Paying the Price

I have been very stupid. I always take no more than a single dosage of a seven per cent solution of cocaine for good reason. Why ever did I decide that I wanted more? Oh yes. Watson. I am abandoned. Alone. My actions matter not.

I groan and attempt to move. I cannot. My limbs are unwilling to respond and I am cold and shivering violently. Perhaps my companion was right when he said that I seem to be ailing because I feel quite dreadful now. My nose is dripping, I want to sneeze and my head is paining me terribly. Have I caught influenza? Watson would know.

The thought of my Boswell only causes me to feel worse. I curl myself into a ball upon the hearth rug, trying in vain to comfort my painfully cramping stomach, and screw my eyes tightly shut.

I know not how long I have lain here before Mrs. Hudson finds me in my prone position. She begins to cry when she receives no response from me and shouts rather a lot. Strange. I cannot understand very much of what is being said. I probably should find that frightening but I feel somewhat separated from reality, as if I am simply observing a play.

I become vaguely aware of uneven footsteps hurrying upstairs. Did I lock the sitting room door? The cold draught which assails me informs me that I did not, as does the sound of heavy feet limping inside. Damn! It would never do for a client to see me like this. Come Holmes! On your feet you lazy imbecile!

The feet approach slowly and stop short in front of me and I force my eyes, which I do not remember closing, to open and gaze up at the owner of them. Watson is frowning back at me with a very angry expression and I suddenly feel very small and vulnerable.

The fellow crouches at my side and takes my pulse with icy fingers. "What was it today?" he asks flatly. "Cocaine or morphine?"

That tone in itself is enough to make me cringe.

"Holmes? Can you answer me?"

"Cocaine."

His frown darkens but he nods. "How much?"

"Don't know."

He stares back at me, the colour draining from his face. "What do you mean you don't know? My God Holmes!"

Please Watson, do not shout at me. My stomach cramps painfully and I clutch at it with a moan as I try not to breathe.

With a shake of his head the fellow fetches some towels in from the washroom and spreads them beneath and before my head.

Thank you Watson, but I am not about to be sick just as long as you are gentle with me.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, in a tone that suggests that he is trying to sound sympathetic.

"Sorry."

He closes his eyes and forces a sigh through his teeth. "Yes, I expect that you are."

"Very sorry."

"That is not what I was asking."

I groan and grit my teeth against another painful stomach cramp.

"I take it that you are feeling sick?"

"Stomach ache." Somehow that makes it sound much more trivial than it feels. I can barely breathe for the pain!

He rests a hand at my forehead. It is terribly cold and provides my wretched nose with all the stimulation that it could possibly need. The whole length of my body jerks with the force of the resulting sternutation and I grind my teeth to avoid crying out.

"Bless you," the doctor wipes my running nose and pats my shoulder. "Have you caught a cold, or is this just another reaction to the cocaine?"

I shrug with a grimace.

"Were you feeling unwell before you took the cocaine?"

"I am not sure."

The doctor pinches the bridge of his nose. "Why the deuce do you do these things?"

I shrug with another grimace of pain. "It seemed to be a good idea... at the time."

He nods and closes his eyes, causing a single tear to make its escape down his face.

"Are you all right Watson?"

His eyes snap open and he frowns at me before scrubbing a hand across his eyes. "That is rather an odd question for you to ask me under the present circumstances, do you not think?"

"Perhaps," another painful cramp seizes me and it takes all of my self-control not to cry out. Think of something else Holmes! "I thought that you were needed at your practice..."

"Mrs. Hudson sent for me because you had collapsed and she was unable to rouse you. I feared the worst!"

I close my eyes with a grimace as he raises his voice. "I was never in any danger. I simply feel ill."

"Hum, yes. I should think that you do feel ill. Mrs. Hudson informed me that you had had nothing to eat and that she had noticed that you were shivering and sneezing. I feared that you had contracted influenza or something even more dangerous and debilitating," he growls, his voice shaking with intense anger. "As for there being no danger Holmes, cocaine is very dangerous - especially if you do not know how much you are taking! How could you be so stupid?"

Another groan escapes me but I cannot give an answer. I should have known that my dear friend would not abandon me and the very idea seems ridiculous now.

I feel his hand touch my shoulder lightly as he moves closer. "Mrs. Hudson seemed to be under the impression that you believed me to be gone for good. Is this true?"

I lick my dry lips and attempt to screw my eyes closed even tighter. "I have never seen you so angry."

"I was upset Holmes, but I did not mean to react like that. Were I not so tired and feeling so irritable I would not have done so. I do apologise old fellow."

I nod but say nothing. I am beginning to feel quite sick now and I want to remain still and quiet.

"I suppose I should have realised that you would do something like this," the fellow mumbles. "I did say some truly unforgivable things."

I groan and clamp my mouth shut as my paining stomach lurches. Ugh! Not now! Watson is in the way! "Move!"

My friend simply stares back at me blankly. Perhaps he cannot understand what I am attempting to say without opening my mouth.

Hastily I clutch at my stomach with one hand while I press the other over my trembling lips as a warning. Move Watson! Now!

"Oh. All right Holmes. It is all right."

I suppose that I should be proud of myself for somehow waiting until my friend is out of harm's way, but I am too wretchedly miserable and this is far too humiliating. It would be quite bad enough had I managed to run into the washroom and at least then my Boswell would not have been forced to watch me with that damned look of pity on his face!

"Are you all right now?"

"Wonderful."

"Can you sit up to rinse your mouth if I help you? I am sure that you would not like to be left with that unpleasant taste in your mouth."

I am not sure. I do feel frightfully odd. "Yes."

"All right then. Give me a moment old fellow."

Almost before I am aware of it, I am being lifted very gently by the shoulder so that my head is hanging rather limply over a bowl. Watson then assists me first in rinsing my mouth and then drinking some water.

"That is better, I am sure. You must be terribly thirsty!"

I nod with a grimace and am immediately plied with more. I wonder whether I should tell him that I have had enough; I might well have to drink, but I am not quite sure what I shall do when I have finished with all of this water if I am still unable to move. That would undoubtedly be horribly embarrassing!

"Do you still feel sick?" Watson asks as he washes the cheek that I was lying on with his handkerchief, having wetted it with a splash of water.

"No." I do feel faint though. My muscles feel weak as well, as if I have exerted myself more than is wise, and I want to sleep. Perhaps I need some morphine, but I dare not ask my Boswell to administer some and I very much doubt that I could manage it.

He props me against the settee with the bowl close to hand, should I change my mind, and quickly replaces the soiled towels with clean ones. Then I am returned to my previous position, with my friend gently tending to me. If he is trying to make me feel guilty he is most certainly succeeding!