Chest compressions. Simple enough, wasn't it? And yet Holmes couldn't bring himself to do it, frozen by the image of his friend's still form in front of him. His heart had stopped. Holmes had noted the tone of Dr. Anstruther's voice when he'd told him to act quickly. His words had been laced with despair. There was no hope in them, and he knew Anstruther and the other doctor were beginning to give up.
If anything, this had fuelled Holmes and soon enough he was stepping up to the stone table and placing his hands over his Watson's heart. He began to pump his hands, attempting to coax the motionless body back to life. One, two, three. In his head, Holmes counted the number of compressions he'd applied, and after five minutes of continuously working, he began to grow worried.
Sixty-eight. "Come on," Holmes muttered.
Sixty-nine. "Come on," he repeated.
Seventy. "Come on!" he shouted. There was no response. Clarky, Dr. Anstruther and the other doctor (whom Holmes had learnt was called Collins) had ceased working and were watching Holmes sorrowfully.
Holmes' desperation turned into anger as he beat down harder on Watson's chest. "Wake up! Do you hear me? Wake up!" Nothing. Holmes continued to shout during compressions.
"John. Hamish. Watson. I order you... to. Wake. Up... Now!" Watson's eyes continued to stay closed, and his face almost looked apologetic as Holmes' eyes once again glistened with unshed tears. He silently prayed in his head for a miracle, knowing the most likely outcome of tonight was not going to be one he'd enjoy.
"John!" Blindly, Holmes thumped again and again until a pair of strong hands grasped his arms and jerked him away. Holmes' knees buckled and Clarky gently guided him to the floor. Silent tears streamed down his face as he watched Dr. Collins scurry forward and take Watson's wrist in his hands, searching for a pulse, yet knowing it was feeble. He raised his eyebrows and his jaw dropped open.
"By the Lords." A soft, Irish accent flowed out of the young man's mouth and the other men in the room strained to hear what he'd uttered. As soon as he heard him, Dr. Anstruther's head snapped up, and he rushed towards Watson, this time looking for a pulse at his neck. Slowly, a grin spread across his face, and a short laugh escaped him as he looked across the table at Holmes. The detective stared up at him incredulously, as he waited for confirmation of the impossible.
"He's a fighter," Anstruther said. "He's not going anywhere any time soon." This wasn't strictly true, as Anstruther knew the infection was still thriving and could still claim him, but the man had just seemingly come back from the dead for crying out loud.
Holmes had remained motionless, hardly daring to believe what had happened, but as Clarky clapped him on the shoulder and moved to shake the other doctors' hands, Holmes gradually got to his feet and slowly walked back to Watson. Holmes could see the slight rise and fall of his chest, and he gently placed a hand on his friend's pale yet unusually warm face. It was clear that Watson had picked up a fever. Still, Holmes couldn't stop a small smile from crossing his face as Watson's eyes fluttered beneath their lids.
"Watson? Can you hear me, old boy?" Slowly, the eyelids opened, and those green eyes that Holmes had been so longing to see for the past few hours gazed blearily at him. Holmes grasped Watson's hand and his smile soon spread to a grin as Watson slowly turned his head to look at his surroundings. Soon, he rested his gaze on Holmes again, and surveyed him.
"You look terrible." he whispered
Holmes laughed. "The same can be said for you, my friend."
Watson smiled. "I've go' an excuse."
"Indeed." Holmes answered sincerely.
"Where 'm I?" he asked, words slurring as he tried to form words.
"In a church, dear fellow." Watson seemed content with this answer, as he didn't ask why they were there, but instead endeavoured to sit upright. When he let out a hiss of pain, Holmes gently helped ease him up and sat next to him, letting Watson gradually swivel round so that his legs were dangling off the table and lean against him, gasping from the effort.
"Holmes?" Watson asked weakly.
"Mmm?"
"How bad?" he whispered.
"It's nothing. Just a scratch." Holmes repeated Watson's words smoothly, but he could tell the infection was taking its toll on his friend.
"Tha's wha' I thought. Knew it was nothin'" Watson mumbled.
"I'm sure you did," Holmes said absent-mindedly, but he was focused on something else. "Watson?"
"Mmm?"
"How do we treat the infection?" Holmes asked concernedly.
"You didn' get a doctor? Wha' 'bout you? Are you alrigh'?" Watson's tone was alarmed at the thought that Holmes hadn't been treated. Technically speaking, he was true – though the gash on Holmes' head had dried a while ago – but he cursed himself for implying that it was just the two of them there.
"No, no, Watson. There are doctors here, and I'm perfectly fine. It's just... something tells me they aren't too sure how to treat it. You know Dr. Anstruther?" Watson nodded. "He's here, but he's told me he needs your help. What do they need?"
Watson thought for a minute, his mind working slower due to the chloroform wearing off. At last, he answered. "Dis... infectan'."
Holmes bit back a sigh. "I know, but your wo–scratch is past the stage where disinfectant will help. We need something stronger." At this point, the two doctors and Clarky had stopped their conversation and were watching Holmes speak to Watson. It was true, Anstruther wasn't sure what could clean the infection – he was, after all, just a general practitioner, used to coughs and colds – and so he listened intently on what Watson said.
"Maggots." Watson quietly.
"I'm sorry?" Holmes asked, not sure if he'd heard his friend correctly.
"Maggots." Watson repeated, this time a little stronger.
Anstruther slapped his thigh. "Of course!" he exclaimed. Clarky, Collins and Holmes gave him quizzical looks. He hastened to explain, "During the war in India, maggot larvae were used to clean infections in wounds. They'd eat the dead skin and leave the wound clean. Am I right Doctor?" Watson nodded and smiled at his enthusiasm.
"But... won't they lay eggs?" Clarky asked.
Watson shook his head. "No... they're larvae. All they do is clean the woun'."
"Oh," Clarky said. "Where are we supposed to get maggots?"
"Larvae," corrected Holmes. "And you can easily purchase them from a tack shop. We're near the docks, so it should be easy enough to secure some."
"Right. Anybody care to come with me?" Clarky asked nervously. If he was honest, he didn't know the docks as well as he should; he was always on patrol in the main city of London, and so never had reason to venture out here.
Anstruther and Collins both muttered their assent, stating there was nothing more they could do for Watson at this present time, and so left with the constable. Clarky led them out of a side-door of the church, situated on the left wall. Like Holmes, Clarky suspected foul play was involved when the warehouse was blown up, and he didn't really want to encounter any criminals trying to tie loose ends.
Soon the door had banged shut loudly, despite only being small, and Holmes and Watson were left alone.
"How are you feeling?" Holmes asked.
"I've had better days." Watson replied. The effects of the drug had completely worn off, and he found he could think a lot clearly and movement hadn't hurt as much as it had a while ago.
"So..." Holmes said. "Have you treated many people with maggots?"
Watson smiled. "Larvae. And, no, they're not my main method, but it was necessary when I was in India. They saved many lives. How's your head?" Watson looked at his forehead critically while he spoke.
"Fine."
"Will you stop saying that? I wouldn't be surprised if you've got concussion. Let me see." Watson hopped off the stone table, but stumbled as his legs protested at the unexpected weight. Holmes leapt off also and caught Watson's arm to steady him.
"Oh, you are just full of good ideas tonight, aren't you, Doctor Watson?" Holmes said, his words dripping with sarcasm. Watson laughed properly for the first time that night, and Holmes was soon joining him. Neither of them noticed the main doors open and close quietly.
"Stay where you are. Move an' I'll shoot your brains out."
