doctor, doctor, gimme the news

[mustbethetruth]

It's been four days since the criminal responsible for the theft of a lady's necklace -- by means of disguise, distraction, and a stuffed dodo bird -- and Holmes hasn't moved from his chair except to obtain more tobacco (and then he moved his Persian slipper nearer to him, and he wouldn't have gotten up at all except it was four in the morning and Watson was asleep). He hasn't eaten anything of consequence, nor had he a few days leading up to the utter failure that was the end of that case.

The criminal had gotten away. The fact that he'd stabbed Holmes in the thigh during the fight doesn't really even mean anything to Holmes; the bleeding's stopped, he bandaged the wound, and he doesn't really feel it -- not over the feelings of loss and defeat, anyway. He hasn't mentioned it to Watson, but honestly the thought hasn't even crossed his mind. His mind is too dark a place, at present, to entertain such thoughts about what his lover would like to know, or what his doctor might like to know.

When Holmes starts to turn ill, he barely notices. It's only when he starts to shiver does he notice that he's broken into a sweat; even still, he barely pays it any mind. The dizziness is almost welcome. He leans into his fever and leans his head back against his chair, letting his eyes fall shut.

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[mustbethetruth]

"I'm sick," he gripes in return, but he considers Watson's question. "Sitting makes me dizzy," he grumps, deciding that water is pointless and won't do anything very useful for him right now. Not unless it's magic water that would make his leg stop throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

"I'll take a cigarette," he says, managing to sound imperial even through the fever.

[lightconductor]

Watson considered for a moment, debating the wisdom of this. "You ought to have a drink," he advised, but he reached over to the bedside table, lit a cigarette, and passed it to Holmes. He didn't much feel like one himself, not now.

"Did the paracetamol help any?" he asked, hardly daring to hope that it had. "Perhaps a cool bath might make you more comfortable."

He was fussing, just a little. He knew he was. He couldn't help it. He was frightened -- and he was not a coward, very little in the world honestly frightened John Watson -- and he would have given his own right arm, his own life to ensure Holmes's well-being, just now.

[mustbethetruth]

"I'm not sure; I slept through it." But probably it hadn't, and Holmes thinks again of his Moroccan case. Watson would never say yes to that, and Holmes doesn't know if he should. A fever plus cocaine doesn't seem the best idea. He takes a drag off the cigarette instead and simply smokes for a moment, as he attempts to wrestle some control over his overheated thoughts.

"A bath requires movement. Having no fever would make me more comfortable," he snaps, and he turns his head away from Watson.

[lightconductor]

"I am trying to help," Watson said crossly. "You may feel free to snap at me for my stupidity when I'm not following the mad flights of your brain, but this particular subject is my specialty."

He sat up, and lit himself a second cigarette, feeling all to pieces and exhausted, not to mention guilty for losing his temper with a sick man.

"I could," he said, calmer, "bring the bath to you. A tub of water and a washcloth. Would it help?"

[mustbethetruth]

"My own body is a specialty of mine as well," he snipes back, aware that fighting is probably not the best thing they could be doing right now. He hurts, though, and can't really stop the snapping; besides, stumbling out of a dark mood and landing in a fever doesn't really leave one in the best moods for socialization.

"Fine," he relents after a moment, sighing heavily, and he takes a long drag. "If it will make you be quiet." He gives Watson a very small, teasing smile.