When the storm breaks, each man acts in accordance with his own nature. Some are dumb with terror. Some flee. Some hide. And some spread their wings like eagles and soar on the wind.

Elizabeth the Golden Age

Chapter 35 "The Storm Breaks"

Lachlan

For a few hours I kept watch as the Doctor rested, and by some hand of Providence he lay quite peacefully, and his breathing though it was shallow and strained was as regular as waves on a shore.

The dawn came and went and the storm that had hit last night was still threatening outside of the window, dark clouds hanging low in the sky. It was not until near on three hours later, when I standing to stretch my legs and staring out of the porthole that the peace was finally broken by sounds from the bunk.

I turned to see the Doctor stirring, his eyes flickering open. For a moment he lay still, staring up at the ceiling of the cabin, but then he turned his head and scanned the room. Fear entered his face and he began to shake again; his breathing grew thin and strained and I went quickly to his side, putting a hand on his shoulder, trying to keep him still.

"Hang on there, Doctor."

But he had already grown tense and even as I watched his breathing stopped, the rise and fall of his chest ceased and his throat closed off with a sharp choke.

"Doctor!" I gripped both his arms and his eyes flew to my face, wide and panicked. "Come on, man!"

His throat worked as he swallowed tightly. He closed his eyes, and with a shudder and an amount of control I could credit to few men, the Doctor lay back against the pillows, his hands gripping my wrists like I'd seen him cling to the life-preserver yesterday.

He gasped suddenly, short and quick, as his airway opened. He coughed and grimaced.

His hold on my wrists did not ease and he did not open his eyes, and after a bit I eased my own grip, trying to comfort now as much as steady.

"All right?"

He nodded and shivered, trembling beneath the pile of blankets that Holmes had placed on him.

"Are ye cold?"

He shook his head and spoke in a weak rasp, in-between his broken gasping.

"Cramps…not…" he broke off with a moan and I felt his hands begin to twitch where they gripped my wrists.

"Just cramps…blazes!...where…"

He stopped for a moment took several slow breaths and seemed to get a grip on himself. "Where is…Holmes?"

"Searchin' Smith's cabin - he's safe, I swear it."

"How long?"

"A few hours." I tried to speak quietly but there was no easing of tension in the good Doctor's face, his jaw set.

I took careful hold of his hands and eased them off my arms; they clenched into fists and he turned his head towards the wall with a slight, almost inaudible whimper.

"Blazes!...It hurts!"

That shook me up more than anything, for even though I had known him a short while I had not heard the Doctor complain about any discomfort. And here he was, whispering his pain to the walls of the cabin, as though speaking it would somehow ease it.

"Doctor, Holmes said you were to drink something," I said.

He took a shaky breath and turned back to look at me with a nod. I fetched him a glass and put my arm round his shoulders so he could drink.

He was incredibly thirsty by this time, for he sipped the water eagerly, sputtering and coughing with every swallow. Several times I had to stop the tipping of the cup so he could get his breath back.

At last he turned his head away and shook it, the glass still a third full.

"No more."

I sighed, for by the sound of his voice and the sweat on his brow he was still losing more water than his poor body could afford.

"You need it, Doctor."

"I can't."

"Holmes'll be after me if you don't finish it. He's already worryin' himself to pieces. And how do you expect to persuade him the next time he's ill, if you aren't a model patient yerself?"

The corners of his mouth twitched and he sighed.

"I'll never…wheedle him…again…if I get…through this."

I propped him up better, shifting my arm to tease some feeling back into it. The Doctor was no featherweight.

"Come on, Doctor, if you can get this down I'll get you some broth from the galley later."

Reluctantly he took another sip and swallowed and after a few more minutes finished the glass. I set it aside and let him fall back onto the pillows, his breathing labored but the shaking somewhat eased.

"See," I said softly, gripping his shoulder. "You're doin' well, Doctor. How's yer breathin'?"

"No worse…have you…been here…all this time?"

I scowled at him, "You don't even need to ask that, Doctor. Neither Mr. Holmes nor myself are goin' to leave you to face this alone. We'll take care of you, all you need to do is hang on."

He smiled, the first time I had seen him do so since he had fallen ill; and though it was weak, the gesture was genuine.

I leaned against the cabin wall beside the bunk, folding my arms comfortably.

"You know, Doctor, we never got to finish our discussion on ghosts and the like, what with Holmes havin' no patience for such things."

The smile remained and the Doctor settled comfortably into his pillows, taking advantage of the brief respite he was having from the pain.

"No, Lachlan, we didn't."

I felt a smile creep up my own face at the sick man's look of interest. Holmes was right, he was a romanticist.

"And it's not just ghosts. I remember one time on a sailing boat just off the coast of south Wales…"

Holmes

I reached the cabin and pulled open the door in time to hear the deep, sonorous tones of our seaman telling some wild tale about an apparition in a storm, though he broke off when I stepped in.

Watson was awake and appeared to be no worse than when I had left. He and the seaman turned to look as I entered.

"Holmes," my friend said weakly, a look of great relief coming over his face.

I crossed over to his bunk, "I would ask how you are, my dear Watson, but if you have the stomach to listen to the fanciful tales of a sailor you must be feeling better. "

Lachlan snorted, but the twinkle in his blue eyes indicated he was in better spirits than when I had left him.

"You look quite contented yourself, Holmes.," he said. "Like a cat who's found the cream."

Watson's expression lightened slightly, and he shifted to a higher position on the pillows. "Holmes…did you…"

I nodded, cutting him off, for he was still short of breath. "I did not find the cure or any notes on it, but I found something else which may lead us to that end."

Perhaps Watson is correct when he says that I have a love of theatricality, for I could not help deriving pleasure from the surprised and eager faces of my two companions.

"What?" Lachlan asked impatiently.

"Correspondence," I said, seating myself on the edge of Watson's bunk and holding the notes aloft for perusal. "Smith had an associate! Probably a hired man."

Lachlan took one and glanced it over before letting out a harsh laugh and his smile widened, "And a hired man can be bought off!"

Watson was looking at me with an eager eye and it eased my heart a bit that the fear was absent, replaced by a genuine hope. "You think he knows?"

"He knew of the other diseases. He should know of this one. I am certain, my dear Watson."

"But can you find him?" Lachlan asked, his exuberance somewhat faded. "It took you over a week to locate Smith."

I swallowed at the hidden meaning of the words. Time was short. Watson had only two days left. Lachlan did not doubt my abilities, but the speed with which I could apply them.

"I will find him." I said through clenched teeth, meeting first the unnerving blue gaze and then the gentle hazel eyes of my friend.

How could I not when the second looked at me with that amount of complete trust and devotion?

"Right then.," Lachlan said, pushing himself away from the wall. "I'll leave you to it then, seein' as I couldn't persuade you to take a rest before you topple over."

"No."

He nodded, "Thought not. In that case I'm goin' to go and get a bit of shut-eye so I can take over when you do collapse."

He smiled at Watson and gripped his hand. "Hang on, Doctor."

Watson nodded tiredly, and Lachlan turned to me.

"He did manage to have a good glass o' water but I've had some broth brought up you'll need to give him."

I glanced over at the table and saw that a tray had been placed there with several dishes on it.

"That looks like more than broth," I remarked to Lachlan's retreating back.

The seaman paused in the doorway and turned back with a stern blue gaze. "Aye, Mr. Holmes…the rest is for you unless you think the Doctor is up to some bacon."

I opened my mouth to retort but he had already closed the door firmly behind him.

I sighed and turned to look at the offending tray with its steaming dishes, then shot a glance at Watson. His eyes were closed.

I set the letters on the table and as quietly as I could scooped the majority of the food onto a plate. There was a wastebin in the room but that would not do; Lachlan would be sure to think of looking in such a place.

A stream of light coming from the clouded porthole drew my eye and a sudden elation filled me.

Aha.

I crossed over to it, eased it open and with one smooth flick, emptied the contents of the plate into the sea.

I glanced quickly to see if Watson had noticed, but it seemed that my Boswell was well and truly exhausted. For he had not even changed positions, and the bowl of broth still lay on the table. Good. He had enough to worry about without badgering me about my eating habits.

"Watson."

He very tiredly opened his eyes to focus unsteadily on my face.

"Come on, old chap, I need you to sit up for me now," I said quietly, slipping one arm under his shoulders and stuffing several pillows behind his back, gently settling him back into them.

The fact that he was clutching the blankets in a white-knuckled grip, saying nothing, did not escape my notice – how I wished I could give him something that would deaden the pain. But I dared not; who knew how any drug would react with the pathogen Smith had infected him with.

"All right?"

He nodded weakly, closing his eyes for a moment.

I turned back to the table, picking up the bowl of broth Lachlan had brought to us, frowning in thought. It would be very degrading for him to be spoon-fed. I poured the lukewarm liquid into a cup instead.

"Watson, I am sorry but you have to get this down," I said, settling down on the edge of the bunk beside my suffering friend.

He opened his eyes and moaned softly.

"I can't, Holmes," he said hoarsely, "too – too hard."

"I know, old fellow, I know," I said soothingly, "but you still have to. Come on now."

He pleaded wordlessly with me to not make him have to choke all over again, but I refused to let myself be swayed – he had to stay hydrated and he could not afford to go three days without nourishment; he would weaken and not be able to fight like I knew he still had to for two days.

"Please, Watson," I finally resorted to pleading when he still refused to attempt it – I could hardly blame him, for we both knew the pain it was going to cause to his closed throat.

He shook his head weakly, "I can't…hurts…"

"Confound it, Watson, don't make me inject it into you!" I said in exasperation.

He stared at me and then managed a weak laugh.

"You would make…a most horrid…nurse, Holmes," he said hoarsely but by his tone indicating surrender.

I chuckled and held the cup to his lips, for his hands were too shaky to do it himself, and he obediently tried to swallow, only managing a sip before that awful coughing started.

"Easy, easy – there's no rush, Watson. Take a breath now. That's it."

For the better part of twenty minutes, we went on like that, and finally the cup had been emptied.

"Good man. Rest for a moment, Watson – then you need some water," I said, patting his shoulder encouragingly.

He scowled feebly at me as I turned to pour a glass of water. When I looked back, he was turned away from me, shivering and grasping the blankets with a grip that could have shredded them.

"Are you cold, old fellow?" I asked worriedly, setting the cup down and bending over him.

"No…just…just those spasms…again," he gasped, burying his face in one of the pillows behind him with a strangled cry of pain.

The sound drove a pain straight through my heart – he was trying to how a brave face. It was simply not fair, so absolutely unjust, for a man like him to have to do this.

As he gave another choked cry, his breath hitched in his throat and in an instant he was again coughing without oxygen, convulsing as he tried desperately to breathe. I frantically pulled him upright, all the while performing the ritual that I was becoming used to by now of talking him through it as calmly and steadyingly as I could.

"It's all right, old fellow, easy does it. I'm right here – slowly now."

I felt the perspiration trickling down under my collar as he finally managed a small gasp and the color started to drain again from his face as the air flow was restored and he started to breathe regularly, albeit somewhat laboured.

I sighed with relief as I laid him back on the pillows, feeling him trembling whether from fear or the pain I did not know which. His eyes were tightly shut, putting all his concentration upon regulating his breathing, and I pulled the blankets up round him. The water would have to wait for a while.

When I was sure that his breathing was becoming steady at last, I started to rise but was stopped as his eyes flew open in terror and he reached weakly for my hand.

"I am just getting those notes from off the table, dear chap," I reassured him, "I am not leaving. Just a moment."

I saw the fear fade slowly from his features and he looked on with a weak interest as I snatched the papers from the table and then pulled my chair close to his bed and straddled it backwards, looking at the three pieces of paper that were my only hope to finding this cure I was willing to give my life to discover.

"Go – go ahead," I heard Watson's hoarse voice with the vestige of a mischievous grin, "dazzle me – with your – deductions, Holmes."

I smiled at his valiant attempt at humour and then perched beside him on the bed, handing him one of the papers. He peered at it blearily.

"What – what can you – " he stopped, coughing again and taking a thin breath.

"Don't try to talk, Watson," I said gently, patting his arm, "I appreciate your efforts as a sounding board but your not choking is far more important to me right now."

He managed a small smirk before handing the paper back to me and limply falling back against the cushions. I fluffed up the pillows absently, my mind already jumping a hundred miles a second like a racing engine.

JB. The passenger list – no, no. It could easily be an alias. I would have to do this through deduction alone; there was no other way.

The paper was from a cheap writing tablet, the kind that both Watson and I as well as half the writing population kept in our writing desks. The writing was a strong masculine hand, a man in his mid to late thirties I should judge with tolerable accuracy, and obviously of strong character. The fact that the writing was in block letters negated any other helpful distinguishing features.

"Holmes?" I heard Watson's weak voice slip into my thoughts.

"Yes, my dear fellow?" I looked down at him.

"Can – can I go to sleep now?"

I swallowed down the lump in my throat at the almost childish plea and nodded.

"Yes, old chap. I shall be right here to watch you," I replied softly.

I heard a murmured thank-you before his eyes closed and his breathing started to slow and grow slightly more heavy as he drifted off, trusting me to make sure he did not start to suffocate. Then I pushed the emotional thoughts from my mind and turned back to the problem at hand.

There was a scent of strong tobacco of an Eastern variety on the paper but no other distinguishing odors. The papers were white and had no stains save one that looked like coffee on the corner of the second note – no help there.

I forced down the rising panic in my mind – there had to be something, even a tiny detail, that would put me on the correct scent. There simply had to be; I refused to give up. I was Sherlock Holmes – I found clews that no one else did. There must be something.

Watson stirred and moaned slightly in his sleep, taking a wheezing breath. I immediately was shaken out of my study by the sound, glancing up anxiously as he moved restlessly before dropping back into merciful unconsciousness.

Then a sudden thought hit me like a load of brick – how could I have forgotten to wire Ainstree? Even if the man had not the cure, he might be able to tell me something that would help Watson, something I could give him to either deaden the pain or open up his throat a bit.

I scribbled out a wire and rang for the steward, telling him to send it off immediately. I just hoped the wireless operator in Smith's employ was not on duty, for he might prevent its going through.

Then I laid a hand on Watson's forehead – the fever had not begun to rise again at least, for which I was grateful. I tucked the corner of the blanket in round him and then collapsed back into my chair, thinking rapidly, unable to light my pipe for fear it would cause him to cough and choke.

Those notes were not of any help in and of themselves – there was some all-important thing that I was overlooking, some clue that was staring me in the face that I could not quite put my finger on. What was I missing?

I took a long deep breath, clearing my mind of all else but the problem at hand. Something, someone, had the information I needed. I was missing something, somewhere…

I picked up the papers again and re-read the terse messages.

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

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…

Staged accident. The crew – the three men that we had battled with on the deck, they had not been contacted by Smith but by his confederate. They would know his location.

And it would be easy to get his identity from the smaller man, he had been easily intimidated before and was only too glad to give me the information about Smith that I required!

I could have kicked myself, for the cry of triumph I unleashed without thinking woke Watson abruptly, and he started with a gasp of fright, staring wildly round the room. I quickly seated myself beside him and calmed him.

"Easy, Watson, I'm sorry – I did not mean to startle you," I said softly, seeing him visibly relax as I came into his field of vision.

"You – you found something?" he whispered hoarsely, coughing a little.

I took the opportunity to fetch the water glass.

"Yes, I believe so, Watson. Now drink this and I shall tell you all about it," I said, slipping my arm round his shivering form and raising him.

"B-blackmail, Holmes," he said with a tiny trace of a smile, but he had to be very thirsty for did not fight me on the matter. He managed to get half of it down before taking too sharp an intake of breath and spluttering, suddenly choking once more.

"Easy, old fellow – slowly now," I murmured, bracing his shoulders until the fit had passed.

He nodded, concentrating deeply, and regulated his breathing and determinedly finished the rest of the glass without mishap. It was a mark of pride for both of us that he had not required my assistance.

"Well done, dear chap," I said, setting him back down, "now, I have an idea about finding this JB."

His clouded eyes fastened upon me quizzically, too weary to formulate the question. I explained the matter to him, and saw the light of hope illuminate his exhausted features.

"But I cannot leave you here alone, Watson," I said reassuringly, "As soon as Lachlan has had a few hours' sleep and returns then I shall go immediately to find that sailor and get him to tell me about this assistant of Smith's."

I half-expected him to tell me to go ahead, that he would be fine – but I could see by the lurking fear in his eyes that he was going to do nothing of the kind. The poor chap was too scared that he would suffocate without me here to talk him through it.

"Go back to sleep now, Watson, it will make the time go by faster," I said, seeing that he was still shivering and obviously in pain, "I shall be right here to watch you until Lachlan comes back."

I saw him blink exhaustedly, already drowsy, and he squeezed my hand weakly before his eyes fluttered closed once more. And I sat there until his grip relaxed in sleep, preparing for the vigil ahead of me. My own sleep would simply have to wait.