Chapter 4
February 12th, 1867, Tuesday - Day V2
"Mr Holmes? Mr Holmes?"
Frantic knocking on his door, accompanied by Archie's tiny voice.
"Mrs Hudson sent me to wake you - for the fourth time!"
"I am up, thank you."
"Lunch will be ready in half an hour. I will bring warm water for washing."
Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, it was probably around noon.
Still kind of drowsy he struggled to wake up fully, he also felt slightly nauseous.
The bedroom was unpleasantly cold and he was covered with three blankets.
Although Watson had removed the less comfortable clothing items he was still dressed in yesterday's clothes. He groaned silently, aching all over.
Carefully he rolled off the clammy bed.
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Half an hour later he was in the living room when Mrs Hudson brought in tea and lunch.
She had barely put the tray down, when Sherlock frowned.
"Who bought this?"
"I sent Archie."
"He needs a lesson about food."
"Pardon me?"
"This food is not food."
"What?"
"It seems you buy 'proper' food due to what tastes you prefer... your own liking. He bought what was told was good quality by the seller. It is not. Didn't you check?"
"I am sorry, Mr Holmes, I didn't have time. It's washing day."
Sherlock opened the door to the flat and yelled for the young boy, who immediately ran up the stairs, looking afraid to have done something wrong.
"Sit down," Sherlock urged him while he sat opposite him.
"We will analyse what you bought today and try to figure out how to prevent such mishaps again in the future."
Obviously Mrs Hudson was afraid a thorough chiding would follow because she tried to stop Sherlock.
"You might want to listen to this, too, it appears this hadn't happened in the past by accident. Maybe you are just not often enough invited to fancy dinner parties, or otherwise exposed to what modern food should look like. Or maybe your rural upbringing is unknowingly good for all our health, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock smiled up at her.
Her eyes went wide and she blushed. Present society would deem that an insult, to mention a rural upbringing, but from Sherlock remarks like this were always hiding a deeper meaning.
"Try a piece of the bread."
He took a slice of the very white bread and parted it into several pieces, then handed one to the boy - who still looked afraid - and one to their not-housekeeper.
"Taste it," he put a small piece in his own mouth and carefully started to chew, then spit it out into a napkin.
"Eugh," Mrs Hudson made, but her good manners made her actually gulp it down. Spitting things out was not particularly lady-like.
Archie chewed and raised his eyebrows, obviously lost what he was meant to taste.
"It's sweet," Archie added.
"No, it's astringent," Sherlock explained.
"It's way too... the texture is odd. And the taste is vile," the landlady said.
"What you taste is potassium aluminium sulfate, Alum in short. This is an exemplary case of food adulteration. One that will harm your body if you eat it too often. Unfortunately, this society is working more by how things look fancy than if they are healthy. The needs for foods to have certain looks and colours has changed in the recent years. One also might say it has become a very silly fashion."
"They put things in there that are bad?" Archie wanted clarification.
"Yes, this chemical is bad."
"Why do they put it in there?"
"This decade and the last are marked by advancement and mass production in every part of life. Food is no different. We have been the victim of an unscrupulous merchant, Archie," Sherlock explained.
"As a consumer you were at his mercy since adulteration is very popular to increase profit. Alteration is a big business. When in rural areas people wouldn't add things to food they sell because they know their consumers and don't want to harm them. The anonymity of the big city and the lack of personal bonding make it easy to use harmful cheap things to make foods look attractive to buyers."
"Oh, Mr Holmes. I am so glad I still buy my bread from our neighbour's sister who brings it in all the way from her farm. Although, I have to admit I did it because people in the countryside suffer a great lot from all the industrial made food. They hardly earn any money at all and they work their hands of... More and more work these days and less and less money. It's a shame. I was kind of trying to help out by buying from them... besides this really tastes like the good old times when I was a child."
"You buy more from them, not only the bread, right?"
"Yes," the landlady agreed.
"The milk as well. Taste this milk," Sherlock encouraged Archie.
Mrs Hudson and the boy did, but this time, Sherlock only smelled it and had to stifle a gag.
"There is more than one chemical in there that doesn't belong. One is probably Boracic acid and Sodium borate, used to prolong shelf time and remove the sour taste once it turns bad. So they can sell it and people won't notice it is old. The problem is, it tastes fine for most people, but the bacteria are still there, making people sick."
Sherlock put a finger in it and watched the liquid hang on his digit in a drop.
"This one also seems thinned down and has a grainy white substance in it to mask the added water... to make it look right," he added.
"But that's horrible," Mrs Hudson said, "I was aware it was happening, but... you know it is in the paper now and then."
"That is why we are glad that Mrs Hudson buys from the countryside, Archie. Get the rest of that shopping and we will analyse that, too. After that, I want all of it thrown out."
The boy hurried down the stairs to get the bag of still packed goods.
When he came back, panting, he asked, "How do you know that all."
"Remember, I'm a chemist?"
"Oh, right," Archie stammered. Aware he had asked that before but since the word didn't really hold a meaning for him, he had apparently forgotten.
"There are efforts to establish food adulteration laws. But the problem is, this is difficult to prove, people don't know what adulterated food looks like. And even if they do, to find out where it really came from and who added things is also very difficult."
"Shouldn't that be a case for you?" Archie asked while he unpacked meat, tea, cheese and other items.
"I fear that will be a case for our government and the politicians," Sherlock evaded the topic.
He checked the cheese, meat, vegetables and all the items, most of it was all fine, for one exception.
"Ah, look at this tea. This looks wrong," he poured a bit out of the paper bag and onto a saucer.
"This looks like... tea."
"Correct... but if you touch it... take it into your hands, touch it... You'll feel it is way too heavy for dried leaves... I assume it is black lead. Some of those leaves also seem to have the wrong colour."
They continued to analyse the food until Watson arrived and found them in a mess of groceries, all laid out in samples while Sherlock was explaining how to how to spot those adulterations, distinguish good from bad quality.
The doctor joined in and listened with interest.
.
An hour later a telegram arrived that informed them a family had reported their son missing and therefore the dead boy he had been identified.
Sherlock decided to go and pick up Lestrade and then try to meet child's family.
Lestrade was not happy to interview a mourning family, but aware it should be done soon.
On the way to the mansion, Lestrade and Watson both took their time to remind Sherlock to be tactful.
It was a wealthy family with ties to politics and money and it would do no good to upset them any more than they already were about the fact that the police deemed it necessary to interview them so soon after they had found out about his death and while they were grieving.
The front door already made it clear the house was in mourning. The obligatory wreath was present, as well as the black draped doorknob.
The inside of the building was another show of superstition, wealth and other stupid rituals Sherlock's didn't point out loud but rolled his eyes about mentally. The clocks had been stopped and all mirrors and reflective surfaces had been covered, also family pictures had been turned face down.
After introductions and excuses about the disturbance they were assured the family wanted the murder solved and would therefore assist in any way they could.
They were seated and served tea, but Sherlock finally lost patience and interrupted the exchange of empty mourning phrases between John and the mother of the child by asking directly.
"What illness did he suffer from recently?"
"A very bad case of influenza," the mother answered without hesitation, though looking a bit taken aback about the tactless interruption.
"He was bed ridden for weeks and we feared for his life, the doctor wasn't sure he'd..." her voice broke and she turned away briefly to regain her composure.
"The sickness weakened him and he was only recovered enough two weeks ago to leave the bed. He returned to school only this week. He was just seven years old. Why would anyone do this to my child?"
Sherlock and Lestrade asked for problems at school, rivals of the father, or anyone who might have wished the family ill, but even the older children and grandparents who were soon also involved in the interview knew nothing.
Finally, Sherlock encouraged Watson to ask more about the sickness. It turned out the boy had taken medicine that was well received and was still taking pills to aid his recovery and strengthen him.
The only odd fact they discovered was that the box of expensive pills - the boy was supposed to take at least once a day - had vanished.
In the end the session was interrupted by the arrival of a photographer and his large boxes of equipment. He was there to take pictures of the dead child with his family.
John found it was a bit morbid, although it was completely normal in this era.
A family of this status probably could afford many pictures of their children, and had not to rely on only one after an untimely and unexpected demise, but they seemed to want to do it anyway.
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The detective and the doctor returned to Baker Street in the early evening and were served dinner by Mrs Hudson.
Sherlock refused to even try to eat, the smell made him slightly nauseous and the ill feeling intensified and became harder the later the hour.
Later, he dozed off on the settee, which felt stiff and unused.
.
What must be hours later he was shaken awake. The obnoxious touch was almost as uncomfortable as the springs of the seating furniture.
No, it was his bed he was lying in, 2016.
"Hey? Come on, I need you to get up. Walk around for a bit. You've been in bed for almost twenty-four hours, and if you don't move enough I have to worry about thrombosis, again."
Really?
A whole day?
He couldn't have slept that much. He had spent most of the time in his mind palace, in 1867.
But it was the same problem, not moving around, not getting up.
John was probably right, he needed to go to the loo and drink some tea to maintain function of his body.
It took quite some effort and as he had managed to sit up, something very distressing hit him full force.
It took him a moment to realise it was an odd mixture of anger and aggression that made his skin crawl. The fact that he couldn't find a source for the negative emotion made it hard for him to determine which sentiment he was suffering.
Some seconds ticked by until understanding hit him and he gasped from the intensity.
He completely failed at figuring out how to channel this or get rid of it.
"Don't touch me!" he hissed.
Only then he opened his eyes.
John raised his hands in surrender, not too surprised about his outbreak.
He needed John out. The last thing he needed was letting off steam in John's direction.
"Get out!"
"I really need you to get up and walk around a bit, sorry, mate."
"I said get out!"
"Sorry, can't. I let you down more than once in the past four weeks, I will not do it again."
The sorrow in John's voice made Sherlock's blood freeze, and the anger unexpectedly and suddenly turned into desperation and fear.
He couldn't do this.
It was too much.
Too complex.
He had ruined it all.
John might say the opposite, but he'd never ever truly forgive him.
Because it was his fault!
He didn't deserve John's care.
He couldn't do this.
His thoughts were so sluggish and he was so very very tired.
He doubted he'd ever be able to think clearly again on his own.
Cocaine, he needed some cocaine to be able to focus again.
To think.
"No, Sherlock. No, you don't. We will get through this."
Had he spoken out loud?
Was John able to hear his thoughts?
"Sherlock, you're scaring me. Calm down."
There it was again, the anger, running wild in his reality.
He was off his bed before he knew what was happening – and had John pressed against the wall next to his wardrobe by his shoulders.
"I realise I do deserve your anger..." John stammered. "... but this doesn't change the facts, either we walk, or you need to get anticoagulants."
Sherlock let go of him as if burned.
He felt in fact burned – by the guilt the words caused, by the suggestion that John deserved his anger.
The insight that they were both so guilt ridden it paralysed them made him feel as if every chance of things returning to normal - or even the slightest bit of positive thinking - had been eradicated from the world.
He turned away from the other man, stumbling back to the bed and falling into it.
John was right behind him, trying to keep him from lying back down. But he didn't touch him again.
"Leave me alone," the detective groaned.
It was all too much.
"Your body needs fluids and DVT prevention," John disagreed.
"Give me a shot."
"Nope, can't do. You need the bathroom, too."
Baring his teeth in irritation, Sherlock forced his body up again.
It hurt.
His head hurt, his muscles hurt and he felt weak.
"I turned down the light and made you some sweet tea," John explained.
Grinding his teeth, Sherlock allowed him to carefully take his elbow and escort him to the bathroom.
He did not completely trust his body to remain upright so John being ready to catch him was probably necessary.
With pure force of will he held back the agitation the pain and the sensory input caused, and he managed to refresh himself a bit, use the loo, take the meds and walk around the living room three times.
When he tried to drink some tea, though, it all went downhill.
Within five minutes he was leaning over the toilet bowl vomiting it up again, John by his side.
And a short time later John had helped him to his bed again.
By then he was seriously trembling and panting.
Also, he felt the distress built in his mind.
He needed to get out of this reality again as soon as possible.
"Hold on, just hold on," John soothed.
It took him several tries to enter the mind palace and when he finally managed, the door to 1867 had vanished.
Desperate and with panic on his haunches he ran through the mental building.
"Sherlock, I need you to calm down, can you do that? You're getting a bit agitated."
He wished John would shut up.
In desperate need of some historical remains he leapt for the cellar, where he finally found the richly decorated door to historical Baker Street.
The moment he passed the door his transport's ailments were dulled enormously, as was his distress and deep anger.
.
He wasn't aware that his eyes rolled back and that it threw John into a frenzy.
The doctor thoroughly examined him, checked his limb form over, took his vitals and noted his temperature.
Sherlock also didn't feel John injecting him with an anticoagulant and a small dose of morphine, which was the only thing they weren't weaning him off currently. Though Sherlock had wanted it, get it all done at once, but John had disagreed. Withdrawal would be hard enough, and they could delay that for a bit, especially since Sherlock still needed pain relief. The downside were side effects like vomiting, sweating, headaches, and so on.
Sherlock was also not aware that his friend stayed with him through the entire night.
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