Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson et all are the creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This story is a work of fan fiction, written by a fan, for the pleasure of other fans and no harm is meant or intended by its creation.
Yep, it's one of those unpublished cases that Watson is so fond of tantalising us with, as mentioned in 'The Norwood Builder'. Here is my interpretation of the case. Well, it could have happened like this, maybe, just maybe...
The Adventure of Ex-President Murillo's Papers
I: The Ailing Detective
Looking back over those few cases that my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, deemed permissible for me to make public to the world, I find that I have littered those tales with vague references to his many other dealings. In doing so, I have perhaps been remiss, for, in my enthusiasm to reveal the sheer scope of his range and ability, I have unwarily heightened my readership's desire to know more.
The exact nature and detail of some of those cases must be forever buried. Some may come to light when the principle players are placed far beyond harm's reach.
In this particular case, however, it has been my own pride which has held my hand, as the events which occurred have ceased to have relevance for some twenty years or more. Of all the unpublished cases I keep on record, this has been the one that Holmes has always been most keen for me to set down on paper, if only to prove that I will never be the detective he is, for my role in this affair hardly does me justice.
In my defence, it began with the best of intentions. It was just over two months since Holmes had made his dramatic return in the spring of 1894, simultaneously solving the mystery surrounding the death of the Honourable Ronald Adair. Almost immediately, we had been pitched into the shocking affair of the Dutch steamship Friesland, during which, as regular readers will remember in my earlier reference, we were in peril of both our lives.
So close a brush with death had produced within me a feeling of disquiet, to the extent where I felt compelled to spend a few days away from the oppressive heat of the city. Therefore, a few days after completing the sale of my Kensington practice and moving what little there was of my possessions back to our old rooms at Baker Street, I found myself on a train bound for the Cotswolds, armed with my trusty fishing rod and tackle.
The sweetness of the country air, the cool waters of the lazy rivers and the complete sense of freedom did wonders for my state of mind, and I returned on the Sunday afternoon in high spirits. The trout I had caught was duly presented to Mrs Hudson, who, despite sniffing suspiciously at this offering, promised to do the best she could in its preparation for our evening meal.
Without a care in the world, I fairly bounded up the stairs and entered the sitting room to inform Holmes of my return. At first, I thought him absent, as the room was strangely tidy and I had no reply to my call. Only on the point of leaving did I hear the faintest rustle of clothing, the sound of which stayed my hand on the door handle.
Closer examination revealed that Holmes was lying curled up on the sofa, his knees tightly drawn up, his face sweaty and ghastly pale, and still clad in his nightshirt and dressing gown, which even for a man of his irregular habits was unheard of at this late hour. It did not take a medical degree to see that he was quite seriously ill.
He had not stirred at my earlier call, and it took some gentle shaking to force him to open his eyes. When he did so, it took a few moments before he was able to focus on my face and a few seconds more before he was able to express his gratitude at my return.
"Watson," said he, rather weakly to my ears, "you're back. How was the fishing?"
"Hang the fishing, Holmes. It's you I'm worried about. You don't look well at all."
He gave a slow shake of his head and tried to prop himself up on his elbow, failing twice before finding a comfortable alternative.
"This is nothing," said he, dismissively. "A slight distemper."
"How long have you been like this?"
"Not long. It will pass."
In matters of his health, Holmes could be annoyingly vague, which to a trained medical mind is neither helpful nor reassuring. He has often said that he has the greatest faith in my skills as a doctor, and yet time and again has he proved unwilling to commit his care into my hands.
Normally, I would let him alone, mindful that Holmes was quite capable of taking care of himself; on this occasion, however, all my instincts told me that he had vastly underestimated the severity of his condition.
Much to his obvious irritation, I put my hand to his forehead, resisting his feeble attempts to brush me away. The skin burned under my touch, confirming as I suspected that he was running a high fever.
"Have you eaten?" I asked.
"No. I have not felt equal to making that effort."
"How about yesterday?"
"A little. To tell the truth, I was somewhat distracted."
It pained me to think what that distraction might be. I had hoped that three years of adventurous living would have given him enough to occupy his mind for a lifetime without having to resort to his habits of old.
Leaving his side, I went to the desk where he kept the paraphernalia of his dependency. Sure enough, the drawer was ajar. I pulled it open fully and found immediately what I had expected to see. Any goodwill that lingered after my weekend break promptly evaporated. My disappointment was absolute. That so soon after triumph Holmes should submit to such inglorious measures revolted and angered my soul.
His health had been strained after that last affair, and I could only assume that this mistreatment of himself had produced the state in which I now found him. I was of a mind to leave him to his own devices, but the friend and doctor in me softened the edge of my temper. That, and the fact that I now turned back to find him struggling from the sofa, produced the nagging suspicion that there was more to his present condition than mere self-induced folly.
I offered to help him, but he would not have it. With effort, he forced himself upright, wincing as he did so, and staggered in the direction of his bedroom. I watched him go, feeling my unease growing with every unsteady step he took. The door closed, and to my surprise, I heard the key turn in the lock.
Never before had he so pointedly shut me out. Either my questions had somehow offended him or there was something he did not wish me to see. I fervently prayed it was the former, although every professional instinct was telling me that it was the latter.
I was alarmed enough to turn back to the contents of the drawer. Amongst the clutter was an almost empty bottle of morphine. I had, it seemed, assumed all too hastily that his choice had been for escape. The evidence pointed instead to a self-administered need for pain relief.
Barely had I time to digest this fresh information than to my ears came the sound of retching from behind his closed door. I cursed his obstinacy and my willingness to believe the worst of him, and I tested my weight against the lock. Mrs Hudson was not going to be best pleased at the prospect of a broken door, but then I hardly thought she would have approved of me leaving Holmes to die either.
As it happened, it did not come to that. The key scraped in the lock from the inside and I found the knob turning freely in my hand. He had evidently thought better of preventing my admittance.
I entered to find Holmes settling himself on his bed, his eyes half-closed against the pain from which I now could readily see that he was suffering. He had been sick, but had brought up very little, confirming what he had already told me about his loss of appetite.
A number of possible causes sprang to mind, most principally one to which I knew Holmes would most object. However, looking at him now, deathly white and shivering, I doubted he was in much of a mind to put up a struggle.
"Why ever are you standing there, Watson?" said he, glancing sideways at me. "Do not trouble yourself on my account."
"I will not leave you like this."
"I have had worse."
"I sincerely doubt that. Whether you like it or not, I'm going to examine you."
"No!" he objected with as much strength of voice as he could muster. "Even the closest of friends must observe each other's boundaries, and I would be obliged if you did not take it upon yourself to presume that I am willing to submit to such an indignity."
"Rubbish. You are ill."
"No, Watson, I will not permit you –"
"And how are you going to stop me?" said I, sitting on the bed beside him.
Holmes will ever think that he knows best. I will grant that in some matters, this is the truth; when it comes to matters of diagnosis and treatment, however, that privilege I reserve solely for myself. Added to which, it distressed me to think that I had left him with the beginnings of a disorder that could so quickly have led to his death. Even now, he seemed shrunken, vulnerable almost, a pale reflection of the man in whom so many placed their confidence. One of us needed to be strong, and that role fell to me.
As it happened, he was too weak to resist as I pulled back his dressing gown and laid my hand as gently as I could on the lower right side of his stomach. His reaction was immediate, his famous self-control for once deserting him. Beneath my hand, the muscles tensed and quivered, and his breathing became laboured. He sought to contain it and only when I removed my hand did he cease sucking in his breath between his teeth.
"It hurts?" I asked.
His reply came as nod.
"How long have you been taking morphine for the pain?"
His eyes slowly opened to stare at me with some small trace of anxiety therein. "Since yesterday," he said, stumbling over the words. "Watson, leave me. I will be well soon enough."
"No, Holmes, unless you are treated, you will die, horribly and in a great deal of pain, worse than what you experiencing now. I believe you have appendicitis."
He shook his head. "You are wrong, Doctor."
"Yes, in that you are probably right," I retorted. "In fact, I think you have acute appendicitis and are likely to be dead by tomorrow."
I dislike the modern recommendation of scaring a patient into necessary treatment, but in Holmes' case, I had either to take a firm line or stand by and watch him die. The former was eminently preferable if I wished to avoid the latter.
"There is a new surgical procedure for dealing with the condition. It will mean a stay in hospital –"
"No!" said he. "I have no wish to die in a bed that is not my own."
"Don't be so melodramatic, Holmes," said I. "Many people have recovered from acute appendicitis once the surgery has been performed. Without intervention, your life expectancy is very short indeed."
"Shorter still if I set one foot inside an infernal hospital," he murmured. "Never will I agree." He turned his head to look at me and my gut knotted to see an almost desperate entreaty in his eyes. "Watson, if it must be done, you do it."
"I cannot. I have only read of the procedure, not performed it."
"Then it cannot be trusted. I will not submit."
How anyone with so logical a brain could have so illogical a reaction to the merest mention of hospitals has always been a puzzle to me. I have had other patients who have explained their fears as being the result of losing a family member to recent surgery or being panicked by tales of infections caught in the wards.
In Holmes' case, I am less certain of the cause, but I am aware that his fear persisted. Some years after these events, in the case of the Illustrious Client, the particulars of which I have already related, Holmes would again reject the relative safety of the Charing Cross hospital after being attacked by ruffians for the more familiar surroundings of Baker Street.
To this day, the reason remains his secret and my eternal curiosity. I have never questioned him on the subject and he has never offered to enlighten me. As he himself stated, even the closest of friends must observe each other's boundaries in that respect.
In the present situation, however, Holmes' stubbornness posed a considerable problem. The longer I delayed, the worse he was liable to become and the less optimistic his chances of recovery. He still possessed the strength to resist and, short of hitting him over the head and forcibly carrying him to the hospital, there seemed little I could do. Where there is a will, there is usually a way in such matters, and I soon saw how I could secure his safe arrival into the surgeon's care without resorting to more brutish methods.
The solution lay upstairs in the assorted box of medicines I had retrieved from my former practice and had yet to unpack. It did not take me long to find a full bottle of morphine and prepare a dose calculated to reduce even Holmes' formidable constitution to the level of a sleeping baby. My conscience bothered me a little at the thought of forcing him into what for him would be an ordeal and I had to quash it by telling myself that one must be cruel if only to be kind.
This opinion was confirmed when I returned to his side to find him visibly suffering from the worsening effects of his condition.
"For the pain," I told him, as I rolled back his sleeve. "If you won't heed my advice, at least I can make you comfortable."
He made no effort to resist me, believing faithfully my lying words. I hated to betray his trust and had to compel myself to administer the injection. Such was its potency that in very little time I saw the beginnings of peace sweep the deep creases of pain from his face and give him blessed relief. Drowsiness was overwhelming him and I thought he would slip quietly into its embrace, but at that final moment before he succumbed, his eyes flew open and he grabbed at my hand, his grip tight and crushing.
"What have you done?" he whispered. "Do not let them take me!"
"My dear friend, all will be well, have no fear," I said, soothingly, gently pushing him back down onto the bed. "Go to sleep now."
He could not fight the pull of the drug and he fell limply back on the pillows. His hand remained in mine, his grip weakening by the second. When next he spoke, it was so quiet I had to lower my head to his mouth to hear the words, which sent a lance of traitorous agony straight through my heart.
"Stay with me, John," came the soft words. "Do not let me die alone."
What little strength remained failed him with those final words. Sleep took him and his head lolled to one side, as meek as any newborn kitten. His fingers relaxed and his hand fell from my grasp.
At that moment, I counted myself amongst the lowest of God's creatures, to have betrayed his trust in so grievous a fashion. Never before had he used my Christian name and to hear it now made my misery complete. Worse of all, in his final moments of consciousness, he had known what I had done. For his own good, I had denied him a choice and delivered him up to his worst nightmare.
I knew that if he died I would never forgive myself.
If he lived, I doubted whether he would ever forgive me.
To Be Continued…
Reviews are always welcome and greatly appreciated!
On a historical note, Reginald Fitz first described the symptoms of acute appendicitis in 1886, with Dr Thomas G. Morton of Philadelphia performing the first successful operation for the removal of the appendix in 1887.