3. when the bee stings
Universe: Sherlock Holmes – Arthur Conan Doyle
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Wiggins
Warning: NA
Word Count: 1228 words
Summary: Health insurance in Victorian England is a pro-bono doctor.
After starting my private practice and moving out of 221B, Holmes and I have fallen into an easy routine of meeting once every fortnight at some eating establishment of our choosing– sometimes a pub, other times a restaurant. I remember this incident perfectly well, because it has only been three days since our last meeting across a gas-lit table on a diner in Oxford Street. He seemed to be well, and our conversation wandered aimlessly from inconsequential topic to inconsequential topic– Holmes' had hit a dry spell in his practice, as had I, and neither of us had anything particularly sensational or interesting to share– before finally lending on the gauche décor on the diner that we both found distasteful.
"Say, I hate how he stares at us," Holmes said conversationally, casually gesturing with his fork. I knew he was referring to the stuffed deer mounted on the wall above the mantel, so extremely out of place set against the flower-patterned wallpaper. I had noticed the deer when we entered the diner, but thankfully from where I was sitting, it was out of my line of sight. Holmes, however, was facing it head-on, and whenever his eyes drifted to the top of my head, I knew that he was having a staring contest with its glassy eyes.
I digress. That night, as I was preparing to retire to my chambers, the door to my consulting-room burst open not a moment after the bell on the door gave an alarming jangle. I was annoyed, as you can imagine, at the fellow who was barging into my clinic, both for his lack of decency and manners, and for his lack of respect for my opening hours, etched cleanly and ever so noticeably on a placard on the door.
JOHN WATSON,
CONSULTING PHYSICIAN
TEN TO SIX
It was now at least seven thirty.
You can imagine my surprise when I saw that the person who had so rudely forced his way into my quarters was not some hooligan off the streets but my dear friend Sherlock Holmes. He was as pale as a spectre, and wildly dishevelled, so very different from when I had last seen him. For a wild moment I thought that I must have misremembered the dates, and that I had missed our fortnightly appointment. Then I recall that my recent memory of the awkwardly-mounted deer's head was too fresh to have been from two weeks ago. For the life of me, I could not conceive the reason behind his ghastly appearance, how someone who had been in the pink of health just three days ago could descend to his current frazzled state.
"Holmes!" I exclaim most immediately, noting the palour and deep creases in his brows.
"My dearest Watson, Wiggins is ill!" he says, in lieu of "good evening", or "how have you been?"
"Who?" I ask: he addresses the name as if it ought to be familiar to me, but for the life of me I cannot remember having ever made the acquaintance of a "Mister Wiggins".
"It's– I–," he struggles to string words together, his eyes wide as he gestures with his hands. He was so distraught that he simply stood moving his hands for a good while, and I had never seen my friend in such a state before. It moved me oddly, almost to a state of shock myself.
"Grab your coat, oh! and grab your toolkit: we must leave now: it is of utmost urgency–" Sherlock finally gasped out.
His own state convinced me of the urgent nature of his request without any need for further evidence. Taking my trusty clutch and grabbing my scarf from the coat stand, I rush out of my office adjusting my hat after Holmes, who was already running towards a waiting cab.
Only on the cab, us having settled in familiar positions across each other, does Holmes take a deep breath, and his posture unfurls itself like a tightly-coiled spring unwinding. He collapses, almost bonelessly, into his seat.
"Thank God, Watson," he says, "apologies for my presumption, but I was hoping you'd take this case pro-bono– Wiggins and his companions would simply not allow me to pay for the bill, and I told them not to be absurd, but I am afraid it is impossible–"
"Oh, no, it is fine," I say, utterly confused and unsure but sincere at the same time. "I can take a pro-bono case– for Mister Wiggins–"
"Thank you," Holmes says, grasping my hand with his spindly fingers. There was a wan smile on his face, before he leans his head against the glass of the carriage, staring at the droll streets of London. I stare for a moment at his reflection, grey and melancholic, set against the bright yellow of the gas lamps on the street, and wonder who Wiggins is.
"The bullshit capitalisms of our times makes everything impossible, you realise," he says suddenly, turning to look at me. "Child labour laws are lax enough that– I seriously fear for Wiggins should he be sacked with the burden of the bill–"
"Holmes! I don't know who Wiggins is!" I interrupted at last.
"Oh," Holmes says, blinking slowly. "Oh, no, I. I knew that. I–" He paused mid-sentence, and his face is composed whimsically into a crooked half-smile for a moment, before it relaxes, and Holmes lets out a small chuckle.
"They do say that laughter remedies all," Holmes says, grudgingly. "I have to admit, I have been preoccupied with Wiggins' case, and have scarcely had cause for any sort of joy."
I stare at him.
"Wiggins is one of those urchin children of the Baker Street Irregular, whom you had the pleasure of meeting during that case you so cleverly dubbed The Sign of the Four– yes, I do read your pamphlets–"
"Oh," I say, chagrined, slowly placing in one of the dim corners of my mind that such a character had existed, one of the boys who had been the leader of that particular band of scraggly urchin children. "What happened to him?"
"I wish I knew! It could be anything from the whooping cough to a common cold. He has developed some sort of a cough, and such mundane hiccups are elevated to the levels of crises when among the urchin boys, for they all live together and may at any moment infect each other, not to mention that they're all too poor to seek a physician - Alistair reported Wiggins' cough to me just an hour ago, and since then I have advised them all to leave their leader– loyal band of bandits they are, some of the foolhardier boys absolutely refuse to leave Wiggins' side, I've had to bodily prise them from his side–"
I nod, empathetic.
"I'm sure Wiggins will be fine after some bloodletting," I said in my best and most reassuring voice.
Holmes slums again into his seat, almost as if he had expelled all his fight in one great heave.
"God almighty, I wish we had some sort of welfare programme for the disenfranchised," he says, leaning his arm against his eyes. "Some sort of functioning healthcare programme that doesn't rely on the goodwill of a kindly doctor."
"You are ahead of the times, Holmes," I inform him. "You propose methods we are yet ready for."
"One can wish, Watson," he says, tiredly.