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“Holmes, you cannot keep going at this speed,” Watson said gently, and Holmes tried to ignore him in favor of sorting through more telegrams. “You must rest. You have hardly slept in two weeks, and it’s been even longer since you went a day without working.”
“Days without working are dull.” Holmes snatched a telegram form and scribbled off a reply to one of the inquiries he’d just gotten. “I have far too many cases at present to rest.”
It was an argument they were having daily at this point, and Holmes refused to budge on it. Today, even just the discussion brought an awareness of the increasing wooziness and exhaustion, but he continued to ignore it. He was tired, yes, but busy. And as he loved being busy, he had no intention of resting.
The vague sense of illness only worsened as the day continued, however, and he found himself leaning heavily on his walking stick as he and Watson rushed around London. His head spun, and smells began to trouble him. An increasing pressure built up in his left temple, and he attempted to ignore it despite being perfectly aware of the warning. He had no time for migraines.
There were a number of cases in play at the moment, and he delved into them with his usual passion even once the weakness and shakiness worsened. He crawled across lawns, peered at shards of broken pottery through his magnifying glass, analyzed cryptic letters. And all the while, he became increasingly aware that his body was attempting to fall apart.
It was not until he had solved the three exceedingly simple robberies—exceedingly simple to him, less so to the police—that he admitted something was wrong. As they waited for a cab, he took Watson’s arm and leaned against him. “Watson.”
At once, Watson adjusted to take his weight. “What is it, old man?”
Holmes let out a long, unsteady breath as the shaking started. “I do not feel entirely well. I fear my body may be in something of open rebellion against me.”
“It has decided to make you rest.” Watson supported him, keeping him from toppling over as they moved towards the cab that had just stopped. “Will we return to Baker Street?”
“I have no wish to do so, as there are more matters I had hoped to look into, but I fear I have little choice.” Holmes closed his eyes, wincing. Even the clouded light of the sun was agony. “Take me home, Watson.”
He leaned against Watson in the cab, suddenly chilled and shivering. His head pounded, and pressing against his left temple did little to relieve the pain. It was not just his head that hurt, either. The old aches in his body, aches that flared up on occasion, became nearly unbearable.
A sharp noise of pain escaped from him, and he clutched at his arm. Watson at once gave him a worried look. “You’re in pain?”
“I should think that is obvious,” Holmes gritted. “Oh, Watson. I feel horrible.”
It was not the sort of thing he liked to admit, even when he did feel horrible. But at the moment, all of his self control was devoted to not starting to weep as the misery worsened.
And besides, he trusted Watson not to say anything such as “I told you so”, even though he would have been justified in such a pronouncement. Watson was always kind, and remarkably gentle even when Holmes had caused himself such troubles through sheer stubbornness.
They were soon back to 221B Baker Street, and Watson helped him up the stairs to the sitting room. He eased Holmes onto the settee, then wrapped his favorite blanket around his shoulders. “There, old man. Would you like some tea?”
Holmes nodded miserably, shivering as he drew the blanket tighter around himself. His head still spun, and the fatigue was only worsening. “I fear I shall be in need of a little nap today.”
Watson poured the tea and pressed it into his hands. “You should have as much sleep as you like. You are exhausted, Holmes. It will only take you longer to recover if you drive yourself back to work at once.”
“I am aware of that, and at this point I do intend to rest as it seems inescapable.” Holmes glanced up and flicked a smile at his friend. “You shall wish to examine me, Doctor?”
“If you do not object.”
Holmes waved permission, drank his tea, and sat back to await Watson’s attentive care. He had never liked nor trusted doctors before, but Watson was entirely different. He was the epitome of trustworthy, and had such a gentleness about him that it was impossible to worry.
He began by slipping a thermometer between Holmes’ lips, as it would take some time for the reading to be accurate. Then he checked Holmes’ pulse, frowning down at his pocket watch with concern. “Hmm. Yes, you are somewhat the worse for wear. I do not like the irregularity of your pulse, or the weakness.”
The stethoscope came out next, which Holmes had expected from previous, similar incidents. Watson pressed the end gently to his chest, listening first to his heart, and then to his lungs. Holmes followed any instructions in regard to breathing, although he should have preferred to simply lie down and go to sleep until he felt better.
Finally, Watson took the thermometer out, made a face, and touched Holmes’ brow. “No fever for the moment, but your body temperature is a little lower than usual and your skin clammy. You’re not leaving this room until you have rested.”
Holmes took a sip of his tea, then hugged his blanket around himself again. “There is no need to fret, Watson. I have no intention of going…”
Sharp pain pierced into his temple, and then stabbed through his arms, his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, shuddering.
“Well, I should hope not,” Watson said gently, patting his shoulder. “I’m sorry that you’re in pain. Is there anything else I can fetch for you?”
“I would not object to more tea.” Exhausted as he was, it was difficult even to ask for that much. Words seemed to require far too much energy. “And perhaps another blanket for when I lie down. I am chilled.”
“Of course, Holmes.” Watson fluffed up the pillows, then took Holmes’ arm. “Just lie down, now. Gently, gently.”
Holmes eased himself down, and another groan of pain escaped. He could hardly keep his eyes open, and his head pounded all the more violently as time passed. “Perhaps you could draw the curtains as well.”
“The light is painful for you?”
“Mm.”
Soon, the room was darkened to a tolerable level. Watson brought him another cup of tea, as well as a blanket, and smoothed back a strand of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. “There, old man. You just rest, and let me know if you need anything else. I shall be in my armchair nearby.”
“Thank you, Watson.” Holmes closed his eyes, his remaining energy gone. “It is something of a relief have you watching over me.”
Indeed, Watson’s careful vigilance would make it far easier to rest. Holmes had little wish to sleep, even now, but that did reassure him. His body might still be in rebellion against his refusal to rest, but Watson would keep a close eye on him, and help him if he needed any further comforts.