Hades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness 2013-2014 - Day Thirteen
[Prompt from Book girl fan]13: He who talks last, suffers most.
It had been a long and difficult case. I had been able to spare Watson much of the strain by leaving him at home when I could afford to, but that had meant that I had had to work tirelessly with little food and no sleep. It was no hardship; I am accustomed to such treatment during cases.
I do not remember the walk from Scotland Yard to Baker Street but I do recall that I was shivering so violently when I reached the house that it was difficult to unlock the front door. I somehow climbed the stairs and managed to reach the settee. I must have fallen asleep upon it.
When I awoke, my head was aching. This is quite normal; it often does following a long case. Watson had wrapped a rug about me while I had been in slumber but still I felt chilled. This is also not unusual. I pulled the rug about my shoulders and sat up.
"Oh, you are awake," my companion smiled at me as he approached the settee and then sat himself at my side. "Are you all right?"
I nodded and sniffed. "Merely fagged old fellow. It was a long case."
"Indeed it was. Is there anything that I can do for you? You are rather pale even for you."
"No. I am all right. Sleep is all that I need."
"And food, I should think."
I did not feel hungry; I was much too worn. "Later."
"Holmes..."
"Later Watson! Leave me!"
The fellow shook his head sadly and did indeed leave me alone, allowing me to return to a horizontal position and submit myself to Morpheus once more.
When I next awoke I had a further two rugs covering me and it was dark. Despite all the sleep, my head still ached, as did the rest of me. I realised that I had a raging thirst and poured myself a brandy, partly for my hot and dry throat and partly to rid myself of the chills that I still felt. I wondered whether I was still only done up or if I had caught something while I was working feverishly at that case. I hoped that it was the former and not the latter as I had not been sharing rooms with the doctor for long enough to feel that I knew him well and I had no desire to be tended to by him under such circumstances.
It was as I was drinking my second glass of brandy that I realised that I was alone. I then noticed a note left wedged in the frame of our mirror above the mantelpiece. I plucked it from between wood and glass and read the familiar doctors' scrawl of my Boswell. He had gone out to do some shopping and would be back in time for tea.
By the time Watson returned I knew that I was unwell. My throat burned with a fire that no amount of water, to which I had resorted, could extingish and my head and eyes were hurting me to the point of spots in my vision and nausea. I would have taken to my bed to be out of the way had I been able to move myself at all. As it was, I was still stretched upon the settee when he found me.
"Holmes! Are you all right?" he is a kindly chap, my Boswell. He forgot his boxes and the aches in his wounded leg and shoulder from the cold and rushed to my side. "What is it? What is wrong?"
Had I known the fellow better, I might have told him. As it was, we had not been lodging together for long and it is not in a gentleman's code to complain in any case. Besides, I do not like to be poked and prodded and he is a doctor.
My friend took my silence as reluctance to admit that I had done wrong. He frowned. "Have you over-indulged in cocaine or morphine?"
I cannot blame the fellow for making such a presumption. Both morphine and cocaine can cause symptoms rather like those of la grippe and my nose was indeed becoming runny. I shrugged and sniffed, which only served to worsen the pain in my head. I moaned in spite of myself.
"I have no sympathy for you," he informed me with annoyance. "Take yourself off to your room so that I do not have to look at you."
His words hurt me rather more than I would have expected. I attribute that to the illness; I have never expected and rarely received sympathy and I am sure that I would normally have remained indifferent.
"Go to bed," Watson repeated as if he were talking to a fellow that was either very deaf or obtuse when I did not even attempt to move.
"Can't."
"Then I shall do my wrapping in my bedroom. Get some sleep."
Exhausted as I was, I obeyed.
When I next awoke, I appeared to be in the middle of a coughing fit. I ached from the top of my head to the tips of my toes and I was shaking with cold.
"Here," my Boswell helped me to drink some water and then pressed a hand to my forehead. "Oh! You are fevered! That is not from cocaine; it raises the temperate as it does its work, not as it wears off."
He proceeded to feel my glands. That seemed to tell him all that he needed to know.
"You have not taken anything at all, have you?"
"No."
"Then why the deuce did you permit me to think that you had?" he demanded with poorly-contained annoyance. "I would never have shouted at you had I known. Nor would I have left you."
I shrugged.
"Well, at least I know now. The first thing to do is to bring that fever down and make you comfortable. Then I shall see to your other complaints."
I did not enjoy his tending to me in the slightest, but I did appreciate the chap's kindness and concern. I was surprised to learn just how much my Boswell felt for me, for his level of care went above and beyond that of a doctor's duties. I was truly very touched.
I still do not like to complain or allow anyone to know when I am vulnerable in any way, but I have learnt to trust my Watson as a doctor as well as a friend and that in itself is a vast improvement.
It had been a long and difficult case. I had been able to spare Watson much of the strain by leaving him at home when I could afford to, but that had meant that I had had to work tirelessly with little food and no sleep. It was no hardship; I am accustomed to such treatment during cases.
I do not remember the walk from Scotland Yard to Baker Street but I do recall that I was shivering so violently when I reached the house that it was difficult to unlock the front door. I somehow climbed the stairs and managed to reach the settee. I must have fallen asleep upon it.
When I awoke, my head was aching. This is quite normal; it often does following a long case. Watson had wrapped a rug about me while I had been in slumber but still I felt chilled. This is also not unusual. I pulled the rug about my shoulders and sat up.
"Oh, you are awake," my companion smiled at me as he approached the settee and then sat himself at my side. "Are you all right?"
I nodded and sniffed. "Merely fagged old fellow. It was a long case."
"Indeed it was. Is there anything that I can do for you? You are rather pale even for you."
"No. I am all right. Sleep is all that I need."
"And food, I should think."
I did not feel hungry; I was much too worn. "Later."
"Holmes..."
"Later Watson! Leave me!"
The fellow shook his head sadly and did indeed leave me alone, allowing me to return to a horizontal position and submit myself to Morpheus once more.
When I next awoke I had a further two rugs covering me and it was dark. Despite all the sleep, my head still ached, as did the rest of me. I realised that I had a raging thirst and poured myself a brandy, partly for my hot and dry throat and partly to rid myself of the chills that I still felt. I wondered whether I was still only done up or if I had caught something while I was working feverishly at that case. I hoped that it was the former and not the latter as I had not been sharing rooms with the doctor for long enough to feel that I knew him well and I had no desire to be tended to by him under such circumstances.
It was as I was drinking my second glass of brandy that I realised that I was alone. I then noticed a note left wedged in the frame of our mirror above the mantelpiece. I plucked it from between wood and glass and read the familiar doctors' scrawl of my Boswell. He had gone out to do some shopping and would be back in time for tea.
By the time Watson returned I knew that I was unwell. My throat burned with a fire that no amount of water, to which I had resorted, could extingish and my head and eyes were hurting me to the point of spots in my vision and nausea. I would have taken to my bed to be out of the way had I been able to move myself at all. As it was, I was still stretched upon the settee when he found me.
"Holmes! Are you all right?" he is a kindly chap, my Boswell. He forgot his boxes and the aches in his wounded leg and shoulder from the cold and rushed to my side. "What is it? What is wrong?"
Had I known the fellow better, I might have told him. As it was, we had not been lodging together for long and it is not in a gentleman's code to complain in any case. Besides, I do not like to be poked and prodded and he is a doctor.
My friend took my silence as reluctance to admit that I had done wrong. He frowned. "Have you over-indulged in cocaine or morphine?"
I cannot blame the fellow for making such a presumption. Both morphine and cocaine can cause symptoms rather like those of la grippe and my nose was indeed becoming runny. I shrugged and sniffed, which only served to worsen the pain in my head. I moaned in spite of myself.
"I have no sympathy for you," he informed me with annoyance. "Take yourself off to your room so that I do not have to look at you."
His words hurt me rather more than I would have expected. I attribute that to the illness; I have never expected and rarely received sympathy and I am sure that I would normally have remained indifferent.
"Go to bed," Watson repeated as if he were talking to a fellow that was either very deaf or obtuse when I did not even attempt to move.
"Can't."
"Then I shall do my wrapping in my bedroom. Get some sleep."
Exhausted as I was, I obeyed.
When I next awoke, I appeared to be in the middle of a coughing fit. I ached from the top of my head to the tips of my toes and I was shaking with cold.
"Here," my Boswell helped me to drink some water and then pressed a hand to my forehead. "Oh! You are fevered! That is not from cocaine; it raises the temperate as it does its work, not as it wears off."
He proceeded to feel my glands. That seemed to tell him all that he needed to know.
"You have not taken anything at all, have you?"
"No."
"Then why the deuce did you permit me to think that you had?" he demanded with poorly-contained annoyance. "I would never have shouted at you had I known. Nor would I have left you."
I shrugged.
"Well, at least I know now. The first thing to do is to bring that fever down and make you comfortable. Then I shall see to your other complaints."
I did not enjoy his tending to me in the slightest, but I did appreciate the chap's kindness and concern. I was surprised to learn just how much my Boswell felt for me, for his level of care went above and beyond that of a doctor's duties. I was truly very touched.
I still do not like to complain or allow anyone to know when I am vulnerable in any way, but I have learnt to trust my Watson as a doctor as well as a friend and that in itself is a vast improvement.