Chapter Three.
'Well, I won't tell you that it's probably nothing to worry about, Mr Holmes. I've known you and your family for a very long time, and I respect your intelligence far too much for that,' Sir Frederick Penrose Gill pushed back his plush black leather wing backed chair and rose from behind his desk, extending his right hand out across his desk towards Sherlock Holmes.
He was still an imposing man, despite his advancing years and much respected in his field.
He was a squat, rotund man with a shock of white hair and piercing blue eyes. His clothes were expensive and well cut, and the belly straining at his waistcoat buttons told of his pleasure at enjoying the rewards of his well deserved success.
The fact that he had been the Holmes family doctor since God was a lad had caused Sherlock a moment of pause, but when it came down to it, there was no-one else he trusted.
Penrose Gill would get the job done and not sugar coat the pill for him at the end of it, and he was one man that not even brother Mycroft could brow beat into spilling the beans.
'Thank you,' Holmes responded, rising slowly from his own seat to accept the brief handshake.
'I'll arrange those tests we spoke about," Penrose Gill assured.
Holmes resisted the urge to blurt out: 'I can hardly wait,' merely nodding curtly in reply.
'It shouldn't be more than a couple of days. Get them out of the way, and then we'll have a better idea of what we're up against.'
"Mmmm, know thy enemy.'
'Yes, yes, indeed,' Penrose Gill gave Holmes a weak smile. 'And of course, you can rest assured that you can rely on our complete discretion. Everything that goes on between us, here, and with my colleagues at the hospital, will remain completely confidential. After all, a man in your position, in the public eye ..."
'And a brother like Mycroft,' Holmes interjected with a nasty smile twisting his lips.
'Yes, indeed,' Penrose Gill fought to smother the tiniest smile, well aware of the strange long standing love/hate relationship between the Holmes brothers.
"I have every confidence in you, Sir Frederick, in every respect. That is why I came to you.'
Holmes moved wearily toward the consulting room door.
It was only a few feet, but it felt like he was traversing miles, lead legged, confidentiality and discretion the least of his worries at that precise moment as the tepid coffee he had drunk before leaving Baker Street fought to make a spectacular re-appearance.
The last thing Holmes wanted was to embarrass himself by vomiting all over the fine Axminster carpet in this high end Harley Street Consulting Room.
All he really wanted to do was get out of the stuffy room and get some fresh air.
Penrose Gill must have become aware of his discomfort and came up beside him to offer him a supporting arm, much to Holmes embarrassment, and the withering look he aimed at the older man halted the physician in mid stride.
He didn't need or want this old man's sympathy.
All he wanted was to find a bathroom, evacuate his turbulent stomach in private and then go home to Baker Street.
"Try not to worry, old man. It never accomplishes anything," Penrose Gill spoke softly. 'Easier said than done, I know, but nevertheless, a man's state of mind can have a bearing on his physical health too, you know. The power of positive thinking. You'd know a thing or two about that, I dare say."
'I'll try,' Holmes managed through clenched teeth.
"Then I'll bid you good morning. Oh, and by the way, you'll find the gentleman's facility down the hallway to your right."
Sherlock did not hang around to thank the man, bolting out of the consulting room and staggering down the hallway to the gentleman's lavatory, barely making it in time.
When it was over and his stomach was empty, his mouth rank with the bitter taste of stomach acid and coffee, his body feeling rung out, Holmes leaned against the wash basin, splashed cold water on his pale face and stared forlornly at his reflection in the mirror.
Penrose Gill had certainly been thorough with him, practically throwing him around with his wretched tests, making him touch his toes, bending and twisting, rolling around on the bed like some mad contortionist, all very necessary the old man had assured, making unfortunate mumbling noises as he scribbled illegible notes on a pad, and at the end of it, with Holmes feeling like he had been through the spin cycle of the washing machine, all Penrose Gill could say was that he could pretty much rule out Vertigo!
Not a fear of heights, Holmes knew, because he had seen it on one of his web searches earlier and had followed the links to various pages that explained that the condition sometimes had something to do with the mechanisms in the inner ear, and he had dismissed it almost immediately.
He was just about composed enough to make his way out of the bathroom when the door swung inward and Sir Frederick Penrose Gill popped his head around the open door.
'Oh good, you're still here. They can see you at 12.30pm today, if that is convenient. Shall I tell them you will be there?'
Holmes nodded his assent.
'If the nausea persists, I can prescribe something to help," Penrose Gill offered as something of an afterthought.
'That won't be necessary, thank you,' Holmes waved dismissively. 'Something I ate,' he added for good measure, not caring if the medical man believed him or not, whilst his mind tried to get to grips with just how quickly the old man had managed to make the arrangements, and just what that might mean to how serious this thing might actually turn out to be.
His knees suddenly felt weak all over again as his heart beat just a little too quickly in his chest.
Then a cynical little voice reminded Holmes that it probably had more to do with his ability to settle the bill expediently, and not to be so ridiculous.
"Nice cup of tea will soon have you back on form.'
How typically British, Holmes thought sarcastically, trying to pull himself together. The eternal cure all, a nice cup of tea!
Earl Grey or Darjeeling?
Tetley or Typhoo?
'Right then, I'll let them know you'll be there," Penrose Gill reverted to his best businesslike bedside manner and gave Holmes the details of where to go and whom to ask for when he got there.
"Witty is a good man, brilliant actually. You're in good hands with him, and naturally I will be in touch when I have the test results,' he concluded.
'Thank you, Sir Frederick. I really am most appreciative.'
'Chin up, old man,' Penrose Gill's expression softened slightly, but only for a moment, and then he was gone, leaving Sherlock Holmes feeling like he had just been hit by a double decker London bus.