I'm stuck in bed with pneumonia and wrote this mainly to make myself feel better. Also, I did some research on typhoid fever and I'm amazed that Watson survived at all, on top of being shot. Just goes to show how strong and determined our dear doctor is. Hope both new and old SH fans enjoy this tale. Also, as far as I remember the Canon never mentioned the name of Watson's older brother so I made one up for him. Non-slash. Enjoy!
Relapse
'I was dispatched, accordingly, in the troopship "Orontes," and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with my health irretrievably ruined…' - A Study in Scarlet
One of the souvenirs that my ill-fated military career left me, in addition to the fragments of the Jezail bullet lodged permanently within my left shoulder, was typhoid fever. While I had recovered from my initial encounter with the accursed virus, I knew as a doctor that there was always the possibility of a relapse. Several of my fellow soldiers had rallied against the disease only to succumb months later; their deaths had been brutal and sudden but at least their suffering was finally at an end. I was not to be so fortunate.
I will admit that in those early months following my discharge and subsequent return to London I felt adrift; I had few prospects and was not well enough to find work. Memories of my elder brother's wasteful habits helped curtail my own weaknesses but in my darkest moments I often found myself wondering what Providence had planned for me. Surely, I wondered, there must be a reason I survived not only the Jezail bullet as well as enteric fever when so many of my comrades had not?
I was only a little past my thirtieth year and yet felt so much older as I tossed and turned at night, robbed of peaceful rest that my recovering body still desperately needed. Soon my funds would run out and it was looking more likely that I would indeed have to retire to the countryside and set up a small country practice.
My initial meeting with Sherlock Holmes and subsequent joining as flat mates did much to distract me from my bleak outlook in those days. I have written elsewhere that Holmes, while curious in his habits, was always a gentleman and could be most solicitous when the situation required it. I was fortunate enough to witness this myself when my health, irretrievably damaged by enteric fever, took a sudden turn for the worst when I relapsed into the same illness.
Such a relapse happened in the early months of my acquaintance with Holmes. I do not remember the details of those days - it was shortly after the adventure of what was later to be known as 'A Study in Scarlet'. My thoughts and memories became a blur of reality and fantasy as the fever held me in its grip for two days.
While not as seriously ill as I had been during my first bout with typhoid, I later learned that my condition was serious enough that Holmes had sent for a physician. In my more lucid moments I tried to warn both Holmes and Mrs. Hudson away, even though I knew that the chances of them catching the dreaded diseases were slim as the lodgings of Baker Street were far cleaner than the base hospital in Peshawar had been.
My fevered-induced dreams brought me back to that dreadful place and time; even now, years later, I find myself reluctant to revisit those memories that are best left with the dead and in the past.
One memory, however, does remain with me even now, many years later, one that still greatly eases my mind and soul whenever I look back upon it. I had woken at some point in the night, still fevered but somewhat more lucid, to find Holmes sitting by my bed. His appearance was less tidy than what I had seen of him thus far; his hair was slightly tousled as if he had been running his fingers through it and his shirt was rumpled underneath the old robe he was so fond of wearing.
Upon seeing that I was awake he set aside the newspaper he had been perusing and leaned forward, his face showing a strain I had not seen before during our short acquaintance. I do not mean to say that his overall demeanor was greatly changed, but rather there was subtle clues that spoke to an air of restlessness about him. His eyes were shadowed and thus appeared even more keen in the low candlelight and his mouth thinned as he took in my worn and haggard appearance.
"Doctor, do you know where you are?" he asked quietly, obviously having deduced that I had a splitting headache and adjusting his tone accordingly.
I affirmed that I did and answered a few more questions, confirming that I also knew who he was as well as my own name. Holmes must have sensed my uneasiness and confusion at the questions. I recognised the inquiries as those that would have been asked of someone who was delirious, and his next comment confirmed my suspicions.
"Watson, you have been delirious for the past twelve hours. Do be so good as to not frighten Mrs. Hudson like that in the future." His strained face eased into a rueful smile. "Otherwise I fear she might throw us both onto the streets."
His words were flippant enough, but the grip he had on my wrist confirmed that it was not only Mrs. Hudson who had been worried.
Touched by his concern I managed to pat Holmes' arm before the effort proved too much for me. "I shall endeavor to do so, Holmes.
Holmes nodded, his lips twitching into a rare smile which quickly faded when I was suddenly seized by a violent coughing fit. I rolled on my side away from him, gripping the edge of the bed as the fit continued, my chest seizing with enough pain that it brought tears to my eyes.
I should not have moved so quickly after being in a prone position for so long. My head swam and I would have fallen over the edge of the bed had not I suddenly felt strong hands holding me up.
"Steady, Watson, I have you," I heard Holmes whisper in my ear. Once the fit had passed he helped ease me back onto the bed and any embarrassment I felt over the matter was quickly replaced with concern when I saw his eyes grow wide with alarm.
I have described in other accounts the iron resolution which so characterised Holmes; he possessed nerves of steel and thus far I had yet to see him be truly disturbed by anything, even during our investigation of the Jefferson Hope case. I could not think of anything that would put such an expression on his face in that moment.
"What is it?" I rasped, shocked at how weak my voice sounded.
Instead of answering Holmes took a damp cloth and dabbed at the corner of my mouth before pulling it away. I could see blood on the fabric.
Holmes tossed the cloth aside and reached for another that sat next to the bowl of water on the nightstand.
"Doctor, what can I do for you?" he asked as he put a fresh cloth on my brow. "I freely admit that while I have considerable talents in certain areas, nursing is not one of them," he added drily.
I huffed out a laugh, glad of the distraction and even more glad to see the tense lines lessen in Holmes's face.
"There is…not much…to do, I'm afraid," I said, still trying to catch my breath. "It must run its course."
"I find that I am reluctant to accept such a resolution, Watson," said Holmes quietly. I was again struck by a certain quality in his voice; in the months I had lived with this remarkable man I was beginning to learn that while he may profess to not having any patience for emotional displays, Holmes did find his own manner of expressing himself.
I was truly touched at his concern over my welfare despite our brief acquaintance but did not voice my thoughts, as I knew doing so would only make Holmes ill at ease.
"Shall I read to you?" said Holmes when my tired eyes drifted towards the discarded newspaper. He snatched it up, clearly glad to have something to do, and shook it out to the page he had been reading earlier.
"That would be appreciated Holmes, thank you," I said, smiling as I closed my eyes and listened to London's only consulting detective describe the numerous odd and curious activities that had occurred in our great city. And when I finally drifted off to sleep there were no dreams, only comfort in the knowledge that at least for now, I was no longer alone in the world.