsciously chosen to live as colleagues and companions has proven that one of us will at all times be present to guard the other from all evils that come, no matter how great or small. The force that caused him to voluntarily remain with me that day is the same that has had its effect upon me as well, and it is the reason I give for choosing to extend my week-end visit another day and care for an ill friend.
After all, I profess at knowing better than anyone that a fever is hardly overly much to endure, when one has the knowledge that he has not been left alone, but that a friend considers him enough to neglect his own self and stay beside him.
End
"He has, for many years, lived in a small farm upon the downs five miles from Eastborne..." - Watson on Holmes, preface of His Last Bow
"An occasional week-end visit was the most that I ever saw of him." - Holmes on Watson, The Adventure of the Lion's Mane
I'm sure you all know where Watson is while writing the above story, but I wanted to be sure, so you don't get confused.
