Chapter 1: "victor devictus (1)"
by stickers95

(Watson)

Not only to me, my dear friend Sherlock Holmes always appeared to be a vigorous and most energetic man whose physical strength seemed to reflect the enormous powers of the brain within, although, unknown to the public, he was using up on himself freely (and, which was even worse, frequently). As a friend and doctor, I of course couldn't approve of his unhealthy habits, neither those of his trade nor those inflicted by the eventual and unavoidable periods of leisure. But all my remarks as to this subject were put aside by him with the same air of indifference with which he cast away any words of praise, and things went on the same way as ever. And, even as a friend and doctor, had I ever been in a position to instruct him on these matters?

Nevertheless, the information Mrs. Hudson gave me on my return, made me worry. "It's good you're back, doctor," she said, kneading her hands in discomfort as she looked at me. "It's three days now," she continued, "and he's pale like a ghost and won't let me do anything for him..."

I had been on the countryside for a couple of days, visiting old friends of mine, and during my absence, Holmes obviously had contracted what, according to our landlady's description, could only be some kind of enteric fever. But a diagnosis shouldn't be hurried or based on prejudices or second-hand information, as it was also true for Holmes's business of deduction, and so I set aside my luggage instantaneously and climbed up the stairs leading to his room.

Although being prepared for the worst, I was quite shocked to find him in a most pitiful state, lying in his bed, pale and exhausted, his cheeks sunk in and very white, his eyes closed. His brows were glistening with cold sweat, and even from the spot where I had stopped at the door, it was obvious that he was breathing heavily and irregularly.
Carefully, I approached him and settled on the rim of his bed.
"Holmes," I said in a low voice, "can you hear me…?"
He stirred and slowly opened his eyes. His gaze first was somewhat clouded, but then his eyes cleared as he focused on me. "Watson…" he replied in a meek voice.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Hudson's fears seemed to have come true…

I reached for his forehead, feeling the heat underneath, and he did not object but lay still, letting me conclude my examination without any hindrance or comment. His eyes did response to light, but the accommodation reflex was very slow, and when I felt his pulse, I found it difficult to perceive any signs of heartbeat at all, so weak was his constitution.
At this moment, he made a strange sound – something between a groan and a gulp, and with a sudden effort he tried to raise himself to a upright position before I could assist him in any way.
"Watson – the bowl…"
I grasped for the bowl on his bedside table and fortunately was able to hand it over to him just in time, before my friend bent over it, and threw up the last little bits of contents his stomach seemed so incapable of managing. But as far as I could see, there had not been any food left in him, because all he spat out were sheer gastric fluids and bile.

My presumptions were confirmed.
These were exactly the symptoms I often enough had encountered in -…

A most troubled coughing sound dragged me back into reality. Shoulders sagged, head low, he still hung there, hardly capable of maintaining this position and breathing heavily.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
In exchange for the bowl I handed him a towel. "For what…?"
Slowly he lifted his head, and through the lush streaks of his dark hair that now nearly barred his sight, he looked at me with an expression of resignation and frustration.
"For causing you so much trouble."
"My dear Holmes," I replied. "You should have sent for me, and I would have returned earlier."
Quite contrary to his habits, he did not reply, which added further to my worries.

Easing him back into a lying position was the next step, and then he lay there, trying to catch his breath, while my thoughts were running wild, focusing on a possible solution, a remedy.
In my years in Afghanistan, I had encountered lots of fever attacks in my own regiment. Common to all these diseases, including even such plagues as the Cholera, was the imminent danger caused by the enormous dehydration. The constant loss of water and minerals through frequent spitting for many years had been regarded as irrelevant, a mere side-effect, but recently it had been discovered that in fact this was the greatest threat to a patient's health, much more than the accompanying fevers ever could be.
Holmes also had lost weight and was weakened to a great extent, and there was an urgent need for replenishing the fluid reservoirs of his dehydrated body before I could turn my attention to the other symptoms of his malady.
I lay my hand on his shoulder.

"Excuse me for a moment, my friend, I'll be back soon."

In my chamber, I took a deep breath.
I wasn't exhausted from climbing the stairs – it was more like a feeling of gravest despair that had caused the lump in my throat, making me breathe heavily. And despite the fact that it was summer outside, that the air was filled with the sweetest scents such as of Robinia pseudoacacia(2), I realized that I was shaken with fear – the fear that my friend and companion might die…

So I summoned all my instruments in my bag, as my eyes fell on a row of glass flasks which Percy Trevelyan, a fellow doctor we had met in the Case of the Resident Patient, had given me recently. We had kept in touch since then, and Trevelyan, eager to rise in medical rank through constant study, had provided me with these samples. One of them I remembered now, because he had described to me this drug in detail. It was a pale white crystalline powder called acetylsalicylic acid, a substance originating from the bark of the common Salix(3) species, and said to be a painkiller and antipyretic, although it on the other hand could induce adverse effects such as gastrointestinal bleeding. For a moment, I hesitated, but then I stuffed it into my bag and went downstairs again.

Before I entered Holmes' room again, I called for Mrs. Hudson, explaining to her my intentions. I needed decocted water, which, by the process of sterilisation through the boiling heat, was germ-free or nearly germ free and therefore imposed no further threat to my poor friend's health. Within the last few years, I had read about Pasteur's(4) theories on germs, followed by Koch's(4) monograph on sterilisation, and found them reasonable. If any of these findings could be of help now, I would use them in finding a cure, since I still wasn't sure about the fever's origin. How could Holmes have contracted such a disease in the heart of London, in the middle of the civilized world? Could an East India trader have brought this plague over to the continent? Did he have contact with seamen at the docks?
But this riddle was not to be solved now. The life of my friend was at stake, and all the rest would have to wait.

- + -

(Holmes)

Whenever I wake up from my feverish sleep, I find John Watson sitting at my bedside.
Good old Watson…
Never a man had a more faithful friend.

Whenever I stir, I find him still there, looking at me, watching in his most sympathetic way over my restless slumber.
Always alert.
Always patient.
Always there when I need him.
Did I ever let him know what he really means to me?
No…

From the look in his eyes I can tell how worried he is. His glance is upon me, full of concern, and it makes me realize that things must be quite bad.
If I look as bad as I feel, no wonder.

Every limb, every square inch of my body is aching, and I can hardly move. Picking up a glass of water, since he is urging me to drink a lot, has become a demanding task that leaves me exhausted.
The pain in my stomach is easing away by now, but the feeling of sickness lingers on, and occasionally I am still shaken with fever…
I feel tired and worn-out.
Quite not myself.
Even my thoughts are somewhat unarranged, fragmentary, short, as short my breath.

And now he is making me drink decocted water.
I think that settles it.
He's mortally afraid for me…

Has it really come that far?
I often thought of death, but never of it to come to me in such unlikely a fashion.
Well… I could imagine lots of much more unpleasant ways of fading away from this world than with John Watson at my side.

Probably it would break his heart.
…But haven't I done so before?

So be it then – I've got to take it as it is.

Not much of a choice left in the state I'm currently in.
I'm so tired…

But I'm glad he's here – here at my side.
My John Watson.

- + -

(1) Latin, for "winner, defeated"

(2) Robinia pseudoacacia, "Black Locust", also known as "Fake Acacia", is a tree of the Fabaceae (pea) family. Native in the U.S., it was introduced into Britain in 1636. This tree's flowers emanate a sweet honey-like fragrance during the months of June/July.

(3) Of Salix, the common Willow tree, there are about 400 species to be found in the cold and temperate regions of the Northern Hemisphere. Leaves and bark contain salicylic acid, the pre-cursor to the so-called Aspirin drug.

(4) Louis Pasteur, a French chemist, was one of the main defenders and promoters of the "germ theory" which blamed micro-organisms to be the cause for many diseases. He developed the so-called "pasteurisation" process (today still used on milk), a process for the reduction of germs in liquids and foods (in other words a food preservation process). Robert Koch, a German scientist/physician, was strongly influenced by his ideas. As a result of his findings during his work on anthrax bacteria, Koch recommended 1881 the sterilization of surgical instruments by heat, which was – until then – no common practise…!
Both Pasteur and Koch, were named later founders of modern microbiology. For more detailed information, you better consult the internet or read a decent book.