Literally on the heels of the War to End All Wars, an exhausted world populace faced another menace. This scourge respected no national or continental boundaries, preyed alike on rich and poor, old and young. In 1918, influenza swept over Britain and the Continent. For every victim that survived, one died. There was no preventative, no cure.
Holmes had seen the face of the scourge at close range: both he and his close friend John Watson had survived influenza early in the 1890s. Perhaps, Holmes mused, that was why he himself had not contracted the disease. He was quite worried that Russell, indifferent to her own health up at Oxford amongst people who could have carried the disease, would be stricken. Trust Russell to forget to eat until she was at the point of fainting; to scorn mufflers, hats, shawls and galoshes and tramp about in the cold and wet in her shabby old mac and leather shoes; to disdain sleep and work days on end without ever seeing her bed.
He had to admit that he was guilty of similar offences against his own person; deep in the coils of a case, he had little regard for his own well-being, little say his own safety. Still, Russell was – what was she, indeed? His apprentice, his intern, his assistant? His heart told him otherwise. From the time more than three years ago when she had literally stumbled upon him on Sussex Downs, she had been his obsession, his Muse. For every time he had railed at her, indulging his bad temper and impatience, he had soothed her boiling anger and reinforced her determination. Turnabout was fair play: for every time she had challenged him outright, snapped and growled at him and slashed him unmercifully with her razor wit, she had bound up his wounds, comforted and supported him. He loved her. He loved her to distraction, and it grieved him sorely that he could not love her, as she deserved.
No, he told himself self-righteously, he was not what she deserved. She deserved a young man, cheerful and pleasant and enthusiastic, who would give her a houseful of jolly, round-cheeked cherubs, call her "my old Dutch," entertain lavishly at Christmas and birthdays and holidays with her. She did not deserve a cranky, set-in-his-ways, self-absorbed and solitary old swot who would give her little affection and eschew society, family and comradely connexions as if they were the Devil's own torments.
Yet, she was his life and breath, and the thought of Russell laid low with the impersonal killer that respected no bonds or relationships, was like a leaden weight on his heart. I must know that she is well, he thought. Although he had discovered that Hogwarts, magical or no, had no telephone, the village nearby must have one, or a telegraph office at the very least. He still had not received a satisfactory explanation as to how he had arrived at Hogwarts. No matter: he was here now, there was a mystery to be solved, and now an epidemic to prevent.
He could do no good by standing at Snape's bedside or trying to figure out what was wrong with Madam Pomfrey. If he could reach Watson, he could have him send some of the sulpha powders that seemed to ease the symptoms of influenza in some cases. He could try to reach Russell as well, and set his mind at ease that she was well.
Holmes turned to the Headmaster: "Sir, it would be best if you established a quarantine straightaway. It is possible that anyone who has touched Madam Pomfrey or been close to her may be stricken with influenza, which she appears to have. If the students can be kept away from the infirmary, and no-one leaves it for the time being, perhaps it can be contained."
"Influenza? I've read about the Muggle epidemics," said Dumbledore. "We are in general untouched by diseases that attack non-wizarding communities." He looked sharply at Holmes.
Had he carried the dread disease to Hogwarts? Carriers often spread the sickness before they themselves experienced its symptoms. But if that were so, it was too quick: Madam Pomfrey had just met him the day before, and influenza had a two week incubation period before it manifested its presence.
"The influenza which has stricken Madam Pomfrey was not carried by myself," Holmes stated, and explained the theory of its contagion and incubation. "As you say, you are in general untroubled by illnesses which afflict non-wizards. It would therefore stand to reason that this influenza is meant specifically to infect you, and the infection is deliberate. However, Madam Pomfrey's loss of her magical ability may or may not be linked to the influenza, and may be a one-time occurrence." Holmes' eyes glittered; he felt the familiar rush of exhilaration and sharpening of focus that accompanied his insight into a complex case.
A loud sneeze punctuated the ensuing silence. It was followed by a shrill screech from Madam Pomfrey's bedside. As one, Dumbledore, Holmes and Sister Brigit turned and ran to the mediwitch's screened bed. Poppy was sitting up, her cold compress half off her forehead, holding the hand of a wailing Sister Agrippina.
"I – I was changing Poppy's linens, she'd perspired so heavily they were soaked, and – and – " Unable to go on, she collapsed onto the side of the bed, sobbing. The said linens were in an untidy bunch, half on and half off the bed. Sister Agrippina's wand hung limply in her hand.
"She's lost her magic too," said Poppy, and lay back on her pillow. Sister Brigit withdrew a wand from her sleeve and passed it over the bed; instantly, the soiled linens sailed over to a nearby hamper. Fresh, crisp, clean sheets appeared on the bed under the patient.
"What with Poppy and Agrippina sick, we need some help," said Sister Brigit. "I'll Floo St Mungo's and see how they're faring, if they've got any influenza cases."
"Hold off a bit," advised Holmes. "Let us see if my theory holds up. Sister Brigit, when were you, Madam Pomfrey and Sister Agrippina last at close quarters?"
"It was when we went to fetch the corpses," said the red-haired aide. "We were gathered round them as Poppy levitated them onto the stretcher."
"I think you may be the next affected," said Holmes.
"Och, no, I don't think so, sir. Ye know that druids have a special earth bond that protects us—" A strange look passed over the woman's face, and she put her hand over her mouth.
"She's going to sneeze," sniffled Sister Agrippina. "Oh, who will take care of us, and anyone else who's sick? What about Professor Snape, he's just barely stabilised?" She sneezed twice, groaned, and mopped her streaming eyes.
Sister Brigit didn't sneeze. She turned on her heel and ran as fast as she could to the bathroom, where she spent the next few minutes throwing up everything, seemingly, she had eaten in the past week. Weakly, she reached for her wand to clean up the mess on the floor. Nothing happened. "Mother!" she cried out feebly, and tried to stand up, only to faint on the white tile.
Holmes quickly ran into the bathroom and lifted the slight woman in his arms. He carried her to a nearby bed and put her down gently. He felt her wrist; her pulse was faint. When he listened to her breathing, he could hear the rattle in her lungs; she was the worst off.
How suddenly it had struck! In only a few minutes, three people had been laid low by the disease. Holmes straightened: Snape! He had been the first to touch the bodies, after Filch had gone to bring him. The detective immediately walked to the bedside of the stricken wizard. Madam Pomfrey had evidently been able to stabilise him before she fell ill: the Potions Master slumbered peacefully; the livid marks on his face and body were faded almost to nothing. Holmes bent over him and listened to his chest: normal breathing sounds. He put his hand on the man's forehead: normal temperature. He hoped that Snape would awaken whole and sound – and quickly.
There was nothing more he could do at this moment; he resolved to go into the town and make his telephone calls, send his telegrams. He approached the Headmaster and began to tell him what he was going to do, but Albus Dumbledore was busy retching into a basin, the gagging sounds interspersed with sneezes.
"You go on, Mr Holmes," wheezed the Headmaster. "Hagrid can get you to Hogsmeade to make your call. I'll stay here and keep quarantine. Minerva…someone, please see to Professor McGonagall, she may have been infected."
"You must drink liquids, all of you," stated Holmes. "I shall tell the first House Elf I see to bring Professor McGonagall, as well as tea and juices."
The Headmaster waved a hand at him, bending again over his basin.
Holmes exited the hospital wing at a goodly speed, intent on finding Hagrid, who would probably be the best chance of his getting to town quickly.
***
Professor Snape stirred in his hospital bed. Gradually he swam up through the soft depths of the therapeutic slumber. He was aware that he was terribly thirsty, a common situation upon awakening from a post-Cruciatus sleep. He opened his eyes, and at the same time became aware of noises around him in the infirmary: sneezing, coughing. Someone was vomiting. He sat up and looked around; the curtain that had been drawn around his bed was pulled back, and he could see across the floor. In the bed next to his, Sister Agrippina lay, coughing feebly. Across the floor he could see Madam Pomfrey propped up on pillows, a handkerchief held to her face. Was that the red hair of Sister Brigit in the next bed, unmoving?
Mother of Cagliostro on a crutch, Dumbledore! The Headmaster was sitting on the edge of a bed, a large emesis basin in his hands. He looked terrible. As Snape watched, the old man held his beard aside and retched into the basin.
Over at the end of the room, he thought he saw one of the Patil sisters, lying in a bed, coughing terribly. What in the name of the Nine Hells was happening? Snape sat up, and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He was not dizzy; this last episode had not been as dreadful as some of the Dark Lord's punishments. He held on to the bedside table and rose to his feet. As he did so, three House Elves ran into the infirmary, each one pushing a tea-cart. Nibby approached the Potions Master: "Master Snape, you is all so sick, Master Holmes is saying you must drink many liquids." The House Elf handed him a tall glass of pumpkin juice; Snape downed it gratefully.
"What has happened here?" he asked.
"Influenza," said the little creature. "Master Holmes is going to get his doctor friend to send special medicine."
"Snape!" A hoarse call drew his attention. Poppy Pomfrey waved her hand to him. "Please, come over here!" The Potions Master approached the mediwitch's bed.
"I assume you have more complete information about this influenza," he stated. "I do not seem to be afflicted."
"No, you don't," she said. "I was dreadfully sick for about an hour, then I slept, and now I seem to be recovering. From what Mr Holmes told us of this disease, that's unheard of."
"I've heard of the influenza epidemics that swept the Muggle community after the First War," Snape stated. "Wizards are not affected by such; this is most unusual."
"You have no idea how unusual," Poppy responded. "I've lost my magic. So have we all, including the Headmaster. Severus, we were the first to be in contact with those dead bodies!"
"If that is so, why don't I have it? And why does Miss Patil have it?"
"It's highly contagious, and Padma must have gotten it from me. As to why you're not affected, I haven't the faintest." She looked at him, with a ghost of her old tart sense of humour. "Perhaps the disease is repelled by a high degree of snark."
Snape smirked. "How fortunate for me, then. In any case, Poppy, I seem to be in the best shape of you lot. I shall help as best I can."
"Thank you," said the mediwitch. "Please see to Albus and Minerva. They were the last in, and could use your sympathetic touch." She smirked back at him.
"Humph," said Snape, and billowed off to attend to the Headmaster and McGonagall. As he approached the door of the infirmary, he stopped suddenly. "Where's Holmes?" he demanded.
"He set off to make a telephone call from Hogsmeade. His associate there can get some Muggle medicine which may be helpful," Poppy Pomfrey called after him. Snape whirled and strode back to the Headmaster.
"We can't let him go there!" he grated. "He'll be discovered! I can just hear it: 'Sherlock Holmes is a character in a book! Who d'you think you're trying to fool?' We've got to stop him, we need him here!" Snape ran down the stairs and flew across the great hall like an ambulatory bat. He was just in time to see Hagrid leading Holmes to the great fireplace in the entryway: the master Floo station. Hagrid took a handful of Floo powder from the chalice on the mantelpiece, tossed it into the hearth, and as Snape bellowed, "Hagrid! No!" the half-giant and the detective vanished into the flames.