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The summer this year, much like the rest of the year thus far, has been unseasonably warm. The very moment the calendar had flipped over onto the months of June and July, a rush of warmth had quickly spread itself through London’s ancient and cobbled streets, lingering between the equally ancient buildings until the entire city resembled nothing so much as a furnace. The dryness that had stubbornly lingered for months, since the previous December – and broken only by that brief spell of rain back in March – seems to have vanished in favour of the unrelenting humidity that Holmes associates with the very heights of the damnable summer months.

Such humidity has not done favours for Holmes’ ever-increasingly foul mood. He strongly dislikes the suffocating feeling the air now has, how it seems to cling to him at all hours of the day, with exception for only the scantest few hours in the dead of night. It reminds him all too well of those years spent wandering the continent and Near East, following the confrontation at Reichenbach.

Silently huffing out an irritated breath, he turns his observing gaze onto Watson. If nothing else, observing his Boswell will be sure to offer some distraction from the damnable humidity that’s infecting their living room.

Rather than sitting in his armchair, as is usually customary when they’re both at home, Watson has migrated to the writing desk. The curtain is drawn just enough across the window that whilst he’s hidden in the relative shade, sunlight continues to spill into the room at the same time. He is also, Holmes cannot help but note, not doing any of his fancifully romantic writing at present. Rather, he’s simply sitting there with a copy of The Times, seemingly absorbed in whatever minuscule matter has made it to print today. Small beads of sweat periodically appear on his forehead, all of which are swiftly wiped away with a handkerchief each time.

The way he has positioned himself to be out of the direct line of the unforgiving sunlight is clearly deliberate. Holmes steeples his fingers and presses them against his chin as he thinks.

Like most things concerning his Watson, Holmes would hazard a guess that the cause of this strange behaviour links back to the time spent in the military. There have been a number of such things that Holmes has observed over the years of their friendship – reactions to sudden loud noises, a dislike of the cold that can rival Holmes’ own depending on the day, strange looks at anything depicting a battle. Small, seemingly innocuous things that mean very little when observed separately, but when taken together create a picture.

“I say, Watson,” Holmes says, not moving his gaze away. Watson makes a vague noise in answer, showing that he is paying attention despite appearances. “I fear that no cases will be coming our way any time soon.” Watson finally glances at him over the top of the newspaper, eyebrow raising. “I cannot imagine any of London’s finest choosing to cause mischief in this heat.”

“I believe you said the same thing back last November,” Watson replies mildly, “only then it was about the cold.” He flips the paper down so Holmes can properly see him, laying it without much care on the desk and twisting himself around to look at Holmes. “And I certainly remember running down some dank alleys and sitting outside in the frost.”

Holmes flaps a hand dismissively, hoisting himself upwards so that he’s sitting on the settee with both of his legs crossed beneath his body. If Mycroft had seen him in this moment, he’s sure his brother would have had a conniption. “That was then, my boy. This is now.”

“Of course,” Watson says, a hint of amused drawl in his voice. He points at the discarded newspaper. “Would you care to hear of the interesting things I’ve read about this morning, then?”

“Pah.” Holmes quickly jumps to his feet again, despite only just having settled in his latest sitting position. A restless energy is running through him, a live wire of electricity needing to be expelled into something productive. “All piddling matters there, my dear Watson. Nothing worthy of our attention, I assure you.”

“And you gathered this by divination, did you, Holmes?” Watson’s lip twitches in another barely hidden smile.

Holmes steps around the settee until he’s back to his usual haunt in front of the window, feeling the sun’s rays already begin to warm him through the glass. He brushes a hand along the back of Watson’s chair, his knuckles just briefly passing along the material of his waistcoat. Even with the ambient heat lingering in the living room, he can still feel warmth radiating even through Watson’s clothes.

“Certainly not!” He barks out a quick laugh, flashing Watson an equally quick smile. “You know how I feel about baseless superstition, Watson.” Watson’s eyebrow remains firmly raised, a familiar expression to Holmes after all their years of cohabitation. “No, I simply looked at the front page of our ever-illustrious daily newspaper.” He gestures blithely at said discarded newspaper. “A newspaper that runs a story about a mundane heist on its front page cannot have anything more substantial to offer within its depths.”

Watson’s face morphs into another familiar look: equal parts exasperation and fondness, a certain softness lingering about his gaze even as his eyebrows furrow the slightest bit. Like the good doctor cannot decide which he feels most strongly, Holmes thinks, a warm feeling in the centre of his chest.

A flash of movement from beyond the sheer blinds captures Holmes’ attention and he turns his body just enough so that he can glance through the window.

A hansom cab is pulling up on the street outside, a dark blot against the sunlit cobbles of the road. Holmes stares, the familiar interest of a potential case stirring to life in his gut, as a woman exits the hansom. She stands in place and looks around for a moment after the cab has departed, and Holmes takes the opportunity to try and piece together things about her.

A pale and unmarred lavender dress, so clearly not of the working class. Boots made for some amount of walking, but not the sort required for the true countryside, or even Hampstead Heath. A relative local, then. Not from within London or its outskirt districts, but not so far afield as beyond the north of Birmingham.

“It would seem that there are indeed those who are causing mischief in this heat,” Holmes murmurs, glancing at Watson out of the corner of his eye. His friend shifts just enough that he can see the window better, still remaining in the shadows, and Holmes obligingly holds the blind out further so Watson can see. He offers another fleeting smile as the woman in lavender finally moves towards the building. “Perhaps there will be something interesting for us today, after all.”

Allowing himself the brief luxury of smiling in satisfaction, and valiantly ignoring Watson’s fond eye rolling to the side, Holmes leans against the side of the window and stares at the door, waiting for their inevitable visitor.

Just as he had expected, within a handful of moments there is a knock on the living room door, followed by Mrs Hudson opening it and stepping inside to announce a visitor. When told that it’s fine to admit them, Mrs Hudson leaves with a nod, her footsteps vanishing down the stairs. Watson finally gets up from his seat, momentarily wincing – no doubt one of the old injuries left over from his days in the east – before moving across the room towards his armchair and shrugging on his jacket.

Just as he’s about to pass by Holmes’ armchair, he reaches out and delicately grasps the elbow of Watson’s jacket. Watson gives him a curious look over his shoulder, but otherwise allows himself to be gently pulled backwards until he’s sat in Holmes’ chair.

If Holmes stands behind the chair, one hand on the back, so that his Watson remains somewhat shaded for just a moment longer, then that is neither here nor there.

Moments later, there’s the sound of more footsteps approaching the door, this time two pairs. The door opens to Mrs Hudson again, and she shows in the woman in lavender, giving Holmes and Watson a nod before vanishing again. If prior experience is anything to go off of, she’s likely gone downstairs to start making tea.

Introductions and explanations are a swift affair. The woman in lavender is Mrs Lavinia Stannage – a relatively recent widower by her own admission – here at Baker Street to request aid regarding a matter in her family. A father taken ill, a cousin miraculously reappearing in the last fortnight after spending the last eight years overseas squandering his own inheritance, and a suspected break-in where nothing was stolen. She cannot take the matter to the police yet because she has no tangible proof, only instincts.

“And so you have come to us,” Holmes says after a moment, eyeing Mrs Stannage carefully, “to help you find irrefutable proof of your cousin’s involvement in all this.”

“Yes, just so,” Mrs Stannage nods, her hands clutching at a handkerchief on her lap with enough force that Holmes thinks the thing might just disintegrate, “and, if you are willing, to look in on my father.”

Watson leans forward slightly, one hand on the armrest of the chair. Holmes glances down and sees the ever-present notebook is out, the faint cuneiform-esque writing associated with experienced doctors staring back at him. “Surely there are other doctors closer to home that you can call out?” He frowns, just a touch and not enough to be noticeable by anyone who isn’t Holmes. “I am sure St Albans has no shortage of capable doctors.”

Mrs Stannage nods once more. “That… is true.” That handkerchief crumples in between her fingers again. “My father has refused to allow himself to be seen, though. He doesn’t believe himself unwell.” She glances away, swallowing. “I am unsure of how else I can help him.”

Watson makes a vague noise in answer. He glances up at Holmes as he scribbles something else down in his notebook, eyebrows furrowed once again, brief enough for Mrs Stannage to have not noticed their voiceless communication.

“Well,” Holmes says into the conversation’s lull, tapping a pondering finger against his jaw, “I am sure Doctor Watson will be able to do just that whilst we find the evidence you seek. The realm of healing is, of course, more his purview than my own.”

Mrs Stannage looks up at them, something disbelieving on her face. Her pale eyes seem luminous in the sunlight. “Then… you will help me, sir?”

“Certainly.” Holmes sweeps away from Watson to glance down at his desk for a brief moment, then steps over to the fireplace to grab his pipe from the mantle. “It would behove us to prevent a modern day Matilda and Stephen situation, wouldn’t you agree?” Mrs Stannage mutely nods, looking stunned. Perhaps she had not expected help in this matter, despite her clear desperation. “We shall make our way to you at our earliest convenience. Traffic and trains permitting, we shan’t be long.”

And with that, their new client is shown the door, Watson getting up from the armchair and guiding her the front door. Holmes watches from the window again as Mrs Stannage steps back out onto the cobbled road of Baker Street, glancing backwards at where Holmes knows the door is for a brief moment before hailing a passing hansom cab. The sound of familiar footsteps on the stairs – the uneven distribution of weight indicative of a slight limp, barely noticeable for those not Holmes – draws his attention back to the living room. Just as the door reopens and his Watson appears again, Holmes sweeps the curtain across the window, instantly dimming the room as though the sky itself is suddenly obscured.

He does not fail to notice the immediate and only mostly hidden look of relief on Watson’s face.

“Give me your thoughts, Watson,” he says instead, half wondering why the two of them had persisted with having the curtains open for so long. It’s not like either of them have particularly enjoyed having their living room turned into a greenhouse.

Watson shoots him a look as he sits back down, in his own armchair this time. “My thoughts?” He lets out a considering hum as he tucks the notebook back into the inside pocket of his jacket. “I think you’re right to call it a Matilda and Stephen situation. Averting that can only be a good thing.”

“Though unlike the Matilda and Stephen of old, my boy, the throne of our country isn’t on the line this time around.” Holmes steps over and lets himself collapse into his own chair, keeping his gaze firmly on Watson. "However, there is an inheritance, and a cousin who is apparently foolish with his finances.” He pauses to have a quick inhale of his pipe. “And we have seen many such cases of inheritance fights and foolishness, have we not, my friend?”

“Indeed.” Watson looks off to the side, gaze going distant for a brief moment. “The prospect of money can cause many such issues.”

Holmes eyes him, humming in answer as he thinks. If he were a guessing man, he would say that Watson is thinking of his older brother again. Holmes doesn’t know much about the brother in question, aside from anything gleaned from his friend’s pocket watch, and he has never asked despite his years of curiosity. Much like how Holmes prefers to not speak of his family, even Mycroft, Watson seems to be reticent to speak on most matters that occurred before their meeting.

“What worries me,” Watson continues, either oblivious or just ignoring Holmes’ silent contemplation, “is the father’s current condition. A fortnight is a long time to be ill, especially without consulting a doctor. I have scolded my patients for less.”

“Oh, I imagine you have, my dear fellow,” Holmes says, amused and just a little bit charmed. Once a doctor, always a doctor, it would seem. “You have certainly scolded me often enough, and I have no doubt you shall do so again before the month is out.”

“No doubt,” Watson agrees dryly. Despite his tone, Watson’s voice still holds that fondness. His face sobers quite quickly again and he brushes his handkerchief across his forehead once more. “If I recall rightly, Holmes, there’s a train from Euston tomorrow at twenty minutes to nine.” He pauses with a light frown, another familiar expression that lets Holmes know that his friend is thinking something over. He patiently waits and watches as Watson takes hold of the silver pocket watch and glances down at it. “There is, I believe, also a train this evening. Around ten to five, if my reckoning is right.”

Holmes hums absently, leaning forward in his chair to brace his arms against his knees. “It would give us the chance to observe things for ourselves.” As much as he believes the beleaguered Mrs Stannage and her plight, as he strives to believe all of their clients, there have been a not-insubstantial amount of times where their client has not been entirely truthful with them. He quickly snaps his gaze back to Watson. “Would you be able to pack your things in time?”

“I should think so. You know full well I am fully stocked in case of emergencies, old man.” Watson puts his pocket watch away once again, with the same care that he shows his revolver and an injury. "Four hours, then?”

“Four hours.” Holmes allows himself another brief smile, the excitement of a new case building in his gut, and he bounds off towards his bedroom to start packing.

The house on the address given by their client is almost disappointingly ordinary, at least at first glance.

To Holmes, it appears to be no more intriguing than any other country home that he and Watson have investigated over the past few years. Moderately sized, a decent amount of land around it, and with a view of the distant cathedral from the grounds. There appears to be nothing outwardly wrong with the place, at least that Holmes can see with a brief glance. If Mrs Stannage hadn’t come down to London to present her request for help, he isn’t sure he’d see much wrong here.

Their train from Euston, departing at ten to five as Watson had correctly said, had taken a little under an hour to get them outside of London and into St Albans. Already, Holmes can feel a noticeable difference in the humidity levels as compared to London, the air feeling slightly less suffocating. The heat is still here, but it feels more manageable than it had back in the greenhouse of a living room.

Which is the same as saying the Mediterranean has slightly less water than the nearby Atlantic, but that is neither here nor there.

Mrs Stannage, when she greets them out in front of the house, is visibly surprised yet happy to see them. She clearly hadn’t expected to see them until at least the following day. As she leads them to the door, speaking about the house as she does so, Holmes keeps a careful eye on the ground and walls. A trampled patch of grass, a discolouration in the bricks, a scratch on the window frame – anything can reveal things if one knows how to look for them.

The inside of the house, when she leads them in, is… interesting. Conventional in the majority of ways, but there are a few things that stand out to Holmes. A few curios that line the shelves and weapons mounted on the wall. He eyes them as they pass by them on the way to the staircase.

“Do you have some place to stay tonight?” Mrs Stannage asks as she directs them on where to leave their luggage. Watson keeps hold of his medical bag, as is his norm when investigating cases. When Holmes says they had planned to check into the nearest inn, once they’re done with their initial look over of the house, Mrs Stannage shakes her head and says, “I would be a poor host if I sent you away. I would be happy to have my housekeeper make up the guest rooms for you both, gentlemen.”

“Well, then thank you, Mrs Stannage,” Holmes says, blinking. It’s not entirely unheard of for their clients to keep them close at hand, but it’s still a surprise when it happens nevertheless.

“My father is a collector,” Mrs Stannage says after a few moments as they step onto the landing from the stairs, gesturing at another ornament. Holmes hums in vague answer. “He’s always been a bit eclectic in his tastes.”

“He seems to have spent a fair amount of time in India,” Watson muses idly, his gaze directed at another statuette. Holmes glances at him in surprise, which is swiftly replaced by pride.

Mrs Stannage stops in her tracks and spins on her heel to stare at them, incredulity on her face. Holmes fights to keep his expression impassive. “Yes, he did, doctor. He was stationed there back when he was a young man.” She tilts her head and asks, voice questioning, “How did you know?”

“I also spent some time in India. Back in my younger days, that is.” Watson turns away from the statuette. “I recognise a lot of things here from the bazaars I passed through when I was there.”

“Oh, really?” Mrs Stannage resumes walking, leading them further down the hallway, but she glances over her shoulder periodically, an unreadable look on her face. “You were also in the military, then?”

“I was.”

“Were you out there for long?”

“Long enough.”

They stop before a closed door – old oak, if Holmes isn’t mistaken, though he will freely admit that his knowledge of carpentry and its associated plants is rusty – and Mrs Stannage pauses, pressing her ear to the door briefly before pushing it open. She steps back and gestures for them to enter the room.

The inside reveals the room to be a bedroom, with the room’s sole occupant an older man lying supine in the middle of a large bed. Watson glances between Holmes and their client before immediately making his way over to who Holmes presumes to be Mrs Stannage’s father. Whilst Watson busies himself with setting up his medical bag on a nearby chair and pulling various things out, Holmes takes the opportunity to have a brief glance over things.

A fairly typical room on the first look; large windows to let light and air inside and an equally large fireplace on the opposite wall. The bits of soot around the hearth reveal that it has been used fairly recently, despite the weather’s recent increase in warmth. Some more of the eclectic curios line the mantle.

He turns to Mrs Stannage, about to ask about the recent break-in she’d mentioned back down in Baker Street, when there’s the sound of quickly approaching footsteps from outside the room. Seconds later, the source of the footsteps is revealed as a small child jogging up to them, an equally small cat in her arms.

“Elsie!” Mrs Stannage looks mildly mortified, much to Holmes’ fleeting amusement, and she immediately turns to the child. Holmes presumes this must be the daughter briefly mentioned earlier; she has the same dark hair as her mother. “What have I said about running in the halls? With Margaret, no less?”

“Sorry!” The girl, Elsie, peeks around her mother and looks at Holmes with great curiosity. “I just wanted to see the people!”

“Well, you’ve seen them, now,” her mother says, suddenly sounding exhausted. Holmes gets the feeling that her daughter is naturally the excitable sort. “Where is your brother? I thought your teacher gave you school work to do.”

“I’ve done my school work,” Elsie says, sounding a bit indignant at the suggestion that she’s slacking. The cat miaows as though in agreement. “I think Percy is down with Mr Toby again. He wants to go riding.”

“Again?” Mrs Stannage sighs deeply, face twisted up in consternation as she visibly thinks. Seeming to come to some decision, she turns to Holmes with an apologetic look. “I’m terribly sorry to do this, but I must go and collect my wayward son.” Holmes nods in understanding. “Please, feel free to investigate wherever you need to. If you require any help, the staff will be happy to assist.” She turns to her daughter. “Come on, let’s go find your brother.”

Elsie pouts up at her. “Can’t I stay here?” She points at Watson, somehow managing to keep a careful hold on the cat. “I want to watch the doctor.”

“Elsie. You’ll get in their way.” She gently takes hold of the girl’s upper arm and steers her towards the door. “Let them make your grandfather feel better. I’m sure you’ll be able to speak to them at another time.”

Elsie pouts again, but this time allows her mother to lead her from the room. Mrs Stannage shoots Holmes and Watson another apologetic look, nods once, then departs with her daughter, gently shutting the door behind herself. The two of them are left alone with the still-unconscious father, and the footsteps of Mrs Stannage and her daughter fade away.

After a moment, Holmes turns his attention back to the fireplace, wandering over and crouching before it to get a better view of things. He brings a gloved hand to the soot lingering around the edges, looking at it critically before turning his gaze onto the charred contents of the firebox. From what he can discern at first glance, it seems to mostly be used coal, though that doesn’t necessarily mean it isn’t hiding things.

A faint groaning sound reaches his ears, and Holmes stands and looks back over at his friend, carefully brushing any remaining soot from his hands.

The previously unconscious man in the bed is now awake, and apparently deeply unhappy about the new state of affairs if the look on his face is anything to go by. Watson has removed his jacket and laid it over the back of the nearby chair, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Mr Gould,” he says, leaning a bit closer to the man – George Gould, if Holmes remembers rightly – and grabbing a stethoscope from his medical bag. Holmes sidles a bit closer to them, carefully staying out of Watson’s way for the time being. Mr Gould grunts in vague answer. “I am Doctor Watson. This is my friend and colleague, Mr Sherlock Holmes.” He gestures in Holmes’ direction, pausing to quickly glance at him. “Your daughter has asked us to investigate a few things.”

Mr Gould coughs as he allows Watson to help him sit up. “Has she, now?” He lets out a creaky noise as he weakly reaches across towards the bedside table, grasping for the glass of water there. Watson dutifully hands it to him, then places it back once he’s done and carefully avoiding knocking the pipe there to the floor.

“She said you were taken ill a fortnight ago,” Watson continues, holding the stethoscope loosely for the time being. Mr Gould makes another vague noise of affirmation. “Can you tell me how it started, and how you’re feeling now?”

“I suppose I can.” Mr Gould coughs to clear his throat. “Started out with a cough. General cold symptoms, as I’m sure you’ll agree, doctor.” Watson nods, muttering something about the stethoscope being cold before pressing it to Mr Gould’s chest and listening carefully. Mr Gould continues, “We had the break-in that night.”

Holmes takes a step towards them as Watson takes the stethoscope away again, clearly done with whatever he was listening for. “Your daughter said nothing had been taken.”

“Indeed.” Mr Gould blindly reaches across to the bedside table again and grasps for the discarded pipe. Once he has it, he promptly lights it and inhales. “It was my office that was broken into, Mr Holmes. Lord only knows why.” He glances at Watson with another inhalation. “After that, I started with bilious issues. Brought on by the stress, I would imagine.” The look on Watson’s face, minuscule and barely there, lets Holmes know that the good doctor doesn’t agree with that assessment. His eyes continually sweep across his patient, likely making a mental note of everything. He seems to notice something that Holmes doesn’t because his gaze sharpens. “It’s not stopped Lavinia from worrying, though.”

“No, I imagine not,” Watson says, smiling tightly.

“Let us pool our knowledge, Watson,” Holmes says later that evening, sitting in one of the armchairs of the room Watson has been given by their host by the window. The late summer sun has only just dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky streaked with pink and blue before they too will descend into the few hours of darkness afforded. The cathedral sits as a shadowed splodge on the horizon. “What is your diagnosis of your patient?”

Holmes had departed from Mr Gould’s room shortly after the man had given his account of his sudden illness and the break-in, leaving Watson in charge of his care. As requested by his friend, he had flagged down a passing maid and asked her to bring a fresh jug of water to that bedroom. Several conversations with the various members of staff later, Holmes thinks he has a better idea of what might be going on. He plans to thoroughly go through the aforementioned office tomorrow, when the light is better.

“My diagnosis?” Watson turns from where he’s sorting through his notes, casting a brief and furtive glance towards the closed door. Rather than immediately answering, he walks over to Holmes and sits in the other chair. His expression is cautious. Holmes also thinks he looks a touch paler than he had this morning, though that could also be the increasingly poor light. “It’s not enteric fever, as I imagine Mrs Stannage had feared, nor is it cholera.”

Holmes senses there’s more to be said. He might not be the master of reading people, but he knows his Watson well enough to read his expressions now. “You do not sound happy, though.”

Watson glances over his shoulder at the door again, as though checking that it remains closed. “Arsenic.”

Holmes hisses out a breath through his teeth, the starkness of their situation suddenly becoming clearer. “You’re certain?”

“As certain as I can be.” Watson raises a hand. “I see it in his fingernails.”

Holmes slowly exhales, pressing his steepled fingers to his chin. Watson’s cautiousness suddenly makes a great deal of sense. “Then we’re dealing with an attempted murder. From someone likely inside this house, no less.”

“Yes.” Watson suddenly looks and sounds exhausted. “I couldn’t tell where the source of the contamination is coming from, though. Arsenic is tricky to locate.”

“Don’t worry yourself with that, my boy,” Holmes says, waving a vague hand in Watson’s direction. “There’s a reason why arsenic has been this century’s poison of choice. I take it that is why you asked for a fresh jug of water?”

“Yes.” Watson pauses to once again wipe his handkerchief across his brow. Despite the growing lateness of the hour, the fast-approaching night has done little to alleviate the stifling temperatures, and the humidity has climbed back up to that same suffocating feeling it’d had back in London. “I thought it best to have anything already in there removed in case of contamination. If he improves after this, we’ll know whether or not it’s being added at the source or in between.”

“Precisely my own thoughts.” Holmes allows himself another brief smile, just because he can. “Tomorrow, you should stay with Mr Gould. Your patient would fare better with you at his side.”

Watson blinks, eyebrows slightly creasing. “All right. If you’re sure, Holmes.”

“I am. Much as I would love to have you by my side–” to put it extremely mildly, “–Mr Gould needs you more than I for the time being. Plus, as we’ve said here, the poisoner is likely someone in the house. Or someone who has access to the house. If you remain with Mr Gould, they may be less likely to make another attempt.” He glances over at the bags that make up Watson’s luggage. “Do you have your revolver?”

“Of course.” Watson shifts and taps the left inside pocket of his jacket.

“Excellent.” Not that he had expected anything less, but it’s always as well to double check, particularly on a case that involves an attempted murder. “Luck willing, you won’t need to use it, but I would rather be safe than sorry.”

Not only would having it be safer for Watson (and himself), but Holmes privately thinks it would be safer for their as-yet unknown perpetrator. Better for whoever it is to be non-fatally shot by Watson’s sharp aim before the opposite can occur. Not for the first time in all their years of friendship, Holmes thinks that if Watson was ever seriously injured, he might kill the one responsible.

“No, no, you’re quite right, old man,” Watson says with a tired-looking smile, seemingly unaware of Holmes’ wandering thoughts. “We have a history of having to use it.”

Holmes hums, bringing a hand to his pocket watch and quickly checking the time before pushing himself up from his chair. From this new height, he thinks he sees a hint of flushed red at the top of Watson’s cheeks, contrasting with the touch of pallor. Once again, Holmes isn’t entirely sure whether his eyes or the low light is playing tricks or not. Medicine, and all things relating to its study, is hardly his purview, after all.

“I shall retire now,” he says, brushing invisible dust away from his trousers. “There is much to consider before tomorrow comes, and we shall need our wits about us, I feel.” And, Holmes privately thinks, the good doctor could clearly use some rest. Maybe it will restore his usual colour to his face. “No need to show me out, my boy. I can find my own way.”

Watson glances at him over his shoulder, snorts slightly, then waves him off with a quiet, “Goodnight, Holmes.”

Just as he gets to the door and is about to open it, Holmes spins on his heel to look at Watson again, a new thought suddenly occurring to him. “By the by, have you informed Mr Gould of your diagnosis yet?”

Watson twists around to look at him from the chair, not getting up. “Not yet. I didn’t want to cause any alarm if it can be helped.”

“Good.” Holmes tightens his grip around the doorknob, briefly tensing before relaxing again. “Keep it that way for now. We don’t want to alert whoever is behind this that we’re onto them. It won’t do at all for them to flee like ship rats.” He finally opens the door, stepping out into the hallway with a, “Rest well, Watson!”

Watson’s vague mumbling answer leaves that fond feeling fluttering about Holmes’ chest for a good few moments after his departure.

In the privacy of his own quarters, Holmes curls up in one of the armchairs there – in his usual, not entirely socially accepted standard – and stares out of the window as he thinks. Absently, he lights his pipe and inhales.

The butler, from what a number of the maids had told him during their brief talks, had been employed by Mrs Stannage a little over six months ago, shortly after the death of her husband. The housekeeper and cook have both been employed by the Gould-Stannage family for a number of years. They both seem to have a good deal of respect amongst the other members of staff, which is contrary to the opinions given on the butler.

Not much has been said on the newly-returned cousin, either by the staff or by Mrs Stannage herself. He knows that Mrs Stannage blames her cousin for the break-in, and possibly her father’s sudden illness, as well. Holmes thinks he needs to speak with the cousin for himself.

Remaining in his chair and staring up at the dark sky, he makes his plans for the following day.

“You are unwell,” Holmes declares to Watson the following morning, pointing at him from across the breakfast table the second he lays his eyes on his friend.

Watson gives him the briefest possible look over the top of his copy of the morning paper. His eyes have the glazed quality that Holmes has come to expect with illness, with more of that flushed red colour from the previous night clinging to his skin. He seems to be favouring his non-dominant arm – the one that escaped Afghanistan unscathed – and occasionally sways in his seat, as though he’s aboard a Calais-bound ferry in the Channel and not firmly on British soil.

More telling than all of that, though, is the fact that his breakfast – a dish of freshly prepared kedgeree, which smells appetising even to Holmes’ notoriously finicky taste buds – has remained untouched at the side of his cup of tea.

“You must be mistaken, old man,” Watson says blandly, turning his gaze back onto the newspaper. Some local rag, if Holmes had to guess, likely not even worth the paper it’s printed on and a collection of complaints and diatribes and the odd obituary. Despite the studious look, Watson’s eyes remain glued in one spot. Hm. “I do not get ill.”

Holmes barks out a quick laugh, partially out of surprise and partially out of genuine amusement. “Come now. We both know that to be demonstrably untrue, my dear Watson.” Lest his Boswell forget that Holmes has lived with him for over a decade and knows his tells better than anyone else could claim. “Have you forgotten the day we first met?”

Watson eyes him again. “I could never forget that.”

Despite the glassiness in his eyes, there’s a different sort of shine there, too. The sort of shine that Holmes usually only sees in the quiet of their Baker Street abode, in the quiet introspection of post-case conversations held over glasses of whisky. He is so unused to seeing it outside of their rooms that it almost leaves him breathless. Perhaps Holmes himself is also coming down with something. He hopes not. It would be most inconvenient to his plans.

Sitting himself down in one of the other chairs at the breakfast table, Holmes decides to simply observe for the moment. He resolves to keep an eye on the quiet wheezing noise that sounds out every time Watson breathes, on his skin’s pallor once more. Just as he knows Watson’s tells from their years of cohabitation, he knows well of Watson’s habit of ignoring his own illnesses, despite his griping at Holmes when he perceives he’s doing the same.

In hindsight, Holmes should have perhaps realised this particular quirk back when they’d first met. He doubts there are many people who would gladly run into danger when they’re fresh off the deathly doorstep of enteric fever and shattered bones.

He will keep an eye on him, endeavour to close this case as quickly as possible, and get them both back to London in hopefully short order. Once they’re back at Baker Street, his Watson will have little choice but to accept Mrs Hudson’s broth and tea, touted by Watson himself as being an apparent panacea.

“Will you be tending to your patient today, then?” Holmes asks, changing the subject for the time being.

Watson makes a vague noise and flips the newspaper back down so it’s folded in half, then lets it fall back onto the table. It narrowly misses the cup of tea. “Yes, I should think so.” He glances at the door, as though checking for any eavesdroppers. “It would be as well for me to be on hand, as you said last night.”

“Indeed.” Bringing his own cup to his mouth, he adds, “Perhaps you should have some breakfast, dear fellow. I have been told it’s an important part of the day.”

Watson gives the dish of kedgeree a passing glance. His face remains in that military-perfect blank mask, which tells Holmes more than words could in that moment. Before he can say much more, which would no doubt be another deflection of some sort, the door to the room swings open. Holmes turns his gaze towards it, just in time to see Mrs Stannage come sweeping across the threshold, followed closely by the mysterious butler.

“Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson,” she greets when she gets to the table, standing with her hands clasped, “good morning. I apologise for not being here earlier. My children were quite unwilling to go to school this morning.” She lets out a tired sigh, and Holmes suddenly feels quite vindicated in his lifelong desire to never procreate. It’s one thing to look out for his Irregulars. It’s quite another to be the sole one responsible for a child’s life.

“Oh, it’s quite all right, Mrs Stannage,” Watson says with a slight smile, any sign of mild discomfort vanishing in a flash in the presence of their client. “I was just telling my colleague here that I’m going to look in on your father again today.”

Mrs Stannage takes another step forward. Her butler remains in her shadow. Something about him is oddly familiar to Holmes, but he can’t quite put his finger on why that is. “I truly appreciate that, doctor.” Her hands clench together more tightly, turning the knuckles white. “I don’t suppose you yet know the cause of his illness?”

“I feel quite certain that I will know more soon enough,” Watson says calmly, pushing his teacup and saucer away from the edge of the table and standing. He keeps a white-knuckle grip on his cane today. “If you will excuse me, I have a patient to see to.” He glances at Holmes and offers him a nod, waving off Mrs Stannage’s offers to accompany him.

Holmes watches him leave, only turning back to the room’s other occupants when the door has closed again. He looks to the butler, humming in consideration. “I don’t believe I had the chance to speak to you yesterday. I spoke to the rest of the household staff, or thereabouts.”

The butler blinks, face betraying nothing. “I had rather a lot to do yesterday, Mr Holmes.”

“Then I’m sure you won’t mind me taking up a few minutes of your time now.”

The butler’s eyebrows crease, the first sign of visible annoyance that Holmes has seen since he walked into the room. He looks to Mrs Stannage, mouth twisted. “Ma’am, I must object. I have a lot to be getting on with today.”

Mrs Stannage tilts her head slightly. “A few moments won’t throw the schedule into disruption, Marsh.” Holmes mentally commits the name to memory. “I trust Mr Holmes has a reason for wishing to speak with you.”

The butler, Marsh, lets out a sigh that’s a few degrees from being an outright huff, but he says nothing else in objection and turns back to Holmes. Holmes stares for another moment, carefully cataloguing the different reactions and noting various features. An older man, at least two or three decades older than Mrs Stannage, if Holmes’ reckoning is correct, with pale eyes and an accent that doesn’t speak of locality.

“I’ve heard that you started work here around six months ago,” Holmes says slowly, keeping a close watch on Marsh’s face. “Why?”

Marsh snorts. “A man needs employment, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes feels his lips quirk, briefly enough that the twitch likely hasn’t been noticed. “Quite. What I mean, Mr Marsh, is why here?” Marsh remains silent, though Holmes thinks there might be a slight twitch of his jaw. “You are not from around here, judging by your accent. Norfolk, if I had to guess. That’s quite a way to come just for employment.”

Marsh shifts on his feet, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “True enough, sir. I was raised in King’s Lynn. But I have family from here, too.”

Holmes lets out a considering hum. “So you decided to move halfway across the country to spend more time with them?”

Marsh’s face twitches again. “Something like that, sir.”

With that, Holmes decides to let up on his questioning for the time being, mentally digesting the new information offered, and allows Marsh to return to his duties. He watches the butler leave, chin resting in his palm, and hums thoughtfully to himself for a second. Bringing his gaze back to Mrs Stannage, he gets to his feet.

“Mrs Stannage,” he says, looking at her, “would you permit me to look over your father’s office? There may be something in there that can shed light on all of this.”

His client blinks, perhaps a bit startled by the request, but firmly nods. Holmes allows himself to be led from the breakfast room and down the hallway. At the end of the hallway, Mrs Stannage stops before a closed door. She carefully extracts a previously-hidden necklace from the neckline of her dress and pulls a key from its chain, inserts said key into the lock, and opens the door for Holmes.

Holmes steps inside, quickly looking over the room for first impressions as Mrs Stannage closes the door behind them.

On first glance, much like the rest of the house, the office seems entirely unremarkable. A few token trinkets on the mantle, a painting of an older man who bears a passing resemblance to Mr Gould upstairs, with hints of his features in Mrs Stannage herself. There’s a large window that leads out into the garden behind the desk, and Holmes steps over to it, eyeing the window frames.

It doesn’t take long to notice the marks along the window frames, or the scuffs on the window sill. Marks in the same places that Holmes would expect to find if a grown man had clambered through an open window. There are other marks on the ground, almost missed with the darkness of the carpet. They lead him back over to the desk, and he crouches before the drawers and pulls his magnifying glass from his pocket.

Holding it up to the middle drawer reveals more of those scuff marks around the edges and scratches around the lock and handle. There are a handful of similar marks on the drawers above and below, each in the same locations. Holmes hums again, the exhilarating feeling of knowing an answer is in sight filling his chest.

“Is anything of importance kept in these drawers?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at Mrs Stannage and pointing at the drawers.

Mrs Stannage steps around the desk and peers at them. Her lips tilt downwards in a frown. “Not in a good number of years.”

“So something used to be kept in here?”

“Some documents, if I remember rightly.” Mrs Stannage folds her arms across her chest as her expression smooths out into something contemplative. “My grandfather had them moved a few years back, just before he died.”

“What sort of documents? Government papers?”

“Oh, nothing as important as all that.” She glances back down at the desk. “It was things like birth certificates, a few letters, that sort of thing.” Holmes feels his eyebrow hike higher up his face. Interesting. “My grandfather was quite fastidious in his record-keeping. None of us ever really questioned it. It was just how he’d always been.”

“Was his Will ever kept with them?”

Mrs Stannage shakes her head. “Oh, not at all. As far as I know, his Will has always been kept with his solicitor in London. My father uses the same one, now.” She pauses, seemingly thinking. “Do you think that’s what the intruder was looking for?” She looks faintly alarmed at the prospect.

Holmes presses his fingertips to his jaw as he stares down at the drawers for another moment, then straightens back up. “I think,” he says slowly, “that whoever it was was looking for something. They didn’t find it. Presumably, they didn’t realise that things had been moved.” He steps back from the desk, casting another look around the room before looking back to his client. “This may sound like a thoroughly strange request, but would you allow me to borrow your key for this room?”

Mrs Stannage’s face takes on a guarded quality, her hand clenching around the key in question. “I would first ask why.”

A fair question, Holmes supposes. “I believe I can expose the one behind the break-in. Perhaps even tonight.”

Mrs Stannage looks away for a long moment, her jaw clenched as she rolls the key between her fingertips. She seems to be thinking Holmes’ words over. Eventually, she turns back to him and jerkily nods, passing the key over to him. The metal is still warm from her grip.

“Very well,” she says, though she doesn’t look altogether happy with her own decision. “I shall trust you in this matter, Mr Holmes.”

With that, she whirls around and leaves the room in a sweep of fabric, letting the door shut behind her. Holmes stays where he’s standing for another moment, mentally going over how best to execute his plan, then steps outside as well, locking the door behind himself.

In short enough time, Holmes finds himself back in Mr Gould’s bedroom. Mr Gould, in comparison to the day before, already seems to be doing better. He’s sat up under his own power in the bed, a bowl of soup in his lap. Watson glances up at him from where he’s listening through the stethoscope again. He looks a bit wobbly, but carries on as though he isn’t surely feeling like he’s aboard a boat.

Clearing his throat, Holmes says, “I see you’re feeling better, Mr Gould. As expected of the care of my friend and colleague here.” Watson looks away, but Holmes can see the fleeting edges of a smile. “I was wondering if you happened to know where your father put the documents from your office?”

Mr Gould pauses in eating his soup, his spoon hovering just above the bowl, and he frowns thoughtfully. “The old papers? Well, certainly, but whatever could you need them for?”

Holmes tries his best to smile patiently. It’s easy to forget that not everyone in this world is Watson, quick enough to follow Holmes’ rambling thoughts and connections. “I suspect they may be of help for our investigation. If I am right, we’ll be able to find out who broke into your office.” As well as who is responsible for the man’s poisoning, Holmes suspects. The way Watson glances at him, eyebrows raised, shows that he’s once again following Holmes’ thoughts.

Mr Gould hums, letting the spoon fall back against the edge of the bowl. With a loud groan, he hauls himself to the furthest side of the bed and reaches across to the bedside table there. With a key that even Holmes had not noticed, he unlocks the drawer there and reaches in. When his hand reappears and he rights himself at the centre of the bed, he’s clutching a pile of papers.

“These were all the papers my father had before he had them moved,” Mr Gould says, offering the papers to Watson. Watson glances down at them, having a quick leaf through the pages before handing them off in turn to Holmes.

“Do you know why he decided to move them?” Watson asks, turning to put the stethoscope back in his bag.

“He never said. He just decided one day that they had to be moved from the office.” Mr Gould pauses, frowning. “Now that I’m thinking about it, I feel like the day he moved them, a letter arrived for him.”

“What did this letter say?”

“I’m not sure. I never much thought about it until now. I have no doubt it’s amongst the rest of the things there, though.” Mr Gould gestures at the collection of papers and looks to Holmes. Holmes can’t help but note that the man has the same pale eyes as his daughter and the man in the office painting. “I’m sure my daughter has told you what my father was like.” Holmes nods, just once and more of a quick jerk of the chin. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, gentlemen, I should like to have a rest before supper tonight.”

“Certainly.” Snapping his medical bag shut, Watson picks it up from the chair and moves towards Holmes. Before he can reach the door, Holmes quickly reaches out and grabs hold of Watson’s jacket, stopping him. He raises an eyebrow as Holmes quickly opens the bag and tucks the papers inside, but makes no move to stop him.

Offering Mr Gould another quick nod, Holmes opens the door and lets Watson slip out first, following him swiftly and shutting the door behind himself.

Soon enough, they’re safely ensconced in the relative privacy of Watson’s guest quarters once again, the papers back in Holmes’ hands. As he quickly leafs through them – mainly birth certificates, as Mrs Stannage had said. He sees hers and her children, along with one for a Francis Gould, and a near-faded one that mentions the name Thomas – he’s keenly aware of Watson’s quietly wheezy breaths. Whenever he glances across at him, he either has that hazy look to his eyes back or is wiping away beads of sweat from his forehead once again.

Finally, after looking through a good number of pages, Holmes comes across a couple in the dead centre of the collection. He plucks them from the rest of the documents and leaves the rest on the side, staring at the new ones intently. After a moment, he calls to Watson, “What do you make of these?”

Watson makes a vague noise in answer and steps around the bed from where he’s been messing with some of his luggage. Holmes notes he’s slipped on a different jacket to earlier, one that he knows with a complete certainty is one reserved for the chillier autumn and early winter months. He hands the papers over and watches Watson’s face intently as he scans down the pages. He separates them so that he’s only holding two, the ones that caught Holmes’ own attention.

“This one,” Watson says, giving the one in his right hand a light shake, “is quite old. The paper is discoloured and the ink is faded.” Holmes nods, smiling. “The older one is a woman’s handwriting, what little can still be made out anyway, whilst the newer one is a man’s.”

“Go on.”

“I’d say that the one with the man’s handwriting was written a lot more hastily. There are points where the letters don’t quite join up, like whoever wrote it had been in a great hurry.” He holds the paper up to the sunlight from the window. “General quality paper, not at all like that of Bohemia.” The two of them share a conspiratorial smile at the memory of a foolish king. “You cannot ignore me forever. I will have it. TM.” Watson looks away as he finishes reading the words written there, frowning slightly. “TM. I wonder who that could be and what they could mean.”

Holmes delicately takes the papers back and folds them into the rest of the pages once more. “I’m sure we’ll find out tonight. Come, Watson! Let us prepare!”

The plan is rather simple, all things considered.

During the afternoon, the two of them have walked back across to the office, the documents obviously in hand, and have made no attempt to hide the fact that they’re putting them back in the drawers. If Holmes’ suspicions are correct, the would-be thief will see and will subsequently try to steal what they want again. Probably sooner rather than later.

At least, Holmes certainly hopes it’s sooner rather than later. He is quite eager to get back to London.

Later on, the two of them had sneaked back into the office, quietly shutting the door behind themselves, and had settled into one of the dark corners, sitting on the floor against the wall. They’ll be invisible to anyone wishing to climb through the window whilst still being able to see for themselves. With the office being on the eastern side of the house, it feels darker than it would the opposite side. If they’re lucky, their would-be thief will want to take advantage of the growing dark.

For a long while, nothing is said between them. Holmes alternates between keeping an eye on the window and slowly darkening sky and the door, just in case he’s miscalculated and the thief attempts to break it down. At his side, Watson’s wheezy breathing seems to be getting worse, which makes the waiting set Holmes’ teeth on edge.

“You know, Holmes,” Watson says after a time, speaking into the dark surrounding them, “I fear you may have been right.”

“Oh?”

Watson huffs out a quiet laugh, barely more than an exhalation. They’re sat so closely together that Holmes feels the motion through his own shoulder. “I may not be feeling at my best, old man.”

“Indeed? Then it seems my observation this morning was correct, despite your vociferous protestations.” Holmes shifts himself around just enough that his arm has space to move. He brings his hand up and presses it to Watson’s forehead, inwardly frowning at the warmth he feels there; there’s a clamminess there that has little to do with the lingering suffocating humidity. He doubts Watson’s choice to wear a jacket meant for colder months is helping matters. “We shall soon see this case through to its inevitable conclusion and be back home.”

“You seem very sure of that.”

“That is because I am sure.” Holmes finally pulls his hand away and lets it drop back into his lap. He ignores the way his skin tingles in the cooler air.

A shift from outside the window quickly captures Holmes’ attention and he brings his hand back up to rest on Watson’s shoulder, giving it two pats before carefully pushing himself up into a crouching stance. Without looking, he can tell Watson has brought a hand to where he keeps his revolver.

A shadow appears at the window, the surrounding dark ensuring that for the time being, the face remains hidden. The person seems to look around them for a brief moment, as though checking that there’s no one else to see their flagrant disregard for the law – folly on their part, Holmes thinks – before reaching both hands towards the sides of the window. With a smooth motion that speaks of familiarity, they carefully slide the window upwards, slowly as to make as little noise as possible.

Another pause, and the shadowed person carefully climbs their way through the open window. From what little Holmes can see in the dying evening light, their hands are in the exact locations where the original marks had been. Another pause for a second, likely listening out for footsteps, and they carefully step over towards the desk.

Gesturing to Watson, Holmes silently stands up properly and sneaks his way around the back of their shadowy intruder, lamp in hand. Watson carefully readies the revolver, standing off to the side.

His lips twitching into a smile, Holmes clears his throat as loudly and obnoxiously as he can manage. As their visitor spins around, shock radiating from them, Holmes quickly switches the lamp back on, shining it at their visitor’s face. “Good evening, Mr Marsh.” The startled, timeworn face of the butler stares back at him from the lamp’s spotlight. “I do hope I haven’t startled you too much.”

Marsh’s eyes flick from Holmes to Watson, glancing down briefly at what is no doubt the revolver, then back to Holmes. “Mr Holmes.” He licks his lips, sweat beading on his forehead in a way that has little to do with either the humidity or sickness. “What a surprise to see you here.”

“Yes, I imagine it is.” Holmes takes another couple of steps to the side, thoroughly blocking off any possible escape back through the window. “I should warn you, Mr Marsh, that you won’t find it in there.” He gestures towards the drawers in the desk.

“What?”

“The late Henry Gould’s Will.” Holmes tilts his head to the side slightly, regarding Marsh. In the low light provided by the lamp and what’s left of the evening light, he looks a lot like the man in the painting. “That is what you’re looking for, is it not?” In his periphery, he senses more than sees Watson move a hair’s breadth closer to him.

“That’s not–”

“The Will of your late blood father,” Holmes says, raising his voice as he, perhaps rudely, tramples across whatever Marsh might say. Marsh pauses again, eyes wide. “It has never been here, so all you’ve done is break the law for no good reason.”

Marsh stares for a long moment, chest heaving as his face visibly contorts into something terribly angry. Holmes watches in detached curiosity as Marsh throws an arm back, groping around the desk’s surface blindly. His hand closes around something – a paperweight of some sort, probably quite heavy and would likely hurt a fair amount to be hit with – and Holmes prepares to throw himself to the side. Before he can move or before Marsh can swing his arm around, a loud bang rings out from the side, momentarily leaving his ears ringing in its wake.

Marsh immediately drops to the ground, hands clutching at his now-bleeding leg, and the paperweight falls to his side. Holmes turns to Watson, eyeing the way he steadily holds the revolver with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t suppose you have anything to restrain him?” Watson asks with another wheezing breath, tucking the revolver back in its usual pocket.

Holmes silently pulls a length of thin rope from his pocket, stolen from a trip to the kitchen earlier in the day. As far as he can tell, it’s usually meant for keeping hessian sacks of potatoes tied shut. When Watson blinks at it and nods, Holmes quickly steps over to the downed man and tugs very resistant arms behind Marsh’s back. Just as he steps away, the door to the office noisily clatters open, letting in more soft lamplight from the hall. Footsteps quickly follow, and the pale face of Mrs Stannage stares back at them.

“Ah, Mrs Stannage,” Holmes greets casually, as though he hasn’t just finished restraining a would-be thief who may be currently bleeding out on the carpet. “Capital timing. Would you be able to send someone to fetch the police?”

“What?” Mrs Stannage takes a step further into the room, pulling her dressing gown tightly around herself. She rounds the corner of the desk, and she comes to a complete halt when she sees her butler lying on the ground. Somehow, she manages to blanch even more. “Marsh?” Her eyes luminous, she turns her gaze back to Holmes and Watson. “What is going on here?”

“He is the one behind the attempted break-in,” Watson says, moving closer to Holmes and, by virtue of proximity, Marsh. He crouches, a small wince crossing his face with the motion, and rummages in the breast pocket of Marsh’s jacket, ignoring the increasingly unhinged, hissed threats that leave Marsh’s mouth. When he stands back up, he’s clutching a nondescript white handkerchief. “He is also the one behind your father’s poisoning.”

Mrs Stannage takes a sudden step backwards, looking faint. “My–his poisoning?”

“Yes. Arsenic, to be precise.” With the cautiousness and almost mindless grace expected of an army surgeon, Watson slowly unfolds the handkerchief, making sure the bulk of it stays squarely in the centre of his palm. Holmes looks from over his friend’s shoulder and sees a seemingly nondescript fine powder at the centre of the cloth. Watson carefully folds it back up and places it down on the desk, taking care to make sure none touches his skin. Mrs Stannage stares at it as though it’s live ammunition rounds. “Mr Marsh here used smaller doses to disguise what it really was. No doubt he sought to make everyone think it to be cholera or enteric fever.”

“Good Lord,” Mrs Stannage murmurs, bringing a shaking hand to her chest. She looks over her shoulder and quickly tells the maid who accompanied her to fetch the police and a doctor, her jaw clenched tightly enough to rend iron.

Just before the maid can leave, Holmes quickly catches her attention. “Could you also arrange for a hansom to meet us outside in… let us say ten minutes?” Both the maid and Mrs Stannage stare at him in askance. “There’s a train back to Euston at ten past and I should very much like to make it.”

The maid stares for another moment before hastily nodding, glancing down at the still incapacitated – and still hissing – Marsh, and scurrying out of the room and down the hallway. Mrs Stannage says faintly, “You’re leaving? But what about the police? Statements? My father? I still don’t fully understand what’s happening!”

Holmes delicately steps over where Marsh’s leg is sticking out. He slides the desk drawers open and pulls out the papers from earlier, handing them to Mrs Stannage. “This man is called Thomas Marsh. You’ll find his birth certificate in there.” He gestures at the documents. “He is your uncle, by way of your grandfather’s apparent activities some time back in the forties.” To put it as politely as possible. There is little one can do to soften this kind of blow, though.

Mrs Stannage does stumble then, like the revelation has knocked the air from her chest as effectively as any physical punch. Watson helps her to the desk’s chair before she, too, ends up sprawled on the floor. “My uncle? But…” She trails off breathlessly for a beat, then manages to continue, “But what about Francis? I was so sure that he…”

“Ah, your cousin?” Holmes turns and looks out of the window. There’s not much to see at this hour, with the daylight near thoroughly gone. Just the darker spots on the horizon denoting the distant trees. He brings a hand to his pocket watch and quickly checks the time. “Yes, he’s innocent in all this. Likely the intended scapegoat in Mr Marsh’s scheme, I would wager.” He turns away from the window once more, wishing he had his pipe with him. “I doubt it a mere coincidence that all this started when your cousin was also in the area.”

Mrs Stannage looks down at her hands, clenched tightly in the material of her dressing gown. She then looks to Marsh, even as she directs her words to Holmes and Watson. “I just don’t understand, though… If he is my grandfather’s son, how could he do this to my father? To our family?”

“To put it simply, Mrs Stannage: it was an inheritance affair.” Watson slowly breathes out, leaning against his cane with feigned nonchalance. “He sought to steal your grandfather’s Will and make off with a tidy sum, no doubt. Money is always the cause of such issues.”

“It is hardly making off with it when it is what I am entitled to, by right!” Marsh manages to snarl out, a barely covered layer of pain coating his words.

Holmes casts a dispassionate eye over him. His leg seems to have mostly stopped bleeding, meaning that it’s most likely a superficial wound meant to merely incapacitate rather than outright damage. “Need I remind you, Mr Marsh, that you are currently on the hook for, amongst other things, attempted murder?” He brushes away invisible dust on his sleeves. “You are not doing much to help your case.”

He turns back to Mrs Stannage. “Now, if that’s all, we shall be making our way back to the station. If you or the local inspector have need of us, you know where to find us.”

Fortunately, they end up making the ten past ten train back to Euston, despite the various hold-ups along the way. They’re on the train for an hour and ten minutes, and it’s mostly a quiet affair. There aren’t too many people travelling by train at this time of night. The few people who Holmes has seen, both on the platform and in other compartments, all seem to be on the verge of falling asleep. They’re most likely lawyers, physicians, and in other such prestigious fields of employment.

Watson is quiet for most of the way back, like whatever illness is bothering him has finally worn him out. When it’s time for them to disembark the train and make their way to one of the waiting hansoms at Euston, Holmes keeps a firm grip on his friend’s arm, and does so again once they’re finally on Baker Street once again. Soon enough, they’re back inside their rooms, and Holmes couldn’t be gladder to be home. He doesn’t even much mind the humidity at this moment in time, or the fact that they’ve abandoned their luggage in the vestibule for the time being.

When Watson, at the top of the first flight of stairs, attempts to carry on up to his own bedroom, Holmes firmly takes hold of his elbow and guides him back into the living room.

“What are you doing?” Watson sounds tired and confused, but he doesn’t fight Holmes leading him elsewhere. There’s probably a meaning in there, somewhere.

“Well, my dear Watson,” Holmes starts, leading them towards the door to his own bedroom and kicking the door open as quietly as he can, “you are clearly in no state to be going up more stairs than is necessary. You sound more akin to a fireplace bellows than you do a man at present.” He gently propels Watson to his mostly-made bed. “Therefore, it would be best for you to sleep here.”

Watson squints at him in a frown, swaying lightly in place once more. Without the eyes of strangers, and their client, on them, his mask of pretending all is well appears to have well and truly slipped. Part of Holmes is glad of that. Not that his Watson is clearly feeling worse, of course, but that he is the only one who the good doctor trusts enough to be allowed to see a perceived weakness. It’s a feeling Holmes understands well.

After a moment, Watson says, “I really must protest, Holmes.” Holmes raises an eyebrow, not moving from his spot before the door. “You’ll catch the thing that ails me if I stay in here.”

Holmes’ mouth twitches up in another quick smile. That his Watson would be more concerned with Holmes’ theoretical health, as opposed to some perceived societal boundary, is warming. Not surprising, though. One does not spend the better part of a decade in close quarters with another – living and working together under the same roof and getting up to various misadventures in the name of solving mysteries and annoying Inspector Lestrade – without developing fondness, to say the very least.

For his own part, Holmes had decided very early on in their knowing each other that he would do most anything to keep his new (first, only) friend.

“You needn’t worry yourself about that, Watson,” he says after a pause, “for unlike you, my boy, I actually do not get ill. Despite your constant frets otherwise.” If Holmes is never again forced on another cold countryside or seaside holiday in the name of convalescence, it will be too soon.

Watson gives him a flat look. “Yes, well, far be it from me to care about your well-being.” Despite the mildly grouchy words, he does sit down, clearly mindful of the old wound in his thigh. When he lets out a breath of relief, no doubt from finally being able to stop standing, it comes out crackly.

Holmes finally moves from his self-imposed station in front of the door, stepping across the room and patting Watson briefly on his good shoulder before moving his hand back up to his forehead. Like before, when they had been hiding in the dark office, he still feels too warm for Holmes’ liking, and he huffs out a breath.

“Will you be wanting your nightshirt?” he asks, a touch distractedly as he mentally makes a list of everything he might need for his planned care-taking. Admittedly, care-taking is not one of his better skills – neither he nor his brother have the aptitude for dealing with people in general – but he feels Watson is an exception to this rule, as he is many others in Holmes’ life. “I’m going to go and grab a few things.”

It’s not the first time his friend has required help regarding his own health; Holmes still remembers that first winter after they’d met and moved in together. Bitterly cold and Watson being fresh from war had made for an unfortunate combination.

Watson makes a vague noise. “Don’t you dare bother Mrs Hudson with this, Holmes.” He sways a bit, and Holmes immediately helps him to shift backwards so that he can lean against the pillows and headboard rather than risk tipping straight onto the floor. “I… suppose I should change.” He sounds very reluctant to do so. “Though I fear I would rather not. I’m feeling rather chilly at present.”

Holmes hums, removing his hand and stepping back again. “Your temperature, no doubt. Though you likely know that more than I.” He glances down at his pocket watch, which reveals that it’s a little past midnight. It would probably be best to avoid waking Mrs Hudson, as Watson has said. Even her infinite patience for Holmes’ eccentricities may well run dry if she’s suddenly awoken at such an ungodly hour. “I will grab it just in case, along with some water and the Chlorodyne–”

“No.” Watson’s sudden interruption stops Holmes’ words in their tracks. The feeling of Watson suddenly grabbing his wrist, fingers half in his palm with the positioning, stuns him further. “Not the Chlorodyne, Holmes.” Despite the glassiness in his eyes that has lingered for the last few hours, his gaze is as sharp as his aim with his revolver. “I swore after getting out of Peshawar to never go near it again.”

Holmes stares at him, making no move to disentangle himself from Watson’s grip. Clearly, it’s another reaction born of war, much like his dislike of loud noises. Holmes doesn’t fully understand it and will never claim to understand it; regardless, he nods anyway, shifting their hands just enough that he can give a squeeze of reassurance.

“All right,” he says, slowly withdrawing again. “Though I do insist on the cold water. I’ve seen you talk about it enough to know it must do something.”

“Yes, yes, the water will do fine,” Watson sighs. His sudden burst of energy seems to have tired him out again, breaths coming with small whistling wheezes.

Holmes goes up the stairs as quickly and quietly as he can, even though he knows that the distance between this floor and the ground effectively muffles any noises. Watson’s nightshirt and a dressing gown are lying at the foot of his bed, clearly freshly laundered, and he quickly grabs them and hurries back downstairs. Passing them to Watson on the way past, he continues on down the stairs until he’s standing at the kitchen door. Keenly aware of how loud footsteps are on stone tiles, he sneaks his way inside.

He will admit, he doesn’t know the layout of the kitchen very well. Mrs Hudson had always been very firm with not allowing anyone beyond herself and her maids inside there, like it’s some sort of sacred ground. Holmes doesn’t fully understand the sentiment, but given how Mrs Hudson has always put up with his black moods and questionable chemistry experiments with grace and patience, he has never thought to test that one boundary.

He manages to find what he needs, despite the dark and his general lack of room layout knowledge – he hopes Mrs Hudson won’t be too irritated by his going in the kitchen without her tacit approval – and he’s soon back upstairs.

In the time that he’s been gone, Watson has managed to change into his nightshirt and dressing gown, his day clothes folded somewhat haphazardly along the end of the bed. The man himself is sitting on the bed, half leaning against the headboard once more, like he’s afraid to fully commit to getting more comfortable. Holmes rolls his eyes and brings the basin of water and cloths over to the bedside cabinet.

“You can lie down and rest, dear boy,” Holmes says pointedly, casting a side-eyed glance as he starts soaking one of the cloths. “That is why I proposed staying in here, after all.”

Watson huffs out a breath, his expression that familiar thing of simultaneous fondness and exasperation again. Nodding at the basin, he says, “I can do this myself, old man.”

“I know.” Despite this, Holmes continues with what he was originally doing.

Over the next few minutes, Holmes busies himself with providing his friend the cold cloths, pressing them to his forehead with the same carefulness that he shows to his various experiments. Watson rolls his eyes and tells him to cease his fretting at one point – though he doesn’t actually do anything to stop said fretting – which Holmes soundly ignores. If the good doctor can drag him to the seaside for every minor imagined ailment, then he can surely put up with a few moments of fussing.

“There,” he says after another few moments, feeling unaccountably pleased with his handiwork. Watson hasn’t criticised anything, so he must have done something correct. “This should bring that temperature of yours down to something more reasonable.” Quickly looking over his shoulder, he reaches back and grabs hold of one of the stray chairs that has ended up in his bedroom. He can’t quite remember how or why a dining room chair has ended up in here, but he’s not complaining at this moment in time, either. “And you’re quite certain that this is a minor ailment?”

Watson opens his eyes enough to squint at him. He’s finally allowed himself to fully lie back against the headboard, which Holmes has no doubt will help in the long run. “I am quite certain, Holmes. This is little more than a common chest infection, as unpleasant as it is.” He pulls a face at the end, making it abundantly clear what he thinks of the current circumstances.

Holmes stares at him dubiously. “You currently sound like an ill-tuned set of bagpipes.”

Watson pulls another face, his moustache bristling in a way that almost makes Holmes laugh. “Well, as I said, it feels more unpleasant than it actually is. I’ll be right as rain in a few days.” Something on his face softens, like he can sense the worst of Holmes’ hidden anxieties. He leans across, mindful of his bad leg, and gives Holmes a pat on the wrist. “Trust me on this, Holmes. I know what it feels like to be dying, and this isn’t that.”

Something in Holmes’ chest settles a bit at those words, even as something else curdles in the pit of his stomach. On one hand, he is infinitely glad that his Watson is so sure of his own health and future recovery. He has heard that optimism is half of the battle in sickness, after all. But on the other hand, he does not like picturing the reason why he has that certainty.

“Even still,” he says, letting himself drop into the newly pulled up chair and pressing the back of his hand to the damp cloths, “I think I shall stay here.”

Watson smiles slightly. “As you like, old man.” He shifts slightly, just enough to look at Holmes head-on. “I confess, I should be glad of the company. I doubt any sleep I get right now will be overly restful.” He punctuates his statement with another wheezing breath.

They lapse into comfortable, familiar silence following that, the quiet broken only by wheezy breaths. Holmes takes the time to stare at the ground and think about things.

The darkness, and the soft low light offered by the single lamp in the room, seem to ease any thoughts. It always has; each of his and Watson’s post-case conversations have taken place in the relative darkness, as have their more private (dare he say intimate) conversations over the years, whether they be in the shadowy corners of their latest hiding places on cases or in the private of their Baker Street rooms.

It’s a strange feeling, to know someone better than anyone else can claim. To be the one someone knows about. It makes more of those soft feelings appear, as they so often do in moments of quiet introspection.

A fondness steadily developed over a decade of friendship. Perhaps it is little wonder that Holmes cannot imagine his life without Watson also in it. Those three years apart, whilst entirely necessary, had been rough enough. He fully intends to never let such a horrid thing befall them again.

“Do you recall some years ago,” Holmes says quietly, into the dark surrounding them, “back when we were helping the foolish king?” Watson makes a vague noise of affirmation. “I asked you if you didn’t mind breaking the law.” He feels Watson’s attention sharpen as though it’s a physical feeling. “You said not in the least.” Another humming noise as answer, though Watson is clearly paying attention. In the low lamp light, his eyes seem to gleam. If he were anyone else, if Watson were anyone else, Holmes is sure that he would be close to terrified. As it stands, all he feels is an odd sense of peace and certainty. “Do you still feel that way?”

Watson studies him, gaze searching despite the glassiness there. His face softens and he lets out a quiet laugh. “Of course I do.”

Something in Holmes’ chest relaxes further, like a wall that’s long been standing there has suddenly given way. He hides the suddenly breathless feeling he has – completely different to the breathlessness Watson is currently experiencing, no doubt – by pressing his palm to Watson’s temple, the closest he can get to his forehead without disturbing the wet cloth there. Still too warm, but not as bad as it had been.

“Good.” Holmes withdraws and, in a fit of unshakeable fondness, leans forward and brushes the lightest kiss possible to Watson’s temple. He’s never done this before, yet it feels familiar nonetheless, like they’ve always done this. Perhaps they have, in a strange way. Over a decade of friendship and fondness, after all. “Try to rest, my boy. I shall remain here.”

Watson huffs out another laugh again, soft like the lamp light. “As you say, Holmes.”

Holmes retakes his seat and reaches across to take Watson’s hand, warm with fever and the general summer ambient temperature. He lets their hands rest on the covers between them. When Watson does drop off into a fitful doze, likely to be awake again sooner rather than later, Holmes keeps hold of his hand. In the darkened room, where the only noises are Watson’s soft breaths and the distant chirp of early morning birds beyond the windows, Holmes finds himself smiling and eager to face the coming days.

So long as he has his Watson by his side, he thinks he’ll always be happy.