Harry: Chapter Four

This Day Shall Gentle His Condition

by Liederlady

Notes

April 11, 1878

I knew it would only be a matter of time before Edwards would get to the boy. I just did not imagine it would occur so soon.

The following morning he finagled the room location from a young nurse while I was engaged with an emergency case. The constable had apparently been interrogating the young man for some moments before I arrived.

“So either you enjoyed what happened or you're shielding someone, laddie,” I heard Edwards's heavy accent as I walked down the corridor. “A molly house is well paid for a boy who craves the rough play...especially a spirited looker who can take on several customers. Just how rough do you like it, glamour boy?”

I felt a revolted scowl twist my face at not only the words, but their tone. I angrily strode into the young man’s room.

My first sight was of Edwards’s hand squeezing the boy’s blanket-covered thigh.

“Unhand me,” the boy said in a hoarse whisper that compelled me to glance up at his face. The glittering intensity in his eye would have better suited a roar. His physical weakness notwithstanding, he looked as though he could throttle the burly man in less than a heartbeat.

“Ah, not rough enough? Remember the other night? You know I can oblige your fancy,” Edwards chuckled, throwing the blanket aside and grasping the boy’s thigh.

“Right nice,” Edwards grunted. Then the bastard slid his hand up under the linen nightshirt along the bared and bruised skin.

An instant later, Edwards was sprawled on the floor where I had flung him. He launched himself up quickly, his fists clenched; I whirled round to stand between him and the boy in the bed.

“You will leave now, cur,” I warned him, my own fists at the ready and amply motivated.

“You're interfering with official matters, Doctor Watson. I was interrogating the molly boy,” Edwards snarled, puffing out his chest.

“I never knew official methods of interrogation included molesting a victim of violence, Edwards,” I barked back.

The constable’s eyes narrowed.

“Your so-called victim refuses to name those responsible for his … injuries. Tends to make a soul wonder why. He won’t even give up his own name,” Edwards said, leering at the young man sitting in the bed.

“Doesn't matter though … I’ll find him out. Once his bruises fade, he’ll photograph right nice for the papers. If he is a pretty one, some house is bound to claim him. A dainty thing like him would bring a shiny sovereign or two even with those stripes."

I glanced over at the young man who had covered himself. His bruised face was cast in stone, offering no overt reaction. But I noticed a minute twitch of his right hand clasping the blanket along with a convulsive swallow.

“I suggest you wait until my patient is sufficiently recovered to continue your … so-called interrogation. Of course you’d likely object to dealing with someone capable of defending himself,” I said hotly.

Edwards leaned in toward me and I tensed.

None of us had noticed Doctor Brett hovering in the doorway.

“Gentlemen, is something amiss?” he said in his placid tone.

Edwards and I were still straining toward each other.

“The constable was just leaving,” I muttered, applying as much acid as possible to his title.

Edwards huffed and turned toward the boy’s bed and I moved to intercept him.

“Ah, do not forget your notebook, Constable Edwards,” Doctor Brett said brightly, squeezing his tall, slim body between us to retrieve the pad from the bed where Edwards had apparently dropped it. He turned a frowning face and flashing green eyes toward me before handing the notebook to the constable.

I backed away reluctantly while Doctor Brett diplomatically remained between Edwards and the young man’s bed ... and between me and the constable.

“Do have a delightful day, Constable,” Doctor Brett said with a charming smile.

“Doctor Brett,” Edwards said, nodding. Then he glared at me in silence before he turned and stalked off.

I turned to the young man. He had been uncharacteristically quiet during the fracas.

“Are you all right?” I asked him.

“Yes … thank you,” he said, looking up at me with a slight, but genuine smile. I could see the pinch of fatigue in his expression.

“You need to rest. I’m sorry Edwards made it past the drawbridge,” I told him absently, reaching down to adjust his blanket; I had to do something with my palsied hands.

“I am fine. I feared the two of you would commence a joust,” he said, with the slightest trace of a hoarse chuckle.

I could scarcely believe my ears.

“I should have stocked the moat with crocodiles,” I replied, dumbfounded at his reaction. It provoked another modest, but unmistakable chuckle from him.

“I am pleased to see that you are improving, young man,” Doctor Brett said, interrupting our private joke.

“Yes, may I leave soon?” the young man asked.

I shot him a disapproving frown. He saw it, but chose to focus on Doctor Brett, who leaned down and pressed his stethoscope to the young man’s chest, telling him to breathe deeply.

When Brett straightened, he glanced up at me sharply.

“I think you must remain with us for a while longer, young man,” Doctor Brett said, “you still have some healing to do.”

He tipped the boy’s chin up to inspect his good eye and pressed lightly at the swollen one. The boy flinched slightly but permitted the examination without fuss.

“When may I leave, doctor?” the boy asked insistently, blinking up into the older man’s peering face.

“Perhaps a week or two,” Brett said, backing away.

“No!” the young man now turned to me, “I must leave. I must … there are responsibilities I must see to … I--”

He impulsively tried to rise from the bed. I pressed my hands to his shoulders, restraining him. His visible eye flashed angrily up at me.

“Calm down, now,” I told him, “you’ll just spend what energy you have and that will only hamper your recuperation. Now calm down!”

Amazingly, he heeded me and stopped struggling as I pressed him gently back to the bed.

“That’s better. Now just rest,” I whispered, leaning close to him. “Don’t worry … I promise you I won’t allow Edwards to make good on his threat of the photograph.”

The young man’s shoulders jerked to attention under my hands. It was no great leap to guess the true source of his anxiety. He scrutinized me again … that probing, clinical analysis. This time I met it. For a lengthy moment we locked gazes. Then the tension left his shoulders and he nodded, apparently satisfied I would somehow keep my word.

“Doctor Watson … Watson … John Watson!”

I started, having completely forgotten Doctor Brett's presence. My eyes then dropped toward my hands, still locked round the young man’s shoulders, my thumbs unconsciously rubbing the pale skin there. I slowly released the boy and turned to my colleague, who was eyeing me appraisingly.

“If I may consult with you in the corridor, Doctor,” Brett said. I could tell by his tone that something was wrong. I became instantly concerned that he had detected some irregularity that I had missed in the young man’s breathing or heartbeat.

“Of course, Doctor,” I said. I looked over at the young man who was earnestly watching me. I nodded reassuringly at him then followed Brett into the hallway.

“Is something wrong, Doctor Brett? Is he all right?” I asked hurriedly.

Brett rounded on me in a flash.

“What is going on, Watson?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, mystified.

“Between you and your patient … between you and Edwards?” he asked suspiciously.

“What do you mean between me and my patient? I am caring for his injuries,” I shot back.

“More than that, I think, Doctor,” Brett said darkly.

“You are out of line, Doctor Brett,” I said gruffly, feeling my pulse throb in my temples.

“Watson…” he began, but I interrupted.

“And as for Edwards … he nearly molested that boy. I walked in and he was ... your arrival only spared the constable from a well-deserved thrashing,” I barked.

Brett opened his mouth as though to respond, then his lips tightened into a line.

“I imagined it was something of that sort,” Brett said quietly, his change of tone surprising me. He took advantage of my stunned silence to elaborate.

“Edwards has always pursued those who patronize and work at the molly houses rather obsessively, far more so than those from the female brothels. In my experience, such zealots often share the predilections of those they persecute,” Brett said, lowering his voice as he glanced up the hallway, observing a nurse assisting a patient into a bath chair.

“Edwards laid his hand on him in a most inappropriate manner,” I fumed, my rage over the incident remaining unspent, my hands still shaking in frustration.

“You are quite taken with the young man, are you not Watson?” Brett said. His tone was kinder, but the implication of what he said only stoked my ire. I looked up at him in astonishment.

“I say again, sir, you are out of line. How dare you-- I never-- he is my patient, for God’s sake … I have not-- would not-- he is a boy ... weak, helpless … I ... he--”

I suddenly became aware I was sputtering.

“Watson, calm yourself ... I am not implying you have acted improperly toward your patient. But it is obvious you have significant feelings for--,” the older physician began.

I could not allow him to continue.

“Doctor Brett, you are my superior and I have appreciated all that you have taught me. I respect your surgical skills, sir, but if you continue with these preposterous allegations, I shall be forced to resign prematurely,” I said, barely controlling my rage.

Brett’s eyes widened. He began to speak, but wisely fell silent.

“If you will excuse me, Doctor, I shall see to my patient,” I said brusquely, turned and re-entered the young man’s room.

I am not ordinarily a nervous fellow, but my patience had reached its outer boundaries after Edwards’s disgusting behaviour and Doctor Brett’s unfathomable accusation. I must have looked a fright to the young man lying in the bed.

“Are you all right?” he asked me, even his hoarseness not up to masking his astonishment.

“That is a question I should be asking you,” I said. My tone was still as brittle as it had been with Doctor Brett.

The young man’s visible eye narrowed and he managed to purse his lips. It seemed a frequent expression.

“Have I done something to annoy you? If so, kindly elaborate,” he said crisply. His arms crossed his chest defensively, expectantly; crimson rose at the back of his bruise-mottled neck. I sighed inwardly at the ease with which I managed to undo any progress I made with him.

“Aside from trying to get out of bed without permission, you have done nothing to upset me. Others, however …” I stopped there. Was I mad? He was my patient. It would be highly inappropriate to discuss my problems with him.

Besides, how could I ever explain Doctor Brett’s comments?

“Are you implying I should seek your permission to get out of bed?” he asked.

I believe only he could manage disparagement with such a diminished volume of voice. I decided on an attempt to project the façade of a medical man as I was failing so miserably at everything else.

“I want to examine your throat again, open your mouth and say ‘ahh,’” I said, walking toward him.

“I shall do nothing of the sort. There is nothing amiss with my throat and I refuse to be poked and prodded arbitrarily,” he announced crossly.

I could not contain the loud sigh that broke from me.

“This has already turned into a terrible day. Will you please let me do my job as your physician with a modicum of cooperation?” I implored, suddenly weary beyond wisdom.

His glare vanished and was replaced by what appeared to be genuine concern ... something I had never expected.

“Is something wrong? Are you all right?” he asked again, his voice less brittle this time.

“Oh-- please-- won’t you tell me your name? It is very awkward not knowing what to call you,” I requested, purposely ignoring his enquiries.

“You have not answered my question, are you all right?” he stubbornly countered. The bloodshot eye now regarded me with obvious worry.

“I-- there was-- I simply--”

Until meeting him I had rarely found myself at a loss for words. I grunted my frustration, determined not to expose the morning's heavy weight dragging at my heart. He cocked his head at me inquisitively.

“I have no desire to pry into your affairs, Doctor, but if I have inadvertently imposed upon you or created a difficulty, I do apologize,” he said sincerely.

I blinked my surprise at him. And Edwards thought this superior individual a rent boy?

“You have done no such thing. Any trouble I have experienced is entirely my own doing,” I said without thinking. His healing brow lifted in mute response.

I mentally cursed my growing insanity ... at least I felt brainless when dealing with him.

“Then you are engaged in some manner of difficulty?” he ventured, “Is there some way I may assist you?”

I became flustered that his voice, though still hoarse, had undeniably slipped into the realm of softness.

“Will you tell me your name?” The words tumbled from me again before I could stop them.

His brow lifted even higher. Then he eyed me appraisingly, distrustfully. I wondered what it would take to dispel his suspicion and how long. To gain this young man’s trust would be a worthy achievement. At that moment, I doubted I would ever be up to the task.

“I regret I may not share that with you. I am sorry,” he said.

“Do you think I would betray you to Edwards? Is that it?”

He started. I saw his hand clutch nervously at the bedcovers and fought the impulse to calm it with my own. Doing so would make me little better than an Edwards.

“No,” he said quietly. His gaze then eluded me.

“Good, because you would be wrong, young sir. This is ridiculous. I cannot keep calling you--. Since you choose not to share your real name, may I call you Harry?” I asked, lightening my tone. The atmosphere in the room had become entirely too dense.

He looked over at me, his brows knitted this time. I had to admit I enjoyed confounding him; I feared it would happen rarely.

“Why Harry?”

“It seems to fit your personality. I suspect you would have little trouble rallying a band of brothers on Saint Crispian’s Day,” I said.

It was his turn to blink in recognition of the compliment.

“Now, Harry, will you kindly grant me leave to examine your throat?” I asked, unable to stifle my grin. This fractious boy had remarkably managed to both dismay and raise my spirits.

He was still pondering the alias I had bestowed on him. Finally, he sighed noisily and his lips quirked to what seemed a ghost of a smile.

“Once more, unto the breach?” he intoned. Then he opened his mouth and articulated the appropriate response, rolling his good eye as I lifted his chin for a better view. His dark stubble was evident ... I had managed to shave him two days earlier while he slumbered within the morphine’s embrace.

I reminded myself to retrieve my shave kit for him to use.

The inflammation in his throat was diminishing. It had been partially caused by external pressure … when hands had been tightly clenched round his neck. I did not even care to venture speculation about what internal irritant might have contributed to the severe hoarseness and swollen tissues.

I knew he would never tell.

At least the knife wound at his throat showed no sign of infection. As my fingers ran along it feeling for subcutaneous swelling, he shuddered slightly.

“Your voice should be returning to normal in a few days,” I said, releasing his chin.

He nodded.

“I shall stop back later to see to your dressing.”

His gaze flitted away briefly as he was reminded of his most serious injury.

“I also want to check on your abrasions and we should apply more carbolic acid,” I added quickly to draw his mind from it. He had endured the stinging applications stoically—as he had endured everything. After instructing him, I had allowed him to tend to the accessible private areas involved, not wishing to compound his emotional discomfort.

“All right,” he mumbled.

I turned toward the door to continue the rounds of my other patients.

“Oh and I will send you in some shaving things ... you should be able to manage that...in bed,” I added, turning back to him. He brightened noticeably.

“Doctor Watson?”

I cocked my head at him in response.

“May I get out of bed later to venture out of doors?” he asked politely, his mood abruptly altering once again.

I definitely preferred him when he was irascible. At least then I knew where I stood and any internal flutter could be attributed to rage.

“Well…” I drawled.

“The weather appears quite pleasant and warm. Would the sunshine and fresh air not aid my recuperation?” I became acutely aware of the unreasonable length of his dark eyelashes.

I also suddenly realized he could charm the pelt from a polar bear if he so chose.

“I will permit you a short walk outside on one condition. You must completely clear your lunch plate,” I said, retreating to the safety of a disciplinarian’s role.

During his first two days here, I had barely managed to coax a few spoons of broth down his throat. Yesterday, I received reports that his entire nutritional intake consisted of: a bite of shepherd’s pie, a bite of bread, a nibbled apple and half a cup of heavily sweetened tea.

“Including the milk and fruit,” I added.

“I do not drink--“

“No arguments,” I countered.

He sighed ... a perturbed one.

“You exhibit a most unyielding attitude, Doctor, are you aware of that?”

I could not stifle my mirth.

“And you do not?” I managed to retort.

He assumed a most offended air, but I caught the devilish glint in his open eye.

“I shall come round at lunch time to see whether you truly wish to take that walk with me, Harry,” I said, still chuckling, as I turned again toward the door.

“You will accompany me?”

I glanced back at him sharply. Had he heard Brett’s insane accusation? Was he suspicious of my motives? Did he not wish me to accompany him?

“Either me or one of the orderlies,” I offered.

“I should prefer your company if you would not be too busy,” he said quietly. Then his gaze darted down toward his hands as though he was suddenly reluctant to meet mine.

I shook my head in amazement. Could he be embarrassed to desire another’s company?

Could he possibly be embarrassed by anything?

“It does look pleasant out … perhaps even my mood would be improved by the sunshine,” I said, looking out his window. I appraised his swollen profile as he turned slightly to gaze out the window as well.

“Not to mention the good company,” I added.

His head jerked around toward me. And I was graced by the first real smile I ever saw from him.

It was brief, but dazzling.

“I shall look forward to that as well, Doctor,” he said.

Notes

bath chair: A wheelchair

a band of brothers on Saint Crispian’s Day: Watson uses this Shakespearean reference to King Henry V’s rousing speech to rally his weary troops for the Battle of Agincourt. Having moved incognito among his troops the night before, gauging their mood, King “Harry” implores his men to think of themselves as a “band of brothers” and to take pride in joining him on a just campaign on “St. Crispian’s Day.” Harry/Sherlock acknowledges Watson by employing another line from the play, “once more, unto the breach.” This chapter’s title is also taken from "Henry V." One should note that the play is also the source of a favorite phrase later used by Holmes when referring to his cases—namely, “the game’s afoot!”

Chapter Five: Banishing The Boojum