"Conflict of Interest"

The first time I met Sherlock Holmes, I did not recognize him.

I had seen his face in the papers, of course, but the man who burst into the safe room bore only the slightest resemblance to the man in print. He was still wearing his trademark black coat, but it was stained with dark streaks of human blood. His face was ghostly pale, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen with unshed tears.

And, as my mother would have said, he was "a bit green around the gills." His knees were wobbling beneath him and I grasped his thin waist, clutching a fistful of his stained overcoat.

"My name is Merry," I said. "I'm here to help you. Let's walk over to the couch."

"Merry with an 'E"," he muttered.

"Yes," I confirmed. "Merry with an E."

"Your mother thought it would be clever to name you Merry Noel since you were due on Christmas Eve." His eyes were fixed on the couch now as we slogged toward it.

"But you surprised your parents by being born in November," he whispered. "Nearly a month premature,"

We'd reached the couch and I helped him to sit. "They told me you were exceedingly clever," I mused.

He wiped the back of his hand over his eyes, startling when he saw the wasted human blood on his hand. He swallowed hard.

"I am exceedingly clever," he agreed. "I believe I'm also about to vomit."

I scooped up the nearest wastebasket and held it beneath his chin; he took it with both hands and stuck his face inside it as his shoulders heaved.

I tried to ignore the sounds of sick hitting the bottom of the basket, and the horrible, harsh gagging. I patted his shoulder comfortingly. "That's it, just let all of it come out," I soothed.

"It's all right. You're going to be okay."

"Go," he moaned between heaves. "Please."

I left him to it, knowing I wouldn't appreciate company had the situation been reversed.

A bedroom had been set up next door. I went inside, pulled back the blankets, fluffed the pillows, set a glass of water on the bedstand.

I moved to open the tightly drawn curtains, hoping to bring some natural sunlight into the room, and then remembered the window would offer no sunshine. The only view behind the curtain was that of a sealed brick wall.

I puttered around the room, still cringing every time I heard poor Sherlock gag. I knew his stomach had to be empty by now- I'd been warned that he didn't eat much, so surely there hadn't been much for him to throw up- and I fought the urge to help him. I stayed away but I listened closely, and when I knew the retching was taking its toll on him, when his breath was coming in sobs, I re-entered my office.

"Sherlock?"

There was no response; he had set the basket on the ground and had wrapped his arms around his thin waist as if he could stop the sickness by applying pressure. Tears were spilling down his cheeks, causing red rivulets to form in the blood still marring his face.

I had never seen a more miserable person in my entire life. Given my line of work, that was saying something.

I walked to the medicine cabinet, unlocking the padlock with a few twists of my wrist. After gathering my supplies, I came to him and sat down beside him, gently pulling his arm straight.

He stared at me, not understanding, until I had swabbed his arm with an alcohol wipe. Then he pulled away. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"I'm giving you something to help with the dry heaving," I said, uncapping the syringe.

"No." He tried to stand, but was too weak. Still, he scooted as far away from me as he could. "I'm… I'm an addict," he insisted.

"This is just an antiemetic," I explained calmly. "There's nothing addictive here. I promise."

He was about to refuse again, but then the dry heaves assaulted him again. As he choked, he gasped, "Please."

"It will work quickly." I took his arm again, reswabbed it, and pierced his skin with the needle.

It didn't work as quickly as either of us would have liked, but soon he was confident enough to unclap his hand from his mouth.

The medication caused drowsiness as well, and I noted the glossiness of his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. I realized I should have given him the medication after he'd lay down on the bed, but he wouldn't make it to the next room now.

He was slumping, listing into the cushions. I didn't want him to ruin the new upholstery, so I wetted a washcloth and tried to wipe the worst of the blood from his face. He closed his eyes, a moan escaping his lips as I ran the warm cloth over his cheeks and forehead.

"Could we take your coat off, Sherlock?" I asked. "It's… quite dirty."

"Yes," he murmured, but he was nearly asleep already, and I knew my upholstery was going to be ruined. At least the couch was long and plush; he'd be able to stretch out for the nap he obviously was about to take.

"Lie down," I soothed. I stepped into his room to fetch his pillow and blanket, and when I returned he had settled his lanky form across the couch, his eyes still closed, his cheeks still flushed from my scrubbing and his overwhelming emotions.

"Sherlock, lift up," I said, and he lifted his head far enough for me to slip the pillow beneath his matted curls. I removed his boots- they, too, were bloodstained- and then covered him with his quilt.

He shivered and slipped into sleep. I cleaned out the wastebasket, replacing it at his side just in case, but he didn't move an inch. I watched him for a moment, wanting to make sure he was truly asleep.

Then I crossed the room, settling into my desk and opened the laptop in front of me.

This would undoubtedly be the most interesting case of my life.