Prompt: Scalding hot, from goodpenmanship

When I first took rooms with Dr. John Watson, he warned me of two factors which he believed would be important for any prospective fellow-lodger to know; one, that he had something of a temper, and two, that he was in recovery from an injury and serious illness contracted while in Her Majesty's service, and that his strength was all but gone.

I confess I was wary upon hearing of these points, though I am aware my own list of faults is considerably longer and he might very well have more to complain of than I would. Still, I had no wish to live constantly on tenterhooks as to whether the fellow would lose his temper at the slightest provocations (knowing full well my own vices may very well lead him to it!). I also, selfishly but practically, worried about what should happen if he did indeed relapse. Would I be left to find another fellow-lodger? What ought I to do if he, for instance, collapsed in front of me?

Montague Street had little to recommend it but the fact that I was responsible only for myself in it was a substantial one.

Happily, I found that Watson's warnings were overcautious. Far from having a temper, I found him to be mild-mannered in the extreme. Seemingly nothing bothered the fellow, from foul odors to gunfire to endless varied visitors and rather a lot of mess. Why, upon finding a vial of poison at his usual place by the fire, he simply handed it to me with an interesting story about the different dosages and their effects.

I am unused to someone so easy-going that I do not need to adjust my ordinary (to me) ways of being. Far from the unpleasant experience I had expected, sharing rooms with Watson was turning out to be almost…enjoyable. It was certainly nice to have someone to talk over theories with and an appreciative audience is always welcome to any musician.

As to his other warning, I saw little evidence of ill health, save for his dreadful thinness, which Mrs. Hudson set herself to fixing straightaway. It is true he spent much time indoors, and often slept long hours, and on occasion I saw his shoulder wound pained him, but he seemed capable enough when he accompanied me on the Jefferson Hope case. Surely, before the year was out, he would be fit to work and no longer needing to share rooms. And I, by then, should have sufficiently made my name as consulting detective to no longer require anyone's assistance.

As it turns out, I was incorrect in both matters.

A late cold spell in April arrived without warning one afternoon when Watson had stirred himself to see his banker about some investments he wished to make. I had no case and remained at my chemistry set working out an experiment, so caught up in my work that I hardly noticed the time passing. It was therefore nearly dinner hour before the door opened and Watson appeared, looking bedraggled and soaked to the skin. "Is it raining?" I asked.

"You did not notice?" Watson asked incredulously.

"I get rather caught up in my pastimes," I said, only now noticing the thick patter of rain upon the window. I had not stirred myself from the table for hours, and I wager a gun could have gone off without my noticing. Perhaps that is not the best feature in one who prides himself on his observational ability, now that Watson mentioned it.

"It has been raining for the better part of an hour," Watson said. "Which is how long it took me to walk back."

"You walked?" I asked. "Why did you not get a cab in this weather?"

Watson's cheeks flushed pink. "My funds…" he muttered. "I need to change out of these wet clothes."

"Yes, you are shivering," I said. Violently, and Watson nodded tiredly before heading upstairs. More slowly than usual, I noticed, but no doubt he was tired after so long a walk in the rain.

Watson did not appear for dinner, telling Mrs. Hudson he wished to rest, and did not join me afterwards, as has been our habit. I thought little of it until I heard his footsteps upon the stairs, near ten o'clock at night.

I am no medical man, but any trained observer can recognize illness. Waston's eyes were glassy and his skin in the firelight pale. "Watson, you do not look well," I said.

Watson nodded. "F-freezing," he said. "I was looking for the fire." He was wrapped in a blanket over his dressing gown, and settled in his armchair, though looking extremely miserable. Remembering my childhood illnesses, I chanced a quick touch of his hand, and nearly jumped.

"Watson, you are burning up," I said. His skin was near to scalding.

"F-fever," he answered, shivering despite the fire and his own warmth. "It was the blasted rain." His teeth chattered as he spoke, so that I could hardly understand him.

"What should I do?" I asked. As I said, I am no medical man, and have little respect for the profession as most of them seemed to me to be quacks. Yet Watson was a sensible fellow, and I had already seen that his medical knowledge was of a more practical bent than others I had seen.

"Warmth…" Watson said, before his head dropped down to his chest. I confess I was alarmed, thinking he had fainted, before I heard a brief snore. Asleep, then. Very well, I could provide warmth. I gathered up every piece of firewood I could find and built up the fire until it was sweltering, and then gathered up blankets and piled them on him. Yet he still shivered.

I did not know at which point I would need to send for a doctor, or have Watson taken to hospital. I am very rarely at a loss for what to do, but it occurred to me that a fever could quickly turn dangerous, and in my ignorance I could easily make the situation worse. What was I to do if Watson was unable to recover?

It surprised me as much as it would anyone else when I realized my first thought was not of my inability to pay the rent alone, but of the loss of our pleasant dinner conversation and afternoon walks. Yes, I might very well find another fellow-lodger, but no one would be as easily got along with as Watson has been.

I did not know until that moment whether anyone might call us friends. I have not had a friend since Victor Trevor and so I might be excused from not realizing that I seemed to have acquired another one. Entirely unintentionally, but then, that is how Victor Trevor and I met as well. I am hardly likely to meet anyone intentionally, really.

This revelation occupied my thoughts until the early hours of the morning, when Watson at last stirred. Another quick touch of his hand told me that the fever had broken. Thank goodness, for if nothing else I had no idea what to do if it had not.

"You did well, Holmes," Watson said with a smile. "I can see you are not comfortable in the position of caretaker. But you followed instructions and did what was needed." He glanced at the fireplace and smiled. "Rather more so than necessary."

The firewood was piled so high it resembled a pyramid, and I smiled back, somewhat ruefully. "You did say warmth. I am not one to claim expertise where I have none. I am more than willing to listen to your instructions in this matter."

"Hmm, and where your own health is concerned?" Watson asked, with a pawky gleam in his eye.

He shall be fine, if he is back to needling me about my own health. I am glad to hear it in this case, at least, for I would rather not repeat last night's experience. "Perhaps you ought to spend the day resting," I said.

"I shall," Watson said, though he seemed to find it amusing that I sought to give him medical advice. "Thank you, old fellow. I am dreadfully sorry you had to act as caretaker."

"Think nothing of it," I said. "You did warn me, and I had an interest in ensuring your health. Certainly no other lodger would be so forgiving of my chemical odors."

I am not given to heartfelt statements, but I believe Watson understood my meaning.