Okay, here is the first chapter of 'The Dying Detective', hope you like it!
As for the question posted on the last chapter, I think I will do all of the others and see how I feel about it at the end. As for the future after this story… I was thinking about doing 'The Casebook Of Sherlock Holmes And Luna Watson'. Thoughts?
I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Lulu-fifi (Thanks for thinking it was realistic, it was sort of based on a real experience although it was cooking. I can bake… cooking is just too difficult. As for the Mazarin Stone… hope you don't mind but I'll definitely give it a try.) and Guest (Thank you and I won't delete it on fear of death from some of the reviewers!)
Mrs Hudson, the landlady of my sister and Sherlock Holmes, was a long-suffering woman. Not only was her first floor flat invaded at all hours of the day by throngs of singular and often undesirable characters but her remarkable lodger showed some sort of eccentricity and irregularity in his life which must have sorely tried her patience as it sometimes tried my own. His incredible untidiness, Luna's sleepless nights of pacing, his addiction to music at strange hours, her habit of singing along to the songs she knew, his occasional revolver practise within doors, her blade handling sessions which ends with Mrs Hudson's pillows being stabbed mercilessly, his weird and often malodorous scientific experiments. The atmosphere of violence and danger that hung around the pair when they were together probably made them the worst tenants in London, despite how much I attempted to change them. On the other hand, their collective payment was rather princely. I have no doubt that the house might have been purchased at the price which they'd paid for their rooms over the years that they'd been living there.
The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared to interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem. She was fond of both him and my sister. My sister acted as a surrogate daughter for the elderly woman, allowing her to spend time brushing her hair or allowing the older woman to choose dresses for her in order to keep her happy. As for Sherlock, he had a remarkable gentleness and courtesy in his dealings with the woman. He disliked and distrusted the sex, except the two whom he was in regular contact with, but he was always a chivalrous opponent. Knowing how genuine her regard was for him, I listened earnestly to her story when she came up to my rooms in the first half year of my married life and told me of the sad condition to which my poor friend had been reduced.
"He's dying, Dr Watson," she told me. "For the last three days he has been sinking and when Luna returned home on the morning of the second day, she hasn't left his side since. Please, I doubt he will last another day but he would not allow me to fetch a doctor. This morning when I saw his bones sticking out of his face and his great bright eyes looking at me, I could stand no more of it. 'With your leave or without it, Mr Holmes, I am going for a doctor this very hour' said I. 'Let it be my brother then. Sherlock trusts John' Luna said. I wouldn't waste an hour in coming to him, sir, or you may not see him alive. That poor girl. She refuses to part with him for a moment."
I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his illness. I need not say that I rushed for my coat and hat. As we drove back, I asked her for the details.
"There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been working on a case down at Rotherhithe with Luna, in an alley near the river, and he brought his illness back with him. He sent her away on an errand on Tuesday evening and took to his bed on Wednesday afternoon and hasn't moved an inch since. She returned early Thursday morning, saw him laid there and has been sat beside him. For these three days, neither food nor drink had passed his lips, two days for her."
"Good god! Why did you or Luna not call a doctor?"
"He wouldn't have it sir. You know how masterful he is. I didn't dare disobey him and, you know your sister better than most. If he doesn't want to see a doctor, she won't go against him unless it's necessary to do so. But, he's not long for this world. You'll see for yourself the moment you set eyes on him."
He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim light of a foggy November day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it was that gaunt, wasted face staring at me from the best which sent a chill to my heart. His eyes had the brightness of fever, there was a hectic flush upon each cheek, and dark crusts clung to his lips; the thin hands upon the coverlet and my sisters head twitched incessantly, his voice was croaking and spasmodic. However, my sister wasn't much better. Her rosy lips were cracked from thirst, her skin pale from worry and deep black circles hung around her eyes from sleepless nights yet she still sat beside his bed, his hand on her head as he usually did.
He lay listlessly as I entered the room, but the sight of me brought a gleam of recognition to his eyes.
"Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days," he said in a feeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness of manner.
"My dear fellow!" I cried, approaching him.
"Stand back! Stand right back!" said he with the sharp imperiousness which I had only associated with moments of complete crisis. "If you approach me, Watson, I shall order you out of the house."
"But why?"
"Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?" Yes, Mrs Hudson was correct. He was more masterful than ever. It was pitiful, however, to see his exhaustion though one thought struck me.
"Then why are you allowing my sister to sit beside you, risking her to infection?" Instantly, his hand lifted and moved to her forehead, as though checking for a fever with made my lips twitch slightly. Even in his illness, he cared for her health.
"I will not allow him to move me John though, I am not allowed to turn my head as to risk breathing in the disease so there is no need to worry." She drawled, no feeling in her voice, yawning at the end of her sentence as fatigue caught up with her.
"I only wished to help," I explained to them both.
"Exactly! You will help me best by doing what you are told."
"Certainly, Holmes." That seemed to relax the austerity of his manner.
"You are not angry?" he asked me, gasping to catch his breath. The poor devil. How could I possibly be angry when I saw him lying in such a plight before my very eyes?
"It's for you own sake, Watson," he croaked.
"For MY sake?"
"I know what is the matter with me. It is a coolie disease from Sumatra—a thing that the Dutch know more than we, though they have made little of it up to date. One thing only is certain. It is infallibly dead, and it is horribly contagious." He spoke now with a feverish energy, his long hands twitching and jerking as he motioned me away.
"Contagious… by touch, Watson. That's it, by touch. Keep your distance and all is well… And take your sister away as well. We can't risk Luna getting infected by the same disease which has taken me." He told me, removing his hand from her as though it had burned him.
"Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consideration weighs with me of an instant? It would not affect me in the case of some stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty to such old a friend?" I advanced towards him but he repulsed me with the look of furious anger which showed through the fogginess of the fever.
"If you will stand there, I will talk. If you not, you must leave the room. Now, take this woman away from me before she risks infection." He told me, gesturing to the shocked looking Luna beside him. The coldness in his voice was awful to listen to but hard to disobey. Leaning down, I took hold of her carefully then pulled her away but, as could be expected, she struggled against my hold.
"John! Let me go!"
"It's infectious Luna!" Sherlock yelled, his voice sharp and eyes narrowed. The way he spoke to her, calling her by her own name. The seriousness of his infection hit me like a carriage. This also seemed to hit her as her struggling weakened considerably though I did not know if it was from exhaustion or because of his deliriousness. The moment later, she turned and buried her head into my chest, quiet sobs escaping her mouth.
I have so deep a respect for the extraordinary qualities of Holmes that I have always deferred to his wishes, even when I least understood them. But, now all of my professional instincts, and brotherly instincts, had been aroused. My sister was worried about him. I was worried about him. Let him be my master elsewhere, I at least was his when he was in a sick room.
"Holmes," said I, "you are not yourself. A sick man is but a child, and so I will treat you. Whether you like it or not, I will examine your symptoms and treat you for them." He looked at me through narrowed and venomous eyes, a look I had never received.
"If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at least have someone in whom I have confidence," said he. Against me, I could feel my sister's body trembling increase, her sobs worsening.
"Then you have none in me?"
"In your friendship, certainly. But facts are facts, Watson, and, after all, you are only a general practitioner with very limited experience and mediocre qualifications. It is painful to have to say these things, but you leave me no other option." It was safe to say that I was bitterly hurt by what he had said.
"Such a remark is unworthy of you, Sherlock." She mumbled against me, pulling away from me to look at him. Even I could see the faint look of worry in his eyes that only seemed to echo the intense worry in hers.
"It shows me very clearly the state of your own nerves. But, if you have no confidence in me, I would not intrude my services. Let me bring Sir Jasper Meek or Penrose Fisher, or any of the best men in London. But someone you MUST have, and that is final. It you think that I am going to stand here and watch you die without either helping you myself or bringing anyone else to help you, then you have mistaken your man." I told him.
"You mean well, Watson," said the sick man with something between a sob and a groan. "Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance? What do you know, pray tell, of Tapanuli fever? What do you know of black Formosa corruption?" looking down, I hated to admit that I had knowledge of neither of those.
"I have never heard of either."
"There are many problems of disease, many strange pathological possibilities, in the East, Watson." He paused after each sentence to collect his failing strength. "I have learned so much during some recent researches which have a medico-criminal aspect. It was in the course of them that I contracted this complaint. You can do nothing."
"Possibly not. But I happen to know that Dr Ainstree, the greatest living authority upon tropical disease, is now in London. All remonstrance is useless, Holmes, I am going this instant to fetch him." I turned resolutely to the door, Luna by my side.
Never have I had such a shock! In an instant, with a tiger-spring, the dying man had intercepted me. I heard the sharp snap of a twisted key. The next moment, he had begun to stagger back to his bed, Luna slipping beneath one of his arms to steady the exhausted and panting man after his one tremendous out flame of energy. Despite his words before, he leaned heavily onto her though she didn't seem to mind. From where I stood, they both helped each other.
"You won't take the key from me by force, Watson, I've got you my friend. Here you are, and here you will stay until I say otherwise. But, I will humour you." (All this in little gasps, with terrible struggles for breath between.) "You've only my own good at heart. Of course, I know that very well. You shall have your way, but give me time to get my strength. Not now, Watson, not now. It's four 'o' clock. At six, you may go." He told me, getting settled back into bed though Luna curled up on the end like a cat would do, her head resting on his knee beneath the covers. It seemed as though she didn't care about catching the illness that plagued him, something that frightened me as a brother but something I could understand as a married man.
"This is insanity, Holmes." However, though I understood it, I wasn't exactly happy about it.
"It's only two hours, Watson. I promise that you will go at six. Are you content to wait?"
"I seem to have no choice."
"None in the world, Watson. Thank you, I need no help in arranging the clothes. You will please keep your distance. Now, Watson, there is one other condition that I would make. You will seek help, not from the man you mention, but from the one that I choose."
"By all means."
"The first three sensible words that you have uttered since you entered this room, Watson. You will find some books other there. I am somewhat exhausted, as is your sister; I wonder how a battery feels when it pours electricity into a non-conductor? At six Watson, we shall resume out conversation."
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