On referring to my notes, I see that it was the 14th of April that I received a telegram from Lyons…*
The weather had been cold and variable that spring, and that particular April day found all of London locked in one those impenetrable yellow fogs that disincline one to brave the streets. My injured leg had been aching more than usual and I had spent the day curled up in a chair by a cozy fire with a cup of tea and the day's paper in my lap.
My friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, had been for two months on the continent, investigating the question of the Netherlands-Sumatra Company, and I had just finished reading the headlines trumpeting his successful resolution to that case when the telegram arrived. I confess I had been looking forward to hearing of his imminent arrival back at Baker Street. Instead, it bore word from an Inspector Bertrand of the Sûreté that Holmes was lying ill at the Hotel Dulong in Lyons. This dreadful news sent me to pack my kit and Billy running to the corner to secure the cab that shortly delivered me to Victoria Station.
A military career, even so brief a one as mine, will teach the art of quick and efficient travel; I saw the dawn break over the misty vineyards of Burgundy from the windows of the PLM Express from Paris, less than twenty-four hours later.
As the train moved through the rolling hills of the wine country I perceived in the richer palette of the landscape, that spring was far advanced in the south and, despite my great anxiety, welcomed this evidence of the revitalizing warmth of the sun.
My train pulled into the Gare de Lyon-Perrache in the late morning. I was fortunate, in securing a cab whose driver spoke English and soon we were rattling over the Saone and clattering through the narrow cobbled streets of the Vieux Lyon, the oldest part of that ancient city. Upon arriving at the Hotel Dulong and inquiring after Holmes, I was shown to his room by a concierge whose broken English and Gallic enthusiasm made him nearly as incomprehensible to me as my school-boy French must have been to him. This hardly inhibited the gentleman, however, from expressing himself as I signed the register and we rode the lift to the fourth floor. Occasionally he cried "Formidable!" from which I gathered he was fully aware of Holmes' astonishing achievement in outmaneuvering the most accomplished swindler in Europe.
The man chattered continuously as he led me down the hall until, stopping at a door which bore the numerals 401 in polished brass, he raised his hand to knock. There he hesitated, and I was able, at last, to interject, "Mais oui, meisuier."
He turned, then, and cried, "Mais non, monsieur!" and proceeded to babble at me with such passion and fervor, and at such a rate of speed, that the only word I could make out was fou.
"Slow down, man," said I, "I can't understand you."
He then looked me straight in the eye and speaking, in the purest form of that English which instantly identifies one born within the sound of Bow Bells: "It's only on account of Mister 'Omes that me mother ain't lost 'er pension, but I'm tellin' yer the man's bonkers!"
I confess this left me staring in stupefaction, whereupon he shoved into my hands a lacquer tray with a packet of telegrams on it and a key. "'ere's the room and 'ere's the key, sir, and good luck t'yer."
The tray slipped to the floor, although I managed to clutch the packet to my breast. "What on earth…!" said I, but he was already hurrying away down the hall. I was forced to remind myself that Cockneys, like the French, are an excitable people, as I turned and rapped brightly on the door. "Holmes!" I called. "It's Watson."
There was no reply; I took hold of the knob and turned it. The door was not locked. It opened with an odd rustling sound, and as it did I beheld what would have been a snug sitting-room, if every available surface—desk, table, chair and settee—hadn't been piled high to overflowing with ledgers and stacks of paper! The French windows had been shuttered against the sun but I could see plates of food, untouched for days, abandoned on top of the stacks, making a feast for flies. In front of me, the floor was ankle deep in a heap of paper, the source of the rustling sound—telegrams, there must have been hundreds, just like the packet clutched in my hands!
"Holmes?" I called.
"Put it down and go away," a feeble, rasping voice replied from the adjoining bedroom.
The door of this room was ajar and I hurried across. Within all was gloom as the windows were shuttered in here, as well, but it seemed to be as comfortably appointed as the sitting room. I saw a bed and nightstand, a washstand with pitcher and bowl, and a chest of drawers with a lamp upon it. Stretched upon the bed lay my dear friend with an arm flung across his eyes.
"Holmes," I cried, approaching the bedside.
"Watson?" Holmes lifted his arm and peered at me in confusion. "Is that you?"
"Yes."
"What are you doing here?"
"You sent for me."
"Did I? Perhaps I did."
Struck by the pallor of his skin and gaunt, wasted visage, I demanded to know: "My god, man! When was the last time you ate something?"
"I don't remember. Is there any water?" There was a carafe on the nightstand. I reached for it and in my agitation and concern, the bundle of telegrams slipped from my hand. "More of the damn things," Holmes groaned, letting his arm fall back to block out the sight of them. "Take them away."
I bent to retrieve the telegrams and happened to perceive a flat tortoiseshell case, about 8 inches in length. It was lying just beneath the edge of the bed. I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket, as Holmes said, peevishly, "Go away. Leave me alone."
"My dear, fellow I will not!" All of my professional instincts were aroused. I strode to the window and flung the shutters wide. This provoked the most dreadful shriek from the man in the bed. "Watson! You're torturing a sick man!"
"Sir?" someone called from the other room. It was porter delivering my bag.
I ran out and communicated to him the urgency of the need for someone to bring a bottle of wine and a bottle of mineral water. This he promised to do, but when I attempted to draw his attention to the condition of the rooms, he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders; apparently none of the Dulong's chambermaids were willing any longer to beard the lion in his den. In truth, given the force of Holmes' personality, I could hardly blame them; I was forced to promise a substantial emolument if the rooms were cleaned that afternoon, and, further, that I would be there to intercede with Holmes, should he object.
The porter then left to carry out this program and, shortly, the requested bottle of wine arrived. It was an excellent vintage and, as I had taken no refreshment since breakfasting on the train that morning, I drank a glass myself. So fortified, I returned to Holmes' bedside and informed him of my arrangements, and of my intention to carry him back to England as quickly as possible. To my surprise, he merely grunted. It was then that I realized this collapse was something other than the usual physical manifestation of that black depression and concomitant lethargy with which my friend was too often consumed upon the termination of a case.
My fears were confirmed when a bustling began to be heard in the sitting room. In similar past circumstances, I have heard Holmes raise violent objection to his paperwork being disturbed; this time he said not a word, and I began to fear the irretrievable destruction of his iron constitution, under the strain of a case that had baffled the police of three countries.
Observing the dry and crusted lips, and the stained and dingy nightshirt in which Holmes was dressed, I said, "Let make you more comfortable, old friend," and slipped my arm under his shoulder. "Sit up."
I cannot tell you how appalled I was at feeling the sharpness of the bones beneath the skin and the way he leaned upon my strength as I helped him to his feet and supported him to a chair.
I will say, now that there was someone to protect them from the keen edge of Holmes' tongue, the Dulong's staff acted with commendable promptness; it was not long before the sitting room had been aired and put in order. My part was to perform the functions of a nurse, moving a dressing screen to shield Holmes and, while the maids changed the bed, tenderly washing his face and hands, easing a clean nightshirt over his head and a dressing gown around his shoulders. I made him drink a glass of wine.
Holmes' weakened state was evident in that he only once muttered Nanny, under his breath, as I helped him to climb between the fresh sheets. Although any exertion was clearly exhausting, I found this evidence of his spirit unaccountably cheering; he fell asleep even as I was tucking the coverlet about him.
I was then able to have a wash myself and to consider my best course of procedure. Securing Holmes health was the utmost of my concerns. To this end, I rang for the porter and requested that a day bed should be set up in the sitting room, upon which I proposed to sleep.
Outside the French windows was a gallery with an ornamental railing. There were chairs and a small iron table and pots containing flowering plants, although these seemed to have been overlong in need of water. As it overlooked the street and as there was no other place to sit where I might not disturb any of Holmes' papers, it was there I sat to take the tortoiseshell case from my pocket to examine. Inside, it was no surprise to find, nestled in the green velvet lining was a hypodermic needle whose wicked steel shaft showed signs of recent use. You know my methods Watson. As I had gently sponged his hands, I had indeed observed tiny dabs of sticking plaster dotting the flesh of his arms. The only question in my mind was where was the bottle of cocaine solution hidden? And was there any remaining in the bottle?
Absorbed in these reflections, I almost missed the signs that should have alerted me that Holmes was awake. Fortunately some small sound did rouse me from my reverie and I discovered him leaning over the side of the bed and searching for something beneath the frame.
"You needn't fatigue yourself," said I. "I've already found it."
Holmes sank back against the pillows. "So it was you. I thought I was dreaming." He scowled. "I suppose you've let them make a jumble of my records? They must be turned over to the authorities."
"I trust not," said I, drawing a chair to his bedside. "I instructed them merely to remove the plates of stale food, tidy up and remove the clutter from the floor." I sat down and tipped his chin up and looked into his eyes. I was pleased to observe that his pupils were less dilated than before. I poured some mineral water into a glass and, in consideration of his condition, held it for him as he drank. "Was it necessary to get yourself into this deplorable condition?" I said.
"It was unavoidable," Holmes sighed. "You cannot begin to know how difficult this case has been, Watson. Toward the end I never worked less than fifteen hours a day."
"I can't regret the outcome of your labor," said I, "only that you have worked yourself into a state of collapse." As I spoke, I felt Holmes' forehead and took his pulse. His skin was cool and his pulse thready and erratic. "The mother of the concierge of this very hotel would have been one of that man's victims," I said. "As it is, she is spared poverty and he is your ardent fan."
"As it is, I would prefer to be in Baker Street." Holmes' hands jerked spasmodically. I watched his over-bright eyes flick around the room. "You said you had come to take me home," he said, petulantly. "I should like to leave immediately."
"Perhaps in a day or two, if you will but rest and take nourishment; I would prefer to have you a bit stronger before we travel."
"Then I will follow your prescription, doctor." Heavy lids drooped to cover his eyes. "Close the shutters before you go."
His breathing became deep and regular. I patted his shoulder, and got up to close the shutters and take my leave. I paused on my way out and removed the bottle of cocaine solution from the second drawer of the chest. It was still a quarter full. The drinking glass shattered against the door as I pulled it shut behind me. I returned to the balcony, disposed of the contents of the bottle in a convenient pot of dead geraniums and rang for the porter to remove the broken glass.
*From the "Reigate Squires" by Arthur Conan Doyle. 1893 (The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes)