#johnlockforever

To be fair, you don’t need Sherlock Holmes’ skills to take care of a suffering companion. However, the interested party would answer you that his power of deduction isn’t his biggest asset in his particular field either, that, before and foremost - and, coming from the detective, you might find it unbelievable -  you need empathy to understand humankind.

It had been a dull day, exceptionally sunny and vernal one for this early in the year, but still somewhat chilly; a perfect day for a long, invigorating walk. One Holmes would never ever have taken if he hadn’t had errands to run. Tiresome errands, of the kind that couldn’t wait anymore; all across the city. All involving insufferable people he had been forced to talk to. To put it flatly, when he finally crossed the threshold of the 221b, the great detective was in a foul mood to say the least. The seventeen steps to his shared flat were climbed without any regard for the noise being made and its effect on the other inhabitants of the house. Holmes had, indeed, every intention in the world to be a moody brat for the small remnants of the day.

Upon entering the living quarters, though, he instantly knew something was… odd. All the lamps were out, as well as the nightlights. Not just burning on the lowest setting, but dead cold. Yet, Watson was home, he had to be. 

First of all, his umbrella was in the holder in the hall, and the good doctor would never leave the flat without it in March. He certainly could have forgotten it - it wouldn’t have been the first time - but he wouldn’t have left his walking stick behind, and it was sitting at his usual spot, between the door and the hatstand. Watson could have gone to a formal event with his military cane, of course, but then he wouldn’t have forgo the umbrella. What’s the point in being dressed to the nines if it’s to finally appear soaked through by the March sleet? None. John can sometimes be… undiscerning. Bordering illogical. But he never was nonsensical; one of the many reasons Holmes held his dear Doctor in such great estime. 

Another possibility - immediately discarded, though - was for Watson to have left the house without his consent. But then Mrs. Hudson would be hectoring Police Officers to go and find her favorite tenant instead of dragging dirt everywhere in her kitchen. She would have pounced on Holmes as soon as he would have put a toe past the threshold, anyway, if anything had happened to the Doctor. Since none of this has occurred, it was pretty safe to say Watson hadn’t been abducted.

No, the Doctor had to be somewhere in the vicinity, if he had been absent, Mrs. Hudson would have come and lighted up the nightlights for Holmes to find his way once back. John was there and should have turned on the lights - both his landlady and his friend expected him to - but, for some obscure reason, he hadn’t.

Why?

Why would someone sane - or as sane as it was possible to be while living of his own free will with one Sherlock Holmes - decide to plunge a usually quite bright living room in the darkness? The detective was used to asking himself such trivial questions, to concentrate himself upon details. It was his business to know what others did not know; didn’t think they needed to know.

Here, unmoving in the dark, Holmes let the truth impose itself to his mind. Watson hadn’t left Baker street in a hurry or in a distracted state enough to forget both his protection against the British weather and his walking aid, neither had he been forced to go. Then the lack of light had to be unintentional, involuntary.

Watson was unconscious.

Fast as the chemical reaction triggering the adrenaline to wildly pump in his veins, the detective turned on the lights, as bright as they would go, only to hear a groan, both grumpy and undignified, coming from the couch. In a leap, Holmes was at his friend’s side.

“Watson! Watson, are you alright? What happened? Did you pass out? Or collapse?”

The Doctor was laying on the English regency sofa, his head buried in a plump pillow, only one barely opened eye visible; his shirt rumpled and his hair mussed.

“What?”, his voice, already hoarse and raspy, was, in addition, muffled by the cushion, “No… Didn’t pass out. Head. Hurts.”

Oh.

“You have a migraine?” Holmes had a tendency to mutter to himself, his ramblings incoherent for the rest of the world and his voice a soft, low background to his companion. But the detective wasn’t meandering in the maze of his own mind, he was assessing the state of his dear friend with a clear, silvery voice.

The Doctor’s apparent eye screwed shut in pain, a hiss escaping his lips; “Qu-Quieter”, before he lifted his hand to cover his sight, “...Bright!”.

For the second time in less than two minutes, Sherlock’s mind kicked him into action: he stumbled back to the main lights to turn them off and lighted up the sidelights instead. Then, as noiselessly as he could, he sneaked in the kitchen to retrieve some willow powder and a fresh glass of water. He disposed of his burden in the living room before quickly going to the bathroom, only to emerge with a cold and damp towel.

“Up you go.”

“Nah.”

Holmes had planned to be the bratty one, tonight; not the mother-hen, and even if nothing was worthy of his companion’s pain, he had to be honest and admit to himself with a slightly amused huff that tending to a loved one was far more pleasant than just moping the evening away.

“Don’t make me ask twice.”

Surprised by the soft tone of his friend, Watson painfully screwed one eye open and discovered the painkiller and the towel.

“You don’t have to…”, the less than half-hearted protest only served to irk the detective.

“Nonsense! I will let that one slide because you’re unwell, but, please, don’t be ridiculous. Up you go.”

Out of arguments - and out of it altogether - the Doctor let Holmes help him to sit and gulp down the glass of water with willow. Then, as he was lying back down on his warm, cozy pillow, the detective gently applied the towel to his forehead. As a hand softly found its way to his hair, Watson understood the cushion upon which he was lying was none other than Sherlock’s lap, and just let himself melt into the touch.

“Th..k y…”

“Shhh, rest, my dear fellow.”

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