A/N: I am not a mental health professional and any errors are unintentional.

"It was some time before the health of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes recovered from the strain caused by his immense exertions in the spring of '87…On referring to my notes I see that it was upon the fourteenth of April that I received a telegram from Lyons which informed me that Holmes was lying ill in the Hotel Dulong. Within twenty-four hours I was in his sick-room and was relieved to find that there was nothing formidable in his symptoms. Even his iron constitution, however, had broken down under the strain of an investigation which had extended over two months, during which period he had never worked less than fifteen hours a day and had more than once, as he assured me, kept to his task for five days at a stretch. Even the triumphant issue of his labors could not save him from reaction after so terrible an exertion, and at a time when Europe was ringing with his name and when his room was literally ankle-deep with congratulatory telegrams I found him a prey to the blackest depression. Even the knowledge that he had succeeded where the police of three countries had failed, and that he had outmaneuvered at every point the most accomplished swindler in Europe, was insufficient to rouse him from his nervous prostration."

– The Reigate Puzzle

I had lived with Sherlock Holmes for a year and had seen him through more black moods than either of us cared to count, but this one topped them all. You could feel it the moment the toe of your boot touched the finely patterned carpet of the room. Had I not just arrived at the hotel, I would have thought the time was the middle of the night rather than three o'clock. The windows were all but barricaded and the telegrams were scattered so that it was impossible not to step on them. But what worried me most was the smell: Holmes, he who was so obsessed with cleanliness that he never allowed even myself to see him with a speck of hair on his face, had not bathed in some time.

"Holmes?" I whispered, unsure if he was awake. "It's me, your friend Watson. I received a telegram about your illness and have come to help." No answer, but the lack of rhythmic breathing told me he was likely not sleeping. I removed my boots and crushed telegrams under my feet as I made my way to his bed, my heavy medical bag making the journey a difficult one.

His face was hidden under the blankets, and I could not say whether this pained or relieved me. Even during those rare occasions when I was able to watch him sleep, I could not recall seeing him so still. Lack of distance from him now made the aforementioned odor foul enough to knock a man over, though I forced my face to remain concerned. No doubt he didn't like it any more than I did, and there was no need to make him feel worse. Besides, I thought with some cheer, We can fix that up easily enough with a sponge bath. That was something useful I could actually do, something that would make a difference to him.

I bent down to examine what I could. His bone-thin hands were limp over the pillow and whiter even than the sheets. That dark hair I so admired was slick with grease and tousled in such an absurd fashion that had I seen it in Baker Street on a normal morning, I should have laughed. Gently I tucked it back and lowered the blanket as slowly as I would for a sleeping newborn.

Holmes's face nearly made me weep.

When I had the breath to speak, I whispered, "Hello." I now had confirmation of his wakefulness, if indeed it can be called that. As I deliberate how to describe what I saw in Holmes's countenance that day, the most fitting word that comes to mind is "blank," like a sheet of stationery. Only I do not mean it in a positive manner, in the sort of blank that allows for boundless possibilities. This was the sort that spoke of indifference. Holmes has never been one to care much about other people—I must confess here it is a quality that draws me to him, especially since so many can think of nothing else—but now it seemed he did not even care about himself. Or life in general.

His face matched his hands in their sunken paleness and his eyes were seemingly unseeing and weighted down with more rings than a jewelry store. I searched for tears but found none. As I pulled back the blanket further, I could no longer control my reactions and recoiled at the assault upon my nostrils. My sight too, was afflicted with a most disgusting mess.

Holmes had not even left his bed to use the toilet.

I now had a dozen questions and in my fear for him asked them all at once. "Holmes, how do you feel? How bad is it? Is there anything I can do? Anything you need? What part of you is most in pain?"

The briefest flick of his glance from down at the sheets to up at me and back again was my only answer. I nearly shook. All those years of medical training and I hadn't the first idea what to do. Clean him up? Feed him, since it was clear now he hadn't fed himself? Demand he go with me to a hospital? Always before when I treated patients there was something obviously wrong; a one thing that I could focus my efforts on. The broken arm, the wound, the need for rest and nutrition. Even when I encountered a patient with multiple problems, I often had another doctor or at least a nurse to consult with and help me. Now I was on my own without even Sherlock Holmes for guidance.

"If you do not object, I am going to examine the rest of you before putting you in a better state." He did not object, and declined to move, comment, or even alter his expression as I removed his filthy clothing and checked him all over. There were no wounds, bruises, cuts, or other physical damages to attend to, thank God. The only problems to fix then were the invisible ones.

That day and the next were the longest of my life. I opened the windows to let in the sun, but it did little to give the place cheer. I stripped the sheets from underneath Holmes and did my best to hide the mess when handing them off to the poor hotel staff to wash. Food and drink were soon brought up, and while waiting for them, I cleaned and even shaved my friend as best I could, accepting that for whatever reason he was not going to speak to me for the time being. Fortunately, he also did not attempt to protest any treatment I gave him. After a few attempts at begging him to eat, I simply poked his mouth with the food repeatedly until at last he opened it the slightest bit. Thankfully he still chewed and swallowed on his own at least. I did the same with the medication I had brought but was disappointed to see it make no difference.

When attempting to transfer Holmes to the bath the following night, I discovered, to my simultaneous pride and horror, that I could actually pick him up. When appealing to reason with him and begging him had failed me, I resigned myself to force, finding no other alternative. My hands went under him expecting a struggle only to find lifting him no more difficult than lifting a large and tightly packed suitcase. Had my own eyes not been witness, I would never have believed how much weight he had lost. Yet again, he made no move to fight me.

The bath was almost finished when I made the mistake of leaving for a moment to procure him a nightshirt. It was lucky I had forgotten to bring the towel I'd intended to wipe my feet with and went back for it, or I shudder to think what would have happened. Holmes's mouth was already underwater, his nose was getting dangerously close to joining it, and the blasted fool was doing nothing about it. "Holmes!" I yelled and yanked his arm up. For a second I thought I saw a flicker of dismay in his eyes when I pulled him up, and I'm ashamed to say it scared me into anger. Exhaustion and illness I understood, but this—whatever it was—I did not.

"Are you mad? Is it your objective to worry me to death?" Naturally I received no answer. "Get up," I said gruffly, pulling him so he had no choice but to obey. He stood with his head down, not bothering to cover himself. I toweled him off and got him back into bed, where I had half a mind to tie him down. Just to be safe, I hid my pocketknife and his too, and it was this task which broke my heart and sent me into the corner with my hand over my face.

What's wrong? I wanted to scream it. I fiercely wished to shake him and make him see the reason and logic he claimed to be so fond of. This whole ordeal was akin to caring for an infant who does not stop crying no matter what its mother does to soothe it, only Holmes's silence was louder than any infant. My body shook and sobbed with frustration after all of these hours of fruitlessness.

I had given him food of every variety, I had given him water and tea, I had given him clean bed and clean clothes, I had given him sedatives to ensure he received enough sleep, I had given him every medicine I knew, I had shaved his face and combed his hair, I had attempted to show him the telegrams of how grateful his clients were and the newspapers detailing other problems for him to solve. Against my better judgment I had even handed him cigarettes and a new pipe, though I decidedly did not provide him with his drug of choice and was relieved when he did not ask for it. I had offered to send for his violin, his chemistry set, his books, his papers. I had offered to take him home, to take him to the country, to take him to several different hospitals or bring in other doctors, to take him to another hotel, to take him to his brother's. Though it hurt deeply to do so, I had even offered to leave him and return to London so that he could have privacy if he wished it. I had tried keeping to myself and leaving him alone for a while, which was the normal protocol for his black moods. And throughout the whole matter, I constantly asked if there was anything he wanted or needed. All of this, and still no response or any indication of improvement.

What is it? I screeched and shouted in my head. What? What do you want? What more can anyone do for you? Are you simply determined to lie there never speaking and doing nothing for the rest of your life?

I sat down and tried not to cry. I wanted my best friend back. I missed him terribly. The Holmes I had known and grown to love would have been appalled to see himself this way. Some devil had come upon him and trapped him in a blackness from which he could not escape and I could not free him.

What would Holmes do if our positions were reversed? I could not imagine myself bedridden that long. If I was inside the flat for more than a day, I itched for the outdoors. But for my friend's sake, I tried. If it was me who was ill, what sort of comfort would I crave?

The answer came to me right away, though it seemed nonsensical to believe that Holmes desired such things. Still, I had tried everything else and failed. At this point it certainly wasn't going to make things any worse.

I approached his bed in the newly cleared path—honestly, organizing those telegrams was akin to shoveling snow—and stood beside it for a moment, gathering my courage. Despite my living with Holmes for a long time and having seen him in nothing but his birthday suit, I still found myself nervous being so intimate with him. At last I settled into the bed behind him, hooked an arm around his waist, and pulled him to me.

His movement was so unexpected I nearly gasped. For the first time since I'd arrived, Holmes reacted to something I'd done, albeit not verbally. He turned around under my arm and came closer to me. Encouraged, I held him to me the way my dear mother once did for me when I was sick as a child. My hand held his head to my chest while the other pulled the blankets over us and stroked his back, and I rocked him carefully. Just before resting my cheek on top of his head, I whispered, "I'm here."

A few rocks in and Holmes was pushing his face further into my chest with shaking shoulders. I tightened my hold. When he spoke, his voice was so hoarse from disuse I barely heard him.

"Say it again, Watson."

"I'm here," I repeated with more firmness, and years later I have yet to see Holmes more relieved to hear anything else. We fell asleep together, and when I woke up, it was him standing beside me with a dinner tray and a smile on his freshly washed face.

Struggling to restrain myself from shouting for joy, I set the tray aside, stood up, and threw my arms around him, wincing as I felt his ribs too clearly. He started at my embrace, then returned it with a chuckle. How good it was to hear him laugh again.

"Thank God you're back," I said with my face in his shoulder. "I was beginning to fear you were lost to us forever."

He didn't answer, nor did he tell me what demons he had been battling these past two days. Instead he tightened his hold on me and said with more passion than I could recall from him before, "Thank you, Watson. Thank you for being here."