As usual, all the best bits are stolen directly from ACD and are in italics.
000
Culverton Smith refused to take his calls, and so Mary set out in a cab to his Lower Burke Street home, a fine house lying in the vague borderland between Notting Hill and Kensington. The particular one at which the cabbie pulled up had an air of smug and demure respectability in its old-fashioned iron railings, its massive folding-door, and its shining brasswork. Mary rang the bell and a young man, obviously a lab assistant enveloped in a white coat and a professional air, opened the door.
"I'll see if he's free to see you, Dr Watson," the young chap by the name of Staples told her after she introduced herself. As she stood in the entry hall waiting, Mary pinched her cheeks to make them redder and to bring tears to her eyes. She had practiced this look before she left Baker Street, contriving to seem professional but at the same time personally affected by her patient's condition.
Her humble name and title did not appear to impress Mr Culverton Smith. Through the half-open door to his office, Mary heard a high, petulant, penetrating voice.
"Who is this person? What does she want? Dear me, Staples, how often have I said that I am not to be disturbed in my hours of study?" she heard Smith complain. "I don't know any Watsons, do I? Tell her I can't have my work interrupted! Tell her I'm not at home! Tell her to come back in the morning if she really must see me!"
Mary, affecting the air of a doctor on a mission to save her patient, walked to the door of the office, pushed past the ineffective Mr Staples, and stepped into the room with the odious Mr Culverton Smith. She saw rising from his chair a figure with a greasy, yellow face complete with a heavy double chin, and two sullen, menacing grey eyes which glared at her from under tufted and sandy brows. His bald head seemed to her enormous, completely out of proportion with his small and frail body.
"What's this?" he cried, in a high, screaming voice.
"I am sorry, Mr Smith," she said soothingly, using her best and most reassuring professional tone, "but this matter cannot be delayed. I've come on behalf of my patient, Mr Sherlock Holmes."
The mention of her friend's name had an extraordinary effect upon the little man. The look of anger passed in an instant from his face and his features became tense and alert. "What about Sherlock Holmes?" he demanded.
"I have just left him," she explained. "He is desperately ill. That is why I have come." She affected a careful look of concern. As she spoke, a malicious and abominable smile swiftly crossed his face and vanished in an instant.
"I am sorry to hear this," he said, sounding sincere. "I have every respect for Mr Holmes' talents. He is an expert in crime as I am of disease. For him the villain, for me the microbe. There are my prisons," he continued, pointing to a row of bottles and jars which stood upon a side table. "Among those gelatine cultivations some of the very worst offenders in the world are now doing time."
Mary bit her lip, refusing to allow her personal feelings to interfere with her job. This disgusting creature dared to try to murder her friend, but it was not for her to seek retaliation. She must do her job.
"It was on account of your special knowledge that I have come to ask you for help," she explained, contriving to look desperate. "You see, he is not only a patient but a great personal friend. The disease from which he suffers has no cure known to my profession. But I have heard that you may be able to help him through less orthodox means. He has through some dealings with a foreign client contracted a rare tropical disease, and I believe it is one of which you have had some experience."
"How long has he been ill?"
"About three days," she told him, allowing tears to stand in her eyes.
"Is he delirious?"
"Occasionally." She allowed her voice to quiver a bit. "His fever is dangerously high and cannot be controlled with medications."
"Tut, tut! This sounds serious. It would be inhuman not to come to his aid, Dr Watson. I will come with you at once."
"Thank you, Mr Smith. I have a taxi waiting for us outside." Mary gave him a trembling smile of relief and led the way out.
Upon reaching Sherlock's flat, Mary let Mr Smith in and directed him up the stairs. "I will remain down here, if you don't mind," she said softly. "My friend has insisted that I stay out of this business, as it would not bode well with my professional reputation. I'm sure you understand."
"Of course," he replied courteously, and nimbly and eagerly made his way up. Mary watched him until he entered the open door to the flat and then rushed through the door of 221A. There she found Mrs Hudson serving tea and blueberry scones to D.I. Lestrade, who was relaxing at her kitchen table. Greg stood when she entered and gave her a hug.
"Dear Mary," Mrs Hudson welcomed her warmly. "I've kept your tea hot for you." They all settled around the recording device that was wired to Sherlock's bedroom to hear the detective's plan unfold as they enjoyed their tea.
"I hope you know I had no idea of his plans, Mary," Greg said sincerely, and she perceived that he had just been given an earful by the aggrieved Mrs Hudson. "I would never have gone along with such a scheme."
"I know," she assured him, squeezing his hand.
"Is that you, Mr Smith?" Through the receiver, they could hear Sherlock whisper painfully. "I hardly dared hope that you would come."
Lestrade snorted. "He's dead convincing. If I didn't know better, I'd believe him to be on death's door."
Then came the sound of Mr Smith laughing coldly. "I should imagine not."
"It is very good of you," Sherlock rasped on. "I appreciate your special knowledge."
The visitor sniggered. "You do. You are the only man in London who does."
The trio in Mrs Hudson's kitchen listened in awed amusement as Sherlock expertly lured his prey into admitting to killing Victor Savage and attempting to kill Sherlock himself with the contaminated Chinese puzzle box.
"I'll just take my box with me in my pocket," Smith said smugly. "There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the truth now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed you. You knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so I have sent you to share it. You are very near your end, Holmes. I will sit here and I will watch you die."
"That's it. That's all we need," Lestrade said, disgusted with the callousness of the culprit. "Let's go get this bastard. If I have to listen to that whining voice one more minute I shall become murderous myself."
By the time Lestrade and Mary arrived in Sherlock's room, the detective had risen from his deathbed and was towering over the shrunken Mr Smith, casually pulling on his dressing gown.
"What is the meaning of this?" Smith was saying in an affronted tone.
"I suddenly find myself feeling a good deal better," Sherlock replied in a confiding tone. "Although the best way of successfully acting a part is to be it. I have indeed gone for three days without food or water. But here are some friends to bring me my tea. Hello, Detective Inspector."
"Sherlock," Lestrade greeted the detective genially. "I appreciate your help in this case. Mrs Hudson is bringing you a tray directly." He turned upon the now ashen little criminal and pronounced grandly, "I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one Victor Savage."
"Please add the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes," Mary reminded him indignantly as Lestrade handcuffed the man and gingerly removed the damning Chinese box from his pocket.
"A nice trap! He asked me for his help, and I came out of the goodness of my heart. Now he'll pretend I've said things that corroborate his insane suspicions. Lie all you like," Smith snarled in his irritating, high voice. "My word is always as good as yours."
"True, true, your word is as good as his," Lestrade assured him, amused. "And it's your own words that will convict you, on the tape I have running downstairs. Have you never heard of microphones?" He removed said object from its hiding place on the bedside table and turned to Sherlock. "Come to the Yard when you're cleaned up, to give your statement, if you don't mind. And thanks for your persistence in this case. A cold-blooded murderer would still be loose on society if not for you." And with that, he led the cowed suspect out to his waiting vehicle.
Mrs Hudson arrived in the kitchen with the tray. "Wash that horrible make-up off your face and come have your tea," she instructed Sherlock.
"I've never needed it more," Sherlock assured her. He went into the loo and began to remove all evidence of illness. Mary stood watching him silently.
"You owe us," she told him at last. "The time has come to pay your debts."
"Nonsense! It was for a case!" Sherlock insisted, drying his face on a towel.
Mary ignored that and continued as if he hadn't spoken. "We will all dress in our best and you will treat us to dinner at Wright Brothers in Soho," she informed him. "All your talk of oysters has made me hungry for seafood. I made reservations for eight o'clock while I was in the cab going to Culverton Smith's. But for the moment, you must go and apologize to Mrs Hudson for frightening her so. And after we've been to Scotland Yard, you will stop and buy her flowers. She loves you to bits, and you abused her sorely this week."
Sherlock stared at her stubbornly. She stared back, the little muscle in her cheek twitching. Then she raised her right index finger and waved it at him. "Now," she said quietly. "And be charming. I know you have it in you."
He contritely stepped into the kitchen and complied.