A/N: And if there's a lesson to be learned by this typically prompt update, it's that if you rush me you will get exactly what you want.
Anyway, I'm still struggling with writer's block but I'm getting through. My brain looks like a round of Tetris just before game over; I persevered to bring you this chapter. You'll have to be totally honest, because if the quality is starting to suffer I'll want to know.
Oh! And this is probably my least funny chapter ever. It carries the story forward, and I didn't want to aimlessly pad it with unnatural joke placement
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There are times when the body simply says 'Sleep' and we must obey.
It came as a great release to let the senses shut off. I drank in the stillness and the darkness until – as though a sudden electric shock hit me – I was awake. My eyes met immediately with the cerulean sky and its fluffy white clouds.
"You alarmed me." Holmes said, and I sat up slowly to look at him.
He was standing some feet away, leaning against our multi-use wheelbarrow with one of his spidery legs crossed over the other. It was immediately noticeable that his sharp features were overtaken by an uncommon bagginess – his mouth tired, and his eyes pensive. The whole of his expression seemed to match something more of tragedies than a mere fainting spell.
Behind him, the glorious spectacle of the Emerald City shone. It was so near that it startled me. I looked over my shoulder and noticed that the poppy field we had only just entered was some considerable distance behind us. I noticed as well that my hair and collar were both drenched with water. My mind raced to piece together what little information there was, but though spending time with Holmes had improved my skills at detection, my mind was alarmingly blank. Sluggish even. I slowly turned to look once more upon my friend and his deceivingly casual pose.
"I suppose I must've fallen to heat-stroke…" The inside of my lips felt dry and chalky. As if I had not used them for a thousand years.
"I'm afraid not, old fellow." Holmes shook his head. His voice was languid and slow and his words seemed to be very precisely chosen. He was playing at being cavalier, and working to remain evasive. Something quite serious had happened.
"Holmes…" I began, intently searching for the answer in our surroundings. I had been laid upon the scarecrow's bundled up jacket, which was also quite damp.
"Watson, I will not tell you. It will only serve to trouble you further, and you require further rest." He motioned his arms to indicate that he would not indulge any further discussion.
"Come on, now! You must tell me if something has happened, Holmes! How long have I been unconscious?"
"Peacefully? For no more than two hours." He answered slyly and helped me to stand. I would have no secrets in the matter of my health; one would not even need to be a physician to realize some severe calamity had befallen my person.
"And was there a period of unconsciousness that was not peaceful? How long did it last?" I demanded. Holmes merely scoped up the jacket and began to redress the scarecrow.
"Watson, you best seat yourself next to our friend. I shall pull the wheelbarrow." He nodded decisively.
"Why? The Emerald City is a very short distance away, and I feel more than capable of walking."
"There is a change of plans. We must retrieve an item from a castle in the region known as Winkie Country in order to enter the Emerald City." Holmes explained. I felt entirely left out, and it was quite cruel of him to be excluding such large portions of information.
"Now then, Holmes!" I stated rather firmly, and felt the flush of anger upon my cheeks. He turned to look at me, icy and impassive.
"Don't strain yourself, Watson…"
"I demand to know what has gone on these past few hours!" I bellowed, and was immediately ashamed of myself. I knew full well that Holmes only restricted the flow of information if it was of critical importance, but I felt somehow vulnerable to not know my own symptoms. To be a doctor completely unaware of the nature of my own malady.
"Very well," Holmes sighed, and sat upon the edge of the cart with his steely eyes seeming to observe a new aspect of myself. Many times his gaze had fallen upon me to observe some small detail – mud on my shoe, scratches on my buttons – this time it was changed. He was observing my whole person with some scrutiny. In fact, he was trying to remain completely aware of my physical well being, but at the time the action seemed almost callous.
"Watson, at some point this morning you were exposed to a poison. It is my understanding that it was steadily affecting you for the duration of the day, however only slightly. Without any tests to be done there is no way to be certain, but I shall declare daturine as the most likely culprit." He explained rapidly, his gaze never diverting from my face.
"Good lord! Daturine! But how on earth did it…" I was aghast. Surely it accounted for all of my discomfort. The sensitivity to heat and light, the heightening of the pain in my leg due to the muscular antagonism associated with that toxin.
"Highly concentrated, Watson. It entered your bloodstream transdermally." He paused and looked downward. I could see at once how the episode had worried Holmes, and felt so wretched for having throttled the information out of him. Still, I knew there was to be more.
"Transdermally? But how on earth would it have been able to keep contact with the skin long enough to hold its effects? It must've been leeching in very slowly." I puzzled over this, and managed to deduce that the poison must have been applied to my head, or perhaps the back of my neck. It was the logical explanation for why Holmes had seen fit to douse me with water.
"It had been left on your check through means of a viscous, colourless gel. Because of the nature of this gel, the poison worked subtly and alone would not have killed. It was when we entered the poppy field that the real danger occurred.
"The poppies were releasing a gaseous opiod – harmless to most, creating no more than a brief sensation of dizziness. But, coupled dangerously with the daturine already in contact with your system, the result was potentially deadly. As you most likely know, the side effect from the combination of daturine with any opiod is memory loss. I am greatly relived that I acted quickly enough to prevent this."
"What did you do?" I asked, as the details of his story hit me with their full force.
"I immediately got you as far from the poppies as I could, in order to prevent you from breathing in so much of narcotic that it would be irreparable. Once we were here, I induced vomiting."
"Thank you."
"It was unpleasant. Afterwards I examined your skin and located the placement of the gel. I promptly removed as much of it as I could with my handkerchief, but it was apparent that I would need to thoroughly wash your face. Locating water was the most difficult aspect of the entire ordeal. I was forced to hastily run back in the direction of the orchard to retrieve the water kept within the Tin Man's chest." Here I noticed the large metal cylinder that sat next to the Scarecrow.
"You mean…"
"I was forced to dismantle the Tin Man. It was something of a triviality in the moment, but now there is a great sorrow to it. Still, I would destroy him every time to save your life, Watson." Holmes admitted, and I knew it was true. So deep was our friendship.
I approached the mechanism that sat in our wheelbarrow and felt a strange sense of loss. For, in as much as the lion had been courageous, the Tin Man had been somewhat feeling. I remember the sense of delight Holmes had taken from his discovery, the simplicity of his purpose when he announced his functions.
Can such things made by the hands of man have souls? If so, then surely our Tin Man did. However, though there was a distinct air of death about it, there was also a strangeness. Could he be mended? If not, and he had earned himself the soul of which I spoke, where was that soul now obliterated? Once more, the moral dilemma of the automaton presented itself, and once more I was unable to meet its challenge.
"Come along, Watson. I'll tow you to the Witch's Castle." Holmes said with a note of remorse in his voice.
"No, we'll both walk to this place. It was the Tin Man's job to pull the wheelbarrow." I decided, and retrieve the Ruby Walking Stick from the wooden bucket.
"That's very honourable of you, Watson, but how I am supposed to carry my scarecrow all the way to Winkie Country without our wheelbarrow?"
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A/N: There's no such poison as Daturine. I bastardized the name from one of Doyle's Professor Challenger stories. I tried to find poisons that had the effects I wanted, but to no avail. Many transdermal poisons counteract badly with opiods, even resulting in the permanent brain damage Holmes refers to. It just so happens that all of those poisons cause delirium and paralysis.