The Adventure of the Ailing Doctor
Title:The Adventure of the Ailing Doctor
Word Count: 794
Summery: The good doctor catches the flu, and Holmes pics a lock.
A/N: Written because http://sciuraamethysta.livejournal.com/ made a comment on another fic.......
It is a rather embarrassing thing when, as a physician, you come down with the very illness you have been trying to avoid. Yes, my dear readers, two weeks ago I had come down with influenza and battled a 102.3 fever. It is inevitable that I was going to fall ill; my immune system had yet to recover and I was trudging into the deepest, dirtiest part of London to assist the neediest of this city.
I first noted I was coming down with the flu when I awoke one day, shivering, even though the fire was high and strong. I knew I would be contagious, too contagious to be around Holmes, who was currently on a case. Coupled with his aversion to sleep, his 'eating habit' (which included very little eating), the detective would be extremely vulnerable to my illness.
I informed Mrs. Hudson, who had been in the hall, that I would be quarantined for the next two weeks, at least, and to leave my meals on the in-table next to the door.
"What shall I tell Mr. Holmes?" she asked as she descended the stairs.
"Say nothing," I told her, "I may be better by the end of his case. He won't have need of me before then." Our landlady shook her head, as if she knew something I didn't, and left me to my germs. The flu presented itself quickly, and I was bedridden by the end of the day, trying to quiet my incessant hacking so as to not disturb Holmes. I checked the door before I went to sleep, assuming that if Holmes did need me during the night, he'd take the locked door as an invitation to leave, and drifted into feverish dreams.
I dreamt horrible things; gun fire, and screaming, men dying, dead bodies, the enemy closing in on our camp, my captain slain at my feet. Then there were my wounds, only the setting shifted, and I was at Baker Street, and Moriarty stood over my bed with a shot gun, blowing out my shoulder, my leg. Holmes lay on the floor to my left, bloodied.
And dead.
I awoke screaming like a wild creature to see Holmes gripping my good shoulder. 'But how?' was all I could think, 'he's dead'. I must have murmured it out loud, because my rather stoic comrade shook his head.
"Calm down, old boy," he told me, "I'm alive, we're safe." I was finally able to see past the haze that had settled over my mind to see that, indeed, Holmes was still alive; we were still alive. I then said the only thing I could have:
“I thought I locked that door.”
"I picked it, old boy, you were getting rather loud." He told me in a rather chastising tone.
"Holmes," I moved to apologize, but he waved me off.
"Quite a lucky thing that these aren't German locks, Watson. It would have taken considerably longer for me to get in!"
"Well, now you must get out." said I, throwing back the covers.
"I beg your pardon?" Holmes looked rather affronted, and stood from his perch at the edge of the bed.
"I'm still contagious, Holmes, leave before you catch this," my comrade rolled his eyes and sat back down, taking up more of the bed.
"And if Afghanistan returns to haunt your dreams, Watson?"
"It won't," Holmes left then, pouting, but it was an amicable parting, and I locked the door behind him, not completely convinced it would do any good, then drifted back to sleep.
I was proved to have been correct. When next I woke, the detective was asleep in a chair next to my bed. "Damn it, Holmes!" I fairly shouted, causing him to jerk awake and almost fall to the floor, "I'll have to see about getting German locks!"
"No need to yell, my friend," he said, running a hand through his hair, "I only reentered when your nightmares returned."
"You’re going to catch a chill,"
"Perhaps, Watson, but I couldn't leave you to your demons."
"They are just that, mine."
"Watson," he sighed, "when have you ever let well enough alone?" I saw the logic there, for I had, on numerous occasions, endeavored to hunt down his demons. Now he only wished to help me with mine.
"Do you wish to know what I dream?"
"The monsters met together are easier to kill." I sat back against my pillows, still a bit feverish, and prepared to tell my story.
"One thing, Holmes."
"Yes?"
"You need to start working on those German locks soon." he laughed. Then I started my tales of the war, those I had lost and saved. For years after that, my nightmares were fleeting, and Holmes STILL can’t pick a German lock.
Word Count: 794
Summery: The good doctor catches the flu, and Holmes pics a lock.
A/N: Written because http://sciuraamethysta.livejournal.com/ made a comment on another fic.......
It is a rather embarrassing thing when, as a physician, you come down with the very illness you have been trying to avoid. Yes, my dear readers, two weeks ago I had come down with influenza and battled a 102.3 fever. It is inevitable that I was going to fall ill; my immune system had yet to recover and I was trudging into the deepest, dirtiest part of London to assist the neediest of this city.
I first noted I was coming down with the flu when I awoke one day, shivering, even though the fire was high and strong. I knew I would be contagious, too contagious to be around Holmes, who was currently on a case. Coupled with his aversion to sleep, his 'eating habit' (which included very little eating), the detective would be extremely vulnerable to my illness.
I informed Mrs. Hudson, who had been in the hall, that I would be quarantined for the next two weeks, at least, and to leave my meals on the in-table next to the door.
"What shall I tell Mr. Holmes?" she asked as she descended the stairs.
"Say nothing," I told her, "I may be better by the end of his case. He won't have need of me before then." Our landlady shook her head, as if she knew something I didn't, and left me to my germs. The flu presented itself quickly, and I was bedridden by the end of the day, trying to quiet my incessant hacking so as to not disturb Holmes. I checked the door before I went to sleep, assuming that if Holmes did need me during the night, he'd take the locked door as an invitation to leave, and drifted into feverish dreams.
I dreamt horrible things; gun fire, and screaming, men dying, dead bodies, the enemy closing in on our camp, my captain slain at my feet. Then there were my wounds, only the setting shifted, and I was at Baker Street, and Moriarty stood over my bed with a shot gun, blowing out my shoulder, my leg. Holmes lay on the floor to my left, bloodied.
And dead.
I awoke screaming like a wild creature to see Holmes gripping my good shoulder. 'But how?' was all I could think, 'he's dead'. I must have murmured it out loud, because my rather stoic comrade shook his head.
"Calm down, old boy," he told me, "I'm alive, we're safe." I was finally able to see past the haze that had settled over my mind to see that, indeed, Holmes was still alive; we were still alive. I then said the only thing I could have:
“I thought I locked that door.”
"I picked it, old boy, you were getting rather loud." He told me in a rather chastising tone.
"Holmes," I moved to apologize, but he waved me off.
"Quite a lucky thing that these aren't German locks, Watson. It would have taken considerably longer for me to get in!"
"Well, now you must get out." said I, throwing back the covers.
"I beg your pardon?" Holmes looked rather affronted, and stood from his perch at the edge of the bed.
"I'm still contagious, Holmes, leave before you catch this," my comrade rolled his eyes and sat back down, taking up more of the bed.
"And if Afghanistan returns to haunt your dreams, Watson?"
"It won't," Holmes left then, pouting, but it was an amicable parting, and I locked the door behind him, not completely convinced it would do any good, then drifted back to sleep.
I was proved to have been correct. When next I woke, the detective was asleep in a chair next to my bed. "Damn it, Holmes!" I fairly shouted, causing him to jerk awake and almost fall to the floor, "I'll have to see about getting German locks!"
"No need to yell, my friend," he said, running a hand through his hair, "I only reentered when your nightmares returned."
"You’re going to catch a chill,"
"Perhaps, Watson, but I couldn't leave you to your demons."
"They are just that, mine."
"Watson," he sighed, "when have you ever let well enough alone?" I saw the logic there, for I had, on numerous occasions, endeavored to hunt down his demons. Now he only wished to help me with mine.
"Do you wish to know what I dream?"
"The monsters met together are easier to kill." I sat back against my pillows, still a bit feverish, and prepared to tell my story.
"One thing, Holmes."
"Yes?"
"You need to start working on those German locks soon." he laughed. Then I started my tales of the war, those I had lost and saved. For years after that, my nightmares were fleeting, and Holmes STILL can’t pick a German lock.