After Holmes' timely return from his encounter with Professor Moriarty, I had, at his request, sold my Kensington practice, and returned to our rooms in Baker Street. The mood was high, and we dined out, watched theatre, went to concerts and enjoyed weekends away in the country. We enjoyed fishing in the Lake District; walks in the Yorkshire Dales; and bicycling in the Fens. There were even a few cases that entertained my friend and myself. But as the months drew on, his state returned once again to the all too familiar state of lethargy that he was wont to fall into. I regularly attempted to rouse him from this black mood, but he seemed determined to remain depressed. Pressing the matter would end with him locked in his bedroom, scraping on his violin until all hours.
My final despair was reached when I returned from my club on a Friday evening. As I walked through the door I was greeted by Mrs Hudson, who seemed to be flustered.
"Are you quite alright, Mrs Hudson?" I asked.
"He's in one of his moods, Doctor," she replied, with a hint of annoyance in her voice.
"Oh," I said, and pulled back my shoulders before I headed up the stairs.
I had been gone less than six hours, and in this time, Holmes had managed to create piles of debris around the room; one placed so as to make it rather difficult to open the door. I pushed it back, and the pile tipped over. Picture frames, papers, crockery, linen and other assorted clutter scattered all over the floor. I squeezed myself through the small gap I had made, and surveyed the scene.
The room was in a state of complete untidiness; not a single thing that I could see was in its appropriate place. At first, I did not see Holmes, but a rising pillar of smoke led me to find him sitting under one of the windows, leaning against the wall. His pipe was rested on a dirty supper plate. Holmes was looking straight up at the ceiling, giggling inanely.
I was worried. "Holmes!" I exclaimed. But as I got closer to him, I saw the empty glass bottle on the floor; the syringe in the open case; and the spots of blood in the elbow of his shirt sleeve. I stooped down to his level. "Holmes?" I asked, "Can you hear me?" I received no reply, and so clicked my fingers close to his face. He looked at me, and responded by laughing loudly. I frowned with disapproval. "Holmes, how can you risk such damage to the intellect with which you have been endowed?" Again, my friend did not reply. There was little I could do, and I resolved to try and neaten some of the disorder that lay before me.
It was not an easy task; Holmes' system of organising his belongings had no real foundation, but I did my best to return things to a state of tidiness. My efforts seemed to please Mrs. Hudson, who came up to offer us some supper.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said.
"Would Mr. Holmes like anything?" she asked, displeased.
I looked at my friend, who seemed now to be giggling rather more quietly to himself, still sitting in the same position. "I don't think so, Mrs. Hudson, thank you."
She nodded and went back downstairs. As she left, she muttered to herself. "Well, at least I can get through the door, now."
Mrs. Hudson's soup was delicious, and this combined with the exertion of picking through the piles of property scattered around the room, made me fell quite ready for bed. I stepped over to my friend. Now his condition seemed much changed. Rather than giggling inanely, he seemed much more subdued. His eyes were closed.
"Holmes," I said, attempting to rouse him. "Come on, man! Holmes!"
He did not move. I held a light close to him, and could see the flushing of his face. I gently opened one of his eyes, and observed how very small his pupils were. I shook my head; these were the tell-tale signs of his having taken morphine. I was not sure whether he had, in fact, taken this instead of the cocaine, or as well. I was almost angry, as Holmes knew very well, perhaps more than most, what a dangerous thing it was. I checked his pulse and his breathing, and fortunately I did not believe him to be in any real danger. I hauled him to his feet, but he made no effort to stand. I threw him over my shoulder, causing me to wince; Holmes was not a heavy man but I had been feeling my old wound in the cold weather. I took him through to his bedroom, where I laid him on his side on the bed, and left him to sleep it off.
Holmes was still asleep the next morning at breakfast, and I left him in bed as I ate my boiled eggs. I did not wish to fall into a brown study myself, so resolved to go to my club once again. I checked on Holmes again, and found his condition to be satisfactory. With that, I was on my way.
My morning at the club was largely uneventful. I spent some time reading the newspapers, and later had lunch with friends. This raised my spirits somewhat, and I went back to the reading room to enjoy a volume I had taken from the library entitled, 'A Picture of Dorian Gray.'
I had not long been sitting when I was disturbed by an acquaintance of mine; a medical student named Clarke. He was fresh from his textbooks, and he had recently begun training at Charing Cross Hospital. He had been working at the club as a clerk to raise funds. I had considered him to be inexperienced but eager, and thought that he would become a fine doctor. He rushed over to me, seizing the arms of my chair.
"Dr. Watson!" he said, panting. "You have to come with me!"
I was somewhat surprised. "What?" I asked. "What has happened?"
"Please, Sir, follow me!" he said, and hurried out of the room. I abandoned my book, and followed after him. I had barely time to retrieve my hat and coat on the way out.
In the street outside lay a quite terrible scene. Two Hansoms appeared to have collided, turning one was onto it's side. They were now quite attached by splintered wood, one to the other. One staggering cabman was tending to a horse with an injury to his hindquarters, and another beast was being held further up the street by a boy. I looked at Clarke, and we both ran over to the cabman.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Driving like a bloody idiot, he was!" spat the cabman. "My apologies, Sir," he added, shamefaced. "He was all over the road. There was nothing I could do to get out of his way! Then his horse took fright, and now we have this! Three sheets to the wind, no doubt," he said.
"Are you all right?" I asked, noticing a trickle of blood from under his hat.
"Just a scratch, Sir, thank you. I'm more worried about the horse."
"Very well. See that you clean and dress the wound."
"Yes Sir, thank you, Sir," said the cabman.
I looked around. "Where is the other cabman, Clarke?" I asked.
Clarke also glanced around. "I cannot see any other," he said.
"He's in the cab, drunk as a Lord!" called a voice from the other side of the street. A woman was pointing to the fallen cab.
I rushed over. As I did so, Holmes' methods occurred to me; how would the driver end up inside the cab? When I arrived, I had my answer. He had evidently been thrown from the vehicle, and had it landed on top of him. He was saved from a more crushing blow by one of the wheels, which had ended up in such a position as to create a small hole beneath the wreckage.
We pulled him out. He was not a young man, and must have been around thirty. I leaned down to him, and found that he did not smell of drink; an unusual find in a cabman on a cold afternoon. He did not appear to be badly hurt, aside from a few grazes and bruises from his fall to earth. These were obscured as the fellow was rather dirty with mud and soot. Clarke tried to rouse him by gently tapping his face.
"Dr. Watson!" he said. "The man is freezing cold,"
I confirmed this as I took the man's wrist to check his pulse. It was weak, and slow. His cracked lips and sunken eyes showed severe dehydration. He was in shock. As we tended to him, the poor creature died before our very eyes. There was nothing we could do.
We checked his person for identification, since the other cabman did not appear to know the man. We found nothing, but were joined presently by the man's wife.
"Avi! Avi!" she shrieked, running over to where we were crouching on the ground. "Whatever has happened to you?"
"He's drunk!" shouted the other cabman from across the street.
"My Avi don't drink!" she yelled back, in an irate manner.
I beckoned to the woman, in order to prevent the argument going further.
"I am a Doctor, Madam, Dr. Watson."
"What's wrong with him?" she asked, crying.
"I am afraid, Madam, that he is dead."
I expected her to respond with hysterics, but she remained remarkably steadfast. "Tell me, has he been ill?" I asked.
She did not answer me at first, as she was pawing at her prostrated husband and calling his name. However, Clarke took hold of her hands, and she answered.
"He's been awful sick this morning, but he said he felt better."
"Anything else?" I asked.
She eyed me with a suspicion that softened when I smiled. "He had the shaking awful bad, and took to his bed. He couldn't even walk with the aching of his arms and legs. And he drank more water than as we could fetch to him."
My guard was up. "It is very important, Madam. Was there anything else?"
"No," she said.
I was relieved. The man had no fever, and was probably suffering from dehydration and overwork. I knew cabmen who worked fifteen hours a day, six days a week.
"There was something peculiar," she said, almost absent-mindedly. "His voice."
"His voice?" asked Clarke.
"Yeah. It went all high, like that of a youngster."
My worst fears were realised. I pulled off my hat and used it to cover my mouth as I breathed in with a feeling of dread.
"Dr. Watson?" asked Clarke, surprised.
I stood up, and bade him do the same. I leaned close to him. "Cholera," I whispered.
"Good God!" said Clarke. "What do we do?"
"Please will you immediately notify the Medical Officer for Health. He will recognise the matter as being most urgent."
Clarke nodded and carried out his task. I waited on the street with the wife of the man, who quickly arranged for the interment of the body. I was surprised; such people often found it difficult to raise the required funds so quickly. The woman explained that her husband was Jewish and must be buried as soon as possible. I enquired no further.
Men came for the body, and I warned them to handle it with care. More came to recover the cabs, and the other cabman decided to help.
"I never thought for a minute the poor fellow might be killed, Sir!" he said, apologetically.
I took my leave of them. By now it was almost seven o'clock and I decided to return to Baker Street.
