The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime

Chapter 11

Even before I had time to think about a method to help us survive the night in the wilderness and probably, somehow, manage to get the drug out of Holmes's system, a wagon rattled along the road towards us. It was driven by a farmer, no doubt, since it was loaded with straw he was bringing in from his field. He was singing jollily to himself after a hard day's work.

Without much consideration for my own health, I jumped onto the road in front of the startled horse and an equally startled man. I must have been a deplorable sight, with the bump forming at the back of my head and my smudged clothes, but he had not yet seen my poor friend. I only hoped the smell of blood would not madden the horse. "Please, I'm sorry, sir! Please hear me out!"

"Blimey – you are a gentleman, are you not?"

"Watkins by name, sir, and fallen upon evil days. Please, sir, I need your help. My friend is very sick."

"Where is he?"

"Over there, in the ditch. I beg you..."

"I will help you, don't worry. Watkins it is?"

"Doctor, actually. Never put up a practice, I'm afraid."

The farmer tutted. "Ah, I know that story. Johnson by name, and farmer by trade. Good heavens!" Johnson – if that was his name, for I felt that others weren't what they pretended to be as soon as I myself used an alias – had spotted my dear friend.

"That's Hadley, sir. Much obliged for your help."

"Sure looks like you need it." Johnson shrugged out of his coat and pressed it into my hands. "Wrap him into that. After that, I think I can easily lift him."

Holmes seemed to have reached the borders of the realm of unconsciousness, for he was stirring faintly as I pulled the coat around his shoulders and fastened it so it would not slide down. "We're ready."

"Good." Johnson lifted Holmes into his arms without much effort, his still, frail form easily cowered by the massive frame and muscles of the farmer in his shirtsleeves.

He placed my friend upon the straw, making certain he was resting safely and would not topple down as soon as the wagon moved, and motioned me to climb up before he returned to the reins of his horse and we were moved once again.

"You should be thinking about getting a doctor who has stuff, me friend."

"I don't have the money to pay."

"Don't you worry. I'll pay, or rather, I won't have to. The local doctor of our village, Miller, dines with my wife and me tonight. I'm sure he won't mind."

"That's splendid. I really cannot thank you enough."

"Never mind that. You see those lights? We are nearly there."

The light of the small farmhouse with its friendly, beckoning glow of warm fires and comfort was enough to awaken a forceful longing in my weary and worried bones. Even if the country doctor had not the means to help Holmes – as long as I did not know the nature of the poison, I could not even tell him which antidote to administer – Johnson had at least gifted us with some last hours of comfort for the dying man. As a friend, I tried with all my heart to overlook the signs that Holmes was nearing the final stages, but as a doctor, I could not. The convulsive shivers were not severe, nothing more than a chill, and his face remained expressionless throughout, but his eyes behind his closed lids darted from one side to the other, uncontrolled, and his hand would jerk in mine.

Farmer Johnson halted the wagon just outside his front door. As he hurried up to the entrance, the door opened and in a streak of friendly light flooded the yard. A woman stepped outside, her almost white dress shining in the light of the candle she carried. "Who are these men, Jeff?"

"Dr Watkins and Mr Hadley, two fellows I picked up on the road. They are in need of a good supper and the services of Dr Miller, me darling. Is he in?"

"Yes, Patrick's in the sitting room. Are they very sick?"

"Hadley is," I ventured. "My pleasure, madame."

She nodded, revealing her calm beauty. "Take them up to the guest room, Jeff. I'll send Patrick up to you. Dinner is almost ready, I will set something aside for you, Dr Watkins."

We were shown into a small but homely guest room, furnished with a single bed and a sitting group of a sofa and various armchairs. But the main feature of the room was a fireplace, in which Johnson quickly ignited a fire after he had placed my dear friend on the bed. I handed the coat back to the farmer and wrapped Holmes into the duvet instead. By now, the cramps were almost constantly present, and rather sooner or later his body would be too exhausted to continue the fight. He was quite senseless – thankfully, for I could not have stopped him from betraying our true identity in this stage, although I dearly wished to have another word with him, should he indeed die. At Reichenbach, we had both been denied that last conversation, his thoughts conferred to me only by a note, which, with all its authenticity, had been guarded at best. I assumed Moriarty had been glancing over Holmes's shoulder during its development.

"Watson." The breathless murmur brought my mind back to the present in an instant and I turned to face Holmes, whose eyes had unsteadily fixed on mine. "What has happened?"

"You must not talk now. We are safe."

"Baker Street?"

"I'm afraid not."

He sighed, obviously seeing nothing but my face. "Too bad."

"Quickly, Holmes, tell me which poison it was." I bent low as his voice would not carry, and he breathed the answer into my ear. "Then it is not yet too late."

"Watson, you see, I deduced it, they did not tell me. I deduced it from..." But he could not tell me how he had deduced the name of the poison, for the effects of the same claimed his consciousness once more, in the middle of the sentence.

When Dr Miller finally arrived, it was in the company of farmer Johnson's wife, who carried two steaming bowls of broth and a loaf of bread. I quietly told my colleague of profession what was needed, and then devoted my attention to the most excellent soup. Meanwhile, Miller made a cursory examination of my friend, before he filled a syringe with the antidote I had requested. He was a young, bespectacled man, with unruly mousy hair which was probably the reason why he had not been benefited with a wife, as his bare ring finger informed me. I could not help but glance at my own hands, which once had been charmed by that valid bound of marriage, a pleasure I had been deprived off during Holmes's hiatus years. If truth may be told, I was not sure whether I could suffer the pain of losing Holmes again, and emerge unscathed.

"Doctor." Miller's warm hand on my arm jerked me out of my musing. "Maybe you should administer the dose. I would guess a familiar touch would be most welcome to Mr Holmes."

He must have seen my startled expression, for he continued immediately. "Don't worry, Dr Watson. Your secret is safe with me. Always glad to help a famous colleague, even if the fame he has required is not in his own professional field."

I could not help but smile at such a statement. "You grant my poor scribblings too much praise. However, thank you very much for your help."

"My pleasure. And please, keep this bottle of morphine. It looks like your friend may need it."

"Goodbye, Doctor."

He left the room as Johnson entered, carrying a bowl of water. "I'd thought you might want to clean yourself up."

"Much indebted to you, sir. I do not know what would have happened without your generous help."

"Don't mention it. Shall I tell my Rose that you enjoyed your food?"

"Yes, very much, thank you. May I ask how long we will be allowed to stay?"

"As long as it takes. We are not wealthy, Doctor, but it's quite enough, what with our son being off at a boarding school abroad – courtesy to his godmother, you understand."

"Perfectly, Mr Johnson."

"Ah, we will have to do something about those clothes of yours. Why don't you take these two dressing gowns, they should fit you perfectly, and hand them to me? I'll see what can be repaired."