Upon waking up the next morning, I found myself to be even more drained than I was after I'd taken the powder. I didn't have any more visions of drowning that night, but the one I did have was enough to prevent my mind from achieving anything close to sufficient rest. And so, when I came to at last, my eyes were sealed firmly shut.
After about an hour of staying like this, a vision of yellow made me finally crack open my eyes. I sat up and gazed out the window to see a pink-and-yellow tinged sky that was just coming about with dawn. It was six o'clock. No sooner had I observed this, however, I began to cough. At first, it was only one, which I managed to stifle easily enough for a minute or so, but after that, it came crashing down upon me. I was hurled forward with incredible force as my lungs heaved and my throat burned. I could barely even find time enough to inhale, which only aggravated the fit.
After a good five or six minutes of this, I became aware of someone quickly entering my peripheral vision. The nurse stood by the door, watching, as Dr. Stevenson began to pound on my back in an effort to bring the violent spasm under control before I suffocated. This was eventually accomplished after only a minute or so, and I sat hunched forward and limp, sucking in air and trying to catch my breath as the doctor continued to keep a firm and steady pressure on my back.
He placed the palm of his free hand on my forehead and tilted me back to get a better look at me, and I didn't realize until I felt his hand slipping on my skin that I was sweating profusely. I was too weak to put up much resistance. As he studied me, I observed that his face became set in a very grave but resolute expression.
"He's burning. Get me a fever powder and a glass of water," he calmly commanded the orderly, who disappeared.
"How ever did we manage to let you get so sick overnight?" he asked in a tone most sympathetic and caressing, unwinding the stethoscope from his neck. In all honesty, though, I was much too exhausted and in need of his services to be annoyed with him.
"Now, gently take a deep breath," he instructed me. I obeyed as he pressed the cold instrument to my chest, causing me to shiver, and then to several spots on my back. I could not resist coughing a few times, which just prolonged what was, for me, an extremely awkward situation. I do dislike being touched, even if it is for my own health benefit.
No sooner than he had let go of me, he adjusted the pillows behind me so that I could comfortably remain sitting up, and despite my best efforts, I could not prevent my eyes from shutting against my will.
"Open," I heard him say. I lifted my eyes to see that he was holding a thermometer, to which I barely let my lips part. He slipped the glass tube into my mouth and somewhat painfully under my tongue, causing me to swallow and cough again, but his hand did not shutter. After a minute or so of this, he removed it.
"One oh-two. It's not pneumonia, but your trachea is a mess. Unless you'd been coming down with it, anyway, I don't see how you could have gotten this ill so quickly."
I didn't know whether he was expecting a reply from me, and I truthfully did not care.
"Anyway, you picked a good place to do it."
So you say.
"Ah, there we are," he said as the nurse came in and passed him the glass of foggy liquid. He handed it over to me, and I eyed it cautiously before downing it like a tonic. It was a frigid, foul-tasting liquid which reminded me vaguely of vinegar mixed with pitch tar.
"Are you feeling hot or cold?" He asked me, taking the glass.
"I'm boiling," I replied, realizing the fact for the first time.
"Good. Get him some hot tea," he instructed the orderly, who left us once again.
"We can make you more comfortable a little bit later, but for now, I'd like you to sweat out some of that fever of yours. Hmm... I'm wondering whether or not I should give you a sleeping substance, as well?"
"No," I tried to raise the volume of my voice to sound as firm and declarative as I possibly could, but the sound cracked in my swollen and stinging throat, reducing it to nothing more than a hoarse, drawn-out whisper. I felt a sneeze coming on, so I pinched my nose to hopefully minimize the mess.
"I don't want to see you doing that again," he chided, pointing at me. "You can rupture an artery or blow out an eardrum like that."
"Is that another one of your sick jokes, Stevenson?" I mumbled absently to myself.
"No," he pointedly assured me with a hint of amusement. I darkened with embarrassment after I realized he'd heard me.
The doctor fussed over me a while longer, and after finishing the soothing, decalescent tea, I finally fell back into a peaceful, relaxing sleep.
I didn't stir until half past nine. The doctor came in once again to check on me some time later.
"How are you feeling this morning, Mister Holmes?"
"The same," I replied, a bit more healthy energy in my voice than three hours before. It still sounded oddly due to my terrible congestion, however.
"I thought so. Now, while I have good light, I want you to lift your head back and open your mouth."
I complied, tilting my chin up a little. The doctor stood at my side, the upper half of his body looming over me and his face only about a foot from mine. From the way he stared, it appeared as though he was thoroughly scrutinizing every tooth in my mouth, and it was a most uncomfortable feeling.
"As I suspected, an infection of the throat," he said, finishing up his examination and drawing away from me.
"No doubt it's painful. Does it feel hot?"
"Yes."
"Iced tea, then," he nodded satisfactorily.
Hearing the stuff called by its "proper" name, I almost (almost) smirked at what a contradiction the very phrase was. (In fact, those two words should probably not be used in the same sentence.)
"Is that what you call it?"
"Yes, and it's very good for you. No sugar or fattening milk, just pure tea and lemon. Do you know, I've made several studies, and I've found that every health benefit that comes from drinking tea is lost as soon as milk is added? And don't even get me started on the sugar. Also, in your case, you have the added benefit of the cold numbing that festering throat of yours."
Even with that "festering throat of mine," I felt like arguing the man to kingdom come for uttering the former half of that ridiculous statement. Even if it was true, try convincing any man, woman, or child in London of the fact. Succeed there, then see how many of them are actually concerned enough to willingly to take their tea black. Prat.
Is there ever any use in arguing with a brick wall, however? No. Therefore, I exercised my very excellent self-control and cheerfully held my tongue.
"You don't say."
"My colleagues don't believe me, either. Consider the possibility, however. Especially if you're going into the chemistry field."
Only then did I wonder exactly what kind of chemical reaction could possibly be taking place when milk, a perfectly healthy substance, was combined with tea to make it loose all its medicinal properties...
Balderdash.
"Very well."
"And another thing—open," he continued, holding out his thermometer. I automatically obeyed like a child and waited to hear the rest of what he had to say.
"You're not to have any more visitors for a while."
"Wha? Mno," I objected so vehemently to the statement that I attempted to voice my protestations even with the glass instrument sticking under my tongue, and failing miserably. The sounds were a jumble even to my own ears.
"Just teetering between a hundred and a hundred and one. But it's an improvement, nonetheless. Now, what were you trying to tell me?"
"No, absolutely not. I am expecting but one visitor, the same fellow who was here yesterday and the day before, and it is imperative that I see him," I demanded.
"And do you also intend on passing this fever to him?"
"I am sure he will be keeping his distances, Doctor, and furthermore, I do not intend on being the catalyst of London's next epidemic."
"Alright. If you insist you're up to it," he grinned, interpreting my last statement as a joke.
"But I see you get any worse to-day, then I'm afraid your friend is going to be left out in the cold."
"No friend of mine," I responded automatically. On the instant, however, I reprimanded myself for my unfortunate habit (and it is especially unfortunate for one with a mind so difficult to grasp as mine) of thinking out loud.
"Oh? And yet you're so hot and heavy to see him?"
"Well, he... he has my chemistry books, Doctor," I replied, admittedly feeling like absolute scum.
"Ah," he smiled, "That explains it. Well, if you don't want to speak to him, I can always have your nurse, Lisa, bring them up to you."
"Thank you, but I really must see him."
"If you say so. Oh, and one more thing. Nurse Lisa tells me you haven't eaten a thing since you arrived on Monday."
"No, I haven't."
"Have you been feeling nauseous?"
"No."
"Then are you hungry?" He asked, looking most perplexedly at me.
"Not at the moment. Perhaps tomorrow," I replied quite casually and honestly.
"Look, if you're going to fight that fever, let alone mend a broken bone, your body needs some energy to do it with. And more importantly, do you make it a habit of regularly going three or four days without food? I remember you were famished when you first got here."
Oh, here we go. Do I honestly feel well or even care enough to go through and explain every one of my habits (which, strange as they are by society's standards, have served me very well over the years) to you? I think not.
"Not on a regular basis."
"Do you?" He demanded once again in a most exasperated manner. Did he really think he could have been any more irritated than I was?
"For the love of heaven, Doctor! I have just told you!"
"Then you and I conflict somewhat in our definition of 'regular basis.' Whatever it is you're doing to yourself, it's going to stop, at least while you're in here. It's quite apparent that you're at least seven or eight pounds underweight, and that's without the aid of a scale!"
"Alright, you've made your point, Doctor!" I cried, feeling very flushed, and not from the fever. A rush of incensed heat shot up my neck and into my head, making my whole body even more scorched than it already was, which I was in no condition to handle. I felt a trickle of sweat stream from my scalp and roll down the back of my neck as my head dropped listlessly back against the pillows.
"Take it easy, now, no need to fret," he said, his tone softening instantly.
Honestly, this man just needs a child, a wife, a fish of his own to fuss over; I am not a substitute.
"Let us not raise that fever any higher than it already is. I'll have some soup sent up to you immediately, and it had better be gone when I come back to check on you in a few hours."
Or what? You'll starve me? Twist my ankle? Open all the windows?
"Threatening the patients, are we?"
"Tough care. Crude, but effective."
"I'm sure."
"Quite. I will see you later on to-day."
"Fine. Good day, Doctor."
The nurse came in about a half an hour later with some kind of soup, and I noted with no small surprise and horror that she actually stopped to smile at me before strutting back out the door. I did not return the favor, of course, and realized that she had probably asked Doctor Stevenson to drop her name to me. Disgusting.
Feeling like a child who had been scolded and ordered to finish their vegetables, I reluctantly picked up the spoon and choked down most of the soup. If there was one thing I felt the least like doing at that time, it was certainly eating. I set the bowl and the glass of tea aside on the little table within reach of the bed and reclined myself, staring at the ceiling, waiting. It was just eleven—I had five hours to wait, presumably, before my chemistry books were within my grasp and this hell would be somewhat shut away.
I'll bet if I rub this spoon long enough on this metal bed-frame, I could sharpen it just enough to slice into my wrists...
"Visitor for you, sir," the little red-headed nurse chirped, gliding into the room while Victor Trevor stepped in somewhat sheepishly behind her. She grabbed the dish and the spoon, but frowned when she saw the untouched glass of tea.
"Why don't I leave this for you," she grinned brightly at me.
"Fine," I managed to get out before a sneeze came on.
"Bless you," Trevor interjected in a somewhat amused tone as the nurse gave him a final courteous glance before leaving.
"Drink that up, you," she said playfully, pointing at me from the door-frame.
"You're sick as a dog. You need all the liquid you can get."
"Erm... of course," I eventually sputtered after fumbling around for words with embarrassment. She flashed me one last impish grin before finally going away. Women.
"Taken a liking to you, has she?" Trevor smirked, quirking an eyebrow at me.
"Apparently so, though what I have done to win her affections I cannot begin to fathom."
"She have a name?"
"I'm sure she does."
My visitor gave a hearty, pleasant laugh at my wise-crack.
"Though in all honesty, I am much more interested in those books you are lugging than our ginger-haired nurse. You may set those down on the table, here. Ah, thank you kindly, Trevor. I really do not know what I would end up doing if I had not a book to pass the hours."
Upon reflection, I did blather on rather embarrassingly in my joy over having some means with which I could cling to my sanity in that place. Admittedly, though, my sheer delight at seeing another human face besides an annoying doctor and an insolent nurse was getting the better of me, as well.
"You look horrible, Holmes!"
"Thank you."
"No, I mean... You weren't like this when I saw you only yesterday!"
"An infection of the throat, the doctor says. I was apt to catch it, regardless."
"Good heavens," he lowered his glance and shook his head.
If I didn't know better, I'd say he looks right guilty.
"I said I was coming down with it anyway, Trevor. You needn't feel responsible for it."
I blatantly stated the obvious fact, confused over why he should feel so badly over a matter in which he had no fault.
"I know you're right, Holmes, but you must be absolutely miserable."
"Again, it is not pleasant, but I shall fare a lot better now that I have these to keep me occupied, throat infection or no."
"Well... if you say so. How's your doctor?"
"He is... fine."
"Is he?"
"Oh, do not misunderstand me, Trevor, I am in excellent care. It is just that... well, he is a rather talkative fellow. I should not complain."
"I sympathize, believe it or not. He is acquainted with my father, so this is not the first time I've met him. Nice fellow, but sociable, indeed. I understand how those of us who are less chatty could grow weary of him."
This chap does not strike me as being unsociable in the least. Quite the opposite, in fact.
"He is a fine physician," I offered, to keep the conversation going.
"Indeed. Graduated from Boston University, I believe."
"Oh, really?" I replied automatically, unable to restrain the tiny, satisfied smirk that was making its way across my face. Trevor nodded once, and the conversation fell into silence for a moment, before—
"What is that?" A bewildered Victor Trevor asked, pointing at the glass on the table.
"That is iced tea," I answered, as amused as he was.
"Iced tea?" he repeated incredulously.
"A favorite of Doctor Stevenson's, apparently."
"Did he figure he might as well serve it like that on purpose so as not to get people complaining that their tea is cold by the time it gets to them?"
For some reason, his query, which was perfectly legitimate, sent me into a rather painful peal of laughter, which was soon followed by Trevor. It was a logically valid theory, but the humor of the notion invariably got the better or me, nonetheless.
"Considering our doctor, not unlikely in the least," I ventured, still snickering. He shook his head a few times, and finally the conversation shifted into a more permanent silence with our fading mirth.
"Well... I suppose I'll be leaving you, then," he muttered quietly.
"If I may press you further, Trevor, I request you bring me a sheet of paper, a pen, and a bottle of ink when you see me next."
"You're not pressing me at all, Holmes. I can have that for you today."
"Please, do not go out of your way for me—"
"It is no trouble, Holmes," he assured me with an amused grin at my concern.
"I'll have them sent up to you before the day's out," he continued, stepping towards the door.
"Well, thank you awfully, Trevor," I said after him, more than a little daunted at how important he found it that my every little whim be satisfied as soon as possible.
"You're quite welcome, Holmes. Good day," he nodded, going out.
"Good day."
Good Lord! Surely it cannot already be 4:34!
I was fairly surprised at the fact that our little chat had whittled away more than half of the hour, but even more so by the time 5:10 came along. I had my nose buried in On Atomic Weight and Avogadro's Principle when I heard the slightest of taps on my door-frame. Upon looking up, I was stunned to see a lad of but eight or nine standing just inside my room.
"Yes?" I inquired, knotting my brows.
"Mister Sherlock Holmes?"
"I am he."
"These are for you, sir," the boy said, stepping in. I saw that he held two rolled-up sheets of paper, a corked jar of ink, and a pen. Now I recognized him as the delivery boy from one of the little stores on Wentworth Street.
"Oh... thank-you, lad. I'll take those— Do not try that look on me, I know you have already been paid in full and tipped. Now, run along!"
The little rascal scurried out and left me to wonder why Trevor insisted on spoiling me so. It took no great observer to see he had money to spare, to say the least. His attire was not flashy, but it was easy to tell this fellow shopped regularly at stores at which I could barely even dream of buying a necktie. Burlington Arcade and Saint James Street were no doubt among the usuals for him, and the silk top hat was a Lock and Co.
Even still, he really didn't need to pamper me so. Either he was just trying to show off his money, making sure I was absolutely set against filing a lawsuit, or he was just a genuinely considerate and generous person. I highly doubted the former two, but still was not quite ready to just accept the latter.
People are not just good for the sake of being good. There has to be another logical motive...
I puzzled for a moment, and then, at a loss for explanation, felt as though I could have smacked myself on the forehead.
Spoiled, indeed. Why am I complaining?
I let the subject drop from my mind with no great reluctance and snapped my book shut, unrolling a sheet of paper and smoothing it out on the cover. I had it in mind to write Mycroft, though for what reason I wasn't exactly sure. He would not visit me, and any reply I received would be mocking, at the best. It was something to do, however, and my brother could use a good story to break up the monotony in the dreadfully dull life he leads and loves.
Mycroft,
How goes it at the Diogenes? As you might have already guessed from my voluntary prompting to make contact with you, I am not doing so well myself. Actually, I am at Charing-Cross with a fractured ankle and a somewhat nasty throat infection. How this all came about I will detail, but let me first assure you that all of my expenses are being covered and... There was something else. Oh, God, what was it...? Oh, yes. I am going to live.
I need not detail my (lengthy) account of the whole affair, which I am sure Mycroft did not entirely appreciate.
So, here I've ended up in my own little room, where I shall remain for another six days, if not a few more. I am in the care of a very excellent physician from the United States, so please, do not trouble yourself fretting over my condition. The doctor says it will be crutches for two weeks after this, but I'm sure I will manage rather well. Perhaps I will see you by the end of the term, if not a little sooner. Until then, I remain very truly yours, dear brother,
Sherlock
I really did not intend for the note to be as sarcastic as it was long, but one simply cannot help it when dealing with Mycroft. I knew it would amuse him to no end, biting sarcasm or no. I kept the completed letter on my lap and turned my attention back to my very excellent book before that persistent little nurse came back to disturb me once more.
"You feel up to having a bite of dinner in an hour or so?"
"No, I do not feel well enough, thank you," I lied.
"Are you sure? I can get you-"
"Look, I know you mean to be friendly, but... Can you leave? Please?"
From the jilted look she gave me, one would think I had just rejected her marriage proposal.
"I do have a terrible headache," I quickly added as some kind of pseudo-excuse. She nodded and exited without another word, much to my immediate relief.
Now there is just the matter of getting this thing to Mycroft. And since I have no doubt in my mind it will be taken care of, all there is left to brood over is the chemistry. And the constant; six point zero two two one four one seven nine three zero times ten to the twenty-third molecules per mole, if I remember correctly...
A/N: Oh, look. Our chapters are starting to get a bit longer all of a sudden...