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My lodgings were strangely quiet. Though it was usual not to have much in the way of morning conversations, as my companion left his mornings for mulling over whatever was occupying his mind that day, this level of dormancy was quite uncommon. Any other day, I would hear Holmes’ goings-on throughout our rooms, but there was nothing of that nature to speak of. Despite this, I figured that he had simply gone off early for a case, or some other such activities. I continued about my morning routines, expecting him at any moment to burst through the door with news. I had found breakfast for two set out on the dining table, the plate opposite me sitting intact as I ate in the unfamiliar silence. After finishing up, I had set up my desk and began working, the words I was writing taking the forefront in my brain.
Half-past eleven o'clock, I had set away from my writings, and noticed that Holmes had neither stepped through the door nor emerged from his bedroom. He would often take extended hours away from Baker Street when he was on the trail of a suspect, but hardly without notice and rarely before I rose. I thought it good to do a wellness check of sorts – both to be assured of Holmes’ well-being, and to abate my own concerns for it – so I made the short journey to my flatmate’s room and was met with an unusual sight.
The windows, where they should have been bringing bright light into the dim rooms, were covered with a dark sheet that would on any other day be placed with the rest of Holmes’ bedding. I could hardly see the rest of the room around me, even though it was late morning. The situation being what it was, I felt around for the lamp which I knew resided on his desk. Finding the familiar curves, I lit it and could finally upon my surroundings. To this, there was a quiet but noticeable groan from the direction of the bed. I looked to the source of the noise with my light and found my friend Sherlock Holmes laid about in a most miserable manner. The man himself was barely visible, having cloaked himself under a number of quilts and coverings.
“Good God, man! What has happened?” I was aware of and used to Holmes’ black moods and had assumed from the state of him that this was a similar situation. His response, however, reflected not a depression as I initially thought but a sort of irritation.
“Oh, whatever is it?” He spoke with an ire that I have heard from him before, but was seldom used outside of particularly difficult clients. “Watson, for the love of all, take that light far from here! I assure you, it is dark for a reason.” I walked back to put the lamp where I had gotten it from, but did not remove it nor myself from the room. Again, I repeated my question. I intended not to leave until I had an answer of substance. My friend must have realized this fact, as he slowly turned over to look at me and respond.
“If you must know, I have become afflicted with a sick headache. It is quite severe, so if you please, allow me to remain as I am.” His answer made sense of his behavior, so I obliged. I took the lamp and placed it in the hallway outside. Before I did, though, I made one final comment to my friend. “I will make a trip into town, to see if the druggist has anything that may alleviate you.” I do not know if he simply did not hear me or if the throbbing head pains had taken what fight he would have had, but he offered no response as I exited.
It was luck on my end that there was a dispensing chemist who did work not too far from our shared residence. The druggist at the stand was a younger man than myself, roughly twenty-five to twenty-nine if I had to parse a guess. A man I knew well enough, as I often found myself needing certain drugs for my patients, for which he supplied. We greeted one-another as I stepped up to his counter, and I began to detail the problem I wished his advising on.
“Good day! A friend of mine – my flatmate, you remember him – he has a ghastly headache. I was hoping that you might have something to help. Medicine, recommendations, quite anything would help at this point.” I watched as he picked around his cabinets, pulling away a box nested on the left side after a moment of deliberation. Not a minute later he was standing infront of me once again, setting the box upon the surface between us.
“Here you are, sir! Four pills a day, and he should be right as rain.” He slid it cross the counter to me, and I paid in kind. “This here’s an import, but I hear it works wonders. Do pass on my well wishes.” I took the box and left. Not far to the shop was a costermonger, and I saw the opportunity to add some fruit in order to help my friend’s recovery quicken. After completing what I had set out to do, I started back to Baker Street with medicine and fruit in hand.
I tried to enter our terrace quietly, and hung my coat on the rack near the front before requesting a cup of water from Mrs Hudson forthwith. As I entered, I saw that he predictably had not moved from when I had first left. I pulled his desk chair to the edge of his bed, sitting upon it as I pulled out both the medicine and the fruit from my leather side-case. Holmes, finally sitting up somewhat after however long, gave me a certain look. He did not say as much but as I anticipated, he had not heard what I said during my exit.
“Holmes, despite my helping your cases frequently, my trade is still primarily as a Doctor. It would be negligent of me to see you as you were and do nothing of it.” He hummed to that, looking at what I had brought to him. I passed the box from the druggist to him, and he began inspecting it and the medicine which lay inside.
“Cephalic pills?” he inquired. Of course, he knew of them before this: His expertise in chemistry often led him to certain parts of the medical fields, as well. I nodded,
“Yes, four a day is what the man told me.”
I watched as he took the recommended dose with the water glass, which he handed back to me once emptied. He looked at what little else I had in my hands still, seeing the fruit, and taking around half of it. He ate in silence until he finished his portion, sitting up more fully once he was done.
“The medicine should take stronger effect in a short while. In the meantime, the fruit should help alleviate your symptoms as well.”
“Because of the hydration, I assume.” I nodded. I sat for a while longer by his side, if only to be assured his symptoms would not worsen. I knew he hated to be inactive like this when there was so much he could be doing. I did not know if there was any way to help, besides this. After a few minutes of silence which felt much longer, he spoke once again.
“I do thank you, Watson.” He paused, closing his eyes in focus. Trying to articulate.
“This, It is common for me. But normally it is not so bad that I am bedridden. There are days where it impedes my focus and makes it much harder for me to go about my cases as I typically would.” He didn’t say anything else regarding the subject, but I gathered his meaning both from what I knew of the man already and what he was telling me now.
Most times without a case, he just grows tired and lethargic. When he has a case but is unable to proceed with it for reasons with no connection and that he can not control, he finds it much easier to grow resentful towards things that would hardly be able to shake him on any other day.
I do not know what drove me to do so but I placed a light hand onto his shoulder, rubbing small circles into the blade. I offered room for his words, and waited to see if he would speak up once more. When he did not, I was tempted to give him space as I would otherwise, but something in me could not find the will to get up. I did not know if I was meant to respond to him, but part of me believed that he simply needed to speak to have his words out there at that moment, so I let him. The lamp was lessening in the hallway, and I knew that it would be good to get up and relight it but I stayed at Holmes’ side as the single dim light got smaller and smaller, leaving us in the near-pitch room.