Watson:

I awoke to the sound of screaming.

In the moment between sleep and wakefulness, the screams were joined in terrible chorus by the phantoms of hot sands and roaring rifles, still not quite dispelled despite the long years since Maiwand. Then my dream-state fled completely and the comfortingly familiar sight of a Baker Street room fell into place, along with the memory of our unfortunate guest. I threw off the bedclothes, sparing a glance at the clock to note that it was now two in the morning.

Two hours previous, we had been in pleasant conversation - though Hopkins frequently lost focus, found everything not related to carpentry or the case to be inordinately funny, and had to stop periodically to stumble to the water closet, both Holmes and I were quite familiar with these symptoms and had little trouble working around them - when the clock had chimed the hour, and Hopkins had tentatively asked for a small dose of morphine.

I was hesitant, but he assured me that he felt alright now, and just wished to sleep after such a long day. He did look much better. I hoped that he had gotten a much smaller dose of the stimulant than I'd originally feared.

The morphine took hold quickly, and after he'd been dozing awhile I found myself quite tired as well. It had been a long day for all of us, and I was not as young as I once was. Holmes convinced me to retire to his room for an hour, assuring that he'd wake me if anything happened.

I could only surmise that the morphine had worn off, losing out to paranoid delusion, and that he was in an unfamiliar place would not help. I darted out of the obstacle course of a bedroom as quickly as I could. Then I stopped short in the doorway.

I was not entirely sure what I was expecting to find on the other side of that door, but it was certainly not what I found. Holmes was bent over the clearly terrified Inspector, one hand gently pressing him back onto the settee while the other stroked his sweat-matted hair. "Hush, it's all right," he was whispering in a soothing baritone. "You're safe, Stanley. You're safe, my boy."

The delirium had no chance against Holmes' tender ministrations. Recognition sparked on the young Inspector's face, his breathing slowing to a less worrisome pace. Holmes tucked the blanket back up around his shoulders, continuing his gentle murmuring. "Just lie back. I'll fetch you some water."

A smile lingered on my friend's face as he stood, flickering for a moment when he spied me. Knowing there was a witness to such a show of softer emotions must have been embarrassing for him, even if it was only me.

"Delirious, poor boy," he confirmed my suspicions in a low voice, "but I managed to coax him out from under the dining table."

I wasn't quite sure if he was joking or not. I decided not to ask, and instead dared to say, "You would have been a wonderful father."

Sadness flickered in my friend's gray eyes for a moment. "Best you go assure our dear landlady that all's well. Otherwise she'll be up here herself in a minute with her infernal fussing."

As I returned from reassuring Mrs. Hudson, the notes of the violin floated back to me. I raised a brow at my companion as I re-entered, still speaking lowly in deference to our guest.

"Brahms?"

Holmes somehow managed to shrug without missing a note. "Always put me to sleep."

Hopkins' eyes were indeed closed again, his brow smoothed, and his breathing leveling back out. I would have to check his stitches, if he had indeed managed to end up under the table, but he looked so calm now that I was loathe to wake him.

I stoked the fire and then sank into my armchair, more than content to stay up enjoying Holmes' musical skill.

You know the drill, they don't belong to me.

One more left in the Tough As Nails arc.