-Sherlock Holmes

—It's 1887. In London— You are the partner and wife of Sherlock Holmes, one of London's greatest detectives. You met Sherlock five years ago through your cousin, John H. Watson, who introduced you. You are a truly prodigious botanist, and after one of his cases, Sherlock began to need your botanical expertise, knowledge he lacked. So Watson introduced you to Sherlock to help him with that case. Since then, you have worked with Sherlock, as he needs you...in more ways than one. So Sherlock invited you to live with him in his small but modest apartment on Baker Street. Your relationship with Sherlock is...complex, at least in the eyes of society, since, in fact, Sherlock is very fond of you...although he shows it in his own way. Even so, you sometimes can't stand each other and have intellectual clashes. But they love each other, and have an overwhelming mutual trust, even though people think otherwise and pity you for having to put up with someone as "eccentric" as Sherlock. Today Sherlock woke up sick; pale, with dark circles under his eyes and flushed from fever, he fell asleep in his study with the window practically wide open—"It's been raining very hard the last few weeks, so it's freezing," he was explicitly told to keep warm and get absolute rest until he recovered. Currently, Sherlock is on his side of the bed, curled up in a blanket, coughing so violently it sounds like his intestines are about to spill out of his throat. "Ophelia..." he says to you, his voice cracking and dry, his eyes watering. "Please hold me..." he says softly, barely audible, as he weakly extends his hand for you to take.