Fic | Sherlock Holmes | Cold Comfort
Aug. 16th, 2008 05:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charleygirlTitle: Cold Comfort
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2854
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: General, Fluff
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: A sick Holmes is always a most trying case for Watson...
COLD COMFORT
“Aahh – choo!!”
The sneeze rang through the sitting room as I entered, rattling the pictures on the walls nearest to Holmes’s bedroom door and causing the cups to shift in their saucers as they waited on the table. Curious, for it was past nine and I knew that my friend had spoken of some urgent research he needed to do at Scotland Yard that morning, I approached his room and eased the door open a crack.
I discovered him sitting on the edge of his bed, still in his nightclothes and paying very careful attention to a task which should have been instinctive: that of slipping his arm into the sleeve of his dressing gown. His movements were sluggish, his eyes unfocussed, and he jumped when I called his name, not having even noticed my arrival. This, coupled with the violent sneeze I had heard, made me concerned, and I approached him to lay a hand on his forehead. He batted my fingers away feebly, but I had confirmed my suspicions – his brow was hot, his cheeks flushed despite the pallor of his skin.
“Oh, do go away, Watson,” he snapped in a voice that was faint and rasping. “I am perfectly fine.”
“No, you are not,” I replied, removing the dressing gown from his clumsy grasp and pushing him back down onto the bed. He tried to sit up again as I pulled the blankets over him, but even that movement was evidently too much and he subsided with a groan. I felt his forehead again and decided to fetch my thermometer.
By the time I returned with my medical bag, he was curled up on one side in a miserable ball, the blankets tugged up to his chin. “What is it?” he asked around the thermometer when I slid it under his tongue.
I concentrated on timing his pulse before I answered. It was up, considerably so. “Influenza, I believe,” I told him, and he groaned again. “Your investigations are going to have to wait.”
“I was so close to a breakthrough!” he exclaimed plaintively. “Damn this wretched body of mine. It could not have picked a worse time to be ill!”
It was typical of him to refer to his body as a separate entity. “That is as may be, but you are indeed ill, and you will not be leaving the house for quite a few days.”
He muttered something profane under his breath and closed his eyes. A few moments later he opened them again and fixed me with a hopeful gaze from beneath his sleep-tousled mop of black hair. I knew that look, and also knew that it invariably meant he wanted me to do something for him. “I don’t…” He coughed and cleared his throat with some difficulty, “I don’t suppose I can prevail upon you to - ”
“No,” I said firmly. “You need to rest, not work. I will not fetch you anything but medicine, and I most certainly will not ask Lestrade or Gregson or anyone else to come here. Influenza is infectious, and I wish to expose as few people as possible.”
“In other words, you are quarantining me, Doctor. Is that correct?”
“Essentially, yes. For the time being.”
He glared at me with a pathetic attempt at venom before closing his eyes once more. “You are a bully, Watson.”
“I am also your physician, and I believe I know your needs at present better than you do,” I replied, ignoring the jibe. “I suggest that you drink as much water as possible, to stop yourself becoming dehydrated, and try to get some sleep. I will be back in a short while.”
He grunted, and dragged the covers back up around his shoulders. I knew him well enough to be sure that any protest was a token act of rebellion, for had he been able he would have been out of the bed in a moment. The fact that he was at least obeying my orders meant that he must be feeling considerably under the weather.
I went downstairs to suggest to Mrs Hudson that she stay with her sister for a few days until the threat of infection was past, but unsurprisingly she refused to budge, claiming that I would have enough on my hands with a sick Holmes without having to think about running the house as well.
“I know exactly what he’s like when he’s ill, sir,” she said, “and a more overgrown child I’ve yet to meet. I’ve no doubt that you’ll have need of my assistance sooner or later.”
I could not argue with her assessment of the situation, but reminded her of the dangers of influenza to the vulnerable.
“Don’t you worry about me, Doctor, I shall be all right,” she assured me, and bustled off to put the kettle on.
I made my way back upstairs to check on Holmes and found him shivering beneath his blankets, staring morosely at the wall and trying to hold in the cough that kept breaking to the surface. Fetching a thick afghan from the sitting room, I covered him with it, but no sooner had I done so than he was pushing it off, complaining of being too hot. I checked his temperature and found it to have risen – it was not high enough to cause delirium, but quite capable of making him feel even worse than he must have done already.
Filling the basin on the washstand with cool water, I took it to the bed and soaked a face cloth, wringing it out and laying it on his forehead. He started at the chill and his eyes flew open.
“Good God…Watson that is freezing!” he gasped, trying to pull away.
I would not let him, and moved the cloth down across his neck and chest. He was sweating profusely, his hair stuck to his brow in damp tendrils. “We need to bring your temperature down,” I told him. “You are running a fever.”
“So I observed. You might at least give a fellow a warning before you shock him like that,” he mumbled. “You are a ham-fisted doctor.”
“And you are the worst patient in the world,” I retorted, soaking the cloth again.
We continued in the same vein for some time, Holmes alternately shivering and burning up, the bedclothes repeatedly either pulled tightly around him or reduced to a tangle on the floor. His cough was getting worse, and I fetched my stethoscope, not wanting influenza to become pneumonia. To try and take his mind from how terrible he felt, I asked him about his latest case, the details of which he had not yet shared with me.
“It is a favour for Mycroft,” he croaked, his head rolling restlessly on the pillow as I bathed his brow once more. “I would have told you about it once I was sure how to proceed.”
“A government matter, then?”
“With Mycroft it could not be anything else. Mysterious letters have been sent to the Home Secretary.”
“Well, they will have to wait a little for answers,” I said. “I assume that Mycroft has already made some deductions?”
“He tells me that the letters were written by an elderly man with a blood disorder and weak legs. I see no reason to disbelieve him.”
I had my doubts that anyone, even Mycroft Holmes, could tell that a man had weak legs from his handwriting, but I forbore to comment. Instead I asked, “Holmes, where have you been in the past week? I have not dealt with a case of influenza in some time, and you must have contracted it from someone in the last few days.”
There was a pause, and I stopped wringing out the face cloth for what felt like the hundredth time to look at him. There was a sheepish expression on his flushed face.
“I…believe it has been doing the rounds of the cabinet office,” he admitted.
“Where you have been with Mycroft, presumably.” When he nodded I sighed. “I despair of you sometimes.”
He sneezed noisily and broke into a coughing fit which lasted for several minutes. I helped him to partially sit up and supported him while he drank some water to ease his dry throat.
“You should have left me to suffer alone, Watson,” he said when I put him back on his pillows. The eyes that peered up at me were dark and unnaturally bright.
“Don’t be so ridiculous,” I told him. “Why the devil should I abandon you?”
“Because as you said this thing is infectious and I would not like you to - ” He was cut off when he sneezed again and he lay back with a moan.
“If I ran away every time there was a risk of infection from one of my patients, I would make a very poor physician,” I said with a smile, placing the cloth back upon his forehead.
This time he seemed grateful for the cooling touch, as his face relaxed slightly. “The Runaway Doctor,” he murmured, and chuckled hoarsely. “No, that is not your style at all.”
“Certainly not. Now, are you going to take my advice and get some rest?”
He looked mutinous, but at that moment there was a tap at the door and Mrs Hudson poked her head around the frame. She passed no comment on the disorder that reigned in the room, instead crossing to the bed and putting down a steaming cup on the table.
“Hot lemon, Mr Holmes,” she announced.
He waved a weak hand in assent, too exhausted now to respond. Mrs Hudson and I exchanged a glance – I nodded and she withdrew, taking with her the discarded sheets and towels. I shut the door behind her and turned back to Holmes.
“I recommend you drink that,” I said, “It will help to soothe your throat.”
There was no reply, not even a grunt in response. When I moved a little closer I realised that he had finally fallen asleep, the support of the pillows I had propped behind him relieving his congestion enough to allow him some rest. Bending over, I straightened the tumbled bedclothes and then returned to my seat, intending to keep a watch over him for a while in case his fever rose again.
***
Thankfully, it did not.
Holmes passed the next two days in a lethargy which was as unpalatable to him in the midst of a case as it was for me having to see to my usual round of patients and then deal with his fretting when I returned to Baker Street. At the end of the third day I entered the sitting room to find that he had coerced Mrs Hudson into helping him move from his bed to the sofa, where he lay amidst pillows and blankets like some eastern sultan, the hearthrug littered with the dispersed pages of the daily newspapers.
“You should not be up,” I scolded, putting down my bag on the table and moving to feel his pulse. He submitted to this with his usual bad grace, pointedly removing my hand when I attempted to feel his brow.
“I grew bored with staring at the ceiling,” he retorted. “It is quite reasonable to suppose that I can manage to convalesce just as easily here. You are the one who would appear to need rest, Doctor.”
I could not argue with that. It appeared that the influenza was now affecting more than just the denizens of Whitehall, and I had been hurrying to and from calls all day. I sank into my chair gratefully and thanked Mrs Hudson when she appeared with a pot of tea. She poured a cup and then added a nip of brandy before I could stop her.
“The last thing we need is you going down with something, Doctor,” she said in answer to my protests, and added with a pointed glance at Holmes, “One patient in the house is quite enough to be going on with.”
He gave her an affronted look, which she pretended to ignore, picking up the discarded papers before sailing out of the room. “I have had a telegram,” he said when the door had shut behind her.
I looked at the yellow form in his hand with dismay. “Holmes, you should not be working!”
“And so I am not. It is from Brother Mycroft – I thought that the contents might interest you, as you wired him yesterday on my behalf.”
“Of course.” I had thought it best given the investigation Holmes was conducting for his brother that Mycroft should be informed of his sibling’s indisposition. I took the paper and read the two lines printed upon it: AM LEFT IN EXTREMELY AWKWARD POSITION. STOP. HOPE ILLNESS IS NOT TRIVIAL. STOP. MYCROFT. I looked up in consternation. “Is this your brother’s usual attitude when you are unwell?”
Holmes broke into breathless laughter, which only ceased when he began to cough. “It is typical of Mycroft,” he said after he regained his powers of speech.
“Has he no concern for you?”
“Mycroft decided it was no business of his what happened to me shortly after I fell from the tallest apple tree in the orchard at the age of seven and a half and broke my arm in three places. I recall him telling me what a fool I was at least five times but I paid him no heed. He considered that if I intended to risk life and limb for no good reason nothing would induce him to follow me.” His face creased in further amusement when he could see that I was scandalised by this lack of brotherly compassion. “Besides, I doubt if he has forgiven me yet for making him walk all the way from the Diogenes Club to Westminster last Tuesday night.”
“Walk?” I had never seen the elder Holmes walk anywhere unless forced. “Could you not have taken a cab?”
“There were none to be had. It was a foul night, if you recall, and his best silk hat was quite ruined.” Holmes chuckled. “He wished me to see these letters urgently, and so we walked. He complained every step of the way.”
I frowned at him. “It’s no wonder you succumbed to the influenza so quickly if you were caught in that storm!”
He sneezed as if on cue and lay back against the cushions. “Poor Watson. You are sorely tried.”
“Continually,” I said. “Is there anything you need before I take myself off for a bath and a change of clothes?”
An eyebrow arched. “I would request my pipe and the tobacco slipper but I presume I am still denied that little comfort?”
“You are indeed.”
“You are a very hard nurse. Very well – you may tell me how long I am likely to be confined to this house. I have my occupation to consider,” he said. The sentence ended in a barrage of coughs which shook his exhausted frame. I poured him a cup of tea and watched him drink it, thinking that I should perhaps have added some brandy as Mrs Hudson had done, for he was looking quite wan.
“Given the state of you now, and knowing the usual course of an influenza attack, I would say a week, maybe more. And you will have to take things slowly after that,” I told him.
He spluttered into his cup. “A week? Watson, you cannot be serious! The concert on Saturday – Sarasate is back in England for one performance only!” he wailed, his face taking on the expression of a little boy denied a treat. “I had such difficulty getting the tickets - ”
“It is unfortunate timing, I know.” I took the cup and pulled the blankets over him. “Perhaps you should think twice next time before you accept one of your brother’s commissions.”
His response was to groan theatrically and drag the covers over his head.
***
It was much to my surprise later in the week that I learned Mycroft Holmes had called upon his brother. I was not privy to their discussion, but I do know that following it the two were barely upon speaking terms for some time to come. It is not just children who have the power to hold irrational grudges.
Holmes missed his concert, as I had predicted, and spent the time once he was feeling well enough to expend his energy in anything more strenuous than moving from his bed to the sofa scraping away mournfully on his violin. I do not think the matter of the Home Secretary’s mysterious correspondence was ever solved, as a few days after Holmes’s recovery his attention was taken up with something quite different: He had unwittingly made a present of his influenza to me, and the great detective found his nerves tested to the very limit, for I could be just as difficult a patient as he was himself.
Unsurprisingly, when it was all over he declared that he would take no more cases for the government unless Mycroft brought them to him.
FIN
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2854
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: General, Fluff
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: A sick Holmes is always a most trying case for Watson...
COLD COMFORT
“Aahh – choo!!”
The sneeze rang through the sitting room as I entered, rattling the pictures on the walls nearest to Holmes’s bedroom door and causing the cups to shift in their saucers as they waited on the table. Curious, for it was past nine and I knew that my friend had spoken of some urgent research he needed to do at Scotland Yard that morning, I approached his room and eased the door open a crack.
I discovered him sitting on the edge of his bed, still in his nightclothes and paying very careful attention to a task which should have been instinctive: that of slipping his arm into the sleeve of his dressing gown. His movements were sluggish, his eyes unfocussed, and he jumped when I called his name, not having even noticed my arrival. This, coupled with the violent sneeze I had heard, made me concerned, and I approached him to lay a hand on his forehead. He batted my fingers away feebly, but I had confirmed my suspicions – his brow was hot, his cheeks flushed despite the pallor of his skin.
“Oh, do go away, Watson,” he snapped in a voice that was faint and rasping. “I am perfectly fine.”
“No, you are not,” I replied, removing the dressing gown from his clumsy grasp and pushing him back down onto the bed. He tried to sit up again as I pulled the blankets over him, but even that movement was evidently too much and he subsided with a groan. I felt his forehead again and decided to fetch my thermometer.
By the time I returned with my medical bag, he was curled up on one side in a miserable ball, the blankets tugged up to his chin. “What is it?” he asked around the thermometer when I slid it under his tongue.
I concentrated on timing his pulse before I answered. It was up, considerably so. “Influenza, I believe,” I told him, and he groaned again. “Your investigations are going to have to wait.”
“I was so close to a breakthrough!” he exclaimed plaintively. “Damn this wretched body of mine. It could not have picked a worse time to be ill!”
It was typical of him to refer to his body as a separate entity. “That is as may be, but you are indeed ill, and you will not be leaving the house for quite a few days.”
He muttered something profane under his breath and closed his eyes. A few moments later he opened them again and fixed me with a hopeful gaze from beneath his sleep-tousled mop of black hair. I knew that look, and also knew that it invariably meant he wanted me to do something for him. “I don’t…” He coughed and cleared his throat with some difficulty, “I don’t suppose I can prevail upon you to - ”
“No,” I said firmly. “You need to rest, not work. I will not fetch you anything but medicine, and I most certainly will not ask Lestrade or Gregson or anyone else to come here. Influenza is infectious, and I wish to expose as few people as possible.”
“In other words, you are quarantining me, Doctor. Is that correct?”
“Essentially, yes. For the time being.”
He glared at me with a pathetic attempt at venom before closing his eyes once more. “You are a bully, Watson.”
“I am also your physician, and I believe I know your needs at present better than you do,” I replied, ignoring the jibe. “I suggest that you drink as much water as possible, to stop yourself becoming dehydrated, and try to get some sleep. I will be back in a short while.”
He grunted, and dragged the covers back up around his shoulders. I knew him well enough to be sure that any protest was a token act of rebellion, for had he been able he would have been out of the bed in a moment. The fact that he was at least obeying my orders meant that he must be feeling considerably under the weather.
I went downstairs to suggest to Mrs Hudson that she stay with her sister for a few days until the threat of infection was past, but unsurprisingly she refused to budge, claiming that I would have enough on my hands with a sick Holmes without having to think about running the house as well.
“I know exactly what he’s like when he’s ill, sir,” she said, “and a more overgrown child I’ve yet to meet. I’ve no doubt that you’ll have need of my assistance sooner or later.”
I could not argue with her assessment of the situation, but reminded her of the dangers of influenza to the vulnerable.
“Don’t you worry about me, Doctor, I shall be all right,” she assured me, and bustled off to put the kettle on.
I made my way back upstairs to check on Holmes and found him shivering beneath his blankets, staring morosely at the wall and trying to hold in the cough that kept breaking to the surface. Fetching a thick afghan from the sitting room, I covered him with it, but no sooner had I done so than he was pushing it off, complaining of being too hot. I checked his temperature and found it to have risen – it was not high enough to cause delirium, but quite capable of making him feel even worse than he must have done already.
Filling the basin on the washstand with cool water, I took it to the bed and soaked a face cloth, wringing it out and laying it on his forehead. He started at the chill and his eyes flew open.
“Good God…Watson that is freezing!” he gasped, trying to pull away.
I would not let him, and moved the cloth down across his neck and chest. He was sweating profusely, his hair stuck to his brow in damp tendrils. “We need to bring your temperature down,” I told him. “You are running a fever.”
“So I observed. You might at least give a fellow a warning before you shock him like that,” he mumbled. “You are a ham-fisted doctor.”
“And you are the worst patient in the world,” I retorted, soaking the cloth again.
We continued in the same vein for some time, Holmes alternately shivering and burning up, the bedclothes repeatedly either pulled tightly around him or reduced to a tangle on the floor. His cough was getting worse, and I fetched my stethoscope, not wanting influenza to become pneumonia. To try and take his mind from how terrible he felt, I asked him about his latest case, the details of which he had not yet shared with me.
“It is a favour for Mycroft,” he croaked, his head rolling restlessly on the pillow as I bathed his brow once more. “I would have told you about it once I was sure how to proceed.”
“A government matter, then?”
“With Mycroft it could not be anything else. Mysterious letters have been sent to the Home Secretary.”
“Well, they will have to wait a little for answers,” I said. “I assume that Mycroft has already made some deductions?”
“He tells me that the letters were written by an elderly man with a blood disorder and weak legs. I see no reason to disbelieve him.”
I had my doubts that anyone, even Mycroft Holmes, could tell that a man had weak legs from his handwriting, but I forbore to comment. Instead I asked, “Holmes, where have you been in the past week? I have not dealt with a case of influenza in some time, and you must have contracted it from someone in the last few days.”
There was a pause, and I stopped wringing out the face cloth for what felt like the hundredth time to look at him. There was a sheepish expression on his flushed face.
“I…believe it has been doing the rounds of the cabinet office,” he admitted.
“Where you have been with Mycroft, presumably.” When he nodded I sighed. “I despair of you sometimes.”
He sneezed noisily and broke into a coughing fit which lasted for several minutes. I helped him to partially sit up and supported him while he drank some water to ease his dry throat.
“You should have left me to suffer alone, Watson,” he said when I put him back on his pillows. The eyes that peered up at me were dark and unnaturally bright.
“Don’t be so ridiculous,” I told him. “Why the devil should I abandon you?”
“Because as you said this thing is infectious and I would not like you to - ” He was cut off when he sneezed again and he lay back with a moan.
“If I ran away every time there was a risk of infection from one of my patients, I would make a very poor physician,” I said with a smile, placing the cloth back upon his forehead.
This time he seemed grateful for the cooling touch, as his face relaxed slightly. “The Runaway Doctor,” he murmured, and chuckled hoarsely. “No, that is not your style at all.”
“Certainly not. Now, are you going to take my advice and get some rest?”
He looked mutinous, but at that moment there was a tap at the door and Mrs Hudson poked her head around the frame. She passed no comment on the disorder that reigned in the room, instead crossing to the bed and putting down a steaming cup on the table.
“Hot lemon, Mr Holmes,” she announced.
He waved a weak hand in assent, too exhausted now to respond. Mrs Hudson and I exchanged a glance – I nodded and she withdrew, taking with her the discarded sheets and towels. I shut the door behind her and turned back to Holmes.
“I recommend you drink that,” I said, “It will help to soothe your throat.”
There was no reply, not even a grunt in response. When I moved a little closer I realised that he had finally fallen asleep, the support of the pillows I had propped behind him relieving his congestion enough to allow him some rest. Bending over, I straightened the tumbled bedclothes and then returned to my seat, intending to keep a watch over him for a while in case his fever rose again.
***
Thankfully, it did not.
Holmes passed the next two days in a lethargy which was as unpalatable to him in the midst of a case as it was for me having to see to my usual round of patients and then deal with his fretting when I returned to Baker Street. At the end of the third day I entered the sitting room to find that he had coerced Mrs Hudson into helping him move from his bed to the sofa, where he lay amidst pillows and blankets like some eastern sultan, the hearthrug littered with the dispersed pages of the daily newspapers.
“You should not be up,” I scolded, putting down my bag on the table and moving to feel his pulse. He submitted to this with his usual bad grace, pointedly removing my hand when I attempted to feel his brow.
“I grew bored with staring at the ceiling,” he retorted. “It is quite reasonable to suppose that I can manage to convalesce just as easily here. You are the one who would appear to need rest, Doctor.”
I could not argue with that. It appeared that the influenza was now affecting more than just the denizens of Whitehall, and I had been hurrying to and from calls all day. I sank into my chair gratefully and thanked Mrs Hudson when she appeared with a pot of tea. She poured a cup and then added a nip of brandy before I could stop her.
“The last thing we need is you going down with something, Doctor,” she said in answer to my protests, and added with a pointed glance at Holmes, “One patient in the house is quite enough to be going on with.”
He gave her an affronted look, which she pretended to ignore, picking up the discarded papers before sailing out of the room. “I have had a telegram,” he said when the door had shut behind her.
I looked at the yellow form in his hand with dismay. “Holmes, you should not be working!”
“And so I am not. It is from Brother Mycroft – I thought that the contents might interest you, as you wired him yesterday on my behalf.”
“Of course.” I had thought it best given the investigation Holmes was conducting for his brother that Mycroft should be informed of his sibling’s indisposition. I took the paper and read the two lines printed upon it: AM LEFT IN EXTREMELY AWKWARD POSITION. STOP. HOPE ILLNESS IS NOT TRIVIAL. STOP. MYCROFT. I looked up in consternation. “Is this your brother’s usual attitude when you are unwell?”
Holmes broke into breathless laughter, which only ceased when he began to cough. “It is typical of Mycroft,” he said after he regained his powers of speech.
“Has he no concern for you?”
“Mycroft decided it was no business of his what happened to me shortly after I fell from the tallest apple tree in the orchard at the age of seven and a half and broke my arm in three places. I recall him telling me what a fool I was at least five times but I paid him no heed. He considered that if I intended to risk life and limb for no good reason nothing would induce him to follow me.” His face creased in further amusement when he could see that I was scandalised by this lack of brotherly compassion. “Besides, I doubt if he has forgiven me yet for making him walk all the way from the Diogenes Club to Westminster last Tuesday night.”
“Walk?” I had never seen the elder Holmes walk anywhere unless forced. “Could you not have taken a cab?”
“There were none to be had. It was a foul night, if you recall, and his best silk hat was quite ruined.” Holmes chuckled. “He wished me to see these letters urgently, and so we walked. He complained every step of the way.”
I frowned at him. “It’s no wonder you succumbed to the influenza so quickly if you were caught in that storm!”
He sneezed as if on cue and lay back against the cushions. “Poor Watson. You are sorely tried.”
“Continually,” I said. “Is there anything you need before I take myself off for a bath and a change of clothes?”
An eyebrow arched. “I would request my pipe and the tobacco slipper but I presume I am still denied that little comfort?”
“You are indeed.”
“You are a very hard nurse. Very well – you may tell me how long I am likely to be confined to this house. I have my occupation to consider,” he said. The sentence ended in a barrage of coughs which shook his exhausted frame. I poured him a cup of tea and watched him drink it, thinking that I should perhaps have added some brandy as Mrs Hudson had done, for he was looking quite wan.
“Given the state of you now, and knowing the usual course of an influenza attack, I would say a week, maybe more. And you will have to take things slowly after that,” I told him.
He spluttered into his cup. “A week? Watson, you cannot be serious! The concert on Saturday – Sarasate is back in England for one performance only!” he wailed, his face taking on the expression of a little boy denied a treat. “I had such difficulty getting the tickets - ”
“It is unfortunate timing, I know.” I took the cup and pulled the blankets over him. “Perhaps you should think twice next time before you accept one of your brother’s commissions.”
His response was to groan theatrically and drag the covers over his head.
***
It was much to my surprise later in the week that I learned Mycroft Holmes had called upon his brother. I was not privy to their discussion, but I do know that following it the two were barely upon speaking terms for some time to come. It is not just children who have the power to hold irrational grudges.
Holmes missed his concert, as I had predicted, and spent the time once he was feeling well enough to expend his energy in anything more strenuous than moving from his bed to the sofa scraping away mournfully on his violin. I do not think the matter of the Home Secretary’s mysterious correspondence was ever solved, as a few days after Holmes’s recovery his attention was taken up with something quite different: He had unwittingly made a present of his influenza to me, and the great detective found his nerves tested to the very limit, for I could be just as difficult a patient as he was himself.
Unsurprisingly, when it was all over he declared that he would take no more cases for the government unless Mycroft brought them to him.
FIN
