Fatigue and Anguish

With a lot of help from Ems (thank you my dear!) I have edited this chapter so that it is rather more to my liking. I hope that you find it much improved.

There is the sound of a bird scolding somewhere nearby - the alarm-call immediately alerts me in my hiding place and I tense, preparing myself for another long run should Moran appear. Already I am weary, having received more exercise in two days than would usually be forced upon me in a year, but if I am to live long enough to return home to London I must endure still more. All is silent around me now, bringing a sense of foreboding and for a moment all that I can hear is my own heartbeat and the blood roaring in my ears. Then I become aware of another sound - there is but a faint sound that is similar to the rustle of fabric, coming from behind me and I turn my head slowly. The red eyes of a gigantic adder gleam at me from beneath a nearby fallen tree and I almost give a cry of terror as I scramble backward from my place of concealment, all thoughts of Moran and his gun dashed from my mind at the sight of this new foe.

Exhausted as I am, running proves to be futile - I feel as if I am doing little more than jogging on the spot, while the monstrous serpent glides after me in a manner that seems effortless. I leap over obstacles, bound through streams and across ditches as I become increasingly desperate to escape, but the snake remains forever at my heels. My chest is burning, my vision dimming, every part of me aches with fatigue and there is now an unpleasant, fear-induced discomfort in my lower abdomen. I know that I cannot go on! In one final attempt to increase my speed I try to drag myself up a steep incline on all fours but I am badly winded and shaking. My strength is beginning to tell and the adder would seem to know it. I am lost.

I jerk awake, still being chased by the giant adder of my dream, and attempt to bring my racing heart and breathing under control as I realise that the vision, though vivid, was not real.

Every last part of me is aching, paining and protesting. My head, my eyes, my jaw, my arms, legs... I have more discomforts than I could possibly catalogue. Should I attempt to stretch or remain still? Would it make a jot of difference? Even my hair and fingernails seem to hurt, so most probably not. I very much doubt that I have been in slumber for long.

Whilst trying not to move, I study my surroundings to the best of my ability, doing my utmost to forget that dream. By the fading daylight and the glow of the fire I can see that I have been moved to the settee. Watson is stretched out in his armchair and I can dimly see that the poor fellow's face is streaked with tears and creased with worry. What have I done to him?

Further inspection of my surroundings informs me that there is a bucket on the floor, close to my head, I have been covered with rugs and there is a pitcher of water on the coffee table. Oh. Just the sight of that pitcher is enough to send me into a state of near-panic. Whether it is indeed due to the horribly vivid nightmare or the amount of water that I have been plied with I am not sure, but I have to move myself somehow or else Mrs. Hudson is going to be rather angry with me.

Carefully, I force myself into an upright position. I must not move too quickly or else I might faint. That, in my current condition, would no doubt be disastrous. Just keep calm Holmes, for Heaven's sake! You can wait. Slowly... Gently... Oh God! This is simply not normal; my bladder does not feel as if it is full in the slightest and yet my wretched body is threatening me, warning me that I am moments away from making a frightful mess on the floor! What is happening to me?

I had not realised that I had made a sound, but I have somehow alerted Watson. The fellow chooses the most inconvenient moments to be damned observant.

"What is wrong Holmes?" he asks as he approaches me. "I can see that you are in distress."

I groan and gesture in the direction of the washroom with a less than steady hand. I cannot wait! I can feel my wretched body rebelling.

"I am going to urinate!" That was nice... I could have at least attempted to remain polite. An outburst like that would have earned me a sound beating from my nanny when I was a child and if I was expected to control myself then I should be able to do so now.

"Do not panic," he advises me in an annoyingly calm tone. "If you keep calm it will be easier to control yourself. Now, lean on me. Yes, that is it. The lavatory is only a few steps away; you will be all right."

I heed his advice to the best of my ability but I am too desperate to remain calm. I am shaking with effort as much as the urgency of the situation and still I can feel myself losing control. I want to run, but that would only increase the difficulty that I am having. What is happening to me? Why is it so hard for me to wait? This should not be difficult!

"Watson..."

He nods and gives me a reassuring smile as he coaxes me ever onward. "Nearly there Holmes. Nearly there. You are doing very well."

No I am not. I fear that I am about to disappoint him terribly! My body is rebelling horribly and it is taking all of my strength to counter it. I should not be in this situation! Even when ill, I can wait for hours on end without difficulty - regardless of the level of my discomfort - as cases will sometimes dictate. The thought of losing control of myself here in my sitting room in front of Watson, like a helpless infant, is ridiculous to the extreme!

Despite my best efforts, one of my careful steps causes my wretched brain's appendix to gain the upper hand for a moment. I do not glance down to check whether there is any evidence and the nightgown that I am wearing should conceal it. I hope that my friend is unaware of what has just happened. With a groan I press on, keeping my steps measured and trying not to breathe.

As we step inside the washroom, I almost lose the battle with my wretched body completely. I know not whether it is due to the chill in the room and the cold tiles beneath my bare feet or simply the knowledge that I am in such close proximity to the lavatory. Whilst avoiding my Boswell's gaze I begin to step awkwardly from foot to foot in a final effort to control myself.

"Excuse me please Doctor," I snap at him as I resist the urge to relieve myself while he is still in the room. "I can manage now."

"Oh. Yes, of course," he retreats hastily, for which I am grateful, though he leaves the door ajar. "It is not shameful to sit, rather than to stand, when one is unwell," he reminds me quietly from behind the door, as if he fears that I might collapse were I to attempt remaining on my feet.

Hum. Perhaps I should not maintain my upright position simply to be contrary... I am feeling far worse than I ever remember feeling before. I might actually consider never partaking of cocaine again!

As I tend to myself and attempt to bring the trembling in my limbs back under control, I wonder again why this has happened. Why did I almost make a puddle in the sitting room, when I should not have even felt a strong need to visit the lavatory? Is there something wrong with me? Should I inform Watson?

I hear Watson tap at the door when I am washing my hands. "Are you all right Holmes?"

I nod without so much as turning to meet his gaze.

"Come on then, we should get you back to the sofa. Um... do you want to change your clothes?"

I freeze at the question. What is he implying? Does he know that I was not altogether successful in waiting until the right moment?

"I noticed that you were sweating Holmes," my Boswell clarifies patiently. "Do you want to wash and change into a fresh nightshirt? I imagine you are feeling somewhat uncomfortable."

I confess that I am. I should like to know why I am sweating so profusely while I am so cold though. Does cocaine usage usually affect me in such a manner?

"I truly am dreadfully sorry Holmes," my friend tells me as he escorts me from the washroom and sits me upon the settee once more, having assisted me in washing and dressing. "I shall not let this happen again."

"What is happening to me?" I ask of him, still feeling rather unnerved by the recent incident.

"You are ill old fellow! Things like this happen sometimes. You were simply too weary to be aware of nature's calling to you until it was almost too late, that is all. You did very well under the circumstances - I have seen far worse, you know."

Is the knowledge that he has seen worse truly supposed to reassure me? I avoid meeting his gaze. I should tell him that there is something wrong, but it is embarrassing and I am not quite sure how to articulate the problem in any case. Not knowing what else to do or say, I again begin to apologise.

"Please don't," he begs of me. "I know that you would not do this deliberately old fellow; you can stop apologising. Besides, you did warn me that you were in a hurry - and I shall be more inclined to listen in future."

"Thank you."

He nods and pats my knee with a compassionate smile.

"Should I feel like that again..." I shudder at the thought.

"If you become as desperate as that again I shall give you something to use," he informs me firmly. "That is precisely what I should have done this time, when I saw the level of your distress. I should know you well enough to realise that you would not make such a fuss unless you truly doubted your own ability to control yourself - and I should be apologising to you!"

I would rather not be treated as an invalid, but if it is that or a repeat performance of what could easily have transpired in our sitting room moments ago I suppose I have no choice in the matter. At least my companion is still treating me with as much dignity as he can.

"Is there anything that I can do for you?" my companion asks once I have been made comfortable and the fire has been tended. "You must be terribly bored... I could read to you, if you would like."

Watson often read to me when I was ill and weary before my hiatus. I missed that terribly - much more than I would have expected - on the last occasion that I was unwell. I missed him more than I could ever have imagined! I smile at him.

"Yes please," I mumble as I pull the rugs closer to me. I want to tell him how I have missed his narratives, but after the harm that my proposition caused this morning I am afraid to speak a word.

He nods and addresses me with a small smile. "Poetry? Shakespeare?"

"Shakespeare." I would have to be ill indeed to want to hear poetry! Though, I must confess, I did read some Browning and a little Keats and Wordsworth during my hiatus, when I was feeling particularly homesick, and imagined that it was Watson who was reading it. It worked for a week or two, but soon wore off with overuse.

His smile broadens. "Of course. Do you have a preference?"

"Surprise me."

He drags his medical bag closer to his chair and rummages in it. Then, with a nod, he withdraws a book from it.

"Do you always carry books with you?"

"Ever since I found that it helps you to settle," he responds as he stands to sit at my ankles on the settee, bringing with him his bag and the book that he has already taken from it. "I carry a little poetry and one or two stories; they often help to soothe a troubled patient. Particularly fretful women and children. I should thank you."

"Thank you Watson. I am not behaving like a fretful woman or child!"

His face flushes under my annoyed stare. "No, of course not. I was not suggesting that you were. I only meant that reading to a fretful patient has proved to be beneficial and that I only tried it because I had already discovered that it would seem to be of comfort to you."

Ah. I try to dismiss the irrational irritation, but it is still present and no doubt brought about by the narcotic more than anything else. "I would not have thought that you would have time for such things during your rounds." I am not put out, merely surprised by this revelation that this is not special treatment which is reserved just for me; after all, I am Watson's closest friend!

"I am sometimes the only fellow at hand who is able to read and write Holmes. Under those circumstances, I read something and then advise a family member to make up stories or to perhaps sing quietly."

I nod and settle back. Now I understand; it is simply a case of when needs must. That makes perfect sense.

"Now, shall I begin?" he asks as he makes himself comfortable.

I frown at him. "Why are you sitting there? Would you not be better off in your chair?" I do not wish to be seen in the throes of a nightmare - I feel that I have endured quite enough humiliation for one day! Besides, I might lash out and injure the dear chap.

"I want to be close if you need me. I do not want you to vex yourself needlessly old fellow. Now, shall I begin?"

I nod and close my eyes with a quiet sigh. I suppose the doctor knows what he is doing better than I do.

With closed eyes and my heightened imagination (courtesy of the cocaine still coursing through my veins) I can easily picture the scenes depicted in the tale. It takes the briefest of moments for me to become calmer.

When the story reaches its conclusion and I am still awake, my companion asks whether I am in any discomfort. I could easily snap at him - after all, I am aching terribly with fatigue so the answer is quite obvious - but I refrain. Watson did not have to return to care for me any more than he has to stay; if I become difficult, he has every right to send for a different doctor and abandon me in favour of his less ungrateful and stubborn patients.

"No more so than I have been since before you returned," I respond in what I hope to be an airy manner.

He grimaces. "Poor fellow! I wish I could do more for you. I could give you something for your pain, but it would have to be mild and would most likely do no good."

I nod in understanding and sneeze loudly.

"Bless you. I hope that you have not caught a cold, on top of everything else."

If I have, it is my own fault and I tell him as much. "If I become unwell it will due to the many sleepless nights, missed meals and cold and dirty rooms in which I have stayed."

"Hum, and quite probably the upset and overuse of cocaine that I have caused with my fit of temper as well."

I sniff. "That was my fault."

"According to you, everything is!" he shakes his head and rubs a hand across his eyes. "Let us just agree that we were both at fault, that we are both sorry and that, should such a dispute begin again between us, we shall discuss our differences like civilised adults as opposed to storming out without resolving the matter first."

I nod my agreement. "Very wise."

"And now you should rest," the doctor advises me with a pat to my ankle. "Even if you cannot sleep, you should at least attempt to stay quiet, still and relaxed."

That is easier said than done. I am feeling as restless as I am fatigued. All the same, my Boswell is near and I know that I am safe while I lower my guard. I could always rely on Watson.