"What oxygen is to the lungs, such is hope to the meaning of life."
Emil Brunner

Chapter 34: "Such is Hope"

Watson

I have heard some remark how easy it is to fall asleep on a ship, but this has never been the case for me. The motion of the waves feels to me unsteady rather than comforting, and when on a ship I sleep more lightly than I am apt to do on land.

On this occasion I awoke very suddenly as a loud noise cracked in my ears. Visions and memories of cannons and Ghazi rifles flashed through my head and on instinct I tried to sit up, a low cry rising in my throat.

I found that I was weighed down with something that seemed extraordinarily heavy to my tired muscles. I gazed about the semi-dark room, at the gas-lamps only half lit and a hazy pale light coming from the tiny porthole, and felt the cry suddenly stick in my throat.

It was as though a strong hand had suddenly closed around my neck! I began to choke, panicking, struggling for air, recalling the terror I had felt in the water only a short while ago.

Where was I? What was happening? Why couldn't I breathe?

There was a sudden scrambling and scuffling not a short space away and I saw a shadowy figure come close. I tried to twist away, gripping my throat with one hand and fending it off with the other.

"Watson?!"

The well-remembered voice of my greatest friend rang through the darkness and I gripped at his jacket instead, trying to gasp out his name.

I felt his thin, strong hands on my shoulders, helping me to lie back.

"Don't talk, Watson, I'm here. Breathe, old fellow."

I was trying to! I couldn't!

"Relax, Watson! Please! It's all right, I swear."

His words were steady and soothing, and despite the panic that I could feel rising in my chest I trusted him. I tried to settle, tried to draw in air without struggle.

"Good, Watson, easy does it."

The choking hold on my throat tightened slightly as the rest of my body relaxed and I was able to draw in a breath.

Holmes sighed shakily and his grip was not so tight.

I drew in another breath and felt it regulate.

"Holmes." I was startled by how weak and hoarse my own voice sounded.

My eyes were assaulted by sudden light as the detective reached over and turned up the gas by my bunk.

He looked terrible, his face worn and haggard, deep shadows lining his eyes.

I glanced around at the cabin and took in the basin beside my bed, my bag sitting open on the table, and the sodden towels lying on the floor.

Then the events of the previous night came back full force and I looked again at my friend, who had not yet shaved and was in the same rumpled set of clothes he had worn on our chase for Smith.

He was watching me in concern, and had apparently only just awoken…one of the chairs beside the table was overturned.

He smiled tightly and sat on the edge of my bed.

"By heaven, Watson, it is good to see you awake."

I looked down at myself and saw that I had been covered with several blankets, which felt like lead weights to my body.

Blazes, I was tired.

"What – what time is it?" I whispered, trying to stop the air from wheezing in my tight throat. Squirming as the by now familiar cramps began.

"After eight in the morning, old fellow. Yes, you were in a fever for the last six hours," Holmes replied in answer to my unspoken question.

I drew too sharp a breath and began to cough, feeling every muscle in my chest and neck seeming to scream a protest. I was heartily ashamed of the small whimper that escaped my lips as I clutched at the blankets trying to manage the cramping pain.

I felt Holmes's steadying arm round my shoulders, elevating my head and chest so that I could breathe easier, and finally I managed to bring the choking under control – but the pain still remained. Every muscle in my body seemed to be crying out in agony, and I was shaking with the amount of pain as he settled me back with a gentleness I had no idea lay dormant in his proud nature.

I set my jaw and closed my eyes tightly, not wanting him to have to watch any more of this than he had already – but I could not hide the muscle spasms from his observation or the perspiration that I felt rolling off my face as I gritted my teeth silently.

I opened my eyes as I felt a wonderfully cool sensation on my flushed face. Holmes was rather awkwardly patting my forehead with a cold wet cloth. I suddenly wondered if he had been the one to deal with the fever he had said I had the last few hours – I could remember next to nothing about it.

"Thank you," I rasped hoarsely.

He nodded nervously and rubbed his sleeve across his eyes, tossing the cloth down onto the pile on the floor.

"The fever – is that – is that what Smith said would – would finish me?" I began shakily, wondering how high it had gotten.

"Don't say that!"

I was startled at the fury and thinly veiled desperation I heard in his voice as he almost snapped at me, grasping both my hands with a grip that could have bent steel.

"I'm – I'm sorry," I whispered, my own hands clenching as another ripple of pain shot through my cramping muscles. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment and felt Holmes return my grip

When I opened them again I saw that Holmes was looking off at the wall, his lips set in a grim thin line.

"Smith said the fever would not kill a strong man, Watson. He refused to tell me what would, but it has become obvious to me that –"

"Asphyxiation," I inserted hoarsely.

"Yes. That or dehydration are the only two things I can think of. Speaking of which, you need to drink some water, Watson."

I grimaced; I most definitely did not relish trying to choke it down. But I knew as well as Holmes – better, in fact – that it was necessary. I had heard Holmes talking to Lachlan, saying I had three days. I would have to have all my strength if I was to even attempt to fight off this thing.

Holmes released my hands and poured a glass of water, returning to perch on the edge of the bunk and raising me to a sitting position.

The first sip seemed to lodge in my throat and I spluttered and coughed, wheezing for breath. But after a few seconds I nodded to him and tried again, with not much better results. My throat felt as if it were completely closed, and those blasted cramping muscles made it no easier to concentrate upon drinking.

I to this day am amazed at the patience of Sherlock Holmes, for it took me a good half-hour to finally get the small glass down and he never budged, never once asked me to try harder.

"You need another, Watson," he said apologetically when I had done.

I moaned and slumped backwards in dismay – I was so very tired, my entire body felt like a dead weight.

Holmes's face twisted with a mixture of emotions I could not quite place as he tried to settle me gently back onto the mattress without jarring me, wincing himself when I made a small gasp as the spasms grew worse.

"Easy, easy. It's all right, old fellow – it will pass, give it a few minutes," he said soothingly, patting my arm and rearranging the blankets he had round me.

I closed my eyes again and concentrated on breathing as best I could, too tired to even think anymore. All I wanted to do was curl up into a miserable little ball and sleep. I was so exhausted – I couldn't fight anymore, I just couldn't.

Finally the spasms did pass for the most part, and I looked up to see Holmes sitting at the table, rubbing his head and his eyes alternately.

"Holmes."

He jumped and then scrambled back to me with a haste that I would have found comically endearing if the situation had not been so dire.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I said hoarsely, trying to manage a smile, "I want to you get some sleep – were you up with me all night?"

"Of course I was – what do you take me for?" he asked indignantly, a flush coming over his pale features.

"I know – I know how exhausting – taking care – of a sick man – can be," I said, taking small breaths slowly between phrases.

"I must admit I do not know how you did it with me," he said quietly, sitting wearily on the edge of the bunk.

I looked at him as best I could with my disoriented vision.

"What - what's the matter, Holmes?"

He glanced up at me, his face troubled.

"Do you remember anything?"

"Of last night? No, it all is just a blurry nightmare," I whispered, trying to think.

His brow furrowed uncertainly, and I blinked to clear my vision and tried to focus my mind. Something was bothering him, very much so.

"Why – why do you ask? What is the matter?" I asked.

He opened his mouth to say something, stopped, and apparently changed his mind.

I was not to be deterred – I was too tired to waste time in tact or prevaricating.

"Don't give me that – what is bothering you? Was it something I –" I gasped suddenly as I choked.

My vehemence had caused me to forget about the breathing difficulty again, and I once more felt that hand seem to grip round my throat, cutting off my oxygen. It was like drowning all over again – and Holmes had said it was suffocation that would kill me, not the fever! I couldn't breathe!

"Watson! Watson look at me!"

I tried to – but I could feel my lungs straining, trying to cough without any air, sending a convulsive shudder through my entire frame.

"Watson! Stop trying so hard! Look at me!"

I clenched my hands round his jacket front as I choked again, trying to follow his instructions. I saw his frightened face and the sight gave me the fortitude to fasten my eyes on him.

"Count to three – don't try to breathe, Watson, wait a minute! Stop trying so hard!"

I obeyed, holding my breath and counting to three, then trying again. This time, a blessed tiny stream of air came through and I had never felt such relief.

"That's it, old fellow, try again – slowly!"

I closed my eyes and concentrated. Finally I felt my lungs get back under control and I could breathe shallowly but regularly.

But I was conscious now of a fact I had been trying to avoid admitting since this began – I could no longer pretend otherwise.

I was scared.

Holmes

I could see the fear in Watson's eyes as he finally got his breathing under control – and the fact that he would not let go of me bore witness to that elementary deduction. I did not blame him in the least, for I was myself afraid.

Afraid for him, afraid to lose him, afraid of having to watch him suffer like this for two more days – I did not know if I could stand it. It was not supposed to end like this, in this fashion. I had always entertained some fond notion that we would go out together, if we ever had to. It could not end like this!

I had only just returned from the grave slightly over a month ago – if Smith carried out this plan I should be better off at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls with Moriarty, if I had to return to London without Watson.

It was unthinkable. There had to be something to be done.

I swallowed hard as I tried, unsuccessfully, to gently disentangle myself from the uncomfortable bent-over position in which I was, for Watson was still clutching at my jacket with his eyes tightly shut. I gave up trying for the moment, listening to his raspy breaths and slightly relaxing when they evened out.

There was a soft knock at the door and our seaman entered without preamble, his honest face almost as worried as mine. He took one look at us and his face drained of all color, white under his tan as he walked over to us.

He took in the empty water basin, the towels, my probably bloodshot eyes, and Watson's death-grip on my jacket, and I could see that he was able to perceive the situations without asking unnecessary questions.

He glanced at me and then back to Watson, laying a hand on my friend's shoulder with a firmer grip than mine.

"Here now, Doctor, you've got to let Holmes go and clean up at least – he looks rather frightening in that sorry state, you know?" he said lightly, tugging gently on Watson's shoulder.

His eyes opened again, and I could still see the fear in them, but he relinquished his hold on me and leant back against the pillow, exhaustion leaving no room for embarrassment. He glanced from Lachlan back to me, and I saw some of the terror leave his features and be replaced by worry.

"You do look half-dead, Holmes," he whispered with the weakest of smiles.

The words were in rather poor taste, but he had not meant them as such. And to be brutally honest, I felt half-dead as well.

"Lachlan, will you –"

"Yes, yes, of course, Holmes. I'm off duty now – I'll stay with him while you go and clean up a bit. If that suits you, Doctor?"

It was testimony to my friend's altruistic nature that I could tell he did not want me to leave, but his concern for me won over his fear and he nodded, closing his eyes and lying still.

I nodded my thanks to Lachlan and made my way to my stateroom, where I hurriedly changed and shaved, returning in a matter of minutes to Watson's cabin. Lachlan put a finger to his lips as I entered.

"Is he asleep?" I whispered as the sailor came up to me.

"Yes. I was wonderin' 'bout it being dangerous for his breathing, so I propped him almost upright – he's so exhausted he could sleep upside down, I'm reckoning," Lachlan replied, glancing back at Watson, cozily ensconced in a cocoon of pillows and blankets.

He appeared to be resting peacefully, his face free for the moment of pain and breathing evenly albeit a bit shallowly, and I suddenly felt my legs start to buckle; Lachlan jumped forward and pushed me into a chair, sitting beside me and glancing at me with concern which I waved off – I was merely relieved.

"How was his night?"

"High fever from 2 to after 7 this morning," I said wearily, rubbing my head.

I was very much bothered by what I had heard from him in his delirium last night – I had had no idea that my death would be sufficient cause to conjure up such hellish things as he had seen and said last night in his incoherency. Blaming himself for leaving me at the Falls? I had known the letter was a hoax and I wanted him to leave – but evidently he blamed himself for it, for last night he had brokenly sobbed about it, evidently thinking in his delirium that I was still dead.

This last night had held more emotions for me than I had felt in my whole life – and I very much did not enjoy not being able to be in control. I sternly shook myself and clenched my jaw, using every bit of my formidable willpower to push all feelings for now back under that façade I normally hid them behind.

"Lachlan. I am going to have to inspect Smith's cabin – I may be able to find some clue," I said briskly.

Lachlan glanced meaningfully at Watson's sleeping form.

"I hate to impose upon you after all you've done, Lachlan –"

"No imposition, Holmes. You can't leave him here alone, he might suffocate without anyone to help him," the seaman replied.

I nodded. "I shall not be more than two or three hours. If he wakes, tell him I shall be right back?"

"Of course, Holmes. I say, you should get some late breakfast or early luncheon before you do this, because you're likely to keel over otherwise."

"No."

"Holmes!"

"Don't raise your voice!" I hissed, glancing back at Watson.

The sailor glared at me with a steely blue gaze.

"I – I cannot, not right now," I said at last, swallowing hard.

Lachlan scowled but dropped the idea.

"But if he wakes, try to get him to drink some more water or even some broth or something?" I asked, wishing my voice would hold steady.

"Of course. Now get going, you."

I managed a smile and reluctantly exited the stateroom, throwing one last glance back over my shoulder to ensure that my friend was still sleeping peacefully.

Then I turned my mind to Smith, using the anger and the hatred to clear all else from my thought processes.

One thing was certain. If Watson died, Smith would not live long enough to reach the next port. I would see to that personally.

Lachlan

The doctor appeared to be resting comfortably, or at least as comfortably as he could, being on his deathbed – I stopped myself with a firm shake. No, I refused to believe such a thing. He would pull through this. He had to, or I believed I should probably have to prevent Holmes from shooting Smith in cold blood and then perhaps turning the gun on himself.

Holmes was a cold man, the proudest cove I'd ever seen. But I knew every man has a weakness, and obviously this was his – I could only try to figure from the room what had happened last night. It had to have been horrid for him to look as bad as he did when I came in the room not long ago.

I cleaned up the towels and basin, ringing for the steward and setting them outside the door – did not want to get caught in here fraternizing with a passenger. Although if it boiled down to choosing between my duty to the captain or helping Holmes take care of his friend, it took no brainwork to deduce that I should choose.

I sent a silent plea out of the porthole into the midmorning sky for Holmes to find a lead, for both their sakes.

Holmes

I spent close to three hours ransacking Smith's cabin, searching for anything that might give me a clue. As I had suspected, the cures and notes in the trunk were all from his past studies, dating at least a year previously. This was a new ailment, a new germ. He had nothing visible written about it.

I cursed roundly and slammed the lid of his clothes trunk shut with violence. There was only left the bureau, which I methodically inspected – the usual toiletries and personal articles, a few cravats and shirts. Nothing of importance.

But when I took out the trousers form the bottom drawer, nearly having given up hope, I heard paper rustling in the pockets of the garment and I hastily extricated the items. Three different notes on cheap writing tablet paper but all in the same hand, a strong male hand. I hastened over to the light from the porthole to read them.

ROOMS 113 AND 115, DIRECTLY BELOW YOU. NO ADJOINING DOOR.

Those were our stateroom numbers! I hastily read the other two notes.

TWO DEATHS SO FAR FROM NUMBER 45. NUMBER 102 SEEMS TO BE NOT AS LETHAL NO DEATHS AS OF YET.

CONTACTED CREW AS PER YOUR REQUEST. STAGED ACCIDENT TO HAPPEN ON SECOND CLASS DECK TOMORROW. PAYMENT UPON RIDDANCE OF TWO TARGETS?

I caught me breath suddenly. The notes were all signed with the scrawling, curled initials 'JB'. JB – these notes, someone had been keeping tabs on both us and Smith…

Wait.

Wait just a moment.

That meant…

This meant that Smith had a confederate! An assistant! One who knew the diseases enough to name them by number and also to see if they were lethal. One who Smith trusted with his information. One who had obviously, judging by these notes, been his right-hand man.

All along this journey, I was going after Smith alone– it never occurred to me that he might have a confederate!

The wild idea sent a streaming spark of hope back into my mind. Smith had a confederate, one who was knowledgeable about these diseases. This man, if I could find him, would be our last hope.

I had not been able to make Smith crack and give me the information I desperately needed.

But by heaven, I would make that assistant squirm and crawl – he would give me the information. He had to – Watson's life was hanging on this one thin hope now. I would make the confederate, this JB, tell me where the cure was or at least the formula for it.

If I could find the correct JB on a ship of over 500 people.

If.

No, when.

When. When I found him.

I would find him – I had to find him. I simply had to.