The Irregulars began pulling me toward the door and I barely had time to grab my hat and bag before the door was closed behind me…..
September 1, 1891, continued…
Wiggins certainly was in a bad state and your Irregulars did well in coming for me. I could tell the boy had been crying, but upon our appearance, he quickly sniffed and wiped his nose, smearing dirt, tears and who knows what all over his face. His one arm was bent at an odd angle and it didn't look like he had moved since he had fallen.
But still, your Irregulars are a tough bunch and Wiggins greeted me bravely. "'Ello, Doctor." He said as I knelt beside him. "Come to play the medic have ye? I'm afraid Tommy's no good at playing doctor." One of the younger boys blushed and ducked his head at his comment and I noticed it to be little Tommy Jones, the one that's always followed me around asking questions about how to be a doctor. We might make a medical man of him yet.
"No, no playing here." I told him as I noted the rapidly swelling limb. "You'll have to come back to the house with me. I've got some ice and things for you there."
Wiggins gulped and nodded before struggling to get to his feet using only one arm. Taking pity on the boy, I scooped him up and made him lay the injured arm across his chest despite his protest to let him down. The other boys cheered at my 'heroic efforts' as one of them later called it and followed me laughing and teasing each other all the way back to my practice.
Mary opened the door for me and I quickly saw that the tears and worry had been masked by a happy smile as she welcomed the group into the house. She managed to herd all but Tommy out of the consulting room and into the kitchen with the promise of a freshly made biscuit and closed the door behind her without a word.
Tommy had watched this all with indifference, his large eyes taking in the rows of vials and things I had about the room but Wiggins had taken an immediate interest in Mary.
"Mrs. Watson is having a baby?" he asked me, a serious look on his face.
"Yes, that's right." I hummed a little while searching for something to begin mixing the plaster of Paris in.
"Me mum had a baby." Wiggins said looking directly at me, making me stop my search. "Pa said he died. I was too young to remember."
I felt myself growing cold and quickly tried to shrug it off as I finally found what I was looking for and began adding water to the mix.
Holmes, why are all these people so concerned with death? It feels like one big gaping hole of a topic that rips through everything and puts a damper on even the happiest of subjects. I hate it. I've seen more casualties and torn apart families than I care to remember. Even your own life now carries one of those wounds. You can't be spoken of or thought about without the ever looming topic of your death overhead.
I must have been mixing a little too hard because little Tommy suddenly peered over the counter by me and spoke quietly. "I think it's done, doctor."
And the boy was right; I gave a heavy sigh and turned towards my patient who was starting to look a very sickly shade of white. I've always hated this part of the treatment. Do you remember when Lestrade dislocated his shoulder and I had to have you help me put it back in place? He was brave enough not to cry, but I'll never forget that sudden yelp of pain as the bone fit back into the socket.
Wiggins was near fainting and I had forgotten any pain medications in my hurry and the plaster of Paris was quickly hardening so I simply had to grit my teeth and feign calmness while I gently guided the bone into a straight line.
I don't know which happened first, Wiggins's scream or the sound of little Tommy Jones hitting the floor as he collapsed behind me in a faint.
Perhaps Tommy should start looking into other professions.
TBC….
I'm afraid I've got a very limited idea on medical practices of the time. Hopefully these are more or less correct. If not, I tried my best and google was a fail at providing information.