The constable saw him first. He had been making his usual rounds around the Broad Street area when the man appeared.
It was a pitiful sight: the young man staggered helplessly through the street, clutching desperately at his midsection and moaning. Every so often, he gave a horrible cry and lurched down towards the sidewalk only to pick himself up a moment later and continue on his way. Admittedly, the constable felt sorry for the man. He had no idea what was ailing the poor chap but he obviously looked like he was in considerable pain. Maybe it was something he ate…or, rather, didn't eat. Beggars these days didn't really have a chance to live properly, poor things.
"'ere, old thing." He called out, striding smartly forward to catch the man before he fell once more. He was taken aback to discover that the man barely seemed to weigh anything. What appeared to be a man was so thin that his limbs seemed to protrude like a stick figure's and his face was contorted with pain; yet his eyes appeared strangely alert. "You a'right?"
"What's happening?" the man groaned, lurching forward so that he now lay over the constable's arm. "What's -" He retched, splattering the stones with sick. The man moaned softly, falling back into the appalled constable's arms. His head lolled limply to the side and he began to cough violently.
"'Ere now, chap. Take it easy. You'll be all right." The weak constable struggled to support the writhing man, shifting his weight to the other arm. Frantically, he tried to think of what to do. This wasn't exactly his area of expertise. Any number of things could be wrong with this man. Who knows what kind of diseases these wretches pick up in the streets? Then a small building caught his eye and he breathed a sigh of relief. "See, I toldja. You'll be all right. What's yer name, son?"
The man paused for a moment, trying to speak through his ragged throat. "Oliver," he gasped out. "Oliver…Kensington,"
Watson wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his sleeve, glancing up at the clock. It was only about 3 o'clock in the afternoon; he still had hours to go before he could return home. It had been an unusually busy day with patients arriving left and right, insisting that they were in the grips of some horrendous ailment or other. However, in nine out of ten cases his diagnosis was considerably less thrilling.
Glancing out into his waiting room, he discovered that it was blessedly empty. Perhaps he would have time for a cup of tea before the next long-suffering patient. Pouring himself a mug of hot water, he settled down into a chair to enjoy his much-needed break. The scalding liquid did much to soothe his aching head as he leaned his head back, inhaling the steam that floated off the surface in light colored swirls. He reached for the book on the table and thumbed through it until he found the page that he had left off.
"Dr. Watson!" the cry came from the waiting room and he was on his feet in an instead, stowing the steaming mug on a convenient tabletop and tossing the book away. Pushing through the door, he discovered a man in a constable's uniform barely supporting a half-starved beggar. "Doctor, please help."
The constable's eyes were huge with terror and confusion; the beggar's eyes held a certain understanding that no one in the room seemed to share. Watson was at their side in an instant, carefully supporting the ill man's head and observing his condition in the swift manner that comes naturally to only the most experienced physicians.
A few moments later, they had brought the sufferer into his consulting room and laid him on a couch. In that short period of time, the man had fell unconscious, which certainly did not bode well. Watson felt the pulse of the now unconscious man and frowned, not looking at the constable who looked as though he was about to faint as well.
"Is he…dead?" faltered the constable, rolling up his wrinkled sleeves and gazing down nervously at the man.
"No, I don't think so." replied Watson, having returned to his bookshelf and was now thumbing through a volume. "Can you tell me what happened?"
"I was making my rounds now, wasn't I?" said the constable, not taking his eyes off of the patient. "And this man, here, 'e appears out of nowhere. 'E's moaning and holding his gut and what was I to think? I went over to him and he was groaning somethin' awful. Then 'e gets sick all over the place and I's decided to bring 'im here. Wha' else coulds I do?"
"You say that he was experiencing stomach pains?" said Watson, now turning the pages with renewed fervor. His eyebrows drew together as a possible diagnosis ran through his mind. No. It couldn't be what he thought it was.
"I think so. Why else would 'e be holding 'is gut?"
"Is there anything else that you can tell me?" Watson asked, now holding the book to his chest and looking directly at the constable.
The constable was silent for a long moment, pondering. "There was…a lot of…water everywhere." He said slowly and methodically.
Watson paled, averting his gaze and staring at a conveniently blank spot on the wall. Finally, he came unto himself and looked straight at the officer and offered an insincere smile. "Thank you, constable. I shall take care of him."
The constable seemed relieved to be dismissed and scrambled to his feet, taking another look at Oliver. His expression suggested that, despite his obvious horror, he still had it in him to be concerned for the poor chap. "Will he be all right, doctor?" he asked, his voice faltering and unsure.
It was the last question that Watson wanted to answer at this moment; there was simply no telling at this point. He could only shrug and clench his teeth, praying that the constable wouldn't press him further. "Do you know who he is? Was there any identification on him? Any relatives that we should notify?"
The constable seemed unable to take his eyes off of the man. "'e said that 'is name was Oliver Kensington. That's all I know."
"Thank you, constable."
Once the constable had gone, he turned back to the unconscious man on the couch and swallowed hard. Then he moved to his medical case and selected a syringe. Carefully, he created a solution of water and salt, sucking it into the syringe. Slowly, he began the process of injecting this solution into his patient. It was a stretch; the man was obviously beyond help. But there was no way that he would let the man die without a fight.
The unconscious man seemed to cry out in his sleep. Or was it simply the pounding, screaming noises that were running through his rattled mind? Watson wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead and set his jaw against the mental pain.
John Watson closed the front door of his home with a bang, throwing his hat across the room and gritting his teeth. Wiping her hands on her apron, Mary hurried out of the kitchen with a pensive expression.
"John. What happened, John?" asked Mary, helping her husband out of his coat and hanging it on the rack. One didn't have to know her husband well to see that something much worse than a bad day at the office had happened.
It was a moment before John answered. His face had very little color and his eyes seemed slightly dull. "I had a death today at my practice." He said quietly, almost reluctantly. "A young beggar. Cholera."
"Cholera?" repeated Mary softly, falling into his waiting arms and biting her lip. "Are you sure?"
"I'm afraid that there is no doubt, Mary," said John wearily. "A constable brought him to me this afternoon after he'd discovered the man in the streets. But it was too late. The man slipped into a coma shortly after the constable left and it was only a matter of an hour before he was dead."
"Oh, John," Mary whispered, pressing herself against her husband's body. "I'm sorry."
John looked over her head at the closed door that led to the sitting room. "I should have been able to do something. I tried. All I could do was administer treatment that I knew wasn't going to help anyway. I'm to blame for the poor man's death."
"John, don't talk like that. It wasn't your fault, my darling," said Mary, soothingly. "You said yourself that by the time he was brought to you, it was too late."
"I know," John swallowed hard. "The strange thing is that this is not the first report of cholera I've received in this area. I've been speaking to other doctor's in the area. Apparently there have been an increased number of cholera induced deaths lately."
"How strange…" mused Mary, closing her eyes. "Oh, I almost forgot. Mr. Holmes sent a message by Wiggins today. He wants you to come to Baker Street and see him as soon as possible."
"Thank you, Mary." John retrieved his hat from the rack. "I'll go see him now, if you don't mind."
"Of course not, dearest." Mary offered him a last hug before helping him into his hat and coat once more. "Will you be staying with him for supper?"
"I daresay," said John, stealing a glance at his pocket watch. "You never know with Holmes."
"I'll be waiting, darling." said Mary quietly, watching him go.
Once outside, Watson decided against hailing a hansom. After the afternoon he'd had, it seemed like it would be more beneficial for him to walk.