In Sickness, In Health

It was my fault. Completely mine. If I had not been so blind, so ….unobservant …Watson would not be in this state now.

T' was about a week back, when the Duchess came to us with a plea to get those 'horrible, untruthful' letters that was in the possession of a 'horrible, untruthful' man. I never sully my hands with cases such as these but something about the woman (i.e. her boots were caked with dirt from the lowest part of London, where no self-respecting Duchess would ever go) interested me and I took her case.

I wish to God I hadn't.

I had noticed Watson's cold before the case, but the dear fellow had waved it off and I had taken no notice of the occasional sneezes and coughs later.

Oh, what a fool, what a thrice damned fool I was!

The case was as I suspected. The 'Duchess' was no other than Frank Rogers, also called ' Sly Rog' because of his five consecutive escapes from the Chicago authorities over the bank case. The letters he wished recover, far from being love letters, were rather incriminating in the way that they were sent from a bank official from the Royal bank to him.

Of course, from then, there was nothing to look for really. I only had to catch him at his worst; that could be easily arranged. Watson accompanied me to the old storehouse where the letters were kept. Even then, I have a vague remembrance of Watson's cough behind me.

When we entered the storehouse, for the first time in my life, to my absolute and incomparable horror and embarrassment, I found that I had miscalculated.

Rogers had reached before me with his entire group of men and within a few moments, seven or eight of them had surrounded Watson and me.

We stood back to back, as we had done so many times before, preparing to take down our adversaries. Even then, I am ashamed to say, I did not think of what this would do to Watson. I was too confident in my abilities. It could have cost me the dearest thing in the world.

Rogers himself came out from behind the crates, and to my utter disgust, he was wearing a look of triumph and contempt. Never a good combination in criminals.

"Found me out have yah, Masser Holmes?"

He was cocky and overconfident. I was sure he would fall quickly. Oh, what a fool I was not to be able to see that I was the same as him!

"You have overrated your skills, I am afraid, Rogers."

He leered at me and then slowly drew a gun and pointed it at me. I looked at him with no fear. I prided myself on escaping one of the greatest brains in the history of criminals. This was small fry.

But my confidence and arrogance blew to bits when I heard a gunshot and felt Watson collapse behind me.

I don't believe I had been more afraid, or more aware, of our situation then.

The bullet had hit his side, which had turned bright red. A color which I never noticed before, but which I felt slightly nauseous on seeing it on Watson.

He was in pain, I could see that. No matter how much he tried to reassure me, I could see the horrible haunting look still in his eyes. It pays me a visit in my nightmares still.

All of sudden, this whole expedition swung out of control. All my bravado drained out of me, when I realized what a situation I had exposed us to.

All throughout my life, I have faced criminals. I have stood with them on the very threshold of death and I prided myself that I had come out unharmed.

But, the ego-driven fool that I am, I never noticed my friend, companion, chronicler, who stood alongside with me and never ever let go of me. My Watson.

As Rogers came and faced me, I looked up at him and made my second terrible mistake. I let him see the fear in his eyes.

His smile widened and he stepped forward, keeping his gun at Watson's head and yanked him to his feet. I gave a cry of rage, seeing Watson stagger against that…fiend but my cry seemed to have made the situation worse. Roger's eyes gleamed.

"Looks like I found yer weakness, Masser Holmes."

I stared at him, hoping and praying to a God I did not believe in, that he was bluffing with me.

It was a hope promptly shattered when Watson crumpled against a wall from the force of his blow.

"Watson!"

I had jumped to my feet and started toward my dearest friend, when I was stopped short by a bullet, which just missed my friend, smashing against the wall.

"You know what we want, Masser Holmes."

I willed to keep myself to keep calm. Watson would need me cool and collected. I knew very well what he wanted. The pile of letters weighed in my pocket like a burden.

"I have not the slightest idea what you mean."

Oh, but I did, I did very well. The real letters were with Scotland Yard now. The counterfeit letters which I had come to place lay in my pocket. In a flash I remembered; I had not told Lestrade of my little excursion; he would not know where I am.

My thoughts were arrested when Rogers strode forward and my heart leapt in my mouth when he placed the gun squarely on my friend's head, who even then was faintly stirring. His voice, when he spoke, was filled with menace.

"Hand over the letter an' nobody gets hurt."

How I cursed my foolishness then, my egotistical belief and above all my pride that had gotten Watson into this mess.

I reached into my pocket, fingering the crisp paper of the letters that had started this whole business. But even as I drew it out, I heard Watson's voice.

"No, Holmes!"

I raised my eyes to find my friend struggling in the grip of Roger. Even as I looked up, I saw Roger twist his hand, making him cry out in pain.

"Don't!"

Roger's stopped and looked at me, with that terrible murderous triumph in his eyes. I felt myself turn cold. That look boded no good.

"I'm waiting, Masser Holmes"

"Don't you dare give it to them!"

I looked up in surprise at Watson, whose struggles had still not ceased. His glare at me was formidable.

"Don't you dare give up on my account, Holmes!"

I could feel myself shaking all over. Even though he was in this dire situation because of me, he had suffered a bullet wound because of me, he was in the grips of a man who could kill him without a moments hesitation because of me; he still did not give up or abandon me!

What had I done to deserve this friendship and loyalty?

"Watson…" I said my voice half-choked with emotion but froze as Rogers turned his menacing glance at me again. I read danger in that look and knew I had to do something.

Watson did not know that the letters I was carrying were fake. I had not told him of yet, a fact I now regretted. I had thought that by the time Rogers would read these letters, Watson and I would be out of danger. I had not counted on this.

But this was no time to hesitate. The main thing was to get Watson out safely. As long as Rogers did not look through the papers carefully or systematically, my bluff was safe. I had faked the letters well enough to pass a superficial glance, not a concentrated one.

Drawing in my breath, I pulled out the bindle of letters from my pocket, and ignoring Watson's cry of horror, walked up to Rogers and handed it to him. His face twisted in a grin of triumph and he let go of Watson who collapsed on the floor with a painful gasp. Rogers smirked at both of us, but I had already noticed Watson's rather worrying short gasps and the way his chest rose and fell fast. Too fast.

Rogers noticed my look and grinning detestably said, "Yup, Masser Holmes. He's sick alright. Noticed it the moment I 'ad him pinned up. Was wheezing lik' an ol' horse." He cocked his head at me. "You don' take care of yer friends, Masser Holmes? 'E could be coming down with pneumonia."

I turned white with horror at the realization. I turned and looked at Watson. His face was contorted with pain and he was clutching his side, gasping softly. I noticed his face was wet with perspiration, and a tell tale flush was creeping up his face.

"Dear Lord" I gasped as I took in my friend's situation. Not caring that Rogers might shoot me I quickly knelt by Watson's side and placed my hand on his forehead. I drew it back with a gasp of alarm.

Watson was burning with a fever so high that I could almost feel the heat emanate from him. It frightened me that he had hidden it from me so long.

"Oh God." I muttered, laying my hand on his pulse to find it racing "Oh Dear God".

Watson stirred, perhaps from my words. He looked up at me, with half opened eyes, and then smiled.

I was absolutely and completely taken aback.

Watson's smile was so pure and…forgiving that I heard myself choke back a sob. He was burning with fever, he could…he could be dying, yet he still had the amnesty to smile at me, the man responsible for all of this!

What was I compared to Watson?

He was still smiling at me. "What is the matter, Holmes?"

I felt a shudder run through me at his hoarse and forced voice. He was in so much pain, I could not bear it.

Turning to face Rogers, I said in as commanding a voice as I could muster, "Get him out of here."

"And who made yeh the big man here, Masser Holmes?"

I ground my teeth audibly. "He is ill and injured and he needs care" I snapped "You must have some humanity in you to help an ill man."

Rogers looked at me, then Watson as if he was considering.

"I have already given the letters to you" I continued "Atleast let Watson go. I will stay on to enjoy your…hospitality as long as you want."

From behind me I heard Watson's feeble protest, but I ignored it. I would not risk his life anymore.

Rogers seemed to have come to a decision. He snapped his finger and an old man appeared at his side. Rogers thrust the letters at him.

"Here, check 'em."

I watched breathlessly as the man rifled through the letters. But to my relief he looked up, and nodding at Rogers, said, "Seems okay."

I slumped back against the wall and took a much needed breath of relief. Beside me, Watson's labored breathing continued.

Rogers slowly took the letters from the man and I saw him run his eyes over them. But I cared naught. Rogers had been fooled, Watson would get out of here safely and I-

There was a bang and I opened my eyes to see Rogers with his gun out and the old man lying in a pool of his blood on the ground.

I sat bolt upright.

Rogers let out his breath in a small hiss. "What kind of idiot are yeh!" he yelled at the corpse on the floor, while his men looked on, unmoved. "Can't yeh tell the difference between a fake and a real!"

My breath caught in my chest. He had figured it out.

Rogers turned to face me, madness and anger burning in his eyes. He stalked up to me, and pulled me up by my collar and glared into my eyes.

"Thought yeh'd cheat me, eh Masser Holmes?" His word were dark and cold. I tried to make myself look as fearful as possible while all the while aware of Watson's vulnerability beside me.

"I'll make yeh pay, Masser Holmes. Nobody cheats frank Rogers and gets away with it. Nobody!"

The next minute I felt a heavy fist connecting with my cheek and I crumpled under the sheer shock of it. But even as I fell, I heard a voice.

"Don't you dare touch him!"

Watson? What was Wat-?

With a sickening realization, I understood what was happening. Forcing my eyes to open, I saw the blurred figure of my friend, standing protectively in front of me, and even more horrifying, a dark figure raising an iron rod over his head.

"No!"

I don't know when the words shot from my lips. But as I dived towards the figure I felt something heavy crash onto my shoulder. I saw the iron rod smash onto Watson and my last lucid memory was of a police whistle….