Watson stumbled into the sitting room at 221b. It had been a long day at his practice; an influenza epidemic was sweeping the city, and there were not enough doctors to go around. For the past fortnight he had been out at all hours, visiting hospitals, homes, other doctors’ surgeries, doing his best to alleviate the suffering that swept the city. Despite his best efforts, half of his patients had died; mostly the elderly and very young. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep up with the flood of human suffering. He had had no rest and little food, and was on his last legs. It was comforting, therefore, to finally come home and find Holmes at his desk, his head bent over some test tubes and beakers. “Shut the door,” Holmes said, without looking up. “You’re letting in a draft, and this is a crucial moment in my work. This experiment is most important, you know. A man’s freedom hangs upon the outcome.” And what about my work? Lives hang on the outcome. Isn’t that important at all? Or do you believe that a work is only important if a crime has been committed? Would you have even noticed if I hadn’t come home? Watson tugged weakly at the door, not closing it all the way, and collapsed into the nearest chair. Holmes has allowed the fire to die down to embers and the room had grown chilly, but Watson didn’t have the strength to replenish it. All of a sudden he found that he couldn’t move, he was so tired. “You needn’t stay up for me, Watson,” Holmes said. “I will be quite some time. The maid had already taken away the supper things, but you could probably get something from the kitchen. Otherwise, please leave me alone. And I thought I asked you to shut the door.”
When Watson didn’t respond, Holmes turned around, a sarcastic comment on his lips that died unspoken when he caught sight of Watson collapsed on the chair, his face gray with fatigue and sorrow. Without a word, he got up, shut the door, and stoked the fire, bringing a welcome heat into the sitting room. He then walked over to Watson and unceremoniously stripped off his overcoat, hat, and shoes, tossing them on the floor. He lifted Watson out of his chair and led him to the fire, propped his legs up on a footstool, covered them with a rug, tucked a pillow behind Watson’s head, and went over to the sideboard, returning with a glass of brandy. “Here, drink this. You’re exhausted.” Watson got a grip on the glass, but as he tried to raise it to his lips, his hand trembled, and he came close to spilling the drink on his lap. Holmes took hold of the glass and raised it to Watson’s lips. “You are always complaining that I never take care of myself, but here you are, wearing yourself to a shadow. My dear doctor, you can’t solve the suffering of all London, even one as dedicated as yourself. Now stay there and don’t try to move, I’ll get you something to eat.” With that, Holmes set the glass down at Watson’s elbow and left the room. Well, how about that. He actually cares. Watson thought of all the times when Holmes had seemed to be a cold, calculating machine, without a shred of human compassion within him. When he had ordered Watson to drop whatever he was doing and follow him, without a thought to his comforts. Well, he doesn’t think of his own comforts. I suppose it never occurs to him that others are not as hardened as he is.
At that moment, Holmes returned, bearing a tray with a pot of tea, a bowl of soup, and some bread. He pulled a small table over and set the tray down. “Now, Watson, you must eat something, or you’ll make yourself ill.” “Really, Holmes, I just need some rest. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, there’s no need to fuss.” “If you had taken a look in the mirror recently you would see every reason to fuss. Your eyes are sunken, your cheeks are hollow, and you have not shaved in two days. It does not take a master detective to deduce that you are exhausted and on the verge of becoming quite ill. Now please, my dear doctor, do try and eat something.” Holmes’s tone of voice had changed. No longer imperious, it was soft, coaxing, almost pleading. Prompted by that unusual note, Watson sat up and reached for the spoon. Unfortunately, he was no more successful with the soup than he had been with the brandy. His face flushed and he felt ridiculous, that he, a grown man, should be incapable of feeding himself. Holmes took the spoon and guided it to his mouth. Gently feeding him soup and bread, Holmes fussed and clucked over him, like a mother with a sick little boy. “Now my dear Watson, this has got to stop. I know that there are lots of people in London who need your help, and I admire your dedication in trying to relieve their pain. But unless you take care of yourself, you will be of no use to anyone. Here, try and eat a little more. Here’s a bit of tea. Now, as soon as you are done, I am going to get you to bed, and you are not to get up until at least eight tomorrow morning.”
And Holmes was true to his word. When the soup and bread were finished, Holmes lifted Watson to his feet and supported him, one arm around his waist. Watson tried one more time to manage on his own, and nearly collapsed. “Holmes, please, I can…oh dear, this is so embarrassing.” “My dear Watson, you have nothing to be ashamed about. It is simply a case of overwork and neglect. Now, let me get you to bed, and you will feel much better in the morning.” With that, Holmes maneuvered Watson upstairs and into his bedroom. Holmes sat Watson down on his bed and turned to the wardrobe. When he turned back, with one of Watson’s nightshirts in his arms, Watson had already collapsed onto the pillow and was fast asleep. Smiling, Holmes gently pulled off Watson’s clothing and dressed him in the nightshirt. Tucking him into bed, Holmes noticed how vulnerable Watson looked, much different then his normal appearance of strength and dependability. Holmes brushed a lock of hair out of Watson’s eyes, and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. “My dear Watson. My poor, dear Watson. You take such good care of me. You try to take care of the whole world. But my dear Watson, who takes care of you?”