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Holmes took a deep breath and released it slowly. He had a case at present, and a great deal of work to do. This was no time for a migraine.
Regrettably, his body seemed to disagree. He had awakened with throbbing pressure all through his skull, his very brain threatening to explode. Even glancing towards the window, which was presently covered by the curtains, brought on worsening pain and a surge of nausea.
“Dear me,” he muttered, attempting not to burst into tears at the misery which rose when he bent to collect clothes from his drawers. “This is exceedingly inconvenient.”
It was, regrettably, not uncommon. Holmes had always suffered occasional migraines, but in years following his exile after the Reichenbach Falls, he had been stricken with increasingly severe and frequent attacks. They most commonly plagued him between cases, but on occasion their timing was more inconvenient.
Hands unsteady, Holmes fumbled with his clothes. He picked up his binding garment, eyed it, and then tossed it onto his bed. At present, he certainly did not feel well enough to wrestle into it, and wearing anything snug sounded even more uncomfortable than leaving his chest unbound.
Dressing at all proved unpleasant, and he had broken out into a sweat by the time he managed it. His heartbeat crashed in his head, each beat worsening the pain, and although he had intended to find his favorite blanket, the thought of searching for it was unbearable. He must sit down before he fell down.
Holmes opened his bedroom door and immediately groaned. Light streamed in from the outside world, as bright as if he was staring directly into the sun.
It would be best to close the drapes, but at present he was incapable of doing so. He could hardly breathe. He dropped into his seat at the table opposite Watson, thoroughly exhausted from the short walk across the sitting room.
“Good morning, old man.” Watson looked up from the newspaper, and his smile almost immediately faltered. “Holmes? Are you all right?”
Holmes waved a dismissive hand, then rubbed against his brow. “It is merely a migraine.”
“It looks like quite a severe migraine.” Rising, Watson went to the windows and drew the curtains closed. “Perhaps you ought to take the day off?”
“No, no. I must continue my investigation into…” Words failed, and Holmes frowned as he pressed fingers to his temple. He knew what he was investigating, but the description failed to enter his sluggish mind.
“Into the attempted murder?” Watson suggested, and Holmes nodded. “Mm. Well, I should be happy to help you. My patients can do without me for a day.”
Holmes twitched a smile in acknowledgment, and another one as Watson collected his favorite blanket from the floor beside the armchair. Now, Holmes vaguely remembered dropping it there last night while sorting through newspapers. It seemed that not searching his room for the blanket had been a wise idea.
Watson wrapped the blanket around Holmes’ shoulders, ensuring that it covered his chest to make him more comfortable, then collected the morning post and brought it to the table. “I also have the papers. Shall we continue looking through the agony column for communications?”
“Indeed.” Hands unsteady, Holmes tugged a newspaper closer and squinted at the page. After a moment, he put it back down and covered his eyes. “Dear me. The paper is too bright.”
Which was troubling, given that this was necessary for his work. He could not simply neglect his case, but it seemed that at present, he could not look at it for long enough to read anything.
“Perhaps I could read to you?” Watson suggested.
Before Holmes could reply, Mrs. Hudson came in with a tray. “Good morning, gentlemen. I’ve got some nice breakfast for you to get you started on your work.”
Holmes’ stomach tightened, churning slightly. He struggled with food in most instances, but especially when he was suffering a migraine. Such a condition made him still more sensitive to the world. “What sort of food, Mrs. Hudson?”
“Well, some nice eggs and curried chicken.” Mrs. Hudson’s brow furrowed slightly, and she rested her hand on Holmes’ shoulder. “Are you all right, Mr. Holmes?”
“A migraine,” Watson supplied.
“Oh dear, oh dear. I don’t imagine that’s a breakfast you can eat right now, is it?” Rather than being the least bit frustrated with him for such difficulty, Mrs. Hudson simply gave him a kind smile. “Would you like me to make you something else? Perhaps some toast and jam to start?”
“That would be much more tolerable.” Although Holmes was struggling to keep his eyes open at all, even with the limited light of the lamps, he flashed a smile of appreciation. “Coffee?”
“Oh yes, sir. I’ll just go and fetch that now.” She patted him on the shoulder again. “You let me know if you need anything else.”
Presently, he felt as if he needed a nap, yet he had work to do. Once Mrs. Hudson left the room, Holmes stretched and winced. “All right, Watson. I fear that I am in no condition to even recognize coded messages, let alone decrypt them, but until my mind has begun to work a little better, telegrams?”
That was a less coherent statement than he had planned to make, but it seemed that words were not entirely cooperating. However, it seemed that he had made some degree of sense. Watson nodded, smiling as he collected telegraph forms and took up a pen. “Of course. And take your time dictating. There’s no rush.”
Holmes did indeed take his time, wishing to ensure clarity, and Watson dutifully filled out the forms. Soon, Mrs. Hudson returned with coffee, and then toast, and Holmes was able to nourish himself with only minimal difficulty.
Migraines were always quite miserable, especially when he had a case to solve. But thanks to the kindness and care of his friends, Holmes was not having an entirely horrible day, and could still accomplish his work with help.