"To reach a port we must sail, sometimes with the wind, and sometimes against it. But we must not drift or lie at anchor." – Oliver Wendell Holmes
Chapter 33:"To Reach a Port"
Holmes
"His cabin, quickly," I said, leading the way with Lachlan hurrying after supporting the shivering form of my friend.
I threw open the door to the small room and stepped aside as Lachlan made his way to the bed, laying Watson on it as gently as he could. My friend groaned and clenched the covers in his fists, his face white and covered in a sheen of sweat.
His breathing sounded harshly in my ear as I bent to take his jacket off, Lachlan raising him up partway.
"Holmes."
His voice was hoarser, thinner. His throat was indeed contracting, making it harder not only to speak but to breathe, which he did with difficulty.
"I'm here, Watson, hold on."
He groaned again, one hand clutching at my sleeve.
"I can't…I can't…" he coughed dryly, a terrible wheezing sound in the narrow passage of his throat.
"Shush, Watson don't try to talk. Just lie back, old fellow, it's all right."
Between the pain of the convulsions and the lack of air, he was panicking, his eyes wild with fear, his breath growing ever more rapid and shallow, his knuckles white where he gripped my jacket.
"Holm-!" he choked, coughed again, struggled for breath.
A sudden fear gripped me as he clenched his eyes shut and fought to draw in air, rasping terribly. I knew now what Smith had meant when he said that the fever alone was not what would kill a strong man.
A victim of the disease could easily drive himself into uncontrollable panic and suffocate.
Waves of cold ran through me, as though I had been doused with ice water.
I could not let that happen.
I gripped my friend's arms and shook him slightly.
"Watson! Watson, look at me!"
He shook his head violently and arched in an effort to open his air passage; the cramps made him curl in on himself again, he was shaking madly, his muscles twitching.
"WATSON!"
He turned his head at my frantic tone and fixed his wide, panicked eyes on my face.
"Listen to me, Watson! I want you to lie still…all right? Stop fighting a moment! Lie still."
He let out a choking protest, his arms tense beneath my hands.
"Trust me, Watson. Lie still."
He screwed his eyes shut and did as he was told, still shuddering, his face dark and twisted from the cramps.
A moment passed as I continued to brace his shoulders.
"Relax, Watson."
He let out a wheezing groan, choked and drew in a short rasping breath.
"Good man. Breathe, slowly."
He coughed, gasped and drew in another breath.
"Slowly."
He gasped again, too quickly, his breath hitched.
"Easy, Watson! Slow and easy."
Another breath, the color of his face lightened. He began to gasp in earnest now, his chest rising and falling in an increasingly smooth rhythm.
I let out the breath I had been unconsciously holding and lowered my head in relief.
"Good man. Good man, Watson."
He opened his pain-filled eyes and looked at me, his grip on my arm lightened.
"Holmes."
His voice was dry and thin, a bare whisper.
I patted his shoulder and tried to smile reassuringly.
"Don't talk, old fellow, just breathe. It's all right."
He nodded, closing his eyes as the spasms struck again. He moaned, a low, pitiful sound that spoke of the pain he would not admit to.
Lachlan swallowed and looked at the sick man with a drawn, pale face. "Can't ye give him somethin'?"
"Yes," I said, trying to steady my nerves, to fall back on the cold methodical manner that I usually adopted in my investigations. I would do no good if I gave into my emotions now. "His bag is over on the table."
Lachlan went to fetch it, and I busied myself taking off Watson's shoes and belt, spreading another blanket over him. He was covered in sweat but I believed it to be from strain rather than heat, for he was still shivering madly and there was only a mild rise in his temperature.
I could not be sure, of course. I was not a doctor – the only one who was qualified to deal with this was lying on the bed.
A thought occurred to me and I put my hand on Watson's forehead again.
"Old fellow?"
Hazel eyes focused on me and I spoke quietly and calmly.
"Shall I tell one of the ship's doctors? They would know better than I how to deal -"
My friend at once shook his head and took a sharp breath.
"No…they don't…"
I quieted him, putting my other hand on his wrist.
"All right Watson, if you are sure."
He nodded and tried to speak again, but I beat him to the punch.
"They don't know. I understand, old boy."
His lips twitched in the semblance of a smile, then twisted as he groaned again, his eyes closing.
Lachlan came up beside me and extended the open bag. I hesitated, my hand hovering above the selection of powders and bottles.
"Holmes."
I jumped as a shaking hand closed over my wrist and looked over to see Watson watching me.
"Not – not a sedative…throat…"
"Right," I said, profoundly glad that one of us knew what to do. A sedative would have put him out and more than likely his breathing would have been compromised.
Watson coughed as he spoke again.
"The powder...last night." He rasped, his throat not only tight but dry as well; he was losing a lot of moisture through the sweat.
The powder for my headache, of course. I had remained quite alert but it relaxed tense muscles - it might even assist the constriction of his throat.
The hand on my wrist jerked and tightened as Watson let out a hoarse cry, another convulsion seizing him.
"Holmes!" Lachlan said, his voice tense with urgency.
I pulled out the small packet of powder, poured a glass of water and tipped the contents into it, stirring.
It was of course, possible to inject the dosage, but Watson was growing dehydrated. I returned to the bed, raised his head and held the glass to his mouth.
"Drink this, Watson."
My friend looked at me, clearly asking if this was a good idea, but he knew better than I the need for moisture in the body and he sipped obediently.
He choked almost at once as his thin airway was blocked, jerking his head away coughing.
I waited until he got his breath back then returned the glass.
"Again?"
He nodded and I tipped it slowly, he swallowed and choked, but did not pull away.
"Concentrate, Watson."
He did, closing his eyes and his brow furrowing with the effort. I tried to brace his head to keep it still.
After several more pauses for breath and a great deal of coughing Watson finished most of the glass and he went limp, his shaking worsened by his effort, his face still pale and tense.
I set down the glass and watched him, one hand on his arm, and after a time the rigid lines around his mouth eased and the twitching grew less violent. He let out a shaky breath and relaxed visibly.
"All right?" I asked and he nodded in response.
"Thank you."
"Don't talk," I reminded him, squeezing his arm to reassure myself almost as much as him. "And do not fall asleep, just breathe."
I began to draw away but was pulled up short as he caught hold of my hand. He looked at me with frightened eyes.
"I'm not leaving," I said, "I swear."
He let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes, his cheeks flushing slightly. I nearly laughed at the thought that even in this state my Boswell was embarrassed by signs of weakness or fear.
But the humor was short-lived. I made my way to the table and sat heavily on one of the chairs, resting my elbows on the polished wood, my head in my hands.
Lachlan seated himself opposite and set the bag back where it had been, his eyes on me, still concerned.
"I'd be more than happy to go and rip Smith apart if you want me to Holmes." he said with a quick glance at Watson.
I scoffed, "Get in queue, Lachlan."
The sailor sighed, "He cannot be persuaded then?"
I shook my head. "He was quite happy to take his own life last night. His only goal now is to hurt me as much as he can before he goes to the gallows."
"And the cunning devil found the best way to do that, eh?"
I did not feel the need to answer, and for a moment there was a silence broken only by Watson's raspy breathing. Then Lachlan spoke again and his sentiments echoed mine exactly.
"What are we to do?"
"Smith is the only one with knowledge of the cure and he will not reveal it. I would not trust him in any bargain."
"What about the notes? And the cures in the trunk?" Lachlan said, his eyes lighting up momentarily.
I shook my head.
"He was as smug as the devil himself when I spoke with him. He will have removed or hidden any notes or cure…perhaps he does not even have it with him. He claimed to have made one but that does not mean he has it."
Lachlan's brow furrowed.
"Perhaps he's hidden it?"
"If he has, then our chances are next to nil in finding it." I sighed and ran a hand over my eyes.
"I will of course wire Ainstree; he shall have some ideas but we cannot hope for anything monumental. This disease is new, explored only by Smith. And not even an expert like Ainstree can concoct a cure in only a few days."
Lachlan frowned in frustration. "You said he did, though, when you were ill."
I waved my hand, dismissing this.
"He knew of the disease already – it was not solely Smith's. Not like this one."
Another silence fell and the sailor fingered his bearded chin for a moment. I concentrated on the sound of Watson's breathing, reassuring myself with its continuity, and making certain that it was not the deep, steady rhythm of sleep.
Lachlan cast another look over at my friend then turned to me again.
"Can he not make it through? He's a staunch man, your Doctor."
I let out a dry laugh.
"Copper-bottomed?"
Lachlan nodded fiercely.
"Aye."
I sighed. "There is always a chance. But knowing Smith, it is a fatal disease. Or else he would not be so confident."
"You said it was a new disease, though." Lachlan said, his face full of a desperate and stubborn determination. "He cannot know for sure. A chance is better than nothing."
I nodded, wishing I could be comforted by the thought. "If he can last three days…"
"We'll pull him through, Holmes. He's not a man to give up easily, I've seen that already. And if he can pull two of the stubbornest men on this earth back from the grave then he can see himself through as well."
I smiled slightly, "If anyone has a chance, it is Watson."
"All he needs is you to help him. He'll come through it all right."
I looked out at the porthole, where the faintest light of dawn was beginning to show over the horizon of water, illuminating the still, stormy clouds.
My whole heart went out in a silent prayer to the heavens. God, let it be true.
I composed myself and turned back.
Lachlan glanced at his pocket watch and cursed roundly.
"I'm going to be keelhauled or flogged for being late for the shift," he growled, casting a glance at Watson's still form on the bunk.
"You cannot risk your standing with the captain, Lachlan," I said tiredly, "we will need you yet. Go on; I shall contact you if there is any fresh news."
Lachlan walked over to Watson, who opened his eyes for a moment to fasten on the seaman's face, his mouth creasing in the faintest of smiles.
"Rest easy, Doctor – we're not going to let this man win," the sailor said, leaning close, "this is just another storm – remember what I told you?"
Watson coughed weakly, took a shuddering breath.
"I – I remember," he gasped faintly, his hand clenching round the blanket and his eyes darkening. I swallowed hard at the amount of pain I saw in those hazel depths.
"Vows made in storms, Doctor – don't forget it. You'll weather it, don't you worry. We'll not let you face it alone," Lachlan said, and again I was puzzled by the phrase – what did it mean?
Watson's eyes closed again in exhaustion, his breathing laboured, and Lachlan turned regretfully to leave.
"Take care o' yourself, Holmes – it's likely to be a long three days and we can't have you keeling over from exhaustion," he shot over his shoulder as the stateroom door shut behind him.
I stood for a moment with my head bowed, getting a firm grip upon the remaining vestiges of control I still possessed, and then I noiselessly pulled up a chair beside Watson's head.
"Watson. Can I – can I get you anything?" I asked softly, hoping the pain reliever I had given him would continue to allow his muscles to relax this slight bit.
His eyes opened, unfocused, and I moved to sit on the bed so that he would not have to turn his head.
"No – fine, Holmes," he managed shakily, although I could see the fear in his eyes.
I smiled reassuringly and started to rise when he grabbed my arm almost convulsively.
"Don't – don't leave me – please?" he gasped, that panic starting to show in his face again.
I hastily sat back down on the bed. "I will not leave you, Watson, I promise," I said, rather ashamed at how unsteady my voice was, "I'm right here, old chap."
He nodded, gasping for a breath, but made no move to release my arm. I wanted to get his mind off the inevitable, and so I sat there and asked him about the phrase I had heard both him and Lachlan use, 'Vows made in storms.'
"Can you tell me what it means, old fellow?"
Watson's pain-filled eyes focused unsteadily upon my face as he answered.
"Old – old sailor's saying," he gasped, a shudder racking his frame, and his hand clenched convulsively upon my arm, "Vows made – in storms – are not forgotten – in port."
The effort of speaking was too costly, and he began to cough and then to choke, unable to breathe.
"Watson!" I jumped up and took him by both shoulders, forcing him to look up at me, "Watson, stop! Calm down – take a breath! Slowly, for the love of heaven!"
My frantic pleading made it through to him, for a moment later he shivered and coughed again, drawing a ragged breath and then another, his eyes closed tightly with concentration. Finally I felt his tense muscles relax and only then realized I had been holding my breath.
"I'm sorry, my dear fellow, I should not have asked you to talk," I whispered, settling him back down upon the mattress and pulling the blanket up over his clenched hands.
"Lachlan," he murmured, struggling to focus, "Lachlan – said that – we're like that – like that saying."
"Shh, Watson, you have to be quiet now," I said, an unaccounted lump forming in my throat at the truth of the seaman's words. Every close relationship was built based upon promises made in the storms of life.
I just prayed that in this storm, we would actually reach the port. Both of us, together.
Watson appeared to be nearly unconscious, no doubt exhausted by the effects of this horrid thing Smith had given him, and I went back to the table for my pipe.
I lit it with a rather unsteady hand, standing there lounging against the wall, picturing in my mind every conceivable and very slow, painful way I could make Smith die a torturous death – how I wished, longed for the opportunity to make the man suffer as no human should ever have to, for he was less than human.
I stood there for the better part of a half-hour, my overactive imagination formulating scenario after scenario that brought me a wicked pleasure – but I was suddenly jolted out of my daydreams by a weak voice from the bunk.
In one instant I was at his side. His face was no longer pale but flushed, and he was shaking worse than before.
"Holmes," he gasped weakly, "c-cold – it's –"
I caught my breath and laid my hand on his forehead, a bitter oath falling from my lips. His fever was rising, far too rapidly.
"C-cold, Holmes," he gasped again, shivering and curling up into a ball, shaking violently.
The fever alone will not kill a strong man.
Smith's words rang in my ears like a horrid chant as I covered Watson with another blanket and took his temperature – I did not even know where the thermometer was supposed to go in his mouth, and he had to shakily guide me. I did know how to read it, and I cursed again as I did so.
It was already up to 102.
I set my jaw, went and got a basin full of cold water and rang for the steward to bring several clean towels, knowing I was going to hate the job ahead of me. The fever might not kill him, but I knew if it got high enough, above 106 as Lachlan's had been at one point, and if it stayed that high for more than a half-hour, then I could cause permanent brain damage. I shuddered at the thought.
When I had the supplies sitting on the chair beside me, I set my teeth and removed the blankets and then opened his shirt, closing my ears to his pleas of being cold although they made me sick myself to listen.
Watson tried weakly to push my hands away as I applied a cool damp cloth to his neck and chest but I firmly persisted, remembering his instructions as we had worked over Lachlan what seemed like ages ago back in Baker Street.
And as he moaned and asked me repeatedly to stop, I could only set my teeth and continue, knowing all afresh what he had gone through that night after I had been stabbed. Finally I could take it no more and removed the cloth for a moment, taking a dry one and gently patting the perspiration from his face as best I could with my hand shaking so.
As he closed his eyes and took a hissing breath, I took his temperature again. It had gone up to 103.5. Smith was right – it would spike quickly. And according to Smith, it would do this repeatedly. How absolutely vile a man he was to cause this much suffering!
I shook all emotional thoughts from my mind as best I could and concentrated on trying to prevent Watson's fever from rising. As the cold water splashed over him once more he gasped in the shock and then began to choke again, his nearly-closed windpipe protesting the sudden arrival of oxygen.
"Watson!"
He was starting to struggle almost as he had in the water earlier yesterday – was it only just yesterday? – his panic causing his breathing to be even more obstructed.
"Watson, breathe!"
His eyes flew open and fastened upon me, pleading frantically for help, and I lifted his shoulders from the bed as he convulsed, trying to cough without air. I did my best to hold him still, but the tremors were so great that it took both arms and all my strength.
The fever alone will not kill a strong man.
"Watson, don't you dare do this to me!" I snapped, not knowing what I was saying and not caring. "Breathe, NOW! Slowly!"
I felt him stiffen and tense, bringing his concentration back to normalcy, and I felt him at last make a small hissing noise as he got a tiny breath.
"That's it – now again. Do it, Watson!"
After a few seconds, he finally took one long, shuddering breath and then went limp in my arms. I bit my lip and laid him back down on the bed gently, seeing that he was still conscious but only just.
"S-sorry," he whispered weakly, gasping.
I gulped down that annoying lump in my throat.
"It's all right, old chap. Everything's going to be all right," I said, desperately wishing it were true.
I was loathe to continue the cold water treatment but knew I had to, to attempt to save off that fever – I had felt the heat emanating from my friend while I was trying to get him to breathe, and it was rising rapidly.
Watson closed his eyes and made no move other than to flinch when I applied the compresses again – he was too exhausted in this fight for life.
And this was only the first day – there were two more to go.
I dared not think past that time.