"Before the night is through you will die in the knowledge that I have killed you. Smith."

Chapter 22: The Night Is Through

Watson:

For a stunned moment, my disbelieving ears did not register the words Lachlan had just read aloud from the paper that had accompanied the tiny instrument of death now lying on the ground.

Then they hit me with all the force of what they truly meant.

I was – I was going to die.

There had been one of Smith's diseases on that razor blade in that envelope addressed to Holmes, and I had cut myself on the sharp edge. I had been infected. I did not want to die in such a horrible manner as that sailor!

That selfish notion, I am ashamed to admit, was my first thought. However, my second an instant later was an ironic feeling of gladness that I had been the one to open the envelope, not Sherlock Holmes.

But judging from the absolute, unmitigated terror in my companion's eyes, he most definitely did not share that feeling of gladness. I have never seen my friend look so petrified as he was that instant.

The fingers that still gripped my wrist had turned icy cold, and his thin face had gone white as a sheet.

I was not feeling much better than he looked, and I weakly slumped against the wall, trying to deal with the knowledge that I was going to die before the night was over. Smith had been quite clear about that point.

And such a sordid way to go, too. I had faced death, what I thought at the time to be certain death, many times – in Afghanistan's war, my illness in India, and in the company of my friend Sherlock Holmes – but this, this was a totally different thing than facing a gunman or a criminal gang or some such tangible danger.

This was inexorable, unyielding death, that offered no chance whatsoever for escape. I would become the second casualty on board the Friesland, following that poor sailor into the next life before the night was over. And we could do naught about the fact.

And I realized now that I was afraid to die. I had always, throughout my life, feared very few things; I was a soldier – but dying of an unknown and excruciatingly painful disease had not crossed my mind until now. And I was scared.

I pulled my wrist free of Sherlock Holmes's vise-like grip and took a step backwards, not knowing what to do, what to say – all this time there had been the silence of death in the small stateroom. I clenched my fist around my infected finger, trying to somehow get a grip on the emotions that were roiling under my exterior, attempting to hide my fear.

But when I made the mistake of looking at Holmes's face and saw that he had given up trying to hide his own feelings, I nearly lost my composure. I had to get out of there. I did not know where I needed to go, but I had to get out.

I started for the door but Holmes intercepted me, gripping both my clenched hands in his own trembling ones.

"You cannot run from this, Watson," he said shakily.

"I can't sit here and – and just wait, Holmes!"

Lachlan had quietly picked up the sharp blade by shoving the paper under it, and he now tossed the deadly object out the porthole. Then he quietly and tactfully left the room, shutting the door silently behind him, leaving the two of us standing there looking helplessly at each other.

My breathing was coming in short gasps and I felt as thought I were going to be ill – was that a symptom? Or just my nerves? What did it matter, which it was – it was only a matter of hours at any rate!

"I need air," I finally managed to choke out, jerking my hands free and fumbling for the doorknob of my stateroom.

I made it out into the corridor and had stumbled up the companionway before Holmes caught up with me on the deck.

"Watson, stop!"

I took a deep breath and walked over to the rail, letting the calm sea breeze blow about me for a moment, cooling my throbbing head – was a headache a symptom as well? What of this was the disease and what was only my mind playing tricks upon me?

I stared morbidly out at the water, knowing it would be the last night I would be able to spend on the deck of this ship, listening to the laughter and sounds of social gatherings in the lounge. It was so – so unfair.

And I was going to leave Holmes to face Smith alone after tonight – he would have to finish the case up alone. And he was careless enough already about his own safety; grief would make him far less watchful.

Why had I opened that envelope and unthinkingly shoved my hand inside it? Why had I not been more wary? I knew as well as Holmes that Smith worked in nasty underhanded methods such as that – why had I not been on my guard?

I felt a shaking hand tighten on my shoulder and knew Holmes's thoughts were probably running along the same course as mine.

"Dear God, what are we to do?"

His choked whisper was filled with a despair and hopelessness that I had never before heard from him – and it nearly brought tears to my eyes at the thought of the guilt he had to be feeling. The letter had been addressed to him, after all.

Thank God he had been too preoccupied to open it. I would not have been able to survive losing him twice. Scared as I was, I knew it was better this way. Now at least he could still be left to stop Smith from killing yet more innocent people.

"Promise me you'll stop that man from what he plans to do, Holmes," I said in a low voice.

His hand tightened convulsively and if I had not known him better, I would have thought he was choking back a sob. I could not look to see what the half-strangled noise really was.

"Watson, I – I –" he stopped as his voice shook, waiting to be back under control once more. I glanced at him, but he was just staring out over the dark water.

"Why the devil did you open that envelope!" he exploded at last, his total misery evident in every word. "It was addressed to me! Why were you opening it anyway?" He kicked the bottom rung of the iron rail angrily.

"I am glad I did," I snapped back at him, taken aback at his vehemence, "I could not take losing you again, not a month after your return, Holmes! And I don't think I could stand watching you die slowly like I thought you were, back when Smith tried it the first time!"

Our voices had raised considerably, and as a passerby stared at us, I dropped my tone and my gaze, not wanting to see the guilt in my friend's face.

"I shall never forgive myself," Holmes gasped, leaning on the rail, looking as if he were going to be sick.

I was feeling rather nauseous as well – another symptom, I supposed. I turned back to the ocean's dark depths and stared out at the pale shimmering moonlight dancing on the waves, rubbing a hand across my face uneasily.

"What's wrong?" Holmes asked sharply.

"Other than the fact that I'm a walking dead man?" I demanded, my nerve shot to pieces.

At the horrified grief that shot over his face when I spoke, I was instantly filled with remorse – this was hard enough on him without my losing my grip on control.

"I – I am sorry," I said shakily, taking a deep breath and trying to regain my nerves.

"No, old chap. I am the one who should apologize," he whispered miserably, "why in heaven's name was I not more watchful?"

"You cannot blame yourself, Holmes."

"Yes, I can! Why didn't I stop you! It was my mail, after all, and I suspected Smith would go after us! And now, even with all our precautions –"

He broke off as his voice choked, and he walked away from me to lean upon an iron support beam, resting his head on the cold metal, staring morosely out over the water.

I was acutely aware of a woman's laugh from one of the lounges, of the ship's stringed quartet serenading the late diners, of the wind blowing by and setting the gas lamps swinging; and most of all, I was aware of the fact that this was my last night to hear them.

Holmes walked back over to me just as a fresh wave of fear swept over me like an icy blast of water, threatening to destroy what little composure I had left. I realized I was shivering only when Holmes's strong arm went round my shoulders in a rare gesture.

"What – what are you feeling like, Watson?" he asked hesitantly.

"I – don't know," I said unsteadily, "nothing yet, other than nerves, I suppose."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

He sighed, and we stood there for several minutes in silence, lost in our own thoughts.

"Holmes."

"Yes, my dear fellow?"

"I – I don't want to just stand here, or just sit in our stateroom waiting," I said at last, knowing I would go mad if I had to simply sit round and wait for symptoms to show, "can we – do something?"

"Of course, old fellow. You have but to name it."

I managed a small smile at his deathly pale face, ashen with a deep grief-stricken worry.

"Would you like to learn how to really play billiards?"

I saw, to my eternal surprise, moisture well up and dim his clear grey eyes – but only for a moment; the next instant, he had reverted back to that normal mask he took refuge behind to hide his feelings from the world.

"I should be delighted," he replied softly, taking my arm, and we headed for the least populated lounge.

We found one that was relatively unoccupied for the simple reason that all the tables in the room seemed to be not level and half the cues were warped. But at that moment we were looking more for solitude than first-class playing equipment.

As I began to try to explain the rules to Holmes, I could tell that he was not really paying attention. And for that matter, neither was I. But we gave it a game shot, anyhow.

An hour into it, I nervously loosened my collar, glancing at my watch.

11:55 pm.

I wondered if the pounding in my head and the too-rapid beating of my heart were symptoms of whatever Smith had infected that blade with. As I pulled out my handkerchief to mop my brow, Holmes stopped his shot and was at my side in an instant, laying his hand on my forehead with a look of dead fright.

"Not a fever, Holmes," I said a little uneasily, "just nerves, that's all."

He swallowed hard and, after a push from me, went back to the table. I choked down my nervous nausea and followed his shot.

We finished the game and started another, more to stall for time than anything else. I looked at my watch again.

1:15 am.

I was growing weary of the game and so was he, for neither of us were paying the least attention to the table. We gave up in despair and left the lounge, glad to be in the cool night air again.

The knot in my stomach was making itself felt again as we ended up on a comfortable couch on the promenade deck, and I dared not speak for fear my voice would betray the lurking panic I was fighting to quash.

I almost wished for the symptoms to show, painful though I knew they would be – just so that I would not have to continue to wait like this!

1:35 am.

"Watson."

"Yes?"

"Is there – is there anything you would like to ask me?"

I turned, looking at him after he had hesitantly put forth the odd question.

"No, I mean it. I – am not the most talkative of persons," Holmes said, fidgeting nervously with his cufflinks, "and – well, if you want to, please go ahead?"

"Well - tell me…" I said hesitantly, and then I stopped uncertainly.

"Go on, old chap."

I turned to face his haunted grey eyes, took a deep breath, and went on.

"Tell me, what did you think of me when we first met?"

He smiled a little sadly.

"My first impression, you mean?"

"And afterwards."

"Well, my first was that of respect for a man who had been through the horror of what I knew was happening in Afghanistan at the time," he said simply, his gaze softening as he thought back.

"And?"

"And after we moved in - well, I thought I had never met a more unselfish and easy-going, tolerant chap in my life," he said, his mouth twitching with a half-smile.

I chuckled.

"You did not know me very well then."

"Hmm, yes. How in the world have you tolerated me all this time, anyhow, Watson?"

"That, my dear Holmes, is a mystery I don't believe even you could solve," I returned with a small smile.

His returning smile died as I glanced at my watch for the tenth time.

1:45 am.

"How do you feel?"

"Nervous."

"I mean besides that," he said impatiently, his voice laced with taut worry.

"Scared, nothing more than that yet," I told him truthfully – I felt nothing yet other than that tense nausea. This germ that Smith had infected me with must just be set to work with terrible rapidity the last few hours of the night.

I shivered at the thought, and Holmes's face drew in with agonizing concern.

"Let's go back to the cabin, Watson," he said quietly, taking my arm and gently pulling me to my feet.

I was indeed weary of hearing the joyous parties going on around us, seeming to mock the seriousness of our feelings.

I wondered absently how long it would be before the first major symptoms showed.

Once we had returned to the stateroom, I sank wearily down on the bed, my mind and emotions nearly spent from the whirlwind of feelings I had gone through in the last four hours. It was after two o'clock now – surely something would happen within a few hours. This waiting was destroying both our nerves.

I closed my eyes for several minutes, willing my anxiety back to some semblance of calm, and when I opened them at last, I was shocked to see Holmes sitting at the table with his head down on his arm, his thin shoulders shaking.

"Holmes? Are you all right?"

He jerked his head up hastily, blinking suspiciously.

"I thought you were asleep, Watson," he replied unsteadily.

"Hardly," I said uneasily, glancing again at my watch.

2:30.

"Why don't you try to rest, old fellow?" he asked softly, "you will need all your strength to fight whatever this is."

I sat up on one elbow.

"Do you really think there's a chance?" I asked, a faint hope springing up in my mind.

"There is always a chance, my dear Watson," he said quietly, but I could tell by the grief in his eyes that he knew as well as I did that Smith took no chances with his victims.

I sank back wearily and closed my eyes again; not wanting to lose any waking moment I had left, but I was so very tired. Fatigue – was not that a symptom of the sailor's sickness?

The thought turned my stomach and my nerves into a mess of knots, and I felt my breathing quicken with the mere thought.

"Watson?" I heard an anxious voice by my head, and I opened my eyes.

"I am fine, Holmes," I said, hoping my voice sounded reassuring.

He patted my shoulder gently and then walked to the open porthole to gaze out upon the water, and I closed my eyes once more.

I must have fallen asleep, for I was abruptly awakened when Holmes put an icy hand on my forehead to check my temperature. I jumped awake, startled, and he hastily spoke.

"Easy, Watson," he murmured, "how are you feeling?"

I took a moment to wake up fully before answering, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

"The same," I said, "what time is it?"

"After five o'clock," he whispered, the dark circles under his eyes even more pronounced than they had been before.

I sat up with a start.

"Five o'clock?" I gasped, "how long is this blasted thing going to take to show symptoms?!"

"Watson!"

His horrified look brought my nerves back under control, and I sat up on the bed and looked at him wearily. He was sitting by my bed, straddling a chair backwards with his chin resting upon his arms, which were folded across the back of it.

He looked altogether miserable, and my mood matched his. We both knew we could not have much time left.

Several times he opened his mouth to say something and stopped, his proud nature not allowing to pass his lips what I knew he felt and wanted to say. And I could think of nothing to ease his guilt – I knew all too well what he was feeling, for I had felt the same guilt after leaving him at the Reichenbach Falls, knowing if I had stayed perhaps together we could have bested Moriarty.

5:45 am.

I took a long breath and met my friend's gaze. No more words were necessary.

6:15 am.

I fidgeted nervously and switched positions. Holmes stared at the wall, his pain-filled eyes unblinking.

6:55 am.

"Confound it, Holmes, why hasn't something happened!" I exclaimed miserably, "this waiting is worse than the actual symptoms must be!"

His brow furrowed and his eyes filled with grief.

"Watson, I –"

He stopped as our attention was drawn to a note that had been just slipped under the door of my stateroom. Holmes arose and pounced upon it, opening the door and glancing up and down the corridor.

"No one in sight," he said with a frown, returning to the room and unfolding the paper as he sat beside me on the bunk. I leaned over to read the missive over his shoulder.

And my heart seemed to stop.

I hope you spent a pleasant night together, gentlemen. As you no doubt have deduced by now, Mr. Holmes, that was merely a warning – there was nothing in the envelope to endanger you. Just a little reminder that I know where you are and I can find you any time I choose – and from your blundering actions I know you have no idea of my whereabouts. Happy hunting, Mr. Holmes. Smith.

The paper dropped from Holmes's shaking hands and fluttered to the floor as he looked up at me, a tiny dash of color coming back to his strained face.

"He – he was toying with us, Watson. The filthy blackguard was only mocking us!" he gasped weakly, looking as if he were going to faint.

And as the realization of the note's meaning slowly filtered into my terrified mind, I felt the same way.

Smith had just been playing with our minds – the night was through, and I was still alive!