103.5
Watson frowned at the quicksilver. 103.5 degrees, and still rising, for all his efforts.
A piteous moan from the sofa drew his attention from the contraption of glass and liquid metal. Setting it aside, he turned to the sofa-turned-sickbed. Lestrade lay with his small form curled upon itself, shivering in a thin nightdress that was on him for modesty, not warmth. His skin was pale and clammy but his cheeks were flushed with fever, his brow furrowed and lips compressed in an expression of suffering. His eyes, when they opened, were unfocused and bright in the lamp-light. Watson took up the damp cloth that his tossing had dislodged, immersing it in the basin on the table and wringing it before bringing it back to Lestrade's sweat-glistered temples. The cool touch relaxed his features a fraction, and for a moment he stilled.
Watson sat back, regarding his unfortunate patient somberly. The fever had not risen quickly, but it was steady and sure despite all he had done, as inexorable as the passage of time itself. Soon it would reach a lethal level, and his friend would slip away, his own body consuming itself from the inside. It had already been a full day since he was last fully conscious.
The clock on the mantle ticked loudly. The fireplace was cold, oil-lamps all that kept the dark night at bay. Wind whistled past the cracked-open windows and tried to invade the small sitting-room, barely dispersing the scent of carbolic. Lestrade's breathing was harsh and shallow.
The doctor rose and walked away from time.
The hardwood floor faded beneath his feet, yellowing walls falling away, ceiling peeling back. No landmarks lay before him, but his feet led him surely, leaving the room far behind as he followed an all-too-familiar path.
A dark shape formed on the horizon. As he drew nearer, he saw it for a table, a dark-finished antique that was worn at its baroque edges. A lacquered chessboard adorned it, carved figures of ebony and ivory already arranged in their neat ranks. Watson took his seat in front of the black pieces and bowed his head. Presently, the other chair was claimed. Watson looked up at his companion, unsurprised by the deep blackness that returned his stare from within the flowing, hooded robe.
"It's double or nothing this time," he said. "I won't let you take him, too."
The figure said nothing, but a skeletal hand reached out and broke an ivory pawn from its rank. Watson pursed his lips, and responded in kind.
They played in silence. Pawns forward, knights, bishops, rooks, organizing their defenses and then moving in for the attack. The corvine knight, cunning and quick, captured six pieces alone before he was caught by a bone-white bishop. The piece staggered and toppled, cried out as it tumbled from the board, over the edge and into eternity. Rushing water roared in the doctor's ears, and his hands shook as his rook downed the offending bishop.
Then the sable queen went, too, plucked quietly from her place. He saw it coming, saw his mistake, but too late, long past the point that he could even hope to help. All he could do was look on as she wasted away before him, little by little. Still she smiled, delicate and frail, even as her eyes closed for the last time and those icy fingers finally claimed her.
Moisture stained his cheeks, but he played on. Time and interval lost meaning as he soldiered ahead before his mute opponent. He played by instinct, by prayer, by desperation, with only the thought of his one shivering king to keep him going.
Finally, the doctor smiled, and advanced a single pawn. "Checkmate."
The empty hood tilted, considering the board, and after a moment dipped in a nod. Both rose, and Watson shook the figure's bony hand.
"Good game," he said.
Dark eyes fluttered open, clear for the first time in days, blinking in the streaming sunlight that greeted them. As the room came into focus, so too did the figure in the chair beside him, a fond smile on the man's handsome face. "Good morning," the doctor said, going to pour a glass of water from the pitcher at his elbow. "Your fever broke an hour ago. How are you feeling?"
Doctor Watson and Inspector Lestrade do not belong to me.
This is a companion to another piece I'm working on, called 'Fallen for Lancelot', but I think it stands well enough on its own. Or, it would, if it would actually agree with me. Criticize it pretty please?