It was a simple task, which he had performed so many times in the past. The action of it had become instinctive to him over the years but, for some reason, it was eluding him right at that moment. Trying, and failing, for the fifth time, Napoleon swore loudly. Why couldn't he do it? All he had to do was insert the key in the lock and open the door.

"What are you doing?" Illya asked softy, as he watched his partner scraping a white plastic spoon against the bathroom door.

The question wasn't accusatory, or even a request for answers for that matter. He was simply trying to work out what was happening Napoleon's head. The drug he had been given by Thrush, almost twenty-four hours previously, seemed to still have Solo in its hallucinogenic grip.

He had played out several scenarios as the drug coursed through him. Some of them had been dramatic, such as trying to stab Illya with the knife the Russian had used for his lunch. It was because of this that plastic cutlery had begun to be used instead. Mostly, however, his actions were mundane. Between these bouts he slept. The doctors had ascertained that it shouldn't last too much longer, and were encouraged that the hallucinations were becoming fewer over time. This didn't stop Illya from worrying.

"I'm trying to get into my apartment, Tovarisch," Napoleon replied, with a tone which suggested that Illya had to be blind not to be able to see that.

Kuryakin sighed and, crossing the room, he gently placed his hands on Napoleon's shoulders, and guided him back to his bed. U.N.C.L.E.'s chief medic, Leonard Barrie, didn't think there was any need to restrain the CEA, as long as there was someone with him at all times to stop him wandering off. Given that agents rarely left a partner's bedside, it meant that a nurse's time didn't need to be taken up.

"Get off me, you Thrush bastard!" Napoleon yelled suddenly, as Illya tried to persuade him to get into bed.

The blond ducked just in time for Solo's swinging fist to miss him. As the American span around with the momentum, he flopped down on the bed and promptly fell asleep. Illya lifted his friend's legs up, and the covered him with a blanket.

Sitting back down, Illya picked up the book he had been reading, and settled down to wait for the next hallucination. He himself hadn't slept for almost thirty-six hours, and he wouldn't do so until he was sure the drug had left Napoleon, and he was back in the real world.