Harry: Chapter Five

Banishing The Boojum

by Liederlady

Notes

I made it back to Harry’s room just before lunch. He did not hear me enter at first, perched as he was on the edge of the bed, facing the window. He was reaching back and gingerly fingering the fresh dressing at his rump, applied after the removal of his stitches during my mid-morning visit.

“You will be healed in a few days,” I said quietly.

He started but recovered admirably. He looked over his shoulder at me, appearing quite demure despite his bruises.

“You possess a distressingly quiet tread,” he muttered.

“The better to sneak up on patients,” I replied, “so I may chastise them for not resting.”

I crossed to the other side of the room and raised the blind a bit farther, allowing more of the sunshine to brighten his bed.

“I am resting,” he argued. Still a sheepish smile threatened at the corners of his mouth

“No, resting means lying in bed, not hovering at the edge of it,” I countered, walking back to his bed. I reached toward him to help him back into bed.

He immediately recoiled from my touch, his head jerking to attention. I heard him suck in a fear-filled breath.

“I am sorry, Doctor,” he said instantly, blowing out the breath and ruefully shaking his head.

“Quite all right, Harry,” I assured him.

I internally cursed myself for forgetting to approach him carefully. He was as unsettled and flighty as a thoroughbred stallion. I had learned early on to telegraph my actions...it reassured him when treating his wounds and changing his dressing.

I tentatively extended my assisting hand which he then accepted. I angled his pillow against the bedstead so he could sit comfortably.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

I noticed he had shaved; my kit still lay out on the bed. He handed it to me.

“Thank you as well for the use of your things,” he said, “I almost feel civilized.”

I was concerned he would have difficulty considering his impaired vision, not to mention the swollen jaws and cheeks. But from the look of him, he had long ago mastered the art of a superbly close shave.

He saw me appraising him.

“Did I miss somewhere?” he asked, his long, graceful fingers flitting over his purpled jaw.

I shook my head mutely, unable to wrest my eyes from him. He began to fidget.

“I do look horrible,” he whispered, and his eye darted away from my scrutiny.

I was mesmerized by the change in his demeanor. His vulnerability touched me.

“You do not,” I said, shocked at the husky note in my voice. Harry caught it as well. His gaze flitted back toward me and I saw something unpleasant surface there that reminded me of Edwards.

I cleared my throat.

“Your bruises will soon fade and your abrasions are healing well. I doubt there will be much scarring. You will make a full recovery, Harry,” I said supportively, thankful that my voice now sounded less-- sounded more professional.

His eyelids fluttered twice. When he looked at me again, the unpleasant cloud had faded, but that it had ever appeared greatly troubled me.

I never wanted to provoke such a reaction again—inadvertent or not.

“Hungry?” I asked quickly to dispel the distressing heaviness between us.

His smile was modest, but genuine.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really,” I said, “do you mind if I dine with you?”

The innocent question spilled naturally from me, but I was instantly aware that he could misinterpret it as unwonted interest. My lips pursed and my hand flew up to belatedly cover them. But there was no taking back the words.

Harry must have noted my discomfort. His eye flashed challengingly.

“You only want to spy on me to ensure I eat everything, no?” he said with a mock grimace. He too was attempting to alter the mood.

“That and the fact that I am famished—I had no breakfast,” I said with a relieved sigh.

All was well again between us.

“Ah, it appears the physician follows not his own prescription,” he said reprovingly.

I could not help but smile at him. Now that I had him talking, his affected manner of speech seemed incongruous to the bruised and youthful body. He appeared well educated, having acknowledged my earlier Shakespearean reference with an appropriate one of his own. I wondered if his literacy extended to the contemporary.

“Well, I ‘frequently breakfast at five-o-clock tea’,” I ventured.

His head jerked recognition and I caught the smile—it was almost child-like.

“‘And dine on the following day’?” he said.

“And if I do not eat something soon, I may ‘softly and suddenly vanish away’,” I answered, heading toward the door.

“‘And never be met with again ’... if you encounter a Boojum,” Harry intoned. Then he chuckled openly and it compelled me to glance back at him. I never thought to see such an innocent expression of enjoyment on that battered and often stern face.

Somehow I had managed to place it there.

“I never imagined a medical man would read Mr. Dodgson,” he said.

“So you think we only read stuffy medical journals?”

“Yes,” he replied with a lopsided grin.

“‘Oh beamish nephew,’” I replied, wagging a finger at him.

His hoarse laughter wafted out the door with me. A passing nurse looked at first startled by, then smiled at the unfamiliar sound. I felt inordinately pleased as I sauntered down the hall in search of our lunch.

Notes

frequently breakfast at five-o-clock tea: A line from Lewis Carroll’s (Charles Dodgson) “The Hunting of the Snark,” first published in 1876. Harry/Sherlock responds with the next line of the nonsensical poem and the succeeding conversation makes additional references. At the time of the story, Dodgson would have still been teaching mathematics at Christ Church, Oxford. One could speculate that Sherlock may have met the famous don, or perhaps was one of his students.

Chapter Six: Burdens