The heavy, cold rain pounded mercilessly against the foggy window panes of 221B Baker Street. Nearly six hours before the enigmatic consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, left the warmth of the flat and dared to enter the icy night air. His task was just as mysterious and aloof as he is himself.
Dr. John Watson sat in front of the fires glow of the sitting room, his focus on the latest in medical texts he held in his hands. Being acquainted with someone as uniquely brilliant as Sherlock Holmes took some significant time to get used to, but be a friend to someone who can be as stubborn and reckless as Sherlock Holmes was a completely different challenge.
When Sherlock Holmes disappeared into the foreboding storm without a single word, Dr. Watson knew that he would unable to stop hid friend or ever get a reasonable explanation for his rash actions. This of course did not keep Watson from worrying about his friend's safety or health, but he accepted the fact that he would have no choice but to wait and watch and listen for any sign, any vague clue that may lead him down the correct path to understanding Holmes' current psyche and decision to go about his business, alone.
As the storm intensified, Watson's concern began to mount. How much longer would the detective be outside in this mess? Was he taking adequate shelter? Was he even still in London? These burning questions began to plague his mind; it was a struggle for him to continue reading his book. He could only imagine the strain of worry that poor Mrs. Hudson would have to endure, if she were not on extended holiday with her sister.
A loud 'BANG' caught Watson off guard, he immediately leapt to his feet as the sound echoed loudly throughout the flat. The doctor stood his ground listening intently trying to deduce the location and cause of the heavy noise. The sound of the pounding rain seemed louder than it had all evening.
"Did the storm manage to blow open the front door?"
A swift cold breeze that raced up the stairway and into the sitting room confirmed the doctor's theory. Cautiously, Watson walked toward the top of the staircase with his cane in hand. Someone had entered the building. Pressed against the wall, Watson peered over the railing of the stairs and down at the opened door. Standing in the doorframe was a tall man, wearing a drenched, heavy black coat. The man was bracing himself up with one arm while the other arm cradled his ribcage.
"Watson…" The voice was a whisper, nearly hoarse.
"Holmes!"
In an instant, Dr. Watson recognized the disheveled 'intruder' as none other than his friend Sherlock Holmes. Watson dropped his cane and ran down the stairs to his friend. Sherlock Holmes was weak; his legs gave from beneath him. As he fell his crumpled body collapsed into the arms of Dr. Watson. The good doctor managed to make his way to the detective and keep him from injuring himself as he fainted; Watson proceeded to guide Holmes down to the floor, careful to keep his head and neck supported.
"Holmes? Holmes, can you hear me?" Watson patted the side of Holmes' face gently trying to provoke a response.
The detective lay unconscious on the floor; he was soaking from the rain and beginning to shiver from the cold. A it was obvious that the detective had been attacked, possibly ambushed by a small gang of hoodlums or, more than likely, many of the sleuth's angriest of enemies. His paled face was swollen with bruises; dark circles had formed beneath both eyes, though it was obvious his left eye would be swollen shut for several weeks. A long cut marked his face, following his jaw line under his blackened eye. Blood was smudged under his nose and around is lips, a sign that he had been coherent long enough after the attack to be aware of his condition to try to wipe it away. His knuckles were cut open, bleeding slightly; his second and third fingers of his left hand were obviously broken.
"Watson…"
"Wake up, Holmes. What in Heaven's name happened?"
"Watson…" His eyes slowly opened, they were glazed but he managed to focus his sight on Watson who was kneeling over him. "I have it…"
"What? Have what?"
"Evidence!"
"Evidence? What evidence?"
"My evidence. Under my jacket." He struggled to sit upright; a look that screamed of intense pain creased his face. "Please, help me get the study. We haven't a moment to lose!"
Watson knew Holmes would not change his mind, with or without assistance; he would attempt to ascend the staircase to the study, regardless of his physical strength. Slowly Watson began to lift Holmes back up to his feet, using the detective's belt as leverage and guide him over to the staircase. Both men grabbed hold of the railings on either side of them as they began their slow climb, side by side, up the stairs and into the sitting room above. Holmes kept his free arm wrapped around his torso, his other hand weakly held onto the banister that guided him up the seventeen steps into the sitting room.
"Holmes where have you been? What is wrong with you my friend? How much pain are you in?"
"One question at a time, please Watson. Once we are in the study, I shall explain everything to you and answer all your questions. But first thing's first…"
The two men reached the top of the stairs and entered the sitting room, the glow of the fire casting an eerie shadow against the wall behind them. With his patient weighing heavily against him, the doctor had difficulty maneuvering Holmes over to the small sofa near the center of the room. The detective sat limply on the sofa while Watson started to remove the heavy, wet, coat from around Holmes' shoulders and arms.
Watson managed to peel away the heavy fabric from his friend's form. He hooked the coat by its collar over the corner of the couch. The doctor looked back to his friend, but his eyes were immediately drawn to a deep red stain, on the once white shirt, that covered Holmes' lower ribcage and upper torso.
"Holmes… Good God man…"
The doctor instinctively pushed Holmes back against the sofa until he was flat on his back. He opened the injured man's stained shirt to further inspect the injury site. Sherlock was breathing deeply and quickly, his skin was stained as red as his shirt. Where there was no crimson stain however, his skin was pale, much paler than his usual complexion. Several broken ribs as well, no doubt.
"These look like… Knife wounds. Holmes, were you attacked by a mad-man?"
"Watson you are as astute as ever." His tone reflected sarcasm, even as he winced in pain between his breaths. "But you've failed to see the reason for the knife wounds."
"Are you honestly telling me there is a reason, a valid reason, for this atrocity?"
"Yes."
"Pray tell." The doctor briefly left the comfort of the sitting room to collect his medical bag.
Holmes attempted to sit up but his wounds kept him at bay. Instead he used his arm to grip the back of the sofa and lift himself upward and lean heavily over the edge. He watched through the open doorway as Watson gathered his supplies and returned to the sitting room. He was moving quickly, though his leg obviously ached from the poor weather outside.
Placing the bag down on the floor near the couch Watson began to inspect Sherlock Holmes' wounds, paying close attention to the laceration that seemed to have penetrated the deepest into the flesh. There were several cuts all down the man's abdomen; it looked at though he was attacked by a tiger. Many of the gashes were long, but not deep. Only two seemed to be significant compared to his other injuries. The laceration that concerned Dr. Watson the most was a long, deep gash that stemmed from the detectives chest, just below his heart and stretched down at an angle, stopping just above the man's right hip.
"This is going to sting a bit."
Dampening a clean cloth with some alcohol, Watson began to cleanse the wounds on Holmes' face. The detective winced as the burn of the alcohol filled his injured features but relished how cool and refreshing the liquid felt against his warm face, already hot from the physical exertion of climbing the stairs.
"Now Holmes, you said you'd answer my questions. Did you not?"
Peering through his one good eye, lids half open, Holmes stared at his attending physician. "I did."
"Then answer this: What is this evidence you claimed to have located?"
"You've seen it already. Did you not know?"
Watson paused for a brief second in surprise. He rinsed out the cloth in the water basin on the floor.
"I suppose not. Please, elaborate."
"Did you notice the pattern formed by the blade of the knife as it cut into my flesh?"
"All the cuts from the knife look, well, like cuts from a knife. To me at any rate. Why are they so special?"
"Watson! How can you be so daft?"
The doctor tried to hide his offense taken from the accusation. Wringing out the freshened cloth, Watson now focused on the larger injuries on Holmes' torso.
"Apparently so. But please, not stop your explanation on my account. Continue please."
"I shall."
Sherlock Holmes did his best to conceal his discomfort from his injuries on an emotional level, but his physical responses to the pain gave everything away. He flexed his aching hands into fists and squirmed his legs about as Watson cleaned out the gashes. The sting of the alcohol was starting to affect his thoughts.
"As you well know, for the past two weeks I have done my best to track down a serial murderer who wields a knife." He paused to catch his breath; the pain in his chest was getting worse. "The only people, who saw him and managed to live to tell about it, could only give a vague description of his height and his build, from the back. But I have managed to locate him and can now identify him by face, and I have the very knife he used on his victims."
Struggling to reach into his coat pocket, he pulled out the knife he had spoken of. The blood on the blade was still wet. The sight of it turned Watson's stomach, knowing that the freshest blood was of his companion and the blood that was dried beneath was that of his victims. Eight in total that could be proven. Thus far.
"You allowed yourself to fall victim to this madman?!" Watson just stared at Holmes with a look of utter disbelief and horror.
"Of course not, nothing so reckless of the sort." Holmes placed a bloodied hand on Watson's shoulder to reassure him of the integrity of his statement. "My original intention was to simply pick his pocket and take the knife for comparison against the knife wounds of his victims. But it seems that by choosing a bar to do this deed was… Shall we say, 'ill-advised'?"
Dr. Watson let out a small chuckle. The bloodied wounds were cleaned out, but now they needed to be dressed to keep out infection and stop whatever bleeding remained. His skin around the cuts was beginning to bruise over, turning a dark purple which was only emphasized by his naturally pale, almost pure white flesh tone.
"Despite managing to successfully deduce the culprit based on the witness description, as well as the wear of the man's hands and the glint of predatory instincts that peered through his dark eyes, I was unable to account for him having an ally or two in his midst. They recognized me as a consultant; perhaps I should've had a drink to further blend in with the inebriated masses."
He licked his bloody swollen lips; his patience with playing the patient was already reaching its limit. Watson only looked at his friend, a smug expression across his face. He knew only too well how much Holmes 'enjoyed' the attention of a physician.
"So then, you found the man, tried to take the weapon, but you were recognized as an authority figure?"
"Correct."
"And they were bold enough to attack you in the bar?"
"Of course not, there is a valid reason that this knife-wielding madman was never captured. He knew how to wait, isolate and then attack his intended prey. His 'friends escorted' me outside, into the back alley, in the pouring cold rain."
"Did you not call for assistance?"
"And allow another innocent civilian to fall victim to his dastardly blade? I think not!" Holmes struggled to pull himself upward, to sit completely upright.
"Don't do this Holmes, just lay back."
"I cannot."
"Why? What's wrong? Are you feeling ill?"
"A little… Light-headed, a dull ache as well. Nothing too serious, I just believe I will be comfortable sitting up."
"Wrong, you need to lay flat on your back for the time being." As Watson placed his hands on Holmes' shoulder to force him back down, he noticed that his eyes were still glazed over and small beads of sweat were beginning to form across his brow. Instinctively Watson put his hand to Holmes' forehead. "You have a fever…"
Enduring less than ideal health wasn't uncommon for Sherlock Holmes; he merely observed it as an inconvenience to him and the cases he elected to solve. Never taking his poor health seriously.
"Is the fever of a dangerous degree?"
"No, not at the moment." Watson pulled the small glass thermometer from his medical bag and coaxed Holmes into allowing him to place it in his mouth. The detective complied with reluctance of a small child. "But any fever is a sign of infection and you know as well as I how quickly the smallest of an infection can turn lethal."
"Yes, yes…" Holmes speech was slightly impeded by the device under his tongue. "As I was saying…"
"You were not saying anything, talking will prevent the thermometer from getting an accurate gauge on your body temperature."
"It will merely delay an accurate gauge of my body temperature. Not prevent it. And I already told you I would answer all your questions, you wished to understand why the events of the evening took place at all; I'm trying to finish explaining."
"Very well. Continue."
"Thank you, doctor."
Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes, and laid his head back on the small pillow that lay beneath him. Dr. Watson returned his attention to the remaining injuries to his friend, only his battered hands were left unclean and wrapped at this point.
"As the three men cornered me in the alley, I realized I had no one to assist me the ensuing bout. Instead of playing the odds of 1-on-3, I chose to 1-on-1. It was quite easy to isolate and eliminate the knife -wielder's cohorts by moving backward until there blindly swinging fists threw their entire upper body off balance, slipping in the mud was a great deal of help to me as well. I grabbed the nearest thug and quickly choked away his air and blood supply to the brain. He was unconscious within four seconds. Impressive if I do say so myself."
"Indeed." Watson had to set the broken bones in Holmes' fingers before mending them; he was listening to the story but not with as much interest or enthusiasm as per usual.
"As for the second thug, when he saw how quickly I incapacitated his friend, he threw himself upon me like a rabid dog to a helpless rabbit. When he had managed to grab both of my arms and pull them behind my back, but I was able to rend one arm free and successfully land a blow to the man's trachea. Needless to say, unable to breath, he let me go."
"That was a smart move, I must say." Watson had finished mending his friend's hands and now sat with full attention to the tale of intrigue that was being unraveled before him.
"Thank you doctor, I was certain you'd approve of my chosen technique. With all but one of the thugs now dispatched, I was able to focus my full attention on the madman with the knife. As I turned back to face him, he had pulled his knife from his pocket and plunged it's ominous blade toward my chest. I managed to dodge, but only just so. The blade did not strike its intended target but instead cut its way through my shirt and down my chest. I swear to you Watson, the sight of my blood seemed to have excited my attacker, there was twisted grin plastered on across his cruel face…"
"I hate to stop you Holmes, I really do, but I must check the thermometer. Hopefully your talking did not inhibit its ability to take your temperature."
Watson pulled the device from Holmes' mouth and examined the glass gauge.
"You appear to running a low-grade fever: *38.3 degrees to be precise. I will check again in a few moments. After you finish talking. But for now, I want to listen to your chest."
Watson pulled his stethoscope from his bag, he put in the ear pieces and placed the belly against Holmes bruised and bandaged chest.
"Breathe in."
Holmes complied with Watson's order.
"Again."
Once again, Holmes complied.
"You're lucky. Your breathing is normal, no sign of congestion. And despite the extent of your trauma, your heart is still beating on, strong and stable as well." Watson hung the stethoscope around his neck like he had done so many times when he was still in practice at the hospital. "Now, you may finish."
"Very well." Holmes' eyes stayed closed. He was tired and would surely fall asleep soon. "As the madman continued to thrust his knife at me, cutting at my torso and causing me to lose my footing at times, I saw no other alternative than to fight back now, claim the knife later. When he rushed in with his arm fully extended, the knife pointed at my heart, I stepped to the side, and then forced his arm over my shoulder. I then forced it down with all my strength, breaking his arm. He dropped the knife, no longer on control of his damaged limb. I then proceeded to attack the man with my own fists."
Sherlock Holmes rose up his swollen, bandaged hands for Watson to see, again. He then laid them down limply at he sides and proceeded to finish his story.
"Breaking the man's nose was simple enough, but his immediate reaction to strike me in the eye was unexpected. Then by delivering a decisive blow to his stomach, he fell over wanting to retch. I took advantage of this and used my knee to deliver to the finishing blow to his temple. He fell to the wet ground face first, unconscious. Luckily the bar tender had heard the calamity and called for help. I left just before the police arrived, grabbing the knife before anyone else could see it. By the time I made my way out of the alley and a block away from the bar, it started to rain much harder. Though uncomfortable, it was an opportune moment to make my retreat for home. Fewer people would be out in the streets."
"So you managed to subdue the villain, take his weapon and return to the safety of your home while the police lock away the madman for night?"
"Correct." His breathing was deeper, a sign of impeding sleep.
"I want to take your temperature once more to be sure. And now here you lay, the victor of the night." The hint of sarcasm did not go unnoticed.
"I assure you Watson, despite popular belief, tonight was indeed a victory. If not for me, for the innocent people of London who would otherwise fall by the madman's blade."
"I suppose you're right."
Holmes had drifted off to sleep, not as peacefully as one normally would, but at least he was resting. Watson placed his hand to Holmes' forehead again. There was no denying the start of a fever.
The good doctor proceeded to take a heavy quilt from the linen closet and place it over his sleeping friend. The warmth of the fire made the sitting room ideal for Holmes to rest for the evening. Watson took the thermometer from the detective's mouth once more.
"**38.6 degrees. Sorry ol' chap. But it appears tomorrow you'll be here, resting while I take the knife to Scotland Yard in your place. Rest well."
Dr. Watson proceeded to gather up his medical supplies and return them to the bag that still lay open in the floor. Rinsing out the water basin, he returned with a cool damp cloth and placed it on the warm forehead of his sleeping companion. Afterward, he seated himself in the armchair opposite the couch and drifted off to sleep as well. The fire was just too good to ignore.
-The End
*Thermometer (mercury) invented in 1714 by Gabriel Fahrenheit
*Idea for the stethoscope originated in 1816, by Rene` Theophile Hyacinthe; in France.
*38.3 degrees Celsius = 100.9 degrees Fahrenheit
**38.6 degrees Celsius = 101.4 degrees Fahrenheit