Title: Creative Abuses
A/N: Warning, this is an AU of DYING. Oh, and I changed Smith's pathogen from what it is in the original story to something WAY more fun. Response to Prompt #86--Puncture. Second of Three in this arc.
Watson woke several hours later to find himself alone in his darkened room. He could hear Holmes' voice drifting up from the sitting room.
"He's resting, Lestrade," Holmes' voice declared.
A soft murmur--Lestrade's reply, Watson supposed--spoke.
"He needs his rest," Holmes snapped. "Your questions will do him no good."
Watson smiled to himself at Holmes' over-protectiveness of him before he drifted off to sleep...
As soon as Inspector Lestrade finally left, Holmes raced back upstairs to Watson's room. The sudden arrival of Holmes' presence in the room woke Watson.
"Hey, Holmes," Watson said drowsily.
"How are you feeling, my fellow?" Holmes asked, sitting down in a chair beside Watson's bed.
"Too tired to sleep," Watson yawned.
"You need to rest, but you also need your fluids," Holmes remarked, pouring water into a glass from the pitcher on Watson's nightstand and handing the glass to Watson.
The doctor took the glass from the detective and took a sip of the cool, refreshing liquid.
"Holmes, would you tell me what happened?" Watson asked suddenly.
Holmes winced. He didn't want to admit to his friend that he had lost control of his emotions while trying to convince Smith to provide the cure for his pathogen.
"Holmes?" Watson asked. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Watson," Holmes replied. "It's just that I'm not sure where to begin."
"Begin at the beginning, Holmes," Watson suggested.
Seeing the wisdom in his friend's suggestion, Holmes started at the beginning...
One Week Earlier
Watson held up the tiny ivory box that had come in that day's post while he was away at his practice as he spoke.
"Are you pretending to love yet another innocent maid, Holmes?" the doctor demanded.
His friend, deep in thought, did not reply as he smoked his pipe.
Watson shook his head as he opened the little box, his curiosity getting the better of him.
He exclaimed--more out of surprise than pain--when the warm, moist tip of a hidden spring pricked his hand, dropping the box with a loud crash as ivory pieces scattered across the sitting room floor.
Holmes looked up at Watson, a cry of rebuke dying unspoken on his lips as his sharp mind pieced together what had happened.
Hazel eyes met frightened grey.
"Did it prick you?" Holmes whispered in dread, his voice easily carrying across the room.
"Yes," replied Watson, confused by Holmes' behavior. "But it's only a simple spring, broken as a result of rough handling in the post, Holmes. Nothing to be worried about."
"On the contrary, Watson," Holmes replied, a grim light coming to his eyes. "You have discovered first hand how Culverton Smith kills his victims."
Watson's blood ran cold at the detective's words, he remembered how poor Joan Isley, the maid who had come to Holmes with the wild claim that her master used his beloved diseases to commit murder, had taken gravely ill and died two days later.
The Present
Holmes paused in his retelling, noting that the doctor had fallen asleep.
"Sleep well, Watson," he said softly before leaving the room.