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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[lightconductor]

Though aware that Holmes had been involved in some case recently, Watson wasn't sure what it had been or what it had involved. He was aware, too that things had not gone well, for Holmes was now in this sulk on the sofa. There was no sense in rushing him out of it, but that didn't make it any easier to bear.

Coming inside from the weather, Watson ascended the stairs, and hung his coat and hat on the rack just in the door. A quick glance confirmed that Holmes was -- distressingly, depressingly, unsurprisingly -- still lounging lethargically about their rooms. He was torn between annoyance and grief at this; he wasn't quite sure how much longer he was supposed to put up with it.

Sighing, he wandered over to Holmes, trying to judge if he was truly asleep, and wondering if he ought to wake him up anyway. "Have you eaten at all?" he asked, loudly, with a bit of a sigh in his voice. As he drew near he observed the sheen of sweat, the flush of his skin, and that alarmed all his professional instincts. He laid his hand alongside Holmes's face, and his heart seized in his chest at the feel of fever burning there.

"Holmes, talk to me."

[lightconductor]

"No, not because it will make me quiet," Watson protested, though he rose. "Because just perhaps, I might know better than you on this one subject. Just perhaps. At the very least it might cool you down. Don't go anywhere."

He slipped out into the sitting room, and down the hall to the washroom to fill a basin with cool water. As soon as he was out of Holmes's sight, he sagged a little, let his anxiety and fear wash over him, his exhaustion. By the time he returned to the bedroom, he had schooled himself back into calm.

He didn't know what to say; for lack of anything else, Watson stepped up to Holmes and kissed him on the forehead, basin and cloth balanced in one hand.

[thelandlady]

She knows that Mr. Holmes hasn't been eating for days; she knows perfectly well that it isn't likely at all he'll be eating today, despite Dr. Watson's best efforts. It's trying to plan meals around Mr. Holmes's temperamental appetite, and more food gets wasted than she likes to think about. She tries to save it, she does, but when he gets into his spells, she doesn't want to subject the doctor to days and days of leftovers. It's trying, it is. Mostly because it's so painful to see someone so vibrant as Mr. Holmes, so alive and intelligent, reduced to such defeated depression. When he leaves his meals untouched, when it seems unwise to keep them, she gives them to his Irregulars. She makes them swear not to tell, and also to wipe their feet the next time.

It's possible that Dr. Watson has managed to coax Mr. Holmes into an appetite, so she decides to check upstairs before she starts her plans for the next day's meals. She knocks at their sitting room door and calls out, folding her hands in front of her.

"Dr. Watson? Might I have a word?"

[mustbethetruth]

"It would be terribly convenient if that wasn't a problem for her." He eats obediently; he isn't actively hungry, but he can taste the soup, and it is good. He's aware that he hasn't eaten in some time, and he needs his strength, especially after his and Watson's powerful moment, there. He goes for pieces of chicken, though he tries to leave enough for Watson, too.

Watson's question gives him pause; were his face not already flushed with fever, he'd probably color. He ducks his head and has another spoonful of soup, hiding his expression, though he isn't sure what exactly his expression is.

"He must. He's the only family member who still enjoys speaking with me." He sighs and looks away, a smile chasing the corners of his mouth. "He has his favorite things. His favorite chair, his favorite club, favorite tobacco. I must rank in there somewhere as his favorite brother, the fact that I'm his only brother notwithstanding. I owe him quite a lot," he murmurs, more seriously. "I'm not sure what I give back to him."