KCS's sentence: #035 – Fever

When Watson sent round a note to Baker Street, informing them he had treated a highly contagious patient and would therefore be spending the night in his surgery, London's keenest observer took no more than one glance at the increasingly shaky penmanship before bellowing out the second-story window to startle a passing cabbie.

I collapsed onto my consulting-room couch shortly after sending the note, and I did not think I would have the strength to get up again. A snippet of knowledge from a long-ago anatomy class came to my mind unbidden—the human body contains 206 bones and 656 to 850 muscles (depending on which expert you consult)—and I swear, every one of these hundreds of bones and muscles was aching. My lower back, particularly, felt as if it were on fire—or as if someone had stabbed it with a knife and was twisting it in the wound.

I was congratulating myself on having sent the note while I still was capable of it, when the door unceremoniously burst open and Holmes strode across the room to kneel at the side of my couch. He regarded me with his usual sharp scrutiny; I was aware that I was shaking, flushed with fever, and biting my lips to contain my groans.

"Leave immediately!" I exclaimed with as much force as I could muster.

"Why?"

"Because I've no wish to infect you."

He winced. "Do you suppose such a consideration weighs with me for an instant?"

"But it weighs very much with me," I insisted.

"Very well, Doctor. Do you know what your ailment is?"

"Unfortunately, yes, I do. It is smallpox."

"Smallpox?" he repeated incredulously. "Are you quite certain?"

"Yes," I sighed.

"My apologies, Watson; that was a foolish question on my part."

"Watson," he resumed after a brief pause, "what was it you intended to do when you sent me that note?"

"I was going to remain here while I considered how best to avoid exposing you."

"Well then. I voluntarily throw in my lot with you this time. Please do not argue with me--you are in no condition to remain here, in any case."

"Human life is very precarious anyway…" I argued wearily nonetheless. "All it takes is five minutes…as I have good cause to know as a result of my professional work; and even you, with all your gifts and brilliance with which you are endowed, cannot change that…"

"Pray spare me your fatalism at present, Doctor," he said firmly. "We have more immediate concerns."

"Watson," he resumed. "What are your current symptoms?"

"The usual ones for the prodromal stage of smallpox…splitting headache, high fever, low back myalgia, exhaustion…"

"You'll pardon me, Doctor, but are you quite certain it is smallpox and not something more benign? Granted, I'm no physician, but all the symptoms you just listed are non-specific and if you were just exposed today, this seems to have developed unusually rapidly…"

I had to shield my eyes from the light of the candle, weak though it was, before I could answer…my headache was growing worse and I was feeling increasingly ill.

"I was treating a smallpox patient at the hospital two weeks ago…He coughed directly in my face. Two weeks is the average incubation period for smallpox and all the symptoms match. I shall become contagious in another two to four days…" I trailed off, resuming with an effort. The lethargy was worsening; even speaking was growing difficult. "I had hoped I was protected after the vaccination I've had just a few months ago…"

Holmes, having been observing me all this while, could hardly avoid noticing my worsening condition.

"I understand, Doctor. Don't talk anymore; I've a cab waiting outside and since you say you are not yet contagious, we shan't expose anyone else by taking you home."

"But Holmes…" I managed to rouse myself enough to speak. "What about Mrs. Hudson? Or yourself, for that matter, two to four days from now? Even though you've both been vaccinated at the same time I was, as you see, that is no guarantee…"

"We shall cross that bridge when we come to it," he insisted, masterful as ever. "Now, let's see about getting you home. Can you stand?"

"I shall try…not too certain I'll succeed."

"May I assist you?"

"Please," I murmured, feeling simply too ill now to maintain any pretense.

As it turned out, I was barely able to stand; Holmes had to support most of my weight during the brief walk to the cab. The ride itself is rather hazy in my memory; all I remember is trying—and mostly failing--to refrain from moaning each time the cab lurched.

Next thing I knew, I found myself in Holmes's bed, with him sitting beside me, my hand enclosed in his. The time appeared to be late evening, and I was vaguely thinking…

It was not death I dreaded but blindness…to be helpless, relying on others for everyday things…especially for a physician and a writer…would I ever be able to write or practice medicine again if that were to happen?

Holmes seemed to read my mind as was often his wont, for he pressed my hand more tightly.

"Try to sleep, my dear fellow. It will make the time pass faster, and I daresay you must be exhausted."

"I confess I am," I whispered. "Will you also get some rest?"

"Yes, I shall. And whatever happens, we will see it out together, I promise you that."

"Thank you," I smiled, closing my eyes.