Doldrums and Deep Waters

Chapter 11: Opus 64

The narrative is resumed by Dr John H. Watson

The first thing I remember, as I swum back into consciousness, was the pain. My throat and chest were on fire, my head ached all over, my stomach muscles screamed.

The second thing I remember was a voice, a wonderfully reassuring and familiar voice, calling my name. I fixed on the voice, although I could not understand all it was saying. Somebody then began stroking my hair, and I instinctively moved into the soothing sensation.

I must have then opened my eyes, for I could make out Holmes face above mine. My mind must have still been confused and my vision unfocussed, as I thought his eyes looked overly bright, and at one point, I even thought he was crying. Ridiculous, I thought, letting my lids drift shut again.

As I lay still, I seemed to become more aware of the hard surface beneath me, of the smell of damp, dust and decay. The ills of my body were also becoming more pertinent. It was cold, and I started to shiver. I felt something heavy and soft draped over me, and my head was lifted , to be placed back onto another soft surface. Somebody took one of my freezing hands in their own, and began chafing it. I closed my fingers around the comforting warmth, and heard my name spoken again, quietly and inquiringly. However, a great wash of tiredness submerged me, and I let it.

I was aware of being moved. I think there were four people, and they managed it very smoothly. Then there was the scent of leather and horses that belongs to a Hackney carriage, and I felt myself being lifted up into this conveyance.

The ride could now no longer be described as smooth. It was terribly jarring, and the aches and pains all over my body were magnified. There were strong arms around me, keeping me on the seat.

A part of me now knew that I no longer had any reason to be unconscious, but I clung to my lack of awareness like a child hiding under the blankets, somehow knowing that there must be things I did not wish to face when I was awake.

I was able to cling to my blissful insentience for a little longer, as I was moved again. I was settled into a bed, and somebody was undressing me. I was sure they were talking as they did so, and I tried not to listen, tried to stay asleep. However, the part of me that knew I should by now be awake became more and more insistent, and it became harder and harder to ignore the voice.

I had a sensation of rising up towards it, of my mind reluctantly rejoining my body, following that voice. I had the brief impression I had been doing so for a long time.

Then, my memory returned in full, and I sat bolt upright with a harsh gasp, startling Holmes, who had just been removing my shirt cuff.

I stared around me frantically. For a moment, I did not know what this unfamiliar room was, until I recognised it as Mrs Hudson's spare guest-room. Holmes rapidly recovered from his alarm, and seized my shoulders.

"Watson! Watson! Look at me."

My breathing slowed as I obeyed, but my heart was still hammering, and a dreadful sense of guilt, shame and embarrassment hit me as I processed the meaning of my situation.

"That's better, old chap. Drink this." He held a glass to my lips, and helped me drain it. I detected a slight, bitter grittiness to the liquid, but it felt good against my sore throat. "Can you hear me now? Are you capable of listening to me?"

"Yes," I whispered, unable to keep my eyes to his face. "By the fact that I am here, and that my throat is abominably painful, I realise you must know what I was about to do, although, I assure you, I had already made up my mind not to do it..."

"...when the packing case broke underneath you. Yes, I realised," interrupted Holmes.

I looked up at him again in my surprise. I opened and closed my mouth, wishing to give further explanation of my inexcusable behaviour, but Holmes began speaking first.

"Before we talk any further, Watson, my very dear friend, and before you begin torturing yourself with recriminations, let me waste no time in informing you that you have been poisoned."

"Poisoned?" I echoed, dumbly.

"Yes indeed. It was a clever scheme, but I do not think it reached its intended recipient – or at least, not with the potency its instigator intended. The horrors of the soul you have been experiencing, and which have driven you to such desperate lengths, are the result of a formidable and unnatural element, which I intend to define further this afternoon. You, in the meantime, must sleep, properly. I have given you a sleeping draft - I know you do not normally condone it, but the important thing is for you to be refreshed. Would you like me to play you to sleep?"

I stared at him, attempting to make sense of all that I was hearing. I had apparently been poisoned, and now, the man who had called me an utter waste of space and a disgusting, dribbling, crippled, useless, pathetic, sottish failure was offering lullabies with his violin. I believe he must have followed my train of thought, for he winced under my scrutiny.

"If I am to compel you not to blame yourself for you actions, then I suppose I had better not give in to my own self-loathing too much either, my Watson." Holmes was speaking softly, but with thrumming intensity. "However, believe me when I say I can fully understand your difficulties if you struggle to let go of your guilt, for I am finding it a thorny task myself."

It took my battered senses a few seconds to make sense of this remark, but it then it dawned on me.

"You have been poisoned also? So when you said..."

"When I said things that make me feel sick to think upon them, that were as manifestly untrue as they were hideously cruel, yes, I also was not acting independently. Despite this, I would still value your forgiveness, sufficiently that I would go down upon my knees to beg for it."

"That will not be necessary, my friend." I took his hand, and I managed a smile, it was small, and a little sad, but my first genuine smile for days. "I take it I may also be forgiven?"

"Heartily, as you were before you asked."

I could feel the depression attempting to gain a hold on me again. However, as frightening shadows are rendered humdrum and ordinary when the light shines full upon them, so the twisted fragments of darkness seemed to wither away harmlessly in the face of my conscious perception. I was, if not easily, able to set them firmly to one side.

My eyes were drooping again. It must be the effects of Holmes' sleeping draught. I heard the faint rustle of clothing as he rose, and disappeared for a few moments, then slipped back to my bedside. The soft strains of Mendelssohn's opus 64 wrapped themselves around me, as I fell back into a deep, deep sleep.

Hooray, Watson is getting better! But don't we want some more answers? There just might be some in the next chapter...

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