WHO: Saoirse Mullet, Howell Williams, & Nona Pepper
WHAT: FML feels
WHERE: 221B Baker Street
WHEN: Like... weeks ago LOL after Louis and Saoirse

Saoirse would admit, while she had never been one for lethargy or wasting time, seemingly doing nothing day in and day out was growing on her. Simply idle acts, relaxed thoughts (or none at all), and, not feeling the pull to be productive... it was nice. She enjoyed it, truly, though it was unclear how much she’d genuinely partake in the unproductiveness without the guarantee of spending it with Howell. She would do most anything if it meant being with him; their time apart in Istanbul had made that rather clear.

Her brow twisted down slightly, as that half-conscious thought passed through her mind, but she didn’t think more of it. Many thoughts were always running through her brain, and being done so in the middle of waking up from a mid-afternoon nap was no exception. Her mind simply moved on to how warm she felt curled up against Howell.

Stirring further, Saoirse withdrew her arm from across his back and stifled a yawn. Her legs stretched, and she was about to nestle further within Howell when... she remembered she was supposed to be waking up. So for that, with her eyes still heavy, Saoirse shifted over onto her stomach and finally lifted her head off the mattress. With lessening bleary eyes, her hand slunk to push her hair out of her face for a proper look at him. Her lips pressed together contently.

“Good afternoon.”

The last two week had really been a dream. A really good dream, but Howell couldn't actually believe they had been real. Winning the European Cup was great, he couldn't deny that, but coming home had been better. Getting to spend time, unlimited time, with Saoirse, and not having to worry about bans on seeing each other, insanely protective mentors (well, maybe not that one—), competing against one another, or just the general stress of being a professional player, was incomparable.

They'd hardly gotten out of bed since they'd gotten back, and they hadn't even been doing anything but sleeping—well, mostly. That was weighing quite heavily on his mind of late, as he slowly woke. The will to open his eyes was slim, and he felt very overheated.

Howell wouldn't necessarily call himself lazy. He was a steady sort of person and, when he could, lived his life at a steady sort of pace. Still, it was nearly unheard of for him to have passed days, as in plural, hardly setting foot out of bed.

But his mouth still tilted up in a smile when he heard Saoirse, and he blinked his bleary eyes open.

"Good afternoon," he said, but the words rasped in his strangely dry throat. Wincing, he rolled over onto his back and was surprised by how sluggish his body felt, and thus how much more effort he had to expend. "Whoa."

He expelled a long, rattling breath, as his heart pounded crazily in his chest from the small action. And not an significant amount, he thought, from alarm at how bizarre he was feeling. "I think sleeping for two days was—maybe not the best idea I ever had." His voice sounded raw and funny, and his throat worked convulsively as he tried to swallow and not choke or gag.

Great content rose within her, and Saoirse felt the sides of her mouth curl up slightly. Yes, maybe it wasn’t the best to stay immobile for such a long period of time, but when doing so was deemed so pleasant and worthwhile, how could you not? They had had a very taxing last two months, a period that had left little to no room for rejuvenating energy stores. It was because of that she did not feel too guilty about choosing to spend her time sleeping, and lounging.

But maybe now it was time to start getting up. No doubt at least one of the many pets between them needed a walk? Or some attention? Thinking that, and intent on bringing it up, Saoirse extended her hand to rest it lightly against the side of his face, but her concern about how warm his skin felt stopped her from voicing her suggestion. Instead she held her hand there for a couple of silent beats, laying it flat. His voice had sounded peculiar just moments ago, but she hadn’t thought...

“You’re hot,” Saoirse frowned, sitting up a bit to stretch her hand to his forehead. She pressed her palm to his skin again, once more experiencing the unsettling sensation of feeling like she was putting her hand to a burning iron. Her frown deepened.

“Have you not been feeling well?” She had just assumed... her head tilted to her shoulder, and quietly, Saoirse pulled her legs up so that she could sit on her knees. Not wanting to hover but doing so anyway, she did not retreat her hand and simply busied it by brushing his sweat matted hair out of his face.

That would have been the ideal moment to make a joke and cut the mounting tension of the room, perhaps with some asinine comment about how of course he was hot at all times. But aside from not at all possessing, as well as finding abhorrent, that amount of ego, Howell was preoccupied with the growing concern that his brain was truly leaking out his ears.

"I don't know," he all but croaked. His vision was still blurry, but the more he drifted out of his sleep, the more he wished someone would knock him unconscious. His head was on fire and his eyes were tearing up. Saoirse's hand felt like ice on his face, and for the first time in history, he wanted to flinch away from her touch but simply lacked the strength to.

Then the panic began to set in. Howell had never in his life felt this way. He may not have actually been "healthy as a horse," but he had never felt like he was actually dying. He wouldn't have been able to give in to such a feeling, because of his brother and sister. Just the thought of them had a fresh line of sweat breaking out along his forehead and the pounding of his heart was beginning to pick up nauseatingly.

"I don't know," he whispered in spite of the way even his softened voiced grated against his dry throat. Gulping in a panicked reflex his hands curled weakly into fists clutching the covers. "I don't—I don't know what's wrong."

As Howell rapidly deteriorated, Saoirse steeled severely. He didn’t know? Did he need her to tell him, because at least she could see that he was feverish, and something was happening with his throat. But, that didn’t mean much of anything. Or, really, it should mean nothing, for how easily were those ailments cured with simple potions? She decided to focus on that fact instead of taking to heart the obvious alarm and discomfort in his eyes.

Pulling her hand back, she rested it in her lap for a few more moments of watching him intensively. Then, without much of a word, Saoirse slipped back and off the bed entirely, intent on collecting whatever medicinal comfort was present in the house for him. That, at least, was an extensive collection; she rather refused to be sick, as it was always an inconvenience to her schedule and focus.

Rummaging through her bathroom sink cabinet, Saoirse had a great selection of potions in her hands when she heard the stairs creak to a pair of ascending feet. Nona? Nona! She unceremoniously dropped the bottles into the sink to free her arms, and jumped to pop her head out the doorway. She could much more efficiently diagnose and heal this problem.

“Nona!” Saoirse slid back into the hallway, keen on catching and keeping the attention of the resident Healer. Closing the space between them, she abruptly grabbed Nona’s arm, and proceeded to tug her back toward the bedroom. “You must come see Howell, he is not feeling well.”

Nona had been leisurely draped along the sofa, reading her sister's latest book. Despite herself, and Tertia would probably crow over this, she found the story immersing as always. Reveling in the world of the rather dimwitted protagonist, she alternated between clucking aloud pityingly, shaking her head solemnly, or trying not to clutch at her heart, all the while stroking a dozing Ocelot with her foot.

When she was half-way through (well, a little more than halfway through), she hopped off the sofa with the intention of sending Tertia her mid-point review, as was custom. The ocelot that was rapidly growing too big for her to carry trotted daintily alongside her.

Then, not five steps from the top of the second floor, there was a loud noise like the crash of a door thrown open which had Ocelot yowling and scampering away. The next thing Nona knew, she was being dragged by the hand at a pace she was not certain humans could achieve without magical or mechanical help. Skidding the rest of the way into Saoirse's bedroom, she braced her hand on the entryway and peered in.

Howell Williams of Cornwall lay in the bed with the covers twisted about him, looking indeed like death warmed over. Ever the Healer, she hastened to his side of the bed and peered closely at him. She laid the back of her hand over his forehead to check his temperature. When the blazing skin met her own, she pursed her lips and shook her head.

"How long have you been feeling like this?" Nona asked.

His eyes were unfocused but bright as he squinted, trying to discern her features. "Not—long, I… I don't know."

Noting the rough, weakened quality of his voice, Nona studied his mouth, then nudged his lips apart to hook her finger in his cheek and check the wetness. "Xerostomia," she murmured. Tugging both his lower lids down, she hemmed and hawed before dropping her hand from his face and smoothing back the clumped hair that had fallen over his brow.

Stepping away while rolling up her sleeves, she took Saoirse by the arm and guided her out the door as she glanced back to the bed. "Can you fetch him a glass of warm water?" she asked. "And a cool washcloth."

She'd retrieve her bag from the room and do what she could, but from what she had seen… "Saoirse, if his fever continues to climb, he'll have to go to St Mungo's," Nona said, pitching her voice lower. "It—appears severe."

Saoirse spent a long look over her shoulder at Howell as Nona escorted her out of the room, her concern mounting considerably. He had just been fine moments ago, or, finer than he was currently demonstrating, so she didn’t understand what he could have possibly... what was happening, why, or even how...

She lifted her chin at the chance to catch his form again over Nona’s shoulder, distracted with accomplishing that until knocked back into attentiveness. Her jaw set tightly in response to Nona’s words. Now he was on the brink of having to go to Mungo’s? What little color that had been present in her cheeks vanished, and her hands dropped from her elbows. Saoirse thought silently for a couple of moments, eyes darting back and forth across Nona’s face before speaking.

“Fine,” she replied with little emotion, her hands already moving to see through what she had been assigned. Pulling her wand out of her pocket, Saoirse quickly summoned a wash towel from the bathroom, conjured a bowl and a cup from downstairs, and finally produced a stream of water to fill both hovering containers. With little so much as a word, she slipped by Nona and returned inside.

Soon the chair from her writing desk had joined this strange parade of floating objects, though once it positioned itself beside the bed, everything else fell into place. Carefully, as if half expecting him to begin vomiting blood if done so improperly, or if she turned away for too long, Saoirse gently placed the washcloth on Howell’s forehead before recoiling back into the chair. With the cup held tightly in her hand, she brought her legs up to her chest to rest her chin on her knees, settling in for a long, diligent watch.

Saoirse thought, maybe, that she should address Howell, say some words of encouragement about his impending full recovery, but not wanting to disturb him, instead she pushed her back further into her chair and adjusted her knees quietly.