Sherlock Holmes- A Study in Blood

Chapter 14

"Be slow to fall into friendship; but when thou art in, continue firm and constant." ~ Socrates

Watson pulled his handkerchief away from his mouth, catching sight of the alarming stain on the once white fabric.

Blood.

He hurriedly tucked the handkerchief into his vest pocket before anyone could see.  His medical mind began to assess his own health, searching for an explanation.  He'd been a bit run down.  Occasional headaches.  Not much of an appetite.  His leg ached more than usual, but all that could simply be attributed to a busy schedule and not much sleep.  Truly, he hadn't been sleeping well lately.   But it was the coughing that tipped the scales as to being something more than mere exhaustion.  Even Holmes had noticed and commented on it.  Twice.  The first time, he had simply sounded annoyed and proceeded to received a firm reprimand from his wife.  The second, the consulting detective had actually sounded concerned.  But Watson had waved both of them off.  He was fine.  Or, he would be after a bit more rest.  Truly.

Irene kept a close eye on their dearest doctor.  He was just about to leave for his rounds when Irene planted herself before the door.  Watson raised his eyebrows in surprise.  "May I help you, Mrs. Holmes?"

"Don't you dare Mrs. Holmes me, John Watson!" she demanded, hands coming up to rest on her hips.  Watson fought the urge to laugh, half expecting an accusing finger to soon be poking his chest.  "Don't think that cough of yours has gone unnoticed.  I will not have London's most superior medical mind ignore his own health."

"Irene, I assure you, I am fine."

Now it was she who raised her brow at him.  Although hers was an expression of disbelief rather than shock.

"I am fine, Irene," he insisted.  "There is no need to worry.  Truly."

"John, for weeks now I've heard you sitting up in the parlor most of the night so your coughing fits do not wake Mary."

"Holmes!" he called, ignoring the sting of his throat.  "Would you please tell your wife she is overreacting?"

"Apologies, old friend, but I must agree with my bride," Holmes replied, entering the room with Mary on his heels.  "You've horrid bruises beneath your eyes from lack of proper rest, you've scarcely eaten enough even by my own paltry standards, you've had increasingly painful headaches judging by the reading material piling up on your desk, and your coughing has torn your throat to shreds.  Do not think I did not notice the blood stains on your kerchief."  At Watson's stunned features, Holmes gave him a pitying look.  "Honestly Watson, it's as though you do not know me at all.  I am a detective by trade, you cannot hide such things from me.  Though a doctor with your skill set should have been able to easily reach the same conclusion.  You, dearest Mother Hen, are ill."

Watson sighed heavily, about to argue just the opposite when a deep cough overtook him, bending him at the waist and snatching the breath from his lungs.  Holmes and Irene helped him to his chair.   Mary watched him with her blue eyes wide with concern.  "Papa?" she asked in a small, unsure voice.  "You okay?"

Watson swallowed, taking shallow breaths so as not to aggravate his throat more.  "I'm afraid," he whispered, closing his eyes for a brief moment against the pain speaking suddenly caused, "I'm afraid not, my darling."

Irene encouraged him to take small sips of water as Holmes knelt to look his niece in the eye.  "Your papa is ill, lovely," he gently explained, "but we can fix that can't we?"

Mary nodded eagerly.

"Right, why don't you go sit on his lap then, hmm?   I'd wager he'd like that."