This fanfiction brought to you by colds and Nyquil.

NB: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, Watson, or "the Jabberwocky." Though, I don't really see why I'm commenting on this since all four are out of copyright.

I would have thought it was a trick. The last time I had seen him like this it was. However, last time I had not been allowed to get near him, and, as my stiff shoulder clearly reminded me, I had just spent the past five minutes carrying him from the couch to his bed.

"'Twas brillig," he muttered under his breath as I searched for my medical kit. "And the slithy toves…"

"Holmes, I know that one," I growled, pulling out a thermometer. "Don't think you're going to trick me by reciting 'the Jabberwocky'."

My friend looked about vaguely, as if unsure where my voice had come from. I swallowed the fear and anger that had build up in my throat and placed a hand on his arm. He flinched and instantly grabbed my wrist with a grip that I would not have given him credit for in this state.

"Steady, old boy," I said as soothingly as I could. "It's me, Watson."

I could see him mouth the words, seeming not to comprehend what I had just said. After a few moments, he let go of my wrist. "Watson," he croaked.

"That's right, Holmes. Watson. Now I need to take your temperature."

"Watson," he croaked again, turning slightly away from me. He seemed to be pondering the word as if it were one of his chemistry experiments.

Seeing I wasn't going to get any sort of help or compliance from him, I turned him back towards me and put the thermometer in his mouth. After making sure his mouth was fully closed, I began counting backward from sixty, silently praying that he would keep still. If he began babbling again, I would have to take his temperature a second time, and I didn't know how long it would be before he might forget who I was again and try to break my wrist. Thankfully, he stayed still and quiet until the minute was up, perhaps out of some memory of going through this process before. I gingerly took the instrument from his lips and looked at the reading. "Thirty-eight and a half*," I murmured to myself. A high fever*. A more through series of tests cemented my conclusion. It was indeed a fever.

For a moment, I was simply glad that it wasn't something more serious. A case of fever, especially in a patient like Sherlock Holmes, would be difficult, but not incurable. Given that my fears had ranged from trickery to a rare tropical disease, a high fever seemed almost commonplace. It was then that I looked to my friend again. He had taken off muttering bits of 'the Jabberwocky' and was now saying something in French.

"Mémé, je peux aller dehors maintenant?" he murmured from under the covers. I don't speak much French, but I was able to pick out from previous conversations with him that "mémé" was "grandmother". He continued, "Pourquoi pas? Je ne veux pas la soupe. Pourqoui pas? Je ne suis pas malade. C'est juste un rhume. Oui. Non, je n'ai pas besoin d'un médecin. Mémé!*"

My joy instantly vanished. True, the disease was not as deadly as I had feared. I knew how to treat a fever and had done so successfully in the past. However, I still had to work quickly and well.

I crossed over to the landing. "Mrs. Hudson?" I cried. "When was it that he last ate?"

"He hasn't wanted any meals since this case started," came the reply. The housekeeper appeared at the bottom of the stairs, looking worried. "I tried to bring him some tea and biscuits, but he wouldn't have it."

"Would you make him some broth then?" I said as I rolled up my sleeves. "Like it or not he's got to eat something."

"Yes, Dr. Watson. Right away," Mrs. Hudson replied. She seemed eager to do something for Holmes and I was once again glad that when I wasn't here my friend had the watchful eyes of the housekeeper to look out for him.

"Some cold water too!" I cried as I finished adjusting my right sleeve. "We're going to need to bring his temperature down."

I spent the next few hours cooling and attending to my friend. The broth was a difficult process to manage, for whenever I approached him with it he asserted that he did not want any soup, using a combination of French and English to try to persuade me. I finally succeeded in getting him to take half a bowl of it when I poured out his water glass and replaced its contents with the dreaded meal. I was able to get him to drink a glass of it that way and was beginning to think I had solved the problem when he began to assert that "grandmother," for I had taken on that person in his delirium, was poisoning him with seawater. It was then that I concluded that one glass of soup was good enough for two hours of trying and switched the contents of the glass back to water.

"Merci, mémé," he said once he had tested the water. To my great shock, I saw that there were tears in his eyes. "I know you're upset because mother died. Je le suis aussi. Pourtant, ce n'est pas une raison…" Here, he coughed and took a dab of water with his forefinger. "…to try to poison me.*"

"I'm not trying to poison you, Holmes," I murmured to myself, becoming more and more ashamed of my trickery. Had his grandmother actually tried to poison him? Or was this a scenario brought on by paranoia and delirium?

I was not to get the answer, for at that moment Mrs. Hudson appeared with a pot of tea and some more soup. "I thought since we're feeding him," she said in response to my curious look. "That he might as well have some tea. My mother always said that tea could cure anything."

I nodded, unwilling to explain to her how I had just spent the last two hours trying to get him to eat the first bowl of soup she had brought, not to mention any tea.

"How would you like a nice cup of tea, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, taking no note of my silence. The question, I soon found, was rhetorical as she set the tray down on his dresser and began pouring him a cup. "Did you eat any of the nice broth Dr. Watson had me make you?"

Holmes responded with something in French, which, to my great surprise, Mrs. Hudson countered just as quickly in the same language. Seeing my look of surprise, she said, "All well-mannered girls must know French, Dr. Watson. It is a basic part of their education."

I nodded my assent, simply glad to have someone who understood Holmes when he began speaking in a foreign tongue.

Concluding that all had been explained to me, Mrs. Hudson began talking to Holmes in French. After several minutes of this, during which I took the time to put away some of my medical equipment, Holmes sat up in bed and looked straight at Mrs. Hudson. "Non, non, non," said he. "Non en Français. Let us speak English, for I know that you do speak it, mémé, despite your hesitance."

"I never! I am not that old, Mr. Holmes!" she replied. "Do you believe it, Dr. Watson! Calling me 'grandmother' to my face! I never!"

"I don't think that was meant as any comment on your age, Mrs. Hudson," I said. "He is delirious. He has been calling me 'grandmother' for the past two hours."

"Oh! The poor lamb!" She looked on Holmes, her ire replaced with a motherly sort of pity. "The poor dear! Well, if he needs a mémé for a few hours, he shall get one. Just…" She gave me a little look. "Don't tell Katherine. I should never hear the end of it if she and her gossiping friends found out."

"Upon my honor," I replied, giving her a little smile.

She smiled in return before turning to Holmes. "Listen to me, young man," said she in her most imperious tone. "I will speak English with you, but only if you behave yourself. Comprendre?"

"Oui. Je comprends," he replied after a moment's hesitance.

"Good. Now, lie back down and get some rest. The doctor has ordered that you eat some broth, and I shall not go against him."

So it was that, to my great delight, Mrs. Hudson managed, by way of spoon-feeding and scoldings in French, to get Holmes to eat the entirety of the fresh bowl of soup and part of the last one. The only trouble he caused occurred when Mrs. Hudson accidently dropped the tray as she was leaving. Holmes had fallen asleep upon her insistence and the loud noise roused him in an instant.

"The lightning elephants," said he with an expression of horror. He sank down in the bed and buried his head under the sheets. "Mémé! Help me!" he cried. "The lightning elephants! Mycroft said they eat people! I don't want to be eaten, mémé!"

"There, there, Mr. Holmes. The lightning elephants shan't get you," Mrs. Hudson said, putting down the smashed teacup and clutching him to her breast. "Mémé is here. Now hush and go back to sleep."

"You're sure they won't get me?" he asked in the frightened tone of a child.

"Yes, dear," she said as she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. "I shall watch for them and beat them if they dare try. Now go back to sleep."

A well Holmes would have taken the protection of Mrs. Hudson as little better than that of a bullfrog. However, to his feverish mind, the housekeeper was fully capable of protecting him from any sort of elephant and her word was all the comfort he needed.

"Goodnight, mémé," he murmured as she left the room.

"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes," she returned before softly closing the door behind her.

Thus it was that with the assistance of Mrs. Hudson, his fever broke within the week and Holmes was back to his usual, commanding self with no more talk of "slithy toves," lightning elephants, or grandmothers. I'll admit that the last one found Mrs. Hudson a little put out, for she had enjoyed treating Holmes as a grandchild after years of fearing to cross him. "It shan't be the same now that he's well, will it, Dr. Watson?" she said sadly after Holmes had banished her from his sickroom. "I didn't realize how I'd missed having someone to baby."

"There, there, Mrs. Hudson," I said, seeing her on the verge of tears. "When he is next sick, I shall call upon you again, grandmother or no. Your help has been invaluable to him and to me. I doubt he would have lasted long enough to get better had it not been for you."

"Thank you, Dr. Watson," she said, wiping away a tear. "I'm being such a little fool. It's just ever since Jim died…"

Unfortunately, I was not to hear about Jim, for the next moment there was a loud crash and a yell from Holmes.

"Watson!" he cried. "My trousers. I…"

"Coming, Holmes," I replied, giving Mrs. Hudson a quick glance. I did not need to worry about her, though. She was smiling now and shaking her head.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," she murmured under her breath as she left the room. "Mon petit chouchou."

Epilogue:

"Holmes?" said I as I sat across from him in my chair at Baker Street. Almost a week had passed since the last symptoms of his fever had disappeared.

Holmes looked at me over his paper. "Yes, Watson?"

"What are lightning elephants?"

"Wherever did you hear that?" he asked, looking concerned.

"When you were sick. You were talking about lightning elephants and how Mycroft said they would eat you."

At this, he gave a short, sharp laugh and took up his pipe. "I haven't heard that term in years. I used to call thunder 'lightning elephants' when I was a child. Mycroft had told me that they were what made the loud crash after a bolt of lightning struck, and like a little fool I believed him."

"You were scared of thunder then?" I asked, finding it hard to imagine Holmes truly frightened of something so trivial, even as a child.

"I believe most children are at one time or another," he replied. "I eventually discovered the physics behind the noise and decided a quick expansion of air was not worth my fear. Now, let us drop the matter."

At that moment, Mrs. Hudson came up with our dinners.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson," said he, clearly thankful that my inquiries were interrupted.

"Mr. Holmes," she replied with a little bob. She set out our dishes between the two of us and a bit of bread and butter.

"Ah, and what delicacy have you made us tonight?" Holmes said, already refilling his pipe.

"Pea soup, Mr. Holmes," she replied.

A slight fumble with the matches showed me that Holmes had not quite forgotten the entirety of our proceedings during his illness. "Indeed," said he, setting the flame to his pipe.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. I thought the dish might be good for your health," said Mrs. Hudson with a bit of a mischievous grin.

"How considerate of you, Mrs. Hudson," said he, though I knew he meant something quite different. "Now if you might leave the doctor and I to dine in peace."

"As you wish, Mr. Holmes," she said, making another slight curtsey. Just as she was leaving, I thought I heard her murmur something in French. If she did, Holmes gave it little notice, or at least feigned as much. As soon as she left, he was up by the mantelpiece, smoking his pipe.

"Aren't you going to eat anything, Holmes?" said I.

Holmes gave me a look before turning his hawk-like gaze back to the window.

"Watson," said he, taking his pipe from his mouth. "You know I hate soup."

*For my American readers, 38.5 degrees Celsius is 101.3 degrees Fahrenheit.

*As, I've noted in my series "Not in Our Stars" a fever during the 1800's was a term which encompassed various diseases. It could be anything from what we commonly refer to as a fever today to influenza, which, before vaccinations and such, took people's lives more often than not. Here, I have given Holmes the flu.

*Translation: "Grandma, can I go outside now? Why not? I don't want soup. Why not? I'm not that sick. It's just a cold. No, I do not need a doctor. Grandma!"

*Translation: "Thank you, grandma… I am too. However, that's no reason…"

Mrs. Hudson to the rescue! Someone really does need to mother Holmes sometimes.

By the way, this was inspired by me trying to recite "the Jabberwocky" in the hallway with far too much enthusiasm. I then began to talk about lightning elephants (which I concluded are a small child's version of thunder). This story was the result.

Reviews appreciated as always!