Prompt from Fractals Parade - Doctor Sherlock Holmes, I presume?: After Watson falls ill during an outbreak of Influenza, it's up to Sherlock to step in and play Doctor.

Author's Note- I originally planned to write a rather serious ficlet set in the so-called influenza epidemic of 1889-1890 (so called as recent research has thrown some doubt into whether the epidemic was caused by the influenza virus at all) but alas, three of my rescued cats decided to 'ambush' me, resulting in a playful rough-and-tumble and a mood that was not at all conducive to any form of angst whatsoever. (Feel free to try to write anything even remotely emotional with a purring ball of fur and goodness in your lap!)

I fear the following is rather different from my usual style, but then again, what is youth good for if not to experiment a bit? Please tell me what you think in the comments!

Once again, I am overwhelmed by all of your wonderful reviews in response to my last entry! You guys are the best.

(From the personal diary of Sherlock W. Holmes)

Tuesday

Watson has taken ill again. He was holed up in his room all evening and refused to come to the Abernathy case with me, despite my remonstrances that the paradigms involved were vital for any logical reasoner. Perhaps it is just as well- by the time I had arrived on the scene those bunglers from Scotland Yard had destroyed most of the evidence that makes for a prolific exercise in deduction. I was left with just enough clues to substantiate the arrest of a certain Mr. Montgomery Smith, with no way to apprehend his partner in crime, whom I have deduced to be a dockworker with a crippled right leg and frequent patron of both the racetracks and certain opium dens.

Notwithstanding my rather disappointing results, the good doctor had complained about a rather acute headache and was coughing most dreadfully earlier. I shall have to look out in case the symptoms worsen.

Wednesday

Watson is terribly flushed with fever, which is most concerning. He soiled his handkerchief three times in this past hour just from clearing his sinuses. I recommended a tincture of aloe latex, but he waved me off muttering something about it being a laxative to treat constipation. He has requested Mrs. Hudson for a certain mixture comprising of cloves and honey, along with some ginger and garlic tea- I cannot comprehend what for.

Quite apart from this, he has been in the most foul and irritable mood as of late. I have reason to suspect something is amiss.

Wednesday- evening

Watson is utterly bedridden. There has been a cold snap going on for some time, and I was initially of the opinion that his old war injuries were making themselves known (he usually serves as an excellent barometer, something which I find quite useful in my line of work). However, recent evidence has forced me to dispute this hypothesis, as his aforementioned symptoms have worsened. Upon inquiry, he only deigned to address my concerns with a muffled curse and instructions to leave him alone. I have some reason to be anxious- some convicts from a previous case of mine have recently been discharged and I am worried that they may have some designs on my dear friend's health.

Thursday (Very) Early Morning

I have recently been chased out of Watson's bedchambers from whence I had burst in earlier, determined to save his life just in time from the clutches of the toxin which I had (after considerable mental exertion) concluded he had somehow ingested. However, the good doctor was adamant that he had not, in fact, been poisoned, and was only suffering from a bout of influenza. He proceeded to bolster his claim with certain rather creative suggestions and raucous curses which he must have picked up during his service in Her Majesty's army, and a pillow flung with considerable force at my person.

His uncharacteristically rowdy behaviour has done little to convince me that he is not actually in death throes, though the fact that I awakened him (with rather more enthusiasm than strictly necessary) over three hours past midnight might account in some small way for his temper.

Thursday

Both Watson's symptoms and temper seem to have taken a turn for the worse. I employed my morning in researching the plausible causes for the good doctor's illness, and have discovered that the root cause may be found in the recent outbreak of influenza in the city of London, thankfully localised enough that there is little possibility of it developing into an epidemic.

However, when I attempted to follow one of the popular treatment options available, Watson positively exploded. I merely sought to administer a dosage of barely three-sixty milligrams of strychnine, yet Watson all but manhandled me out of his room, calling me an "absolute and utter imbecile" and demanding whether I planned to change my profession from detective to murderer. His behaviour is most alarming- I have resolved to call on Dr. Moore Agar of Harley Street. Watson shall of course be quite mortified and annoyed at me for calling in another doctor despite his insistence that he is perfectly capable of diagnosing himself, but as many of the mass population put it, 'desperate times call for drastic measures.'

I consider my concerns fairly justified considering all the clues as presented by his symptoms and his drastic change in personality and temper (not to mention the over-the-top reactions to my helpful advice). Do all these signs not point of some deadly, insidious disease that may in due time claim my friend? I refuse to allow that to happen- I will not lose my Watson to a mere illness!

Friday

Dr. Moore Agar confirmed that Watson's dread malady is indeed a rather mild case of influenza, or, to use the more common term for it, the 'flu'. Both doctors seemed extremely exasperated with me for some obscure reason that I fail to comprehend. It is perhaps understandable that Dr. Agar would hold some small resentment against me for being called out when Watson was perfectly capable of (and in fact had already commenced) diagnosing and treating himself, but surely the anxieties and actions of a close friend may be excused in the wake of disease?

He seemed also aghast at my attempt to administer strychnine to Watson, but retained enough of his sensibilities to calmly explain that I had apparently misjudged the dosage and if, in fact, Watson had actually complied with my regimen he would surely have died as I had unwittingly far surpassed the lethal dose (his exact words were "that is enough to kill him six times over"). I suppose Watson was somewhat justified in his reaction, then, and certain apologies are in due order…

I find that Dr. Agar has taken his leave. No doubt my dear Watson's already strained temper has been pushed beyond its limits by this encounter, and Dr. Agar has warned me before setting off that it may be towards my best interests to make myself scarce for some time. I find myself inclined to accept his advice, despite the infuriating fog and light drizzle outside- it is far better to brave the elements than my friend's wrath.

Ah, I think that is his voice shouting my name… and he does not sound too happy. Perhaps I should wait until he's better before I surprise him with a dinner at the strand and two tickets to the impending opera…

Fact File- Strychnine in low doses was, in fact, used to treat fevers in the nineteenth century... However, strychnine is considered lethal at barely 60mg (0.0021 of an ounce). Holmes tried to give Watson six times that.

Aloe Latex is truly used to treat constipation even in modern times, and is derived from aloe-vera gel (an extract from the leaves of the aloe-vera plant). It seems poor Holmes confused it with eucalyptus oil…