Holmes' Mistake
by Pandapony

Chapter One

In order to begin this private account of the capture and subsequent arrest of famed smuggler Arthur Cavendish, I must go back two months prior to recount Mr. Sherlock Holmes' previous case, the details of which, until now, I have not disclosed either to the public nor in this private collection.  

Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I had been living together for several years in the comfort of our Baker Street apartments, and I had accompanied my dear friend on most of his cases during that time.   After a long period of ennui, during which Holmes despaired that all criminals had atoned and left him without a career, we were informed of a dangerous gang who had kidnapped the young niece of a prominent land owner in the Cotswolds.

After several days in the countryside, Holmes was able to determine the whereabouts and movements of this coterie of kidnappers.   As was typical of our relationship at the time, Holmes kept much of his investigation secret, even to me.   I had grown used to his unique style of detection.   Holmes always kept his observations and conclusions to himself until revelation was either required for my continued assistance, or the unfortunate criminal under his gaze had been captured.

I spent much of those early days in the Cotswolds either following Holmes about, or else completing small errands and interviews that he felt were necessary for the enhancement of his investigation.   I neither complained nor questioned Holmes.  I had unwavering faith in his abilities as the premier consulting detective in England, and knew that he would surprise both the gangsters and myself with his discoveries.

On what ultimately became a dreary, rainy afternoon in March, Holmes finalized the details of his trap.   He dispatched me to the village stable, where he promised I would find the young niece of his client, possibly bound but in all hopes unharmed.   Whilst I was given the job of rescuing our client's kidnapped relative, Holmes himself would lead the local police force to the client's gamekeeper's shed.   There he intended to surprise the gang and have them arrested.

I went about my task with great pride, as Holmes had entrusted me to the most important mission of our hire.   I willingly went alone, albeit armed with my army pistol as per Holmes' instructions.

However, when I threw open the heavy door of the stable, I did not find our client's niece.   Instead, I found myself face to face with the very gang of ruffians that Holmes was expecting to interdict at the shed.

My first feeling, irrational as it may seem in retrospect, was almost amusement.   I had often chided Holmes for his egotistical belief in his own hypotheses, and his infallible faith in his own deductions.   The fact that Holmes had, finally, been wrong, brought a momentary smirk to my features.   I thought how I could rebuke him later for his error.

But I was given no other chance to consider the repercussions of Holmes' mistake, as I was quickly surrounded by seven men.   My amusement fled and, shortly thereafter, my consciousness.

I am afraid I have only a secondhand account of the capture of Patrick Fitzgerald's Gang and the safe recovery of their hostage.   Constable Lloyd Chalmers, who oversaw the arrest, told me much later that when Holmes and the rest of the constabulary entered the gamekeepers and found the bound and terrified niece of the Lord, Holmes went completely pale.   He barely hesitated long enough to untie his charge before he simply threw off his hat and bolted for the town, refusing to wait until a ride could be arranged.

My own memory of events subsequent to this is hazy at best.   On ensuing discussions with Constable Chalmers, I learned that Holmes ran nearly a mile in the rain to come to my aid.   Once inside the stable, he found me in the deplorable condition that my attackers had left me.

I had been beaten, and stabbed.   I remember little other than pain, and an absolute fear, the likes of which I had not experienced even in the heat of battle.   The men in my company were ruthless, and were enjoying their sport.  

When Fitzgerald and his thugs realized that Holmes and the police would be on their way, they strung up a stout rope and, to my utter horror, proceeded to hang me.

According to Chalmers, Holmes stormed into the stable and was the first to find me hanged in the corner.   Chalmers later recounted that he had never imagined the cold, calculating Sherlock Holmes reacting in such a violent way.

After Holmes had recovered from his sickness, he had noted that I was still breathing.   Holmes was the one who cut me down.   I do not recall this.   I do recall pain as I hit the wood floor of the stable aisle.   But most of my attentions were directed to my breathing, which came in short gasps.

Holmes removed his coat and pillowed it under my head, and managed to cut loose the noose around my neck.   I was finally conscious then, and managed to look into Holmes eyes.

Holmes was ashen, and, to my surprise, he was crying.   I stared at him, hoping to convey my gratitude at his timely rescue.   But instead, something about my stare triggered a shudder in him, and he pulled me to his breast, hoarsely begging me not to die.

The display of affection was moving enough to bring tears to my own eyes, and I would have enjoyed the opportunity to further indulge myself in the revelation of Holmes' true feelings.   But in truth, I was becoming quickly blinded by pain.   Each breath felt as though I were swallowing fire, and in panic, I realized I was losing my ability to inhale.   This, accompanied by the stab wound just below my navel, led me to do nothing but moan in his arms.

The stable door slammed open once more, and Chalmers and the local village doctor, Percy Andrews, rushed to my side.   I watched as best I could, although I was quickly fading from consciousness again.

“His throat is swelling shut.   He needs intubation.”   Andrews rustled through his medical bag, pulling out a collection of instruments that made me uncharacteristically queasy.   The doctor's hands shook.

“Have you done this before?” Constable Chalmers whispered.

The doctor merely looked at him, face wrought with nerves, and then returned to his medical bag. “Gentlemen, please hold Dr. Watson steady.   This may be painful.”

I braced myself but still looked to Holmes in panic as Holmes pinned me down by the shoulders.   Dr. Andrews pried open my mouth and used a pair of forceps to feed a hard rubber intubation tube down my throat.  

At this point I was irrational with fear and pain, and I knew my eyes flashed open and I tried my best to jerk away as the tube made its way down my injured throat.   I looked to Holmes, begging him to stop this torture.   He seemed even more distraught, staring down at me, his grey eyes wide with shock, trembling as he held me.

“I have only ever intubated young children for diphtheria,” said Dr. Andrews, wiping his tools on a cloth from his bag.   “But a man's throat is far more difficult to manoeuvre.   I believe…”   The doctor frowned, looking down at his feet.   I followed his glance, seeing the blood on the floor.   Realizing it was mine, nausea washed through me and I was once more blissfully taken from consciousness.   Holmes informed me later that he had been so shocked at the sight of me hanging, and so panicked in his attempts to get me to breathe, he had entirely missed my perilous stab wound.   It had been Dr. Andrews who noted with alarm the amount of blood I was losing, and who ordered me to hospital without further delay.

In the months that followed, I later collected the details of the final capture and arrest of Patrick Fitzgerald and the blackguards who had inflicted such damage to me.   As soon as I was whisked off to hospital, Holmes and Chalmers had continued their pursuit, not stopping until all seven men were arrested and the niece was returned to her uncle.

I was not part of this final adventure.   I was too engaged in my own fight for life, first at the local infirmary, and later at St. Bart's in London.

 
Chapter Two