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Not long into my friendship with Sherlock Holmes, I realized that he had a marked tendency to neglect his health. This first became evident to me when, during an interesting case, he went for three days without sleep and ate as little as possible. He seemed quite baffled that I considered this unwise, and as he solved the case, he paid no heed to my warnings.
After that, although Holmes proceeded quite happily in the same fashion, I could not help worrying and watching him closely. It was some months later, in early autumn, that my vigilance proved necessary.
“I think you ought to sit by the fire for a time,” I said as we slowly ascended the stairs to 221B Baker Street. My leg ached due to rain, and Holmes always slowed down for me. “You have gotten quite soaked in the storm.”
“Tut, tut!” Holmes cried impatiently, opening the door. “You were in the storm as well, my dear Watson. Perhaps you ought to sit by the fire.”
“I intend to, but may I point out that I was safely under the umbrella while you ran about a field?”
“You may point out whatever you wish, but it does not change the fact that I am rather too occupied with my case to sit and stagnate beside a fire. I cannot afford—”
Whatever Holmes had intended to say, he did not manage it. Instead, he went nearly as white as his collar, and fainted dead away.
I had not been expecting him to faint, but had been observing him closely, and so lunged to catch him. He crashed into my chest, and I locked my arms around his lanky frame. Pain wrenched at my shoulder, and I breathed a prayer of thanks that I had been rapidly putting on weight thanks to Mrs. Hudson’s good cooking, and thus was not knocked over.
With some little difficulty, I dragged Holmes across the room and deposited him on the settee. I checked his pulse, and found it present if not strong or entirely steady. He showed every sign of having fainted from simple self-neglect rather than any serious illness.
I took his cold hand in mine and patted it gently. “My dear Holmes,” I called. “Wake up, Holmes.”
I murmured similar phrases until his eyes cracked open. He looked around for a moment with marked confusion, then gave me a wry smile. “Dear me, dear me,” he said in a weak but amused voice. “Have I taken a little unscheduled nap?”
“Something of the kind.” I checked his pulse again, which was thankfully stabilizing. “Holmes, when was the last time you ate something? By which I mean, food, not simply a cup of tea.”
Holmes’ expression grew bemused, and he stared up at the ceiling. “Hum!” he said at last. “I fear I am a little uncertain. Presumably, it was sometime this week.”
“Presumably,” I said with a sigh. “You lie still, and I shall go fetch you a snack, as well as a drink.”
I had expected Holmes to protest, but instead his eyes glittered with mischief. “While you are at it, my dear Watson, I should be most gratified if you would fetch a dry pair of stockings. I fear my socks are a little damp from the rain, and I cannot imagine that having cold, wet feet is good for one’s health.”
I agreed, simply relieved to see him acting more himself, and similarly relieved that I had avoided any sort of collision with his head and the floor. Holmes’ great brain was a marvel to me, and I very much wished to keep it intact.
After stoking the fire to something approximating an inferno, I retreated to the bedroom to fetch his warmest pair of stockings. These, I placed on a tray, and collected an assortment of food from the sideboard. I cut up an apple, knowing that the fruit would prove more swiftly restorative, then placed a hunk of bread and some slices of cheese on the plate as well.
I brought these and a cup of coffee to Holmes, and helped him to take a sip of the coffee. It was not fresh and hot, merely warm, and he made a face. But nevertheless, he drank.
I next fed him a few small, thinly sliced pieces of the apple, which earned me a look of consternation. Much to my relief, aside from the looks, he lodged no other protest.
It was only when I had removed his shoes and was changing him into the warm stockings that he spoke again. “My apologies for the little fright which I no doubt inflicted upon you,” Holmes said, his eyes closed. “No doubt, you have noticed that I am a little prone to self-neglect at times.”
“I did notice this,” I said, checking to be certain that his stockings had not bunched up uncomfortably anywhere. “As a doctor, I must caution you that such treatment of yourself is hardly healthy.”
“Few of my habits are.” He gave me an amused look, and I knew he was thinking of his habit of using cocaine and morphine when between cases. My worry was no doubt clear, even if I had neglected to mention it. “I fear that when I am on the scent of a case, commonplace things like food and sleep simply do not occur to me, any more than I was conscious of the downpour today. I am a little single-minded.”
“You are indeed, and it makes you a remarkably effective investigator.” Having dealt with his stockings, I moved to sit in the chair beside the settee again, and stretched out my sore leg. “You will, however, be an even more effective investigator if you are conscious.”
“Hum!” Holmes said, still with the gleam in his eye. “I do not believe I have ever considered that before.”
I could not help laughing at that, and shook my head as I picked up another apple slice. I had already learned in our brief time together that Holmes was remarkably stubborn, and I had little doubt that he would continue to ignore my advice. At least for the moment, he was incapacitated, and therefore I could ensure that his body’s neglected needs were met.