Chapter Seventeen.

As it turned out, Holmes had other ideas than going straight back to Baker Street.

It was still early, and as he had said, there was much to do.

So, while he still had the bit between his teeth, Holmes directed the cab to the address of the offices of his solicitor and after a brief consultation with his secretary, he and Watson were shown into the inner sanctum of Shorecross, Dunn and Whitmore.

The man who greeted Holmes cordially was Stanley Shorecross Junior, although as far as age was concerned he appeared to be well into his sixties, thinning grey hair and creaking joints whenever he moved, and he made it clear that although he was pleased to see Holmes, he only had a few moments to spare.

A few moments was all it had taken for Holmes to map out what he wanted in the way of legal services from the older man, explaining his current situation and that due to the nature of the surgery and the possible incapacitation beyond it, he wished to make sure that Dr John Watson was the only one who could legally speak for him.

Therefore he wanted Shorecross to draw up a water tight document that would give Watson absolute and sole power of attorney over his financial affairs and all matters pertaining to any decisions to be made with regard to his health and well being during the period of his surgery and convalescence, and he needed it done quickly.

Shorecross had made no comment, not even to express concern that a friend, rather than his brother should be burdened with such responsibility, and after thirty minutes, they were back in a cab heading back to Baker Street.

Holmes was flagging noticeably now, wilting before Watson's eyes, barely able to keep his eyes open as he slumped against Watson in the back of the cab.

He had obviously been functioning on pure adrenalin, and now that he had faced the two difficult meetings, the levels of adrenalin in his body were dropping rapidly.

By the time they reached Baker Street, Holmes was practically out for the count and needed assistance to alight from the cab.

He struggled to walk the short distance to the front door while Watson paid the cabbie, feeling extremely fatigued, his legs like lead weights, pulling him down, the accumulation of sleepless nights, but especially the night before finally coming home to roost, as he trudged up the stairs to the flat, Watson behind him, hot on his heels, ready to steady him should he stumble.

Mrs Hudson was still lurking, they could hear her noisily cleaning the kitchen, obviously still anxious and needing to fill the time, and as Holmes walked into the living room, she emerged from the kitchen, pink rubber gloves on her hands, a cloth in one hand and a bottle of detergent in the other.

As Holmes shuffled wearily across the room, Mrs Hudson threw Watson an anxious, expectant glance.

Holmes forced himself to veer from his intended direction, his chair, and walked over to the elderly landlady. Standing in front of her he bent forward carefully and leaned down to press a soft kiss to her dry, wrinkled cheek.

"Forgive me for causing you to be worried, Mrs Hudson, and thank you, for everything," Holmes whispered, then pulled back, because he felt as though he were pitching forward and over balancing and was going to fall flat on his face, and did not want to push the old lady over with him, and then forced a weak smile to form on his lips.

"You silly boy!" Mrs Hudson squeaked, both flattered and flustered by this unusual show of affection from her errant tenant.

This was definitely out of character for Sherlock, and that disturbed her more than seeing him look so obviously ill.

She much preferred his other nonsense.

She knew how to handle that.

This was so out of the ordinary it made her feel uneasy.

"I'll make some tea then, shall I ...?" She blurted out, not knowing what else to say.

"Grand idea," Holmes smiled then turned and staggered back toward his chair.

"Oh no you don't," Watson was swiftly at Holmes side as his legs almost buckled beneath him. "I think you should go and have a lie down for a while."

"I'm not a baby, Watson," Holmes was beginning to slur his words now he was so utterly exhausted. "I don't need putting down for an afternoon nap," he grumbled, but the fight had definitely gone out of him now.

"It's not afternoon, dimwit, its still morning. Do as you're told," Watson lowered his voice as he reached an arm out to steady the wobbly Holmes. "You remember the conversation we just had, and the one we had the first time we went round to see Irene Adler?"

Holmes frowned.

"I'm hearing that sub text again, and I'd be delighted to punch you right now!" Watson warned. "Very necessary. Put you out cold for a couple of hours. Works for me."

"That won't be necessary," Holmes hissed in a tight voice.

What choice did he have?

And this was the man he had just appointed to have power of his life, and death.

He had no regrets.

Watson was right, and he did have his best interests at heart.

He always had.

Besides, he could barely stand on his own and he needed rest if he were to be on his game when Cassia Ingram came for her appointment later.

"I didn't get much sleep last night." Holmes conceeded.

"Really? I wonder why?"

"Perhaps forty winks?"

"That's more like it. You'll be more refreshed when Cass comes later," Watson echoed his thoughts.

"Cass?" Holmes found the strength to quirk an eyebrow curiously.

When had she had the chance to invite Watson to use her given name, he pondered silently.

Suddenly light dawned in his sleep deprived brain.

"Ah. Mrs Hudson didn't just find her on the doorstep, did she John?"

Watson made no reply, but he knew that his face was giving him away.

"Did the trick, didn't it?" He finally muttered as he slid his arm around Holmes waist and prepared to support him as they walked to his bedroom. "You still haven't told me what happened between you two. Or is it personal?"

Holmes made no reply, too busy concentrating on trying to drag one leg in front of the other.

"Lean on me, you silly, stubborn sod, and let's get you to your room before you fall down."

"Is that an order?" Holmes was slurring his words again, his head beginning to droop.

Watson knew that he would be asleep on his feet in a few more minutes.

"You'd better believe it, buster. I'm leaning more towards using something in a hypodermic rather than a punch, so don't push your luck."

"Watson to the rescue, again."

Holmes sounded drunk now, and Watson knew that they would have to get a move on if he was going to actually get Holmes to his room and safely on to the bed before he passed out with exhaustion.

"That's me, your knight in shining armour."

Mrs Hudson suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway with a mug of tea and was startled to find the two men, arms draped around each other, Watson obviously supporting Holmes as they were making slow progress to the living room door.

"Oh my!" she exclaimed, slopping tea over the floor. "Sherlock!"

"It's alright Mrs Hudson," Watson assured her quickly. "He's just going to take a nap. Didn't get much sleep last night."

"I know, kept me up most of the night, pacing up and down, up and down ..."

"He's dead on his feet, but he'll be fine after a nice little lie down," Watson reassured her as Holmes began to droop, placing more and more of his weight, such as it was, on Watson, almost dragging him down.

Thank God he wasn't a bigger man or they would both be on the floor in a minute.

"C'mon dozy, let's get you settled."

"Poor Mrs Hudson," Holmes panted as at last they made it to his room and he dropped down heavily on the soft mattress. "She is going to take it badly."

You can say that again.

"I know."

"Will you tell her, John, please?"

Sherlock flopped back against the soft pillow and emitted a soft moan of relief as Watson lifted his feet, pulled off his shoes and then swung his legs up on to the bed.

"I can't. I can't face her right now. She's no fool. She knows something is badly wrong, and I don't want her to worry any longer. Better to get it out in the open," he fought back a yawn.

"I wanted to be the one to tell her, but frankly, I don't think I can deal with her emotions right now."

"I'll tell her," Watson agreed.

After all, wasn't that what friends were for?

"Better coming from you, I think. You'll be more subtle than I," Holmes eyes were beginning to flutter shut. "Be kind, John. She is very dear to me too."

Watson was surprised.

It was a real indication to Watson that Holmes was indeed a changed man, that he so obviously cared about Hrs Hudson's feelings and how she would take such terrible news.

"I'll be gentle with her," Watson assured.

He was used to breaking bad news to patients.

He had all the right words of reassurance burned into his brain.

But it still wouldn't be easy.

This was Mrs Hudson they were talking about.

"Thank you," Holmes breathed, almost asleep now.

"Do you need any pain medication?" Watson asked as he moved around the room, drawing the curtains and moving Holmes shoes out of the way so he didn't trip over them when he got up later.

"No. I need my wits about me for our meeting with Miss Ingram."

"Don't be an idiot, Sherlock. If you need the medication, take it. You'll sleep easier if you're not in pain."

"No. I'm fine. Really. It's not so bad at the moment."

"Have it your way."

"And Watson, don't let me sleep too long. What time is it now?"

"Just after eleven."

"Wake me no later than two. That should give me ample time to come around and put my game face on."

"Ok."

Watson watched as Holmes finally gave up the fight to keep his eyes open and settled into a light slumber, watching and waiting until his breathing became regular and deep.

His friend looked so pale, so frail laying there, his face finally peaceful in repost.

They were facing some tough days ahead, but Holmes would put on a brave face and do whatever he thought he needed to do to help Cassia Ingram, even if it killed him.

That was who he was, and even faced with his own potential death, he would not shy away from that.

He was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective, and there was one more case for him to pursue.

There would always be one more case.

Intrinsically, it was all that Holmes lived for.

His work.

Watson had accepted that a long time ago.

His job for now was to make sure Holmes could do that job and not further endanger his own life in doing so.

He threw back his shoulders, and puffed out his chest as he drew in a deep breath and prepared to tell Mrs Hudson Sherlock's shocking news, like the friend he was, praying as he walked out of the room that the good Lord above would give him the strength not to break down too, in the face of her grief and distress.

He did not have that luxury quite yet.

That would have to wait until he got home, when he could fall into Mary's loving arms and release his own grief and anger that this should be happening to his friend, Sherlock Holmes.