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Watson suspected the trouble was rather cumulative. He had, after all, had something of a trying time lately, and much of it involving cold weather. Baskerville Hall was hardly the warmest of places to start. Then there had also been that trouble with the mire, and so much time spent outdoors.
It seemed his body had decided to stage a rebellion. He tried to get out of bed, groaned, and slumped back. Every inch of his body ached, and the bitter cold of his bedroom was certainly not helping matters.
Holmes materialized in his doorway and arched an eyebrow. “Well, my boy. It seems this cold snap has induced a dramatic recurrence of your illness.”
Watson groaned vaguely in response. Speech seemed quite beyond him at present. It was as if the cold had frozen not only his body, but his brain too.
“I hardly think you are fit to travel in this condition,” Holmes continued. “Shall we say to Sir Henry that we must remain here for a time?”
“It seems necessary.” Watson only barely managed to mumble that much. He began to shiver, as if the exertion had drained what remaining heat his body possessed, leaving him still more chilled.
Holmes darted out of the room and was gone for some little time. When he returned, he was carrying blankets.
“I have appropriated these from our host,” Holmes said primly, piling the blankets atop Watson. “Additionally, I have ordered breakfast. I shall, of course, feed you.”
“I would appreciate it.” Watson hesitated, struggling to find the words through the fog obscuring his mind. “I’m sorry.”
“I fail to see why you should be sorry, given that I have freely offered my services.” Smiling, Holmes patted him on the head. “Just rest, Watson. I shall gladly tend your needs.”