Harry: Chapter Fourteen

Of Toxins And Tempers And Tales

by Liederlady

Notes

Holmes’s silence continued while I administered both a proper antiseptic and dressing to his sting. The inflammation had edged well up into the flexor tendon of his foot. The bursal sac was also swollen. Although he was attempting to conceal it, I suspected the pain was considerable.

“You should not have gone into the ocean,” I snapped, still angry he had so carelessly disregarded his own welfare.

“You used seawater as an antiseptic,” he mumbled.

“I told you the wine was more effective.”

“A chaser, no doubt,” he quipped in a flat tone.

I glanced sharply up at him. Swathed in his robe, he looked suddenly weary and I worried about a delayed reaction to the venom. I grasped his wrist for a pulse and he flinched away. Fear flashed into his eyes, almost immediately supplanted by a veil of practiced indifference.

It could take years for a child to acquire such terrible control.

“I only want to take your pulse again,” I said.

“Yes,” was all he said.

He did not offer me his wrist, but did not flinch when I reached for it a second time … far more slowly. His pulse was racing, but rapidly diminishing. Only the fear had accelerated it.

“I apologize for my sharp tone,” I said, relinquishing his wrist.

He was silent a moment more.

“You have adequate cause to be upset,” he said dully, his eyes now furtive.

“May we discuss this?” I said in an exasperated sigh, shifting my weight back onto my heels as I knelt before him.

“What is there to discuss?” he asked.

“Several things,” I said, my fingers yanking frayed threads from the torn leg of my bathing suit.

“Such as?”

I wanted to ease his distress over the incident of the shark. But what truly consumed and confounded me was broaching the discussion about the man I had encountered. I sensed it would lead to a darker yet necessary discussion about his past. Whether recent or distant, I was confident it would be painful.

I now understood I would go mad if I went off to India without knowing he would be safe from future mistreatment. If that meant ensconcing him with Father and Mother in Scotland, so be it.

“The first of which is the most vital. About the man I encountered on the beach,”

“I told you--”

“That you did not know him, I remember. But from the way he looked at you--”

“Stop, this instant!” Holmes hissed, his pale countenance growing as red as his inflamed foot.

The quick rage that filled his eyes reminded me of the moment I first gazed in them as I restrained his wild struggling at Radcliffe’s and I shut my own against the memory. When I opened them again, Holmes was leaning forward in his chair, his rage simmering.

“Forget him. Someone of such a character is not worthy of either your time or concern,” Holmes said tightly.

“But you are,” I said.

His brows dipped toward each other.

“What happened to you was--”

“Watson, I must make a request of you.”

“Yes?”

“That we never discuss the circumstances which led to our meeting,” he said. There was no entreaty in his voice. This was a command.

“I fear we must.”

He bolted from his chair and attempted to stride away toward the hearth. When he stumbled, I rose and moved to help him.

“Do not,” he said sharply, his arm shooting out as though to ward off a blow then he hobbled forward to lean an elbow on the mantel. He raised his hand to rub at his left temple.

“Holmes. Please sit down so we may talk,” I urged.

“I have no desire to do either,” he said coldly. The hand continued to rub his temple.

I straightened.

“Do you wish me to leave?”

His head whipped toward me. The icy disdain I recalled from our earliest moments had returned to the impressive grey eyes.

“You never wanted to accompany me here. If you cannot abide a simple request, go then! Do as you please.”

I turned, took up and shrugged into my robe then moved into the kitchen. The cottage’s water supply, as with all country dwellings, was fed by a well-pump. I lit the coal-fired stove, filled the large kettle with water and set it on the stove to heat. Then I began pumping water into a large pail.

Holmes hobbled into the kitchen, a dumbfounded expression wrinkling his face.

“What the devil are you doing?”

The pail was full. I carried it past him and headed across the sitting-room down the passage-way and into the WC to begin filling the tub. I strolled past him again, filled the pail a second time and returned to the WC.

By the time I reached the kitchen again, Holmes stood—arms akimbo—blocking my access to the pump.

“Yes?”

“I thought you were leaving,” he said sarcastically.

“I did,” I replied. I looked up at him.

His face screwed up in delightful confusion.

“You mean you will. After your bath,” he said.

I relished the uncertainty in his tone. It was cruel of me and I am not normally one to resort to such tactics, preferring plain dealings and plainer speech. But there was an advantage to unsettling this boy’s mercurial personality. If I could sufficiently distract and then calm him there was a chance we might talk sanely later.

“Yes,” I said.

He mumbled something unintelligible. The only word I could make out was ‘typical’. Then he spat out something in French and stalked past me … as well as someone with a lame leg could stalk.

Perhaps a quarter of an hour later, the bathing tub was sufficiently filled with a soothing mixture of boiling and cold water. Within easy reach of it, I laid out towels, cloths and soap from the well-stocked chifferobe. Then I ventured back out to the sitting-room.

Holmes was leaning upon the mantel again, elbows out, forehead reclined upon his arms.

“Your bath is drawn, Holmes,” I said. His head rose to regard me as I drew next to him.

“You look exhausted, my dear fellow.”

He appeared far worse than that.

“I thought you were leaving?” he said again. His voice was subdued and perhaps as close to plaintive as this proud boy would ever venture.

I nodded. “If you wisely follow your doctor’s orders, you will not be able to ride to the village for our supper. Instead, I shall go and fetch it. But first, into the tub with you,” I said.

Very slowly, I offered him my arm. His eyes were shaded as he looked down at it, then his head turned abruptly away.

“My doctor,” he whispered.

“And your friend,” I said. He still faced away from me but I could hear the sudden intake of breath.

“Come now, before the water cools,” I said encouragingly then touched his right arm. He sighed and straightened from the mantel. He looked down at me, his brows pushing deep creases into the skin between them.

“I’ve never known anyone like you,” he said.

I had been wrong before. Holmes’s voice now held a disturbingly plaintive note.

I smiled up at him as I slipped an arm under his … both gestures intended for support.

“You mean someone so stubborn? Oh, my friend, you have yet to learn how bull-headed I can be,” I said with a chuckle.

He offered a squeeze of fingers at my shoulder and a small smile in return, but it did not reach his eyes. They were as troubled as before.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour and two refreshingly warm baths later, Holmes and I were taking tea in the cottage’s sitting-room. After I re-bandaged his foot, the boy had slipped into a doze, long legs impossibly curled up on the sofa, while I bathed. My tea preparations in the kitchen had awakened him.

“Sorry if it’s too strong, Holmes,” I said, watching him over the rim of my cup.

He looked up, an eyebrow arched. To my great relief, the bath and nap had restored much of his confidence. Although I was still bent on our discussion, I wanted him relaxed and as cheered as possible before the difficult moments descended.

“I was about to tell you it is quite good. Is it part of a physician’s training? Brewing a good cup of tea?” he asked then took a lengthy sip.

“Absolutely. First pharmacology assignment,” I replied, grinning over my cup.

The flash smile broke out, lasting a bit longer than usual.

“You wouldn’t happen to be as gifted in the culinary arts, would you?”

I shook my head.

He sighed.

“Then I suppose we must risk the local fare,” said he. “Have you occasioned to sample any?”

“No, Netley’s kitchen staff provided all our meals.”

“Good?”

With a frown, I shook my head again.

“Well, you’re due for a decent supper then.”

A companionable silence descended on us as we finished our tea. Holmes pulled out a leather cigarette case, withdrew a fag and slipped it between his lips. He offered me one, lighting mine then his. He leaned back luxuriantly on the sofa with a satisfied sigh, closing his eyes as he smoked.

I watched him, wondering how best to begin. Perhaps waiting until after supper would be wiser, I mused, gazing at his gaunt form.

“Watson,” he said, his eyes still closed. “Did you happen to save the jellyfish barb?”

“Save it?”

His eyes opened a crack. “Yes. Did you?”

“Why would I have saved it?”

“Did you save it?” he asked, the quick impatience flaring.

“No.”

The eyes closed again.

“Why would you want it?” I asked after a few moments. The question prompted a sliver of smirk at his lips.

“Oh, I just wondered about the venom. I wonder if it could be extracted from the barb.”

“What? Why would you wish to do that?”

“To discover whether or not the venom could be sufficiently enhanced to produce an effective poison,” he said, as though such a pursuit was as commonplace as knotting one’s bootlaces.

“Poison?” I exclaimed.

The smirk grew to a smile under the closed eyes.

“Yes. I would imagine that if harvesting was possible and such a toxin could be synthesized, it would likely not be detectable by normal investigative standards.”

“Detectable? Is there someone you have a mind to do away with?” I asked, hoping he was simply exercising that fertile intellect.

One eye opened to regard me.

“You need not worry,” he said.

I could not help but chuckle.

“You are skilled in the healing arts. I favor the analytical,” he explained, closing the eye.

“Is that what you’re studying at university?” I prompted. Perhaps the blasted jellyfish was an aid to my dilemma.

For an instant, a frown threatened the corners of his mouth.

“I-- chemistry has always been an interest of mine,” he said.

“A chemist then. Does the medicinal or industrial field suit your area of study?”

The frown was definite now. I could not understand how discussing a seemingly innocent academic pursuit could trouble him.

“My … studies-- They are rather eclectic. Most find them esoteric,” he murmured, his brows again creasing.

“Oh? Then you’ve not yet settled on a specific course of study?”

“You could say that,” he offered. As noncommittal a response as possible … just as he had been about the man on the beach.

“Well, you have time yet. You’re very young. I would guess you’re in first term,” I prompted.

The eyes flashed open and settled on my face.

“I am nineteen, Watson!”

I was surprised. He looked sixteen, seventeen at most. I told him so. He harrumphed and glanced over at the hearth.

“You think me some green, besotted boy.”

We both reacted to the comment … eyes widening as we darted a silent glance at each other. He turned his face toward the fire again, but doing so failed to hide the crimson flush spreading from his throat to his ears. I cleared my throat before continuing.

“So you attend Oxford?” I felt it a most diplomatic question.

“Why do you wish to know?” Holmes asked sharply, his gaze still averted. At least his blush had dampened somewhat.

“Does my innocent question somehow offend? Are we not friends?” I asked, thoroughly nonplussed by the boy’s continued evasiveness.

He looked back at me with sincere chagrin.

“I hope so, if you will forgive my sharp tongue. I attended Oxford until recently,” he said.

“Of course, because we are friends I shall not ask why your circumstance has changed.”

There was a yearning look in his eyes, as though he wished to explain. But something held him back. Finally, with a frustrated snort, he threw up his hands.

“I have abjured not to relate the details. The great university desires no stain upon its hallowed reputation,” he hissed, waving his hand through the air.

A sick fear crept into my stomach as I pondered a connection with his abuse.

“But I know you to be as honorable a man as I shall ever meet, Watson. Should you care to hear, I will tell you,” Holmes said with a curious blend of apology and defiance. “It is the same reason I could not tell you my name while you were caring for me at hospital.”

Chapter Fifteen: Grief, Despair And Terrible Purpose