Doctor versus Detective
By Ms. Neptune Holmes
A/N: Hello everyone. This is my story/entry for Kari Kenobi's "Illness contest" I do hope you enjoy it. This is NOT SLASH! P.S. Please forgive the weird title, it was the only one I could think of that fits. Any title suggestions are appreciated.
It was 5th of July 1887, that my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I sat in our flats in 221B Baker Street, trying to find something to do to keep our minds off the insufferable heat outside. I sat at the desk, writing, or as Holmes would often remind me, "romanticize" his latest case. Holmes sat on the floor of the sitting room; a newspaper of old scattered around him, and was looking for some minute piece of mystery in some murder or robbery that had taken place. Much to his disappointment, there was only news of the the United States leasing Pearl Harbor in Hawaii, as well as some odd and unimportant news. Holmes looked up at me with a mixture of anxiety and frustration apparent on his gaunt face.
"Just one case, Watson!" he exclaimed, "I need only one minute oddity to entertain my uninterested mind."
I looked over to Holmes. He seemed paler than he customarily was, and seemed to be sweating a great deal more than I. The room was cool however. The blinds had been brought up and the windows were opened. It was odd to see that my friend also seemed to be holding his stomach with one hand, rather than use it to animate his frustration. I dismissed it decisively, forgetting that Holmes was in some ways very different than most people.
Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, entered the sitting room with two silver platters laden with our midday meal. Once she had placed them on the dining table, she turned to me and produced a small piece of parchment from her pocket.
"This just came for you, Doctor." she said, handing the note which I perceived to be a telegram. I opened and read it, then sighed. There was need for me at a private residence in Harley Street. Going to my room, I picked up my doctors' bag, and then return to the sitting room. Holmes was not at the table; instead, he lay on the couch, one arm draped over his abdomen, eyes closed and breathing slightly labored.
I walked over to him in a moment of concern, and asked in a loud voice said "Holmes? Are you alright?"
In response he just lifted his arm and waved his hand dismissively. "I am well, Watson, I assure you. Go see to your patient." The detective, however, did not seem well at all. It was quite the opposite; he lay there, breathing heavily and was haggard. I almost hesitated to leave him, but then I remembered my duty.
"Holmes, I must insist that you eat. You do not do sustain yourself with food during cases; I'll not let you make a habit of it. Mrs. Hudson, please see that Mr. Holmes has lunch, force feed him if you must. I will be back within the hour." I then turned to the door, putting on my hat and coat, and after one more glance back at my friend, left the flat.
When I returned to 221b Baker Street one hour later, it had seemed as though havoc had ensued during my departure. Mrs. Hudson replied in a huffy tone when I asked if Holmes ate anything as I entered the main hallway.
"Oh yes sir, he did eat. Most of it he "spilled" by "accident" and left to his rooms leaving me to clean it up. Oh yes doctor, I think he's QUITE well." Turning on heel she stormed out of the entrance hall.
Heaving a sigh, I mounted the steps to flat B. Once I entered the rooms, my first sense of Holmes' illness was confirmed as my nose instantly picked up on the odor of one who has recently retched. I knew that none other my friend himself had been sick. Treading to the washroom, (whose door had been closed) I knocked gently.
"Holmes," I called, and then received a groan in return. "Holmes, I insist that you come out of there this instant!" I shouted through the door.
The detective opened the door, and stepped out. It was in that moment that I realized that Sherlock Holmes was not a well man. His face had, if possible had gone a shade whiter than before, and now stood heaving slightly. His eyes glinted with fever; sweat beadily perspired down his face, his legs looking as if they would give in at any moment. Holmes saw me, though it looked like it he didn't recognize me, and came towards me.
He almost tripped over his own feet as he struggled to meet me. When he did, Holmes placed his hand on my shoulder and murmured, "I don't think I am a well man, Doctor." Holmes' eyes rolled back into his head, and then his legs gave way and he crumple to the floor before I could catch him.
To be continued...
By Ms. Neptune Holmes
A/N: Hello everyone. This is my story/entry for Kari Kenobi's "Illness contest" I do hope you enjoy it. This is NOT SLASH! P.S. Please forgive the weird title, it was the only one I could think of that fits. Any title suggestions are appreciated.
It was 5th of July 1887, that my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I sat in our flats in 221B Baker Street, trying to find something to do to keep our minds off the insufferable heat outside. I sat at the desk, writing, or as Holmes would often remind me, "romanticize" his latest case. Holmes sat on the floor of the sitting room; a newspaper of old scattered around him, and was looking for some minute piece of mystery in some murder or robbery that had taken place. Much to his disappointment, there was only news of the the United States leasing Pearl Harbor in Hawaii, as well as some odd and unimportant news. Holmes looked up at me with a mixture of anxiety and frustration apparent on his gaunt face.
"Just one case, Watson!" he exclaimed, "I need only one minute oddity to entertain my uninterested mind."
I looked over to Holmes. He seemed paler than he customarily was, and seemed to be sweating a great deal more than I. The room was cool however. The blinds had been brought up and the windows were opened. It was odd to see that my friend also seemed to be holding his stomach with one hand, rather than use it to animate his frustration. I dismissed it decisively, forgetting that Holmes was in some ways very different than most people.
Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, entered the sitting room with two silver platters laden with our midday meal. Once she had placed them on the dining table, she turned to me and produced a small piece of parchment from her pocket.
"This just came for you, Doctor." she said, handing the note which I perceived to be a telegram. I opened and read it, then sighed. There was need for me at a private residence in Harley Street. Going to my room, I picked up my doctors' bag, and then return to the sitting room. Holmes was not at the table; instead, he lay on the couch, one arm draped over his abdomen, eyes closed and breathing slightly labored.
I walked over to him in a moment of concern, and asked in a loud voice said "Holmes? Are you alright?"
In response he just lifted his arm and waved his hand dismissively. "I am well, Watson, I assure you. Go see to your patient." The detective, however, did not seem well at all. It was quite the opposite; he lay there, breathing heavily and was haggard. I almost hesitated to leave him, but then I remembered my duty.
"Holmes, I must insist that you eat. You do not do sustain yourself with food during cases; I'll not let you make a habit of it. Mrs. Hudson, please see that Mr. Holmes has lunch, force feed him if you must. I will be back within the hour." I then turned to the door, putting on my hat and coat, and after one more glance back at my friend, left the flat.
When I returned to 221b Baker Street one hour later, it had seemed as though havoc had ensued during my departure. Mrs. Hudson replied in a huffy tone when I asked if Holmes ate anything as I entered the main hallway.
"Oh yes sir, he did eat. Most of it he "spilled" by "accident" and left to his rooms leaving me to clean it up. Oh yes doctor, I think he's QUITE well." Turning on heel she stormed out of the entrance hall.
Heaving a sigh, I mounted the steps to flat B. Once I entered the rooms, my first sense of Holmes' illness was confirmed as my nose instantly picked up on the odor of one who has recently retched. I knew that none other my friend himself had been sick. Treading to the washroom, (whose door had been closed) I knocked gently.
"Holmes," I called, and then received a groan in return. "Holmes, I insist that you come out of there this instant!" I shouted through the door.
The detective opened the door, and stepped out. It was in that moment that I realized that Sherlock Holmes was not a well man. His face had, if possible had gone a shade whiter than before, and now stood heaving slightly. His eyes glinted with fever; sweat beadily perspired down his face, his legs looking as if they would give in at any moment. Holmes saw me, though it looked like it he didn't recognize me, and came towards me.
He almost tripped over his own feet as he struggled to meet me. When he did, Holmes placed his hand on my shoulder and murmured, "I don't think I am a well man, Doctor." Holmes' eyes rolled back into his head, and then his legs gave way and he crumple to the floor before I could catch him.
To be continued...