O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;

Walt Whitman (1819–1892).

Chapter 39: "Our Fearful Trip is Done"

Holmes

After an hour I took Watson's temperature the best I could with my limited knowledge – and it appeared to be hovering round 99.5 degrees, slightly lower than before. But that did not mean that he was improving, for the fever fluctuated.

I dropped the thermometer back into the bag and turned the gas up a little higher – it was almost pitch-black outside even though it was only evening. I had rarely heard such a gale as was screaming outside the porthole now, the waves crashing and the rain pelting the small window as the storm renewed its furious assault on the ship.

I took Watson's icy, unresponsive hand and began to talk softly – perhaps he could hear me even if he was unable to respond. I had to do something at any rate or I should go mad from waiting.

For over an hour I talked about anything and everything that came into my mind – past cases, my brother, my childhood, our first meeting, my Hiatus – anything I could think of. But all throughout there was no change, no indication that he heard me at all.

I had given him the second dosage of the cure a little while ago and had entertained some fond hope that he would soon make a recovery – but there was still no response.

"Watson?" I shook his shoulder lightly, frustrated in the extreme that my voice cracked as I spoke.

The only sound in the cabin was the slow, shallow rising and falling of his laboured breathing – nothing else.

I let out my breath with a long shudder, grasping his hand again and leaning over to rest my elbow on the bed and my chin in my cupped hand. I was so tired.

What would I do if he did not pull through this? How could I possibly go on living?

The terrible thought ran through my mind that Watson had already had to suffer that kind of a loss – and now more than ever I realized what harm I had done by not informing him of my survival at Reichenbach. If he had felt even a fraction of what I was feeling now, then I was undoubtedly the most heartless fiend in the world to have made him suffer like that for three years.

And now – I might not even get a chance to fully make things right after what I did. Now…

But I dared not think of it, it could not be true. He was strong, and I had made the cure – he would make it.

He had to.

Watson

This adventure I believe more than tripled my dislike for the sea and water in general. All I wanted to do was sleep, and that confounded storm outside was not making it easy to remain comfortable.

Wait – the storm? What storm?

My mind was barely moving, like a sluggish train engine attempting to start a hundred-car freight line, moving slowly and not even noticeably. I realized that I was warm, for the first time in – how long had it been? – in quite a while. Warm, and almost cozy, wrapped up in something very soft and inviting.

So snug was I that I was loathe to come back to full consciousness, but something kept pricking at the back of my mind, something I could not remember at the moment, something…

Wait – I was supposed to be dying! Why was I comfortable then? For the last three days every waking moment had been filled with pain of an intensity I had never felt before. But now – now there was no pain, not even much discomfort. My limbs ached slightly, but they were not tightening and cramping as they had been.

I heard a loud clap of thunder, and the sound jerked me a little further out of the haze surrounding my mind. Then I was suddenly aware of the most blessed thing of all.

I could breathe!

My throat no longer felt as if it were being tightly squeezed shut, I could draw a long deep breath without coughing, and my lungs were able to keep up and regulate it strongly. I was no longer fighting to breathe!

My elation was so great that it woke me fully, and I opened my eyes to see the gas lit and lightning flashing outside my porthole – it appeared to be the middle of the night. I was nestled snugly on my bunk, cocooned in blankets and pillows.

Then my gaze fell beside me as I realized one of my hands was confined in some way, and I smiled softly, feeling my parched lips crack in protest.

Sherlock Holmes had fallen fast asleep with his head and arms on the edge of my bunk, legs splayed out in front of him and his head pillowed on his thin elbow, almost as if he had fallen sideways in his chair with sheer exhaustion. My right hand was clutched in his, the grip still firm even in sleep.

He must have done it – he had found the cure and given it to me…when was it? I could not remember much of the past few hours, or was it days? – other than the pain and the inability to breathe. And now his body had finally shut itself down despite what I knew had to have been vigorous protests – that meant he had done it.

I struggled to sit up a little but felt that familiar weakness – no doubt from a lack of food and water for three days and having to fight off whatever Smith had infected me with. I closed my eyes for a moment instead, trying to find my strength; for I was feeling contentedly drowsy again, just enjoying being able to take deep breaths for the first time in I did not know how long.

Finally I opened my leaden eyelids again and tightened my hand round Holmes's.

He snapped awake on the instant, his head whipping up with such force I was afraid his neck would snap. And I was very much disheartened to see the darkness of the circles under his hollow, sleepy eyes and the general weariness of his tense face.

But when he saw that I was awake and looking at him, such a light of pure joy flooded his features that his whole face seemed to glow in a rare display of intense emotion. In an instant he had scrambled up onto the edge of the bunk beside me and was facing me, his tired eyes scanning my face eagerly.

"Watson! How do you feel, old fellow?" he asked, and I noticed that his voice was rather shaky.

"I – I can breathe, Holmes," I said, and I was surprised at the hoarse whisper that was all that remained of my voice at the moment, rough from abuse, "and – there is no pain."

I managed a smile as his face lit up with pure relief and happiness.

"Thank God, Watson!"

I heard the fervent prayer only a second before he startled me eternally by grabbing my shoulders intensely and almost violently yanking me close to him in a crushing embrace.

Needless to say, I was stunned – how close to death had I really come, if Sherlock Holmes could forget himself in such a manner? He was more troubled than I had ever seen him, and his grip was almost painful, so tight it was.

The arms that held me were shaking violently, and I uncertainly patted his thin shoulder as he trembled silently for a moment, obviously pulling himself together from his unheard-of emotional outburst.

Finally his grip loosened, and he hastily released me, his thin white face flushing as if ashamed of dropping his guard in that fashion, and he settled me gently back on the bunk, propped up with several pillows.

Then he turned his back on me to pour a glass of water, and it took no great deduction to see that he took rather a long time doing so, obviously pulling his emotions under a tight rein once again before he turned round to me again.

And when he did, that mask had dropped once more over his worn face – all except his eyes, which were still dimmed with either relief or joy. I could have smiled at his ridiculous façade of coldness that he so insistently cherished. I knew my Holmes better than that.

Holmes handed me the glass with a quirked eyebrow, obviously asking if I needed aid, and I grinned and downed it slowly, reveling in the very pleasures of drinking more than a sip at a time without choking and the coolness of the liquid on my parched lips and throat.

His face broke into a wide smile as he refilled the glass and handed it back to me without a word. I emptied it as well, handing it back to him, and he tossed it carelessly onto the table, hopping up onto the bunk beside me with an air of excitement that was contagious.

"By all that's holy, it is good to see you looking more yourself, Watson!" he exclaimed suddenly, wriggling into a sitting position at the other end of the bunk and grinning at me, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them.

"Yes, well, it's rather good to bealive," I replied, returning the grin with one of my own.

I leaned back against the pillows, feeling that weariness taking over me again, and burrowed down into the blankets he had put round me whilst I was ill.

"You're sure you're feeling all right?" he asked, his eyebrows meeting in a thick black line.

"Quite sure," I said wishing my voice were not so hoarse, "just tired, that's all, Holmes."

He sighed with relief and leant his head back wearily against the wall of the cabin.

"You found Brown then?" I asked after a moment had passed.

He glanced back at me.

"You heard me then, telling you about it?" he asked.

I wrinkled my forehead in concentration.

"Vaguely," I admitted, for the memories were still rather hazy – I mostly only remembered choking and suffocating time and time again.

Holmes gave me a swift detailing of how he had persuaded Brown to help him and how they had found the cure for me with only a few hours to spare.

His voice cracked but did not break as he hastily skipped over the details of that last breathing attack – that one I could remember all too well. Had his voice and those intense eyes not made it through to me, I might never have found my way back from the path upon which I was wandering in my panic.

I was overcome with remorse at the thought of what Holmes had had to go through these last three days – his haggard face and exhausted manner were testimony enough to how strenuous the time had been, and I could tell he had been very badly shaken by my near brush with death, so much so that he had been absolutely terrified.

"Holmes," I said hesitantly as he paused in his narrative.

He glanced up at me and quirked an eyebrow, and the levity left my face and manner as I answered his unspoken question.

"I – I don't remember much," I said, trying to think, "but I do remember many times – you were the only thing that kept from giving up, the only thing that kept me breathing, Holmes."

His eyes filled with what I assumed to be pain at the recollections.

"You kept me alive, Holmes," I said softly, remembering the bits and pieces of the last three days' horror, "I never would have made it alone, I – I'm not strong enough."

Holmes fiddled nervously with his cufflinks.

"To use those romantic sea analogies you and our sailor friend are so fond of adopting, Watson, a captain cannot pilot a vessel into harbor during a storm without a lighthouse to guide him," my friend said slowly, sounding very much unlike his normal unromantic self.

I felt my mouth twitch in a smile.

"And once there, he needs an anchor to tie his ship to the safety of home and harbor," I added softly.

My friend set his chin upon his knees, looking off into space for several moments, and then he got up and got me another glass of water, telling me I had nearly died of dehydration and I had to keep drinking fluids.

"May I remind you that I am the doctor?" I replied with a smile as I took the glass.

A brilliant flash of lightning outlined the room and everything in it with an unreal starkness, and a huge clap of thunder smothered his reply. He took the emptied glass from me and then collapsed into the chair beside my bed, his brow furrowed in obvious thought.

"What's the matter, old fellow?" I asked, turning onto my side to look at him.

"I – must apologise again to you, Watson," he said slowly, looking at me with a troubled gaze.

"Whatever for?"

"For originally deceiving you with Smith, and again to deceive you about my death." He stopped, swallowed, and started again. "This – business, has shown me how perfectly heartless I had to have been. I – I had no idea – I didn't know –"

I reached over and grasped his trembling hand.

"It is all in the past, Holmes – there is nothing to discuss," I said quietly.

Heaven knew he had been fully to blame for his three-year deception, but I had the feeling that he had more than paid for his lapse in judgment in the last three days. There was no sense in dredging up the past for either of us.

His grey eyes raised to meet mine, and I met his questioning look with a smile, wordlessly telling him that all was forgiven as always.

"I am hungry, Holmes," I suddenly and completely randomly changed the subject.

As I had anticipated, the abrupt topic switch made him give a startled chuckle.

"As soon as Lachlan comes back with the all-clear signal, I shall get you anything you want to eat, my dear fellow," he said with a grin.

"The all-clear signal?" I asked, puzzled.

Holmes's eyes clouded over with sudden foreboding.

"I had not meant to tell you –"

"Tell me what?"

He hesitated before continuing.

"Smith escaped just after Brown and I made the cure," he said slowly, "I sent Brown back to his cabin and rushed down here. Fifteen minutes later Lachlan went to fetch Brown and discovered that he had been killed; Smith had escaped from the brig and had gone after his assistant."

I felt my eyes widen.

"Then – then he's loose on the ship?" I gasped.

The thunder rolled again outside the stateroom, rain beating a steady tattoo on the small pane of glass.

Holmes nodded.

"Lachlan took Brown's gun and was going to start a search party for him. He will find him, Watson, he promised me he would."

"I do not doubt his promise – but what if Smith finds him first?" I asked worriedly.

Holmes settled down again opposite me on the bunk and patted my arm comfortingly.

"Lachlan is no fool, Watson – I have complete faith in him, and so should you," he said softly, straightening out the tangled covers round me.

I sighed wearily – the blankets felt so inviting, beckoning me back to sleep.

"Holmes?" I murmured as he sat back against the wall.

"Yes, my dear fellow?"

"You – you need to sleep too," I said, opening my heavy eyelids.

"I shall – but I cannot leave this cabin until Lachlan returns," he replied.

"Then you will just need to nap here – I don't want you collapsing until I'm well enough to care for you," I said, glancing sleepily at him. "Here."

I yanked one of the pillows from behind my head and tossed it at him mischievously, hitting him in the face. He batted it away with a startled glare at me. I smirked and settled down cozily under the blankets, closing my eyes.

Only to feel a soft whump followed by the sound of a suppressed chortle a moment later as he tossed the offending pillow back at my head.

"You – are – a – child, Holmes!" I muttered, not even opening my eyes.

But I was completely unable to keep the wide grin off my face, and judging from the repressed snickering coming from the other end of the bunk, neither could he.

Lachlan

I placed McGregor in charge of removing the body and I paused only long enough to change into dry clothes before hurrying back up to the Doctor's cabin.

The door was closed as per my instructions and I knocked on it loudly.

"Holmes."

I heard footsteps and then a pause.

"It's Lachlan," I continued, pleased that the detective remained this cautious, but rather frustrated for I was becoming wetter the longer I stood outside. "Open the bloody door, mate!"

There was an exclamation and the door was opened to reveal a very haggard but very exuberant Holmes.

I frowned, puzzled, and pushed my way in.

Something soft and fluffy struck me suddenly in the face and I staggered back, spluttering.

I flung the offending object away and glared at it as it landed on the floor.

A pillow?

I glanced at Holmes, who stood with a deadpan face, the corners of his mouth twitching as though unable to keep a smile at bay.

I followed his gaze and saw the Doctor, his eyes open and alert, pale and drawn, and looking exceedingly exhausted.

But awake.

And more importantly – alive.

He smiled sheepishly and spoke in a weak, hoarse voice.

"Do forgive me, Lachlan – I was aiming for Holmes."

I looked to Holmes who was grinning outright now, and did not appear at all upset by the idea of the Doctor hitting him with a pillow.

I sighed inwardly…a pillow.

Whether it was my own relief at seeing the Doctor well at last, or the absurdity of the situation I cannot tell, but at once I felt lighthearted and was smiling as if the expression itself were contagious.

I bent and picked up the pillow. "'S no trouble, Doctor…we can remedy that."

And I chucked it directly at the unsuspecting detective.

The doctor dissolved into a weak peal of laughter as Holmes yelped and ducked behind the closest chair, and the welcome sound brought an even wider smile to my face. He really was all right!

Holmes

"You caught Smith." I said, settling in the chair beside Watson's bed once more and trying to regain some vestige of my dignity.

Lachlan paused in his act of returning the pillows to their proper position behind Watson's head, glanced at me, and then finished his task before leaning casually against the wall. Watson let himself fall back into the cushions with a grateful sigh.

"In a manner of speakin', Holmes."

I frowned.

Lachlan opened his mouth to reply and moved to stick his hands into his pockets as he always did when he was nervous. Partway through the motion, however, he hissed and pulled his right hand up sharply, cradling it with his left.

Watson shifted to a higher position and fixed him with a frown of his own.

"You're hurt?"

"No, 'tis nothing" Lachlan said, attempting to hide the offending limb. "'S just a sprain, Doctor, nothin' more."

"You'll need to get that looked at," Watson said, his face concerned.

Lachlan looked at me. "He never stops, does he?"

I shook my head, smiling.

"He is a stickler for the health of others. Lie down, Watson, old fellow, you're too weak to tend yourself, let alone anyone else."

I waited until Watson had obeyed before fixing my gaze once more upon the hesitant midshipman.

"He's dead?"

Lachlan nodded, "Aye."

"Did you kill him?"

Again the sailor hesitated.

"My dear Lachlan, it is not a difficult thing to deduce; judging from your injuries it is evident that you were in close contact with Smith, for it is not just your wrist that is hurt but your shoulder - and both injuries must have been from a heavy blunt instrument such as a belaying pin."

I smiled at Watson who was watching with mild, sleepy interest.

"I'm surprised you didn't notice the shoulder, Watson - you're slipping."

My friend snorted but said nothing and I turned back to Lachlan, who was gazing at me uncertainly.

"Well?" he asked.

I sat back in my chair.

"Well what?"

"Does this not tell you anythin'? In a close struggle I would have been more than a match for Smith - I cannot claim that the act was done fully in self-defense."

I raised my eyebrows and fixed the seaman with a pointed stare.

"I beg to differ."

"Pardon?"

I motioned Lachlan to pull up a chair, which he did with his left hand and sat, his fair brows set in a puzzled knot.

"You are an honest man, Lachlan, you have shown that time and again throughout this case, and you yourself have admitted as much. What is more, is you have spent the entirety of this case and this voyage in a effort not only to avenge the deaths of many friends and associates but also to protect the passengers and crew of this ship, including Watson and myself. I would hope you number us among your friends, and the defense of a friend is the same as defense of one's self…at least in my book. Wouldn't you agree, Watson?"

The good Doctor nodded sleepily, his eyes closed.

"Sound reasoning, Holmes," he murmured.

I shrugged nonchalantly at the seaman.

"There you have it, Lachlan; there is no man more qualified to judge than Watson and if he proclaims you innocent that is enough for me. I would say that you acted very much in self-defense. And you have provided invaluable assistance throughout this affair."

Lachlan was smiling by this time, the familiar blue twinkle firmly in place.

"Well, I'm not one to argue with the world's greatest detective…at least not in this matter. I will say however that you need to get some sleep or your goin' to pitch headlong off somethin' sooner rather than later."

I returned the smile. "I agree - but Watson did say he was rather hungry."

"No, he's asleep."

I spun my head to look at my Boswell and saw that he had fallen limply back into his pillows, his soft snores filling the room.

He had always slept rather heavily.

Lachlan rose from his seat and rather reluctantly I followed suit, pulling the covers up to Watson's chin, allowing my hands to rest on his shoulders for a moment to assure myself of his deep and untroubled breathing. For the first time in three days my friend's face remained peaceful and undisturbed.

I turned to leave the room and stumbled as a slight dizzy spell hit me, only to be caught and steadied by the strong left hand of the midshipman.

"I told you so," he said in a smug undertone.

I returned his smirk and cast one glance back at the bunk to reassure myself once more that all was well with Watson.

Then quietly we slipped from the room, turning down the gas as we did.