A bead of sweat slid down Sherlock Holmes' nose, dripping onto his sleeve as the clock chimed midnight. He snapped his head up, hearing each chime of it reverberate in his ears. He closed his eyes for just a moment, feeling the headache he'd been trying to push away pound relentlessly behind his eyes regardless. The gas lamps were turned down just low enough he could still clearly see what he was doing, but it still felt too bright. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and he stuck it out between his teeth, scraping it against his dry, cracked lips. There was an uncomfortable gnawing in the pit of his stomach even though he'd only gone without food for less than a day, and even his eyes felt dry and sticky like he needed to wash them out.
The final chime of midnight sounded and he pulled himself away from his own petty concerns; there were only fourteen hours left to save his client's life. He glanced over towards the dinner table, but Mrs. Hudson had long since cleared it after he'd ignored the food she'd made. The water pitcher was empty, too, and he didn't have the time to go fill it again. Had he really drained it so quickly? Why was he so hot and parched, then? He'd need to finish his experiment first, then go on a search for food and water; maybe he'd even have a quick nap before heading to Scotland Yard if his current hypothesis proved to be correct. If not, well, he would be racing the clock for his client's life and devil take the hindmost.
Adding to his trouble was the fact that Watson was away as well, which meant he hadn't hidden any food away for Holmes to have after his experiment was over like he sometimes did, and wasn't available to refill the water pitcher like he would often graciously do when Holmes was occupied. He also wasn't able to see that Holmes was too pale and too hot, the sweat not from exertion but something more nefarious. Nor was he there to catch him when he collapsed moments after stepping away from an experiment successfully completed.
He was there when he woke, however, supporting him by the shoulders as he coughed and retched onto the rug. "Watson," he groaned, "a man's life…"
"I know," Watson told him gently. "All is well."
"I need to…"
"I know, Holmes. All is well. You have succeeded, and it is time for you to rest. I have taken care of everything to secure our client's release. He is alive."
"I need…"
"All is well. Lie back now."
"Watson, you must…"
"All is well, Holmes."
"A man's life…"
"Holmes. All is well."
"All is well?" Sherlock Holmes finally repeated, blinking up at Watson with a bit more clarity. He realized he was grasping his friend's shirt tightly in his fist and let go, falling backwards onto the pillows of his own bed. He sighed deeply, the relief turning to a groan of pain. He wasn't worried, though: Watson had said he'd taken care of it, and Holmes had every confidence that he had, and that he would. He was, undoubtedly, in very good hands.
For the prompt from mrspencil: the clock is ticking.