Harry: Chapter Three
Responsibilities
by Liederlady
April 10, 1878
For the next two days, I spent my time either on
rounds, tending other patients or keeping watch at the young man’s bedside. He
slept fitfully.
Plagued by nightmares of his ordeal, he would flail
chaotically at phantom attackers and tear at his bedclothes as though fighting
to break free of unseen bonds. Because of this, I had arranged for his transfer
to one of the secluded rooms. On the ward, others observed his distress. I
would not permit either the other patients’ comfort or the young man’s dignity
to be compromised.
The nurses suggested binding him. But I ordered he
be left unhindered, recalling his shackle marks and his understandable fury at
being restrained. Even so, he was a trying patient. The nurses feared his
formidable vehemence—asleep or awake—so I stood vigil whenever I could, eating
and even sleeping in his room.
Through the worst of his terrors I could only lay
firm hands against his shoulders, press him to the haven of the featherbed and
repeatedly murmur reassurances that he was safe.
As the restrictive bedclothes upset him I removed
them, only covering him with a sheet and blanket. He perspired profusely from
his struggles as well as from the fever he was battling. Several times a day, I
would sponge the sweat from him with alcohol diluted with warm water. He would
whine in pain as the alcohol stung his numerous wounds, but the treatment was
needed to bring down his temperature. In addition, the alcohol cleansed his
numerous abrasions and bite marks.
During one of his sponge baths, I noted a
long-healed scar on the boy’s left nipple … apparently from a piercing. There
were several similar fading scars on his foreskin. Apparently, whatever human
animals were responsible for the boy’s abuse had him under their despicable
control for some time.
“No one will hurt you, my boy. I promise you,” I
whispered soothingly to calm his delirious whimpering and rubbed my thumbs
against his wrists.
Adding to the challenge of offering him comfort, I
had considerable difficulty determining
an appropriate morphine dosage. The young man seemed to require an
unusually high dose for his weight and height. I finally calculated a
sufficient amount to provide him the pain relief and rest he needed without
medicating him to oblivion.
Edwards showed up several times a day to question
the young man. I refused him access—I was not about to rouse the battered boy
for additional abuse. The constable and I argued incessantly, he insisting the
boy was a male prostitute.
I had inspected the young man’s garments, which
appeared to have been slashed from his body. Although irretrievably damaged,
they were well made, expensive … hardly the clothes of a street urchin or molly
boy.
“Perhaps he beguiled a client and earned those
togs, Doctor. Perhaps some feller likes dressing up molly boys. Perhaps his
grime and bruises may be hiding a limber pretty morsel. Such lads learn very
early on how to please a bloke ... or three.”
I shot a withering look at Edwards. Beyond the
disgusting comments, something else lay in his tone.
“You’re not seeing him today, Edwards,” I said
staunchly. If I had my way, the constable would never see him. I sensed he had
little interest in apprehending those who had violated the boy.
What did appear to interest him twisted my innards
and tensed my hands into taut fists.
“Seems that lad’s beguiled you, Doctor. I would not
have thought a strapping fellow like you would fancy such a dainty--” Edwards
taunted.
“My patients require my assistance. Good day,
Edwards,” I said abruptly and stalked away.
I knew that neither my observations nor my
professional shielding endeared me to the constable. Neither did that distress
me. But what did concern me was that Edwards would return until he could
interrogate the young man.
I intended to be present if and when that happened.
During the second night after the boy’s admission,
I fell asleep as usual in the chair next to his bed. I made a habit of resting
my hand on his arm so I would awaken if he stirred and dislodged his covers or
had to use the facilities. Even in his groggy state, the proud young man
refused the chamber pot so he required assistance to the water closet. And if
the situation warranted, careful cleansing was necessary … a ritual he loathed
despite the heavy sedation.
I woke abruptly from a troubled dream of my own.
From the light edging through the window shades, it was past dawn. I looked to
my patient and caught him warily regarding the hand on his arm; his eyes were
lucid.
“Welcome back,” I said, wincing at the protest from
my cramped back muscles, “how do you feel?”
“How long have I been here?” he asked and
circumspectly moved his arm from under my hand. His speech sounded less slurred
than it had been the previous evening. Apparently, I was gaining the upper hand
regarding his morphine dosage.
“Two days,” I said, “and you have slept through
much of them. How bad is your pain?”
“I am fine. I wish to leave now. Bring my clothes,”
he demanded.
I sighed with some relief. His imposing nature had
not diminished.
“Your spirit is admirable and will speed your
recovery, but you cannot leave yet. I know you must be experiencing a good deal
of pain. You still need considerable care, my boy,” I said good-naturedly. I
could detect a feverish flush to his skin even with his mass of bruises.
His bloodshot eye flashed daggers at me.
“I must leave. I have responsibilities,” he said.
“As do I, my friend, I--,” I began.
“I am not your friend, you sycophant,” he spat
hoarsely. Had his lips not been so broken, they would surely have curled in a
contemptuous sneer.
“Are you anyone’s?” I shot back before I could
swallow the retort.
He did not reply. I tempered my tone, but continued
before he had the chance to launch additional insults.
“I, too, have responsibilities. I have a
responsibility to you—as my patient…to provide you with the best care in my
power … to help you to regain your strength…to protect you from infection … to
protect you from yourself, if necessary,” I said with considerable heat.
His visible eye studied me icily, as though I was a
newly unearthed species of insect. Two days earlier, I had witnessed the fiery
passion that could surface in that eye. This cold, clinical scrutiny was even
more unnerving. I glanced away and fidgeted minutely. And then I heard his
cluck of satisfaction.
Despite his insolence, his arrogance, his
positively maddening air of superiority, I still—inexplicably—wanted to know
him.
“I told Edwards you were no rent boy,” I said,
hiding my satisfaction at his stunned reaction.
“I beg your pardon?” he said slowly and without a
trace of politeness.
“The constable … he insists you are a rent boy. I
told him he was wrong.”
As I regarded him, I found myself wondering what
his unspoiled face looked like—and how amusing it would be to see it convulsed
with exasperation.
“I-, that--, well--, it is--.” The young man was
positively sputtering—and speechless. No doubt it was a state with which he was
grossly unfamiliar.
I barely concealed my ungenerous glee.
“I told him your clothes were too expensive … and
now I find your vocabulary is equally luxurious. Sycophant? From a molly boy?
Hardly!” I said with a grin.
His mouth opened—then miraculously closed without a
sound.
“Edwards will likely be round again today to
question you,” I said.
I did not fancy the cloud that instantly shaded his
bloodshot eye.
“Shall I put him off again?” I quickly offered.
As I suspected, something unpleasant had transpired
between Edwards and the boy on the night he was discovered. Contemplating just
what set the muscles in my jaw twitching and I was forced to consciously relax
my clenched fists.
The young man blinked. And blinked again.
“Please,” he said in a subdued voice.
It was more than subdued. It was more than polite.
I began to feel I liked him better when he was rude. Rudeness was safer for
him.
“It will be a decided pleasure. I shall order the
drawbridge raised,” I said as jauntily as I could muster.
Despite the battering, the swelling and the colorful
motley bruises, I witnessed a sea change in his features. His sternness
dissolved. His bloodshot eye gleamed. A near smile quirked the split and
swollen lips—then faded.
Even so, the entire room brightened in a way that
had nothing to do with the sunrise. The breath I found I had been holding
escaped from me slowly.
Leaving his bedside was the last thing I wanted to
do at that moment, but I knew I had been right about Edwards—he would soon come
calling. And I intended to intercept him before he ventured within earshot of
the young man. There was no way to know what hurtful idiocy would emerge from
the policeman’s mouth.
Or what appalling thoughts might occupy his mind.
I rose and stretched extravagantly but silently,
unwilling to disturb the curious stillness that had emerged between the young
man and me … curious, yet unmistakably companionable. I felt his eyes on me.
“I will swing round at breakfast and see if
sleeping for two days has left you with an appetite,” I said a bit too
jovially.
I scowled to myself as I turned to leave, certain
he would loathe the familiar attitude. I reached the door when he spoke.
“Doctor Watson.”
His hoarse tone was even more restrained. I turned
to him slowly expecting a caustic rebuke. Instead, there was a glimmer in that
bloodshot eye that cut to the bone.
“I owe you more than one apology, sir…and I
sincerely thank you,” he said hoarsely, his impaired gaze never wavering from
mine. His words emerged slowly, but unreservedly.
I had to swallow before I replied.
“Not at all, dear fellow, not at all.”
Notes
difficulty
determining an appropriate morphine dosage: This implies Sherlock’s cocaine addiction may have begun in his teens
or earlier. He may have been acclimated to sedation and required higher and
higher doses.
