Work Text:
I have become well-accustomed to this shift by now -- once-nimble feet stumble over cobblestones, and rushed conversations give way to silence. As a medical man it is easy to isolate causes, to diagnose symptoms: exhaustion, both physical and mental, caused by too little food, too little rest, too much exertion with nothing to fuel it. Probable dizziness, brought on by the same. Headache and nausea, if we are particularly unlucky this time.
As a partner though, and as a friend, I find myself wishing only for the warmth and privacy of our rooms, the knowledge that we have once again made it home safely and that now the recovery can begin.
As we turn the corner and the warm glow of lamp-lit windows comes into view I hear his footsteps falter and look back to see him staring into the distance, normally keen eyes heavy-lidded. Leaning back a step I take one of his arms and loop it through my own.
“Come now, old man,” I say. “Nearly there.”
He nods, cautious ( it seems we have not been lucky enough to avoid the headache this time , the medical part of my mind reasons), and slowly matches his stride to my own.
By the time we reach our front door I am bearing a not-insignificant amount of his too-insignificant weight, and he seems already half asleep, propped against my shoulder as he is. I am just about to shift him in order to retrieve my key when the door swings open, and I send a quick prayer of thanks to any God listening for housekeepers who spend entirely too much time watching from front windows.
We are ushered inside with a look of motherly consternation, and once I have maneuvered my companion into the hall she steps in behind us, closing and locking the door.
“You two look dead on your feet,” she says. “Best go on upstairs, I’ll bring your supper straight away.”
The climb up the seventeen steps to our sitting room feels nigh on insurmountable, and I keep a careful eye on my companion ahead of me, ready to step into action should he waver again. My fears, though, remain thankfully unfounded, and we are soon greeted by the creature comforts of familiar surroundings and a warmly crackling hearth.
With a few mumbled words my companion slips out from under my watchful gaze, drifting towards his bedroom and shedding outerwear as he goes. I take a half step forward, making to ensure he does not go too far, then relent. The worst that might happen is that he falls asleep before supper, and in that case I will simply wake him.
I wait until he has sequestered himself in his room before climbing the rest of the stairs to my own, replacing my walking stick next to the door and exchanging jacket for dressing gown, boots for soft slippers. As I descend the stairs again I hear the distinctive clatter of our housekeeper loading the supper tray but the sitting room, once I reach it, is noticeably empty of my companion, and so I make my way to his bedroom door, left haphazardly ajar.
I knock, once, more for the sake of propriety than anything else, but when I am met with no response I push the door open and slip inside. True to my earlier prediction I find my companion sitting on his bed, slumped against the headboard, deeply asleep. Cognizant of our landlady’s footsteps on the stair, I cross the room and crouch in front of him, shifting a stack of old newspapers and assorted clothing out of the way as I go.
For all that he works without sleep for days on end, when he does eventually, inevitably succumb, my companion can be nigh-on impossible to wake, and so it takes more than a few moments of calling his name and gently gripping his arm before he lifts his head to look down at me through bleary eyes. He seems half aware at best, but still I know he will rest better (and be in far better spirits in the morning) if his eventual collapse into the arms of Morpheus is preceded by at least a small meal.
For such a usually energetic man he is remarkably docile as I coax him through the same motions I myself went through earlier, unlacing boots and replacing outerwear onto its respective hangers in his wardrobe (although if he hears my comments on the benefits of doing so immediately rather than allowing articles to collect in piles on the floor he does not acknowledge them).
By the time he, too, is swathed in dressing gown and slippers our housekeeper has come and gone, leaving behind two generous servings of a simple but hearty soup and a loaf of fresh bread. My companion seems to rouse slightly at the scent of the food, and while he eats with a slow gingerness suggestive of the probable nausea that his brief rest has seemingly done little to cure, the fact that he eats at all is a joy and a relief. Eventually though he slumps forward on one elbow, leaning precariously over his still partially-full bowl, and I decide once again to take matters into my own hands.
It is the work of only a few moments to replace the dishes back onto their tray, to pour cool water from the carafe on the table into a glass, and to carry it with me as I shepherd my companion up from the table and back towards his room. When his dexterous fingers fumble and snag on the buttons of his shirt I am there to assist, and it is I who folds his clothing and replaces it on the chair in one corner. As he returns to his bed, this time sliding under the blankets rather than resting atop them, I ply him with the water in the hopes of staving off the worst of the headache which I know prolonged dehydration to cause. And when, as I turn to replace the empty glass on the bedside table, one long, thin hand latches onto my arm, and I hear,
sotto voce
, “stay,” I close the door, turn down the lamp, and lay down to rest beside him.