From W. Y. Traveller: Docks

Ties to Unwelcome Detour

Heaviness. Deep, drowning heaviness. The pain in my leg made me use the wall to stay on my feet. Every hawker's cry increased my headache. Occasional vertigo tried to steal my balance, but the fatigue topped everything. Nearly twenty-four hours of wakeful fasting meant I needed to eat something, but I wanted to lie down and sleep.

I could not, though. Not yet. Unlike Holmes, I could not skip many meals without feeling the effects, and between a long vigil and the ruffians near the docks that had decided "the detective's lackey" would fetch a good ransom, I had passed from "hungry" to "problem" hours ago.

Dragging steps slowly brought me in sight of the flat, but shaking fingers dropped my key once, then twice, three times before I found the lock. Complete silence met the squeaking hinges. Either both Holmes and Mrs. Hudson had found trouble, or they had not yet finished today's errands.

Probably the latter. I hoped the latter, but I could deal with that in a minute. I would be of no use until I addressed my own symptoms. Did I want to aim for the kitchen and risk not making it up the stairs, or did I want to raid my desk and whatever remained of the cold cuts Mrs. Hudson had promised to leave in the sitting room?

The kitchen would have a more reliable supply of decent food, but I used the banister to supplement my cane up the stairs. I needed to eat, yes, but I doubted I would remain upright for much longer. Better for Holmes to find me on the settee than for Mrs. Hudson to find me on the kitchen floor.

Better still for neither to find me on the stairs. I barely managed three steps between rests, only supreme effort kept my eyes open, and my leg threatened buckling twice. By the time I paused on the landing, I rather doubted my ability to reach the settee. Could I rest against the wall for a moment?

Not unless I intended to stay there. I forced myself to move before a break became an impromptu nap, staggering my way across the landing with wall, banister, and small table complementing my cane. The doorframe became yet another support while I fumbled with the knob, and I studied the room as the door swung open. Should I aim for desk, settee, or table?

Table. I risked illness if I slept without eating first, and the half a platter of cold cuts would help far more than the crackers I kept in my desk. Another moment waited out the next round of vertigo before an uneven gait headed for the spare chair we kept in the corner. From there, I managed to reach a small table, then several seconds granted two and a half steps to the settee's nearer end table. The arm provided a stable place to rest for a moment. The back cushion took me to the table's half of the room. A low shelf caught a stumble—and let me lean against it when the gyrating floor protested the sudden movement. I needed to eat.

But I could only move so quickly. Long seconds finally eased the vertigo back to manageable levels, and a deep breath tried to block the pain of my headache as I aimed for the nearest chair. Now I had less than the length of the table to walk.

Or stumble. Trip. Lean. My elbow thumped the table when a spasm combined with another bout of vertigo to try to send me to the floor. The smell of meat tickled my nose, but the same symptoms that announced my need of food also made reaching the food difficult. I could not find the plate if I could not see.

And I could not eat if I did not stay awake. A slamming door echoed in my head as my body abruptly disconnected from the room. Even closing my eyes did nothing for the rotating, nauseating feeling of weightlessness.

"Alright, Watson?"

No. The worry threading his voice announced I looked just as bad as I felt, but I could not answer. Not when table and floor insisted on tilting different directions. I should probably sit.

My groping hand found merely air where I expected wood.

Hurried footsteps revealed Holmes' approach, then that familiar voice inquired something about where I was—or perhaps where I had been. Where was I injured? Whatever he asked, I did not understand him. Only faintly knew he had spoken. My headache fed the vertigo to push me into the table's edge.

Which made the dizziness worse. The room spun like a child's top, and I barely heard Holmes' cry before darkness crashed over me.

Two whumps in a row. It's apparently whump Watson weekend, lol. Thank you very much to those that have reviewed, and I hope you enjoyed :)