"I just don't understand it," Mrs. Hudson mused. "Why would only the doctor be sick?" She shook her head as she wiped John Watson's forehead with a cool cloth. The man in question groaned miserably, and his whole body shuddered slightly.
"Thank you," he mumbled weakly.
"You just rest, dear," she said. "This will have passed by the morning, just you wait and see."
"It could last longer," Sherlock Holmes pointed out unhelpfully. "I was sick for five days off a bad soup once."
Holmes was sitting back in his chair smoking nonchalantly, and Mrs. Hudson gave him a dirty look. "Put that out," she scolded him. He scowled, rising and moving into his room to finish his pipe. She sighed, placing a new bowl in front of her more agreeable tenant in case he got sick again.
She went downstairs to fetch more water, and paused on the landing as she came back up. She could hear her two tenants talking inside, and their conversation was presumably about her.
"We'll have to tell her," Watson was saying. His voice was weak and strained, but she could just make out his words.
"Why should we?" Holmes asked. "What will that accomplish? Nothing positive, I'm sure."
"She just figured it out," Watson replied with a soft groan.
"No, Watson. She made the correct observation, but she failed to draw the correct conclusion from what she observed which is just as bad as being unobservant entirely. She is starting with the wrong premise; she needs to focus on the facts. Data, Watson! Why does no one use it?"
"Huh?"
"The facts are you are sick and I am not. This should lead her to the conclusion that you ate the tainted meat pies and I did not. Instead, she is starting with the assumption that we both ate the meat pies and therefore she will only come to erroneous conclusions. She won't figure out I don't eat them since she assumes I always have."
"We should tell her," Watson replied. "I don't think she would be terribly offended."
"My dear man, if she knew I hated them she'd stop making them."
"Yes? And?"
"And you love them, Watson. I won't subject you to a life of never having your favorite food just because I am a picky eater. And I would certainly never ask Mrs. Hudson to change her own habits for me. I don't require much sustenance to be happy and healthy, Watson, and I'm very happy to give you my portion of meat pies whenever we have them."
"I think," Watson murmured, "that getting food poisoning will suppress my appetite for meat pies for quite a while."
"Speaking of, how are you?"
"Miserable."
"Would you like some morphine?"
"Not that miserable," Watson sighed.
"I can recommend…"
"A seven percent solution of cocaine," the two finished together, and Mrs. Hudson heard Holmes chuckle.
"I'll take that as a no," the detective said. "Very well."
Watson made a reply, but Mrs. Hudson could barely hear him. She opened the door and brought in more water, wanting to make sure the doctor drank some before he fell asleep. And hopefully, his sleep would be uninterrupted and he would wake feeling better. Mrs. Hudson knew well enough how bad food poisoning could be.
She ensured that the doctor had finished his glass before letting him bury his head in the pillow and attempt to get some sleep. She was in the doorway once more when she looked back to see Sherlock Holmes very gently tucking a blanket around his roommate. She smiled slightly, and left knowing that the doctor would be well taken care of. And when she heard the soothing tones of a well-played violin drifting down from the living room, she was certain she was right.
She never said anything regarding what she'd overheard that night, and the next time she made the meat pies was several months later. When she did, however, the doctor got a double helping and the detective got a cold ham sandwich. Though the boys never said anything either, the look that passed between them when they saw the dinner was well worth it, and Sherlock Holmes never again had the cheek to call her unobservant.