The Dying Genius
A./N. This is going to be based on the canon- story "The Dying Detective" following pretty much the same pattern of interweaving old with new that I already used in "The Reigate Stockholders." Hope you like it... and if you like it, please leave a comment ;-)
„Dr John Watson. He's my tenant, well, one of my tenants. I need to speak to him immediately"
"But the doctor is seeing a patient, Ma'am."
"Don't Ma'am me, young lady and I promise you, he will thank you very much if you disturb him now and get him out here. I need to talk to him, I am worried..."
I heard the voice of Mrs Hudson through the door of my room where I had been examining old Mr Joshua who was the latest victim of this years' influenza virus. He would survive it, but his lung sounded like a box of nails and I got the impression that he had been lying when he had put the cross at "non smoker" on the form I had given him to fill out. But as I was used to having a nicotine addict at home who could turn into quite a beast if he did not get his patches or – in some cases, when even patches did not do the job – his tobacco in time, I had given up quarrelling with my patients about smoking. I was just tired of going through it over and over again with Sherlock.
I told Mr Joshua to get his shirt back on and walked out into the waiting room. Mrs Hudson looked flushed as if she had come here in quite a hurry and she looked genuinely concerned. I found myself wondering what my companion had blown up in her kitchen this time, but before I could ask anything she was already talking away.
"Oh John, I am glad I got you. You know I usually try to ignore what happens around your flat..."
I thought about the smell of Sherlock's chemical experiments his violin-playing in the middle of the night, the strange people staggering up to our flat, sometimes bleeding on her carpet and all of his strange habits. Mrs Hudson had nerves of steel and for some unknown reason she seemed to be quite fond of Sherlock Holmes although she had raised his rent again after he had been shooting the wall in our living room out of boredom. She had specified it was a raise on his side of the contract only and did in no way affect me. I had let her talk on without really listening and now suddenly was thrown back into the present by an alerting exclamation.
"He is dying, John", she said. "I know you have not noticed because you've been working night shifts at the Hospital to help out with all the people who got that new flu, but he has been constantly deteriorating for the last three days and I feel like I need to get you involved now or it's going to be too late."
I put on my jacket absentmindedly and was already walking out of the clinic signalling to the receptionist I would be back as quick as possible, whilst our landlady continued to tell her story.
"He did not want me to fetch a doctor. Told me there was no need. But this morning, I just could not leave him like that. He looks like that skull on the mantelpiece, all skin and bones and his eyes are shining like a madman's. He's running a fever I guess. I told him there was no possibility of letting him go on without seeing a GP and I would have him see a doctor whether or not he allowed me to, so he finally allowed me to come and get you. But we have to be quick. He looks like he's not far from pushing daisies anymore."
She sounded horrified which was enough to have me incredibly worried. Mrs Hudson knew Sherlock, she knew his ways. She knew he did not eat or sleep or talk for days on end from time to time. So, if she thought he might not see another day, she might as well have a point. I borrowed my hands in my pockets and walked over to the tube station asking for more details.
"Oh I don't know much about these things John. He has been working on that case in Rotherhithe last weekend and when he came back, he was already sick as a dog. Took to his bed almost immediately and hasn't moved ever since. He's not eating or drinking either. I mean I am used to him not eating much, but he must be dehydrated by now. And he's sweating and sometimes mumbling strange things."
"Good God! Why didn't you call me earlier?"
"He didn't allow me to arouse you. You know how he can be. I swear he was wielding that pistol he shot the wall with when I bade him to let me fetch you yesterday. But the way he is today, he could not have pulled the trigger had he tried to... you'll see when we get there. I really think he might be dying."
