Holmes sensed the pain of his old friend before Watson entered the sitting room. Frustration seemed to drip from the ceiling with his entrance. "Watson, what's happened?"
Watson didn't answer for a moment. He collapsed into an armchair and buried his face in his hands. "I had a death at my practice today."
Holmes was silent, observing his friend. He chose not to speak because he knew that, given time, Watson would admit the true cause of his frustration.
"Cholera," Watson straightened up and looked Holmes directly in the eye. "By the time he arrived at my doorstep, it was too late."
"Cholera," repeated Holmes, looking distinctly troubled. "Who was the victim?"
"His papers identify him as Oliver Kensington, a member of the aristocracy. Apparently he was masquerading as some sort of tramp because of a row with his father. Do you know of him?"
Holmes froze, not quite daring to believe what he heard. "Did you say Oliver Kensington, Watson?"
"Yes. Yes, I did."
His mind began to race at the name. Theories that had seemed ludicrous a few short hours ago suddenly seemed plausible. After the boy had left, Holmes had dismissed the thought as too incredible for it to be real. And now…Was it possible that Kensington was telling the truth? It had seemed out of the question at the time…he had only agreed to take the case out of sheer boredom…
"Are you all right, Holmes?" asked Watson, his brow creased with some confusion.
The voice brought him out of his private thoughts and he attempted to shake himself mentally. "Yes," he said absently, staring out of the window deep in thought.
"Holmes?" He could hear Watson rising from his chair to stand behind him and could feel the conflicting emotions of his old friend prodding at him. He sighed.
"Did you get any information out of him before he died?"
"Information? Whatever do you mean, Holmes?"
Holmes turned to face him, his features grave and thoughtful. "Oliver Kensington came to Baker Street yesterday."
Watson seemed to suck in his breath as the importance of this fact sunk in. "I see,"
"Kensington asked me to investigate a string of cholera related deaths. He believed that they were being deliberately spread."
"Who would want to spread cholera around London?"
Holmes took a deep breath before answering, refusing to look Watson in the eye. "Perhaps a serial killer,"
Watson was silent for a moment, apparently considering the overly dramatic notion. "Cholera could be a lethal killer if it is in the wrong hands," he allowed evenly.
Holmes nodded distantly, his eyes traveling down to the sheet of paper that he had forgotten was clasped in his right hand. Flattening it on a table, he looked down at it and began to read over it absently before looking up at Watson once more. "How many cases of cholera do you normally treat on a regular basis?"
"Very few in general," said Watson. "Cholera is a waterborne disease that can kill you in the space of a few hours."
"Waterborne," mused Holmes. "Is there any way that it could be spread accidentally?"
"Not in this day and age. After the epidemic in 1847, London made a sincere effort to clean up the sewage problem and installed filters. They only failed once and that was because the construction had not yet been completed."
"Is there any other way to contract the disease? By physical contact, for example?"
"It's feasible," allowed Watson. "If one was to have enough of the bacteria on one's fingers, then they could conceivably ingest it and fall ill. But it's rather unlikely."
"So they must ingest the bacteria,"
"Correct. Ever since the construction of the filtration system, we've not had problem with more than the occasional flare up. But none of them have been serious. And there's really no reason to assume that this one will be."
"Which is exactly why it will become a serious case," Holmes looked Watson in the eye for the first time since he had arrived. "Something tells me that Kensington's death was not an isolated incident."
"Do you mean that someone deliberately killed him to keep him quiet about his theories?"
"It's possible," Holmes allowed. "But we don't have any proof at the moment."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, there's nothing to suggest that Kensington's death was foul play. I wouldn't have believed it myself if he had not come to visit me."
Watson bit his lip and looked up at the clock. It had taken him more time than he had been anticipating reaching the flat and having the conversation with Holmes. It was almost dark. But he felt that Mary wouldn't object to him staying longer. "How about a bit of supper, Holmes? We can continue theorizing about this case as we eat."
"If you'll forgive me, I'll not mix this business with my food as of yet," said Holmes, not even bothering to fake an apologetic expression. Watson just nodded.
Watson closed the door of his flat with a feeling of relief, sinking against the floral wallpaper and rubbing his eyes with his free hand. He slipped his gloves from his hands, glancing up at the clock. It was late but he expected that Mary would be waiting for him as she always did.
His suspicions were confirmed as she suddenly appeared at his side, apparently having just come in from the drawing room. Her eyes were melancholy and she seemed choked as she fell into his arms. "John,"
"What is it, Mary?" He held her close as she lay against him, just breathing.
"Something terrible has happened. So many people are dying." He could see a tear sliding down her perfect cheek and he held her even tighter.
"What's happened?"
"I've spoken to other doctors. Cholera patients are popping up everywhere. Sporadically. And they're dying faster than we can care for them."
"Has anyone else come to our practice?" He asked, not really wanting to hear an answer.
"Two more. But they were dead within minutes of arriving. The families took the bodies." Her voice was throttled by another wave of tears and she was unable to continue. "It's so horrible."
Watson pulled Mary in close, breathing in her scent as she cried. But he wasn't thinking about her or even aware of her presence. His mind began to race as he slowly comprehended the information from both Holmes and Mary. And he didn't like what he was discovering.
About a week later, Watson stood at the window of his practice, staring out into the gloomy street. The bell began to ring as the carts moved up and down the road in front of the houses. "Bring out your dead!" called the driver, leading the mournful-looking horses.
At least every other household brought a body into the open air. Some were wrapped tenderly in white linen. Others were dressed in their Sunday best. Still others were dressed in the clothes they had died in. It was like the Black Death of old.
The grey clouds that had settled over London during the past few days had done little to raise the morale of the terrified citizens. And who could blame them? The cholera had spread like wildfire; during the past two days alone, the disease had chalked up more than 200 victims.
The disease was no longer contained to the area that it had originated either; it seemed to have oozed through the cracks of the streets, popping up seemingly at random. All of London's best medical professionals were at a loss. All of the data they had accumulated over years of epidemics argued that this chain of events was impossible. It was simply impossible for the disease randomly spread across the city by itself.
Which suggested that the Oliver Kensington had been correct: the disease was being deliberately transmitted over the population. But why? Even though it appeared to be random, there had to be some kind of pattern, no matter how slight. Unless, of course, the instigator was nothing more than a homicidal lunatic, which was very possible. The most dangerous killers were the ones who killed simply because they could.
But the pattern didn't suggest that this was the work of a madman. After all, the disease had to be procured and nurtured before it was unleashed. No mere madman would be capable of something like that. Which meant…this went much deeper than anyone had previously guessed. But, the theory of a homicidal madman was all that the police had come up with at this point. They could only hope that Holmes had uncovered something.
Holmes…Holmes had certainly seemed to be more than a little worse for wear lately. Watson could only imagine the frustration that the detective was experiencing. The fact that they knew the plague was deliberate didn't immediately point to who was responsible. Of course –
Watson's musings were cut short by a frantic banging on the front door. Swallowing hard, he hurried to answer the clattering. Lately, every time he'd heard anyone at the door, he'd taken that to mean that another poor soul was lying near death with the dreaded disease. The things that an epidemic could do to one's mind…'Oh God, please don't let it be too late.'
With one fluid motion, he wrenched the door open, ready for anything. Rolling up his sleeves, he prepared to assist before he…simply….froze at the sight of the visitor. John Watson was an army medico through and through. He had seen peace and he had seen hell on Earth. He had treated the most grievous of injuries imaginable; he had experienced triumph and utter failure.
But nothing, absolutely nothing in the world could have prepared him for what he saw when he opened the front door of his practice and peered out into the streets. The first thing he saw was the face of the man kneeling on his front steps. He froze; just staring in horror. Oh, no. Lord, please no. Because his worst nightmare had just come true in the form of a thin, young man on his knees in agony on his step. And all he could do was thinly whisper one word, one name: "Wiggins,"
He came unto himself in a heartbeat, shouting frantically for Mary. She was at his side in a second, sucking in her breath sharply at the sight of the familiar boy. "John?" her voice had raised an octave as she knelt down next to Wiggins, wiping his face with her apron and gently shushing his moans. "What do you need me to do?"
"Get Holmes." Watson's voice was steady now and he gently lifted Wiggins, carrying him inside. "For God's sake, Mary, get Holmes as fast as you can."
Mary got to her feet, casting one horrified look at the boy. "John," she asked hesitantly, donning her headscarf. "John, do you think that you can save him?"
John didn't turn but he did pause with his head bowed. Then he straightened and took a deep breath. "Mary, go. Now. Hurry." His words pierced the trepid silence as his voice betrayed the terror that they both felt.
And Mary was out the door in an instant, skirts flying as she ran. Every fiber of her being understood the danger of the situation all too well. She knew how much her husband cared for their patient and she knew that Holmes must be reached before it was too late.
So she ran, arms pumping and legs flailing, as fast as she could towards Baker Street. Tears streamed down her cheeks as astonished citizens stared after her. But she didn't notice, nor did she care. She would do what her husband asked. She would always do as he asked. And she was running. Running faster than she had ever run before.
*hides*