Chapter 7:"Middle Watch"
Middle Watch: Nautical term for the period of watch on a ship that goes from midnight to four in the morning.
Watson:
I was abruptly awakened by the violent ringing of the doorbell – staring sleepily round me, I realized I had dozed off in front of the fire, exhausted with my cleaning efforts.
The bell rang again, a very rude, long pull, and I glanced at the clock in annoyance. After eleven – I had only been asleep for around an hour. The bell rang frantically yet again, and I finally got up in great irritation, assuming that Mrs. Hudson had gone to bed.
Grumbling under my breath, I stomped rather in a temper down the seventeen steps and went to the front door, ready to give whoever was ringing it at this ungodly hour the dressing-down of a lifetime, and flung it open with rather too much force.
And then my heart seemed to stop beating for a moment, dropping directly into my shoes as an icy cold wave of fear gripped it with a deathly hold.
"Lachlan! What – what the devil happened?" I managed to gasp out, absolutely terrified, grabbing the unconscious form of Sherlock Holmes as Lachlan's grip on his limp body started to slip.
"Oof. Attacked, Doctor," the man gasped, releasing his hold as I picked up my friend's thin form easily in the fashion I used to carry wounded men off the Afghan battlefield, "three men – on the docks – knives – left side – fainted in the cab –"
Holmes was breathing, shallowly, I could tell that at least, as I raced as fast as my burden would allow up to Holmes's bedroom, kicking the door open as I went.
"Get up here, man – I may need your help!" I called frantically over my shoulder, my fright at not knowing how badly Holmes was hurt coloring my words with unaccustomed harshness.
"Where's yer bag, Doctor?" he bellowed on his way up.
"On my desk in the sitting room!" I called back, breathing hard under Holmes's dead weight.
I laid Holmes gently on his bed and turned the gas up – and at once felt a sickening sense of nausea as I saw the amount of blood on his jacket and shirt. My hands were shaking so badly that I could barely unbutton and remove his blood-soaked clothing, and Lachlan came in halfway through, brusquely pushing me aside, and did it for me.
He then dropped my bag on the bed beside me and vanished into our sitting room, returning in just a moment with a glass of brandy in his hand, which he wordlessly handed to me.
I had no time to wonder at his actions but swallowed it down, willing myself to get a grip on my nerves and help my friend.
I pulled the shirt away gently from where it had been pressed against the wound, by Holmes himself apparently, judging from the amount of blood on his hands, and recoiled at the sight of the nasty gash on his left side.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to treat Holmes as merely another patient, not as the most important person in the world to me – and in consequence I categorized the wound as being a deep grazing blow; thankfully it had not touched any bones or vital organs. Providence had been watching out for both of us.
But he had lost a serious amount of blood, and his pulse was very weak. I forced calm into my voice as I began to sterilize the wound and speak to our client.
"What happened, Lachlan, from the beginning?" I asked, cleaning the gash with disinfectant. Holmes remained completely unconscious, for which I was grateful.
"I was in a pub there by th' river, Doctor, when he came in askin' a bunch of questions about ships and so on. Bleedin' good disguise of his, that one is – I didn't recognize him at all," the man said, helpfully pouring water into a basin for me as I began to stitch the wound.
"And I thought he was rather a suspicious piece o' work, askin' that many questions, so I followed 'im after he left," the midshipman continued. "He got tangled with the wrong men asking the wrong questions at the wrong time, and got into one rare fight. Nasty bunch o' sailors, that."
"How many, did you say?" I asked, concentrating on the stitches.
"Three, doctor. If they 'adn't had those knives, I rather believe he would have taken all three of them out, too," the man said, watching my work. Lachlan went on to tell me what Holmes had found out about some steamship in the Lansing line, information he had gotten while in the pub – but I was really not listening to him in the least.
I finished stitching the wound and bathed the whole thing once more in antiseptic – I was very worried about the sailor's knife involved, for it was in all probability extremely dirty.
At the stinging touch of the disinfectant, Holmes moaned and began to stir uneasily.
"Easy, old chap," I murmured, patting his shoulder reassuringly as he tried to move, his eyelids fluttering.
"Watson?" his voice was merely a faint whisper.
"Yes, my dear fellow," I said, my voice shaking badly, whether from fright or relief, I was not sure which, "you mustn't talk now."
Holmes's grey eyes finally flickered open, and after a vacant moment they settled on my pale, worried features, and I saw a small smile cross his face.
"Sorry, Watson," he whispered weakly, trying to focus.
"Shhh, Holmes, you have to rest now," I said soothingly, "there is nothing to be sorry about."
"Yes," his weak voice was only a whisper once more, "sorry – told you – I would – be careful…"
I stared at him incredulously, tears stinging at the back of my eyes – after being knifed, he was mainly concerned about causing me to worry. I should never fully understand that man.
"Watson, I –" he stopped with a gasp as a sudden pain shot through his body, and I gripped his hand in both of mine as it clenched convulsively.
"Holmes, you have lost a good deal of blood, and you must rest now," I said, wishing my voice would stop its confounded trembling.
His eyes opened halfway and he looked over at Lachlan, who nodded encouragingly, and then he closed them once more, his hand going limp in mine a minute later as he either fell asleep or lost consciousness again.
I took a long, shaky breath and looked at the seaman.
"How bad is it, Doctor?"
"He has lost a large amount of blood – will be rather weak for a day or two," I replied, beginning to clean the stains off Holmes's hands, "and I am very fearful of an infection. If none sets in, he should be fine in a short time."
"Aye, that is good news," the man said with relief, handing me a roll of bandages and assisting me in wrapping them round Holmes's thin frame to protect the stitches.
"Thank you for aiding him, Lachlan," I said quietly when we had finished, pulling up the coverlet over Holmes's motionless form, "I hate to think – to think what would have happened had you not been there to help."
My voice shook with lingering fear on that last statement, and the man nodded at me.
"I think you might need another drink, Doctor, for it looks as if you will be havin' a long night."
I sighed. "Indeed. Please, help yourself to one as well."
The seaman nodded, disappearing into the sitting room as I finished cleaning Holmes's hands. He returned a moment later with two glasses, one of which he handed to me.
"I – I surely do wish I had seen the trouble sooner, Doctor, and been able to catch the fellows," he said, looking down at Holmes's still form with knitted brows.
"If you had not stopped to help him, Lachlan, he might have bled to death right there," I returned, downing my drink in one gulp, "I shall be forever in your debt for that."
The sailor's blue eyes met mine with that same steady, honest gaze he had given me earlier in the evening.
"As I said, Doctor, remember the storms – it is then that the greatest promises are made, and the greatest friends are found," the man said, his words bringing a smile to my face, for I recognized the hidden writer's potential.
"You are a wise man, Lachlan."
"Hmm. That's as may be," our client replied wryly, setting his glass down and thanking me. He picked up his hat from the table and shook my hand after donning it.
"Thank you again," I replied quietly, as Lachlan tipped the hat to me and went off down the stairs.
I washed my hands in a clean basin of water and put away my medical supplies, taking out my thermometer and placing it Holmes's mouth.
He had no fever as of yet, but that meant nothing. I should have to observe him carefully. I put my bag down beside the bed and pulled up a chair, then going out to the sitting room to retrieve a couple books and a pillow from the couch, preparing to keep a long vigil over my friend.
I stared moodily at the pages of my journal for over an hour, idly doodling in the margins of the book, unable to focus my thoughts enough to write anything. I was still scared petrified, the cold shock of fear still holding me in its grip.
I had only just gotten Holmes back from the dead a month ago, and now the thought that if the injury had been three inches further left it would have taken him from me yet again terrified me beyond description. I knew I should not be able to stand a second loss such as my first in 1891 – I physically and emotionally would have broken.
Three inches.
That is all it would have taken to lose him.
Three inches.
I dropped the pencil, my fingers trembling too badly to hold onto it properly, and lowered my head into my shaking hands.
Three inches, that was all. Was it possible that life could hang from so slender a thread? But for the grace of God, Holmes could have met his death tonight on the London docks, snuffed out without a second's hesitation by drunken sailors.
My thoughts were interrupted by a sound from the bed, and I quickly lifted my head – and was immediately alarmed to see that Holmes's face was flushed, and he was moving about uneasily and shivering.
My anxiety deepened as I laid my hand on his perspiring forehead – yes, as I had feared, he was running a fever - and it was only two hours after the injury! I hastily got the thermometer back out and took his temperature once more – 100.3. This was not good.
He was restless but not conscious, obviously in great discomfort. I put another blanket over him and then fetched a pitcher of water and a clean cloth. Dipping it in the water, I wrung it out and gently laid it on his forehead, and I was glad to see him quiet somewhat and stop the agitated movement.
I watched anxiously through the next hour, my alarm growing increasingly greater as the fever climbed. After an hour, the wound on his side was red and inflamed, and when I cleaned it once again with antiseptic, he awoke with a choked cry of pain.
"Holmes, lie still!" I said unsteadily as he tried feebly to push my hand away.
His grey eyes were looking at me vacantly, bright with the fever, and the look reminded me with a shiver of that evening when I thought him to be a victim of Culverton Smith's dread disease. I shook off the chilling fear and sat on the edge of the bed by him.
"Watson? Where am I? What – what happened?" he asked weakly, obviously disoriented.
"You were attacked on the docks, Holmes, and your wound has become infected," I said gently, "now you are ill, and you must lie quietly."
He looked at me in confusion, his face flushed, his breathing shallow. I laid my hand again on his head, and drew it back on the instant in fearful shock – he was burning up with fever, the radiating heat so intense it frightened me.
I took his temperature again – 102.6. It was rising swiftly, far too swiftly, and it was now only 2:30 am. Holmes's eyes had closed, but he opened them again with a cry of pain as I started to disinfect the inflamed injury again and he tried feebly to move away.
The fact that I was causing him such pain drove a dagger into my own heart, but I set my jaw and continued, motivated by the flush on his normally pale face and the way his eyes were unfocused and dark. There was a sheen of sweat on his gaunt features as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut to deal with the stinging pain of the antiseptic.
By the time I had finished, he was shivering even under the blankets, even though it was rather hot in the room, and I piled another afghan on top of him, watching his face worriedly. His breathing was becoming alarmingly shallow now, his perspiring face pinched and drawn as he curled up on his uninjured side in a miserable ball.
I re-wet the cloth and put it back on his head, and his eyelids fluttered open for a moment. I heard a murmured "Thank you, Watson," before they closed once more, and again I was dumbfounded by the man's unusual consideration for me, even when he was desperately ill.
I put the thermometer once again in his mouth, timed it, and removed it, looking at the level of mercury in the glass.
103.4. This was fast becoming critical. I glanced at the time. 2:45 am.
I set the instrument down with a trembling hand and began to fill the water basin with fresh, cold water, getting several towels from the hall closet. As the first one, chilled with the water, made contact with Holmes's skin, he gasped aloud and his eyes flew open.
"Too – too cold, Watson," he gasped, his eyes glazed with the fever, shivering violently.
"I know, Holmes," I said soothingly, continuing to apply the cold compresses to his neck and chest.
"N-no," he protested feebly, trying weakly to push my hand away.
"Holmes, you have a fever," I said, my voice shaking as I felt the heat emanating from him, "and we have to bring it down."
The quiet whimper he made as I got too near his injury nearly made me lose my composure completely, but I gritted my teeth and continued applying the cold compresses. I once again took his temperature, and swallowed hard when I read it.
3:35 am. 104.8.
A few tenths of a degree further, and it would be very, very dangerous. I had to bring that fever down, and I had to do it now.
I began to work desperately, trying everything I knew to try, my alarm growing by leaps and bounds every minute that passed. Within a quarter of an hour, Holmes was rambling, delirious, his eyes fixed upon me with no recognition whatsoever.
4:20 am. 105.5.
I listened as I worked desperately over the helpless form of my dearest friend, as his overactive fevered mind conjured up every conceivable villain from his past, some I recognized and many more that I did not.
I tried to quiet him as he once more fought to kill Grimesby Roylott's swamp adder, blocking his swinging arms as he attempted to strike the snake he evidently saw in front of him. I held him down as he battled Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls yet again, tears filling my eyes at his delirious ramblings. I heard my own name mentioned time after time, but his fevered eyes never realized I was there.
Some names he muttered I did not recognize, and all I could do was to work without ceasing to bring his fever down, alternating the cold compresses with warm ones, trying to get him to sweat the thing out.
5:30 am. 105.8.
I broke into a cold sweat myself – it was climbing still! Slower than before, but it was still climbing!
I have not, throughout my life, been as much of a praying man as I should, but I swear on all I hold dear that I was praying that dark night, like I never had before.
Holmes muttered something unintelligible, and then his eyes opened, looking through me blankly, unseeing.
"Lie still, Holmes," I said shakily as he tried to move away from my touch, flinching as I checked the wound. It looked like perhaps the redness had subsided somewhat. I prayed so.
Holmes said something I could not understand; he was incoherent.
6:10 am. 106.
I watched, petrified, as I pressed another cold compress onto his head, his breathing become even shallower, coming in short gasps now as the fever ravaged his body.
"Holmes," I said, talking aloud while I worked desperately over him, "do not give up on me now! I did not get you back from the dead only to lose you so soon – don't you dare give up! You have to fight this!"
My voice was shaking and my own words were as disjointed and rambling as his, but I cared nothing for that. I continued to restrain him as his fevered imaginings grew violent again and I continued to apply the compresses, all the while pleading with him to fight.
I checked his temperature again – but it was the same. Thank God it had not risen at least.
I continued to frantically apply those compresses without resting, desperately trying to lower that fever. But after fifteen more minutes and it had not gone down, I was beside myself with worry. Holmes was now barely conscious, drifting in and out of delirium, not even able to drink the water I attempted to get him to try.
He shivered uncontrollably and tried to pull the blankets up, and I had to keep him from doing so, his weak pleading protests ringing in my ears heartwrenchingly. His breathing became even more shallow, if that were possible, until it looked as if he were barely drawing air at all, and I was frantic with panic – there was no more I could do.
I could only continue to do what I had been doing, continue to work and pray.
I glanced at the clock again; I had been working over him for over seven hours straight! And it had done absolutely no good!
I sank down exhaustedly into the chair beside Holmes's bed, watching helplessly as his chest rose and fell with every shallow breath he managed to take, occasionally moving a little sluggishly or moaning in his sleep.
I was shaking all over, from fear or exhaustion, more likely both, and I put my head down in my hands once more, trying to get a grip on myself, praying and praying desperately for a miracle to happen and for the fever to recede. I could do nothing else; it was out of my hands now.
How long I stayed in that position I am not sure, something like a half hour, because I knew nothing more until suddenly I felt a tentative hand on my knee and a hoarse voice whispering my name, and I jerked my head up with a strangled gasp.
Holmes was awake, looking at me with concern written upon his sick, haggard face – but it was no longer that dangerously flushed color but rather his normal pallor. My breath caught in my throat as I hastily sat on the bed and laid a hand on his forehead, hardly daring to hope.
But it was so – although he felt a little warm still, it was no longer that high dangerous fever. It had finally broken – the crisis was over.
6:50 am.
He would be fine.
"How – how do you feel, Holmes?" I asked shakily as his eyes fastened upon mine, now free of that dark vacancy that had haunted his delirium.
"Rather poorly," he whispered weakly, trying to manage a smile at me.
"You've had a bad night, old chap," I said, trying to still my trembling voice, "frightened me half to death, you know."
"A thousand apologies, my dear Watson," he said, feebly trying to pat my arm reassuringly, "What – what time is it?"
I glanced at the clock.
"Ten of seven, Holmes."
His weary eyes made their scrutinizing way over my face, and his brows, still bushy from his disguise, knitted together in a long black line.
"You've been up all night," he whispered.
"Even ill, you are still capable of deduction, my dear Holmes," I said, trying to chuckle through the catch in my throat.
"Go to bed, Watson," he said, making a pathetic attempt to glare at me.
"I shall when I am satisfied you are out of danger, and not before," I replied softly, getting up and checking the gash in his side – it was most definitely looking better. I turned the gas down to darken the room and shut the blinds completely.
"Holmes, I need you to drink this," I said, pouring a glass of water from the carafe on the table.
He opened his eyes and obediently tried to sit up, not quite managing it before I slipped an arm round his back and aided him. I noted how little fuss he made about it, an indication of how exhausted he really was. I had put only a very slight pain reliever in the water, knowing that he was bound to be so tired from fighting the fever that his body would probably shut down without any artificial aid.
He finished the water and I settled him back on the bed, pulling the blankets up round him and taking his temperature once more.
99.2.
"Thank God," I whispered fervently, collapsing at last into my chair, literally spent with weariness and worry.
Holmes's breathing had begun to even out slowly, and as I uttered the devout prayer of gratefulness, his eyes opened halfway and he looked at me.
"I could hear you, you know," he whispered sleepily, only half-conscious.
"What's that, old fellow?"
"Toward the end – I could hear you – telling me – not – to give up," Holmes murmured, his eyelids drooping as the medication and his exhaustion began to take its effect.
A moment later he was asleep, but his words lingered in my mind for a long time afterwards.