Doctor versus Detective (Part 2)
By Ms. Neptune Holmes
A/N: Well, I'm back everyone! Thanks to all who reviewed my first chapter!
Note: I have changed the year that the story takes place in Chapter 1 from 1882 to 1889 so that another character can be entered.
Alexia S Luclwit: I'm glad you liked it!
Black Rose 25: C'est la vie. The vomiting is essential to the illness, hence the presence. But, I'm glad you enjoyed it.
Matatron: I think Watson has several ideas of what he may have!
Njong: *BOWS* Thanks very much! ^_^
Serene Rose: *laughs maliciously* THAT RIGHT! Ok, so Watson WOULD have caught him.Opps!
Shannon Holmes: Good! Then I'll be glad to continue!
Vidar: Thanks! ^_^
Now onward!
I had, with very much effort, managed to move Holmes to the sofa and lay him out upon it. The detective's eyes fluttered open, though they were slightly glazed.
"Holmes, listen to me. Did you eat anything these past few days while I was out in my surgery?" I asked him in a somewhat concerned tone. I had set upon prodding Holmes' abdomen with my hand to check for any pressure that caused him pain.
Holmes replied croakily, "I went for a short walk towards the East end and had luncheon in a small restaurant."
So that was it; Holmes was struck with food poisoning! I had no doubt that was the case. He was well known in London, especially with the criminal class. It would have been extremely easy for them to rid the world of Sherlock Holmes in this fashion. And yet, why was it that only one side of his stomach hurt and not the rest? And why did he have a fever?
My friend was struggling to sit upright, despite the warnings from me to lay still and my hand on his shoulder.
"I wish to go lay down, my dear Watson. Surely you have no objections to that, being a medical man." he said with a weak laugh.
"I would have rather him lay resting on the couch so that I could check on you often," I informed him.
He declined, saying that he would feel more comfortable in his own room. Weaving somewhat, and shunning my assistance, he made it to the door of his quarters and shut the door behind him. For three days I heard nothing of Holmes, regardless of being only a few meters away from his chambers. I did not feel right in invading his recuperation. However, it was anxiety that overwhelmed me when Holmes did not open his room so that I or Mrs. Hudson could render aid to him. Often times, I had found myself pounding on Holmes' door, ordering him to open up so that I could examine him.
"I am fine Watson! I'm well on my way to recovery!" yelled Holmes very feebly one morning. When I was breakfasting however, I heard the sound of Holmes being ill. This went on for a few moments, and then I heard my friend groan. Slamming down the spoon I had used for my egg, I went to the desk and scratch down a few lines on a piece of paper and called for our landlady.
"Please see that this is delivered to Mycroft Holmes of the Pall Mall," I had said the name of the recipient rather loudly.
"Right away, Doctor Watson," she replied softly, then added "Why are you summoning Mr. Holmes' brother?"
"I was thinking that three heads are better in this situation. Perhaps we both can get him to come out of his shelter. "
A half hour later, Mr. Mycroft Holmes was standing in our sitting room. His bulky hand shook mine.
"How are you, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft Holmes asked politely.
"Very well, thank you. Your brother however is not. He will not open the door for me or the landlady. We both realized that he was ill. And yet, as always, is refusing medical treatment. I was thinking that you might able to persuade him to surface."
"Show me to his room," the hulking gentleman finally said with a sigh. Mycroft Holmes chuckled softly. "My dear Doctor Watson, you must understand that both my brother and I are stubborn men. We both forge ahead without looking and are not one to worry about our health."
When we had reached Holmes' quarters, the elder Holmes brother pounded on the wooden entrance.
"Sherlock, please come out here! We must talk" said Mycroft Holmes in a calm tone. The only response was silence. A few more knocks and it was apparent that the large man was beginning to lose patience.
"WILLAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES, IF YOU DON'T COME OUT OF YOUR ROOM THIS INTANT.."
I had been taken aback by the use of my friend's full name. This time it was obvious that Holmes could not resist barricading himself in any longer; I heard footsteps that was soon followed by the sound of a soft 'thump' as though something had hit the ground. Mycroft Holmes must have heard it as well, because he muttered quickly, "Help me, Watson we'll force open the door."
I nodded dumbly and proceeded to put my weight to the entry. In one swift moment, with both of our bodies as force, the door gave way and light spilled into the tiny room. It was extremely untidy, as was accustomed to Holmes' nature, but it seemed as though everything that was skewed was the result from Holmes and his illness. The room smelled horribly of infirmity and vomit. On the red carpet at our feet, in a crumpled heap of white was Sherlock Holmes.
The elder sibling helped me carry Holmes to the couch were I examined him. I felt a great bulge on Sherlock Holmes' right side that caused me to shake slightly.
"By God," I murmured to Mycroft, "it's appendicitis!"
To be continued..
By Ms. Neptune Holmes
A/N: Well, I'm back everyone! Thanks to all who reviewed my first chapter!
Note: I have changed the year that the story takes place in Chapter 1 from 1882 to 1889 so that another character can be entered.
Alexia S Luclwit: I'm glad you liked it!
Black Rose 25: C'est la vie. The vomiting is essential to the illness, hence the presence. But, I'm glad you enjoyed it.
Matatron: I think Watson has several ideas of what he may have!
Njong: *BOWS* Thanks very much! ^_^
Serene Rose: *laughs maliciously* THAT RIGHT! Ok, so Watson WOULD have caught him.Opps!
Shannon Holmes: Good! Then I'll be glad to continue!
Vidar: Thanks! ^_^
Now onward!
I had, with very much effort, managed to move Holmes to the sofa and lay him out upon it. The detective's eyes fluttered open, though they were slightly glazed.
"Holmes, listen to me. Did you eat anything these past few days while I was out in my surgery?" I asked him in a somewhat concerned tone. I had set upon prodding Holmes' abdomen with my hand to check for any pressure that caused him pain.
Holmes replied croakily, "I went for a short walk towards the East end and had luncheon in a small restaurant."
So that was it; Holmes was struck with food poisoning! I had no doubt that was the case. He was well known in London, especially with the criminal class. It would have been extremely easy for them to rid the world of Sherlock Holmes in this fashion. And yet, why was it that only one side of his stomach hurt and not the rest? And why did he have a fever?
My friend was struggling to sit upright, despite the warnings from me to lay still and my hand on his shoulder.
"I wish to go lay down, my dear Watson. Surely you have no objections to that, being a medical man." he said with a weak laugh.
"I would have rather him lay resting on the couch so that I could check on you often," I informed him.
He declined, saying that he would feel more comfortable in his own room. Weaving somewhat, and shunning my assistance, he made it to the door of his quarters and shut the door behind him. For three days I heard nothing of Holmes, regardless of being only a few meters away from his chambers. I did not feel right in invading his recuperation. However, it was anxiety that overwhelmed me when Holmes did not open his room so that I or Mrs. Hudson could render aid to him. Often times, I had found myself pounding on Holmes' door, ordering him to open up so that I could examine him.
"I am fine Watson! I'm well on my way to recovery!" yelled Holmes very feebly one morning. When I was breakfasting however, I heard the sound of Holmes being ill. This went on for a few moments, and then I heard my friend groan. Slamming down the spoon I had used for my egg, I went to the desk and scratch down a few lines on a piece of paper and called for our landlady.
"Please see that this is delivered to Mycroft Holmes of the Pall Mall," I had said the name of the recipient rather loudly.
"Right away, Doctor Watson," she replied softly, then added "Why are you summoning Mr. Holmes' brother?"
"I was thinking that three heads are better in this situation. Perhaps we both can get him to come out of his shelter. "
A half hour later, Mr. Mycroft Holmes was standing in our sitting room. His bulky hand shook mine.
"How are you, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft Holmes asked politely.
"Very well, thank you. Your brother however is not. He will not open the door for me or the landlady. We both realized that he was ill. And yet, as always, is refusing medical treatment. I was thinking that you might able to persuade him to surface."
"Show me to his room," the hulking gentleman finally said with a sigh. Mycroft Holmes chuckled softly. "My dear Doctor Watson, you must understand that both my brother and I are stubborn men. We both forge ahead without looking and are not one to worry about our health."
When we had reached Holmes' quarters, the elder Holmes brother pounded on the wooden entrance.
"Sherlock, please come out here! We must talk" said Mycroft Holmes in a calm tone. The only response was silence. A few more knocks and it was apparent that the large man was beginning to lose patience.
"WILLAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES, IF YOU DON'T COME OUT OF YOUR ROOM THIS INTANT.."
I had been taken aback by the use of my friend's full name. This time it was obvious that Holmes could not resist barricading himself in any longer; I heard footsteps that was soon followed by the sound of a soft 'thump' as though something had hit the ground. Mycroft Holmes must have heard it as well, because he muttered quickly, "Help me, Watson we'll force open the door."
I nodded dumbly and proceeded to put my weight to the entry. In one swift moment, with both of our bodies as force, the door gave way and light spilled into the tiny room. It was extremely untidy, as was accustomed to Holmes' nature, but it seemed as though everything that was skewed was the result from Holmes and his illness. The room smelled horribly of infirmity and vomit. On the red carpet at our feet, in a crumpled heap of white was Sherlock Holmes.
The elder sibling helped me carry Holmes to the couch were I examined him. I felt a great bulge on Sherlock Holmes' right side that caused me to shake slightly.
"By God," I murmured to Mycroft, "it's appendicitis!"
To be continued..