"I'm a match for the two of you then," she says, giving Watson's shoulder another small squeeze before the stands. "Fifteen minutes, dear. Be right back. You start thinking about working up an appetite, alright?"
It's possibly the quickest soup preparation she's ever embarked on in her life, but it's easy enough to transfer some of the chicken she'd been planning for supper anyway. She chops it into smaller bits and adds it to the soup, along with some vegetables, and she lets it all warm up together. She puts a kettle on too and lets everything do its business while she heads upstairs, to Watson's room.
Maybe there's nothing "funny" going on between Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes, and maybe there is -- honestly, she leans toward the latter, and sometimes when she catches one of them looking at the other, she hopes it's the latter -- but either way, it's clear that Watson's not taking this well, not at all. She's half a mind to call in another doctor, to give Watson the rest, but she knows her tenants too well. She picks up a few things -- Watson's pajamas, a fresh change of clothes for the morning -- and leaves them near the door.
The next time she mounts the stairs, she has a tray with soup and tea -- two spoons, but one cup, and one bowl, because she really only hopes Holmes will eat, but she doubts it -- and Watson's clothes in a bundle. It's all rather precariously balanced, but she is a housekeeper.
"Here we are," she says as she enters the room and deposits the tray on the table. "Tea and soup. And I've brought you something to sleep in, fresh clothes for the morning. And you should try to get some sleep, Doctor," she says gently, handing him his clothes. She presses her lips together a moment, and adds, "Though the sofa is a bit rubbish to sleep on, I suspect."
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It's possibly the quickest soup preparation she's ever embarked on in her life, but it's easy enough to transfer some of the chicken she'd been planning for supper anyway. She chops it into smaller bits and adds it to the soup, along with some vegetables, and she lets it all warm up together. She puts a kettle on too and lets everything do its business while she heads upstairs, to Watson's room.
Maybe there's nothing "funny" going on between Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes, and maybe there is -- honestly, she leans toward the latter, and sometimes when she catches one of them looking at the other, she hopes it's the latter -- but either way, it's clear that Watson's not taking this well, not at all. She's half a mind to call in another doctor, to give Watson the rest, but she knows her tenants too well. She picks up a few things -- Watson's pajamas, a fresh change of clothes for the morning -- and leaves them near the door.
The next time she mounts the stairs, she has a tray with soup and tea -- two spoons, but one cup, and one bowl, because she really only hopes Holmes will eat, but she doubts it -- and Watson's clothes in a bundle. It's all rather precariously balanced, but she is a housekeeper.
"Here we are," she says as she enters the room and deposits the tray on the table. "Tea and soup. And I've brought you something to sleep in, fresh clothes for the morning. And you should try to get some sleep, Doctor," she says gently, handing him his clothes. She presses her lips together a moment, and adds, "Though the sofa is a bit rubbish to sleep on, I suspect."