I was surprised to find that it was nine o'clock ad meridian when I awoke. How ever did I manage to sleep so much in those days, only six years ago?
The morning passed by with little consequence, and since I no longer felt the need to rest, I became highly susceptible to the onset of boredom, as most people would have. The only temporary relief from this was when the oh-so-annoyingly-optimistic Dr. Stevenson came waltzing into my room around ten.
"'Morning, sunshine," he chirped somewhat cautiously, but with that same unwavering grin as he tapped on my door. I must have looked as gloomy as I felt to elicit such a sarcastic remark from the good doctor.
I think I might have growled in response. I tried to think of any and all hospitals and private practices in the whole of London. If I were to search them all, how many doctors would I be able to find who had to go through regular trials of patience daily, deal with blood and gore and messes, tend to an innumerable amount of difficult people with various issues, and still manage to be so unnaturally joyful?
None, I answered myself. So why—why in the name of God did I need to be stuck with the one and only?
"Oh, cheer up. Only six more days."
I don't think I've ever had more vivid thoughts of killing a person than I did after hearing this. No one tells me to "cheer up" without coming out of it verbally bashed to the point of being even more dreary than I.
"I can count, thank you," I said, failing miserably at masking my bitterness with a humorous tone.
"Oh, so you'll be counting the stitches in your leg as we're pulling them out of you in a few weeks?"
I think my heart was cut loose from its valves, for it dropped into my stomach as he casually tossed the phrase.
"Stitches?"
"Oh, yes. Those teeth did your ankle something fierce."
Perhaps this doctor is not as good-natured as I took him to be.
"But please, don't be alarmed. It's not nearly as bad as I made it out to be. You'll be quite numb to any and all pain, I assure you," he declared with a reassuring nod.
"That is... er... fine, Doctor," I stammered, being unable to inject another biting remark, for the moment.
"In any case, as long as your condition remains stable, there is really not much more we can do for your ankle. I definitely want you here, however, as the bone is still much too delicate to be put under even the slightest stress. Also, if the wound were to become infected, it would require immediate attention, and it will need to be cleaned regularly as it is. I'll keep you until until... Friday, we'll estimate, and then we'll put you in a plaster cast. You'll be on crutches for about two weeks, and will not exert this leg for around a month."
Crutches? I'll be hobbling around campus on crutches for two weeks? This story will only circulate more once they see me dragging along on those wretched things... That Victor Trevor owes me more than a hospital bill, he owes me my self-respect!
Two weeks... No boxing, no fencing for a month and a half, probably more.
Trying to quench the suicidal thoughts coming into my mind and shut out this harsh reality, I told myself that this month and a half would be dedicated to the chemistry.
"How old are you, Mister Holmes?"
"Twenty," I responded mechanically, for I was fast slipping into the far-off dimension that is my thoughts. Had I really been paying attention to the conversation, I might have insisted I was three and fifty.
"There, just as I thought, barely even old enough to marry."
Eugh.
"Two months is barely drop in the bucket, Mister Holmes," he smiled, but quite suddenly his expression turned to one of darkness.
"... That's assuming you don't have Rabies."
It was rather foolish, looking back, but for a moment, I actually thought the man was absolutely serious. My eyes must have widened or my lips parted, for his grave expression turned to one of concerned amusement as he studied me.
"You don't have Rabies," he ventured before dissolving into a chuckle.
In a rush of heat, my face flushed scarlet with outrage.
"Not even funny, Doctor!" I nearly shouted. A passing nurse in the hallway paused to glance into our room before doubling her pace. In turn, the doctor's merry expression died before one could blink.
"Forgive me, Mister Holmes. That was a very tasteless joke. I really didn't mean to scare you half to death."
"That's not even the point, Doctor. You're just aggrav-"
I halted the hissing between my teeth and somehow regained a grip on my rising temper.
"My apologies," I muttered softly and quite reluctantly. I'm surprised he even heard me.
"None needed," he replied, "I see I've overstepped my boundaries. It wasn't my intention to offend you. Can I get you anything before I leave?"
"Ah... no. No... thank you, Doctor."
"Very well, then. Good morning," he said, striding out the door. His good humor bounced back as if I'd never even scolded him.
"'Morning."
Well, nine turned to ten, ten to eleven, and eleven to noon. A nurse brought in a tray with lunch for me, which I refused. The thought of eating sickened me. I was confined to a bed, (more like condemned), not to budge from it for the next week, expending no energy whatsoever. The last thing I needed was more fuel to be bottled up within me and no way to release it. I had not even a book to idle the hours away, and certainly not the cocaine bottle. Oh, what I would have done for the most minute drop of the stuff! (I wonder what the doctor would have done if he only knew.) There is and never will be anything I so passionately despise more in this world than stagnation.
Dr. Stevenson did not come back that day, and, for no particular reason, my thoughts began to drift to Mycroft. I almost half-expected to receive a letter or at least a telegram from him, before remembering that no one else in the whole school, let alone Trevor, even knew of his existence, and so obviously he had not been informed as to his brother's current predicament. I certainly had no possible way of telling him myself. Even if I had the means with which to write him, it was not as if he would actually care much or come visit me. Oh, no. I could picture him tearing open my letter and reading it, sitting behind his desk all alone in his little office down at the Diogenes, and laughing his great, fat head off. A lost cause, indeed.
By three o'clock, I was thoroughly in a state of something akin to depression. As a last means of trying to keep my mind distracted and occupied, I resorted to coming up with interesting and elaborate ways to kill myself. Among many of these was to sit up and grab the stent hanging from the ceiling with which my ankle was being elevated and try to swing just close enough to the window to hurl myself out. Not that I actually would have considered acting any of these out, but it was very amusing for a while.
Then four o'clock came, and a visitor with it. The nurse came into my room at that time to inform me of something to the effect. A few minutes later, Victor Trevor stepped hesitantly into the room. Upon seeing me for the first time and looking into my face, his cheeks immediately reddened and he averted his eyes for a moment.
"Good afternoon," I spoke first in an intentionally pleasant tone in order to really make the stigma sink in. I took an evil delight in seeing how my efforts had paid off; it was only too clear how awkward and embarrassed he had become.
"Oh, yes, indeed, good afternoon," he stammered quickly, looking into my face, eyes darting away quickly, and finally settling his gaze back in my general direction.
Oh, do make up your mind.
"How's your leg?"
How does it look?
"Well, it's not pleasant, but I am in no pain."
"Oh, well... that's, er... That's good to hear."
"Indeed."
It was silent for a minute or so, and during that minute, I took great pains to refrain from snickering at how uncomfortably he squirmed.
I assure you, man, even if I am the best fighter the boxing club shall ever acquire, I am quite thoroughly incapacitated as you can see. You need not worry about my rising from this bed and beating you to a pulp.
"Well, Holmes, I do... I owe you an apology," he said softly, clearly forcing himself to lock his eyes with my own and keep them that way. He must have forgotten about his top hat, for he quickly reached up to remove it and fidgeted with the brim for a moment.
"You see, I misjudged that trail to be entirely unknown to anyone else, save for myself. I walked my dog down there every day and never saw a single soul upon it. So, figuring it was deserted, I thought nothing of letting Percy off his leash down there. When he ran ahead of me yesterday, I thought he'd gone prancing off in pursuit of a squirrel or a fox... That is, until I heard yelling. I am stupefied that he just attacked a person like that with no provocation. He's really quite a friendly pup, to be honest... But I think, by coming to the place so often and finding it unoccupied, that road became, in his mind, his territory, and so he viewed you as an intruder. Even still, there was really no way for me to truly be certain that the path was vacant, and I should have kept him on the leash, as it was."
Really? He he had been down there every day and I didn't notice there were fresh footprints upon the path? Am I really that much less of an observer than I give myself credit for?
"Furthermore, I will, of course, meet all of your expenses resulting from this. I really am very sorry, Holmes."
Ah, so he does know my last name.
"Accepted, Trevor. And I, in turn, have no intention of pressing any charges against you or your noble steed, so long as you keep the thing on a tight leash in the future."
At this, I could practically see the weight lifting off his shoulders. He held my gaze unflinchingly and even managed to muster up a flicker of a smile.
"Thank you, Holmes. Would you like me to bring you anything the next time I visit?"
"My chemistry books would be a great comfort. You will find that I have four of them, and I'd like them all, if you please. I believe you must have found a key to my room?" I asked, referring to the one he must have found in my trouser pocket if he did, as the doctor said, request my clothes to have them cleaned for me.
"Yes, indeed I did. Would you like me to hold onto it for you, or do you want it back?"
"Er... Better if you keep it, Trevor. I wouldn't trust this hospital staff with anything I'd lament being rid of," I lowered my voice. It was, after all, the lesser of two evils.
"No problem, Holmes. Anything else?"
"No, I think that will do for now, Trevor, thank you."
"Right... I suppose... I suppose I'd better be going, then. And," he dropped his voice, "... And thank you, Holmes," he grinned in a relieved manner. I gave him a quick smile of my own purely out of courtesy.
"I will come by to-morrow afternoon. Goodbye, Holmes."
"Good day, Trevor."
And with that, he returned his hat to his head, gave me one last pleasant grin, and turned to stride out the door. I never would have been able to guess it when he came in, but I was beginning to see that he was a lively sort of fellow with considerable spring in his step. His visit lifted my own spirits for a time, but the minute bit of cheer he brought was already beginning to fade in time with his steps down the hallway. At least I knew I would have some means of keeping my mind occupied for the next day.
Now, how was I going to make it through the night?
When the nurse brought in a supper shortly thereafter, I refused it once again, this time, much to her annoyance. I did, however, request a sleeping powder to put me out of my miserable cognizance until morning. She returned some time later with a glass of water, which she poured a fine white powder into. This I downed immediately.
It took effect surprisingly quickly, for within the hour, as I remember, I was fast immersed in paralyzed, drug-induced slumber, and it was a most unpleasant experience. Not that I wasn't accustomed to long, vivid dreams which remained in my memory for quite some time, the images perfect as marks chiseled in stone. I have had many nightmares in my relatively short lifetime, but even so, only a few of these has ever reoccurred. This was one of them.
I dreamed of drowning. I was at the sandy bottom of a river, being pinned there by some unseen force. The sky above the water was almost black, save for the frequent flashes of lightning which cut through the darkness in streaks of white. I could even see the pockets of air escape from my mouth and flutter toward the surface as I hollered. But what horrified me to the point of near-mania was the realization that I was actually drowning. Struggling there against the astonishingly real rushing current and flailing in a futile effort to reach the surface, I found myself unable to inhale.
I awoke abruptly and immediately took a heaving breath in through my mouth, my lungs still air-deprived and weak. I frantically surveyed the dark room surrounding me. Instinctively logical being that I am, I quickly came to the realization that I was, in fact, "back" in my hospital bed, and the whole ordeal had been nothing more than a figment of my imagination. Cursing that damned sleeping powder, (and I beg no one's pardon for my crude use of language, for that is what the stuff was), I sat up and tried to take in a deep breath through my nose, but found that it just didn't work. I foolishly attempted to do so once again, accomplishing nothing but sending a thick glob of mucus directly into the back of my throat, followed by a sneeze. Feeling an absolute miserable mess, I tried to swallow, only to discover that my throat was hot, swollen, thick, and painful. Exhausted and exasperated, I sunk back into the pillow and fell back into a surrendering sleep.
At the very least, I could explain the source of my "drowning."
A/N: Six pages of writing on Microsoft Word looks like a lot less when you're reading it full-screen.