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Part Six: John Watson
I was frantic by the time we
rushed into Daniels' rooms. The symptoms he had described—a low heartbeat, a
forehead as cold as ice—were the opposite of what I expected. Holmes'
seven-percent solution often set his pulse racing and usually made him feverish.
But Daniels had witnessed the aftermath of his injection, I reminded myself. I
swore under my breath, hoping that Holmes had caused himself no lasting
damage.
Holmes was dangerously still when I charged into the bedroom. I
took his wrist in my hand, feeling for his pulse. Daniels was right: it was
faint. Moreover, his breath was shallow. I frowned and wrinkled my nose. My poor
friend had soiled his sheets, I realised.
"What can I do?" Daniels asked,
hovering at the threshold. He had just dismissed a woman named 'Kitty,' who had
apparently been looking after Holmes in his absence.
I gave him a sharp
glance, trying to judge how much use he would be in this situation. "Have you a
fresh gown for him?" I asked. "And fresh linens?"
He nodded and promptly
fetched the materials from a wardrobe in the room. I wanted to treat Holmes
immediately, however, so after Daniels set the items aside, I sent him on an
errand. I can't remember what I asked him to acquire; I just wanted him out of
my way while I saw to my patient.
I'll own that I feared the worse. It
was quite possible that Holmes had taken a stroke. True, his face did not
exhibit the tell tale signs, but that did not preclude the possibility.
I
tended to Holmes to the best of my abilities, chiding him as I did so. This
habit was of his was going to be the death of him; perhaps not today, but some
other time. He did not wake up for my lecture and so presumably did not benefit
from it, but the act of taking him to task improved my temper
regardless.
~
When Daniels returned, we bathed and changed Holmes
together, making him as comfortable as possible. For the time being, there was
nothing more to be done. His pulse was still fainter than I liked, but at least
it was steady. And his body was no longer so shockingly cold. He had not yet
woken up, but I had hopes that he would soon do so.
I stepped outside the
room with Daniels. He turned to me with a face that was sick with fear. "Will he
be all right?" he asked.
I sighed. There were many possible answers to
that question. “I expect him to make a full recovery,” I told him, “but I can't
be certain. We'll know more soon.”
He stared at me with an accusation in
his eyes—he knew that I was being deliberately vague. I sighed again. Holmes
assures me that I have no talent for deception.
“Daniels,” I said,
looking him in the eye, “I'm answering you as honestly as I can without
mentioning all the ghastly possibilities. I believe he will recover, but I can't
be sure of it.”
He nodded. “I see,” he managed. “Please sit down, Doctor.
What can I get you? Port? Brandy?”
“A brandy would be most welcome,” I
said as I sank into a shabby but plump and comfortable chair.
I studied
him as he poured a glass for me. He was deeply concerned for Holmes—more
concerned, in my opinion, than Holmes deserved. That may sound harsh, but I was
still furious with my friend. Furious, frantic, upset, worried...I paused long
enough to spare myself a wry smile. What would Holmes make of my emotional
state?
I sighed and turned my attention back to Daniels. I had not known,
until today, that one man could fall in love with another. That they could lust
after one another, that there could be a friendship between them—that I
understood. But that a man could love another man as he would love his
wife...this was an utterly new thought to me.
It was one that did not sit
well, especially when it came to Holmes and Daniels.
Why did I feel so
ill at ease with the notion? If Holmes must be afflicted with this unnatural
attraction to his own sex, then a young man like Daniels was precisely what I
should wish for him. Daniels was intelligent, discreet and, apparently,
passionately in love with my friend. And yet I still couldn't stomach the
thought of them together.
I did not object to the fact that Daniels was a
Jew, I assured myself. He might have been a Hindu for all I cared. Nor did I
look askance at his choice of profession; I could see how an actor would be of
infinite use to Holmes. No, I had no objections to Daniels at all...except that
he might rob me of my dearest friend.
I swallowed at that as Daniels
handed me the brandy. I had no cause for jealousy, I reminded myself. I had no
claim on Holmes but friendship—and surely Daniels had no intention of denying
that claim. He had made no move to separate Holmes from me, after all. Quite the
contrary.
Daniels seemed oblivious to my thoughts. He flopped into a
chair near mine and gave me a half-hearted grin. “Do you go through this with
him often?” he asked.
“No,” I answered, trying for a small smile myself.
“As I said earlier, Holmes can go for months without touching the
needle.”
“And when he does indulge, is he careful about the dosage?”
Daniels persisted.
I did smile at that—a sour smile, I'm afraid. “It's
not the dosage,” I explained after a gulp of the brandy. “The affects of cocaine
are unpredictable.” I paused, cocking my head at him. “Are you prepared to deal
with this situation again, if necessary?”
“Yes,” he answered. “But I'd
rather he found some other relief from his boredom. We'll have to convince him
of the harm he's doing to himself.”
I had to force myself not to roll my
eyes heavenward. “I've warned him of that over and over,” I said, setting the
glass down. “I can't understand why someone who prides himself on his logic
insists on taking such a foolish risk—”
I broke off, for Holmes himself
had appeared at the threshold of the bedroom door. I rose at once to assist him,
guessing the extreme effort he was expending.
Daniels had his back to
Holmes, but he twisted around as soon as he caught sight of my expression and
then jumped to his feet. We each rushed to Holmes' side and soon had our arms
under his shoulders. Fortunately he did not resist us as we guided him back to
bed.
He smiled wanly at Daniels as I put another blanket on top of him.
“Jonathan,” he said, “I need a word with Watson.”
At first I thought
Daniels would object—he was anxious to remain at his lover's side. But after
exchanging a long look with Holmes, he relented. “I'll go out and scrounge up
some food for us,” he said, his voice measured and eminently reasonable. “I
haven't much here, and we'll all be famished soon.”
And with that he took
his leave of us. I waited to hear him exit the rooms and then turned back to
Holmes.
He sighed and grasped my hand. “I suppose I should thank you for
coming, old man,” he said.
“Would you have preferred to have gone
untreated?” I answered coldly. I could not quite disguise my relief, however.
His faculties appeared to be in tact.
He gave me a thin smile. “I shall
listen to whatever lecture you think appropriate, my good fellow, in due course.
But for now—” he shrugged and let his voice trail off.
I withdrew my hand
from his and began to pace the room. He watched me for a moment and then stared
toward the window, allowing the silence between us to grow painful.
“I
hope you are not toying with that young man,” I said at last, resolutely
stopping myself from facing him. “Whatever your intentions might be, Holmes, I
assure you that Daniels is in earnest.”
It was an outrageous thing to
say. The matter was no business of mine. And yet, to a certain extent, Daniels
had made it my business. He had looked to me for reassurance.
Another
long silence fell between us. “I'm not trifling with him, Watson,” Holmes said,
finally deigning to answer me. “We deal rather well together. If he'll still
have me, I see no reason to discontinue our association.”
“Association?”
I said with a short laugh. “Holmes, that fellow is in love with you.”
My
friend did not bother to hide the exasperation in his voice. “Must you be so
maudlin? There's none of that romantic twaddle between us. Kindly rid yourself
of the notion that we have nothing better to do than write sonnets to each
other's eyebrows.”
I bit back a smile at that as I turned toward him. “I
imagine he's quoted Shakespeare's sonnets to you,” I said ruefully, thinking of
the ample suggestions of sodomy in them. “They would certainly be
appropriate.”
Holmes stared at me for a long moment and then burst out
laughing. “Well done, old fellow,” he said appreciatively.
Despite my
best efforts, I couldn't help but grin back at him as I made my way to the bed.
“You're looking better,” I commented, seating myself at his side. “I believe
you've escaped disaster yet again...but you won't always.”
“I'm aware of
that,” he owned. “Very well, I shall make an effort to find another source of
stimulation.” He paused and grasped my hand again. “Nothing has changed,
Watson.”
I knew he was not referring to the cocaine, but to our
friendship. And I also knew that he was mistaken; because of Daniels, things
between us had changed irrevocably. I could not yet decipher the nature of that
change, but I could sense it regardless.
However, even I was not maudlin
enough to raise this point with Holmes—and so I let it pass.
Part
Seven
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