One-Shot: The Benefits of Progress
The second short story I post this weekend (first being Nyi Ma)... I can't help it. I needed some distraction from the Riders. Hope you enjoy those, anyway. ;)
Plus, I made a new tag "retirement-ark". The reason is, I have quite a bunch of retirement fics and drabbles which I shall be posting sometime around. Now beta'ed by med_cat - thanks!
Title: The Benefits of Progress
Author: Jaelijn
Rating: G
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, OC
Summary: Watson receives a disturbing call from Mr Holmes's new landlady. Watson travels to Sussex to help...
Wordcount: 2137
Warnings: description of rheumatism, allergic attack
Author's Note: All canon characters were created by ACD, all original characters belong to me and may not be used without my permission. Challenge entry for challenge 003 at mere_appendix .
.................................... ~ oOo ~ ....................................
When I received the telephone call from Holmes's landlady, I instantly knew something was very much amiss. Usually, it was Holmes who called, if he contacted me in that way at all. Much to my amusement, he had developed a strong dislike of the telephone. While he used to be very open to any new developments in the past, or so I remembered, he had become less enthusiastic in his retirement. He had once remarked to me that the 'infernal ringing' of the device disturbed his bees, when, in truth, it was his delicate thought process that was interrupted.
Needless to say, I was much disquieted by his landlady's calling. I had hardly exchanged a word with the dear woman - she always was conveniently absent when I called at Holmes's cottage - but she had to be a very patient and calm person if she managed to live under one roof with Sherlock Holmes for any length of time. I knew that Holmes did not cherish her company; in fact, he had not taken the death of the dear Mrs Hudson very well. I, too, found it difficult to find any human being with a soul as kind and long-suffering as hers.
At any rate, this new landlady, whatever her other shortcomings may be, had taken to doting on Mr Holmes, and was therefore very observant and concerned regarding his health. While he had not told her of his rheumatic attacks at first, until I had convinced him that it was best for all concerned if she knew, the two of them had long since developed a system of caring that worked for both of them. Holmes was left in peace whenever he desired it, and she in turn was allowed some fussing if he was feeling unwell. Also, she was my eyes and ears in Holmes's presence when I could not leave London because of my own flourishing practice.
So far, shehad not resorted on calling me before Holmes himself decided to do so, which, as far as I was concerned, was a sign that it was not as serious as that. To receive a call now, and obviously without Holmes's consent, was enough to set my nerves on edge.
“Dr Watson?”
“Yes?”
“It's Violet Stewart, the landlady of Mr Holmes. It's because of him that I am calling.”
“What is wrong?”
“He has been feeling very unwell, Doctor. Wouldn't move from his room this morning, and has not eaten a scrap. He doesn't look like he has gotten much sleep, either. I don't know what to do, Doctor. The weather has been very bad down here, and the rheumatism comes along with it, you know, but the customary methods did not seem to work... Oh, Doctor, you don't think it is anything worse?”
I doubted it, but I could say nothing without seeing Holmes's condition for myself first. For Holmes, who had always been an active man with whom inactivity, whether physically or mentally, did not sit well, it was terrible enough to be forced to inaction. During the last years of his career, his tendency towards depressions had decreased, but I knew him well enough to be conscious of the fact that these rheumatic attacks still brought them on.
“I shall come down with the last train today, Miss Stewart.”
“Thank you, Doctor Watson. I hope you won't mind that no one will meet you at the station...”
“I don't mind at all, Miss Stewart. Stay with Mr Holmes, and I'll be with you as soon as I am able.”
When I arrived at the cottage Holmes fondly called his villa, Miss Stewart was already hovering at the door and excitedly ushered me inside. I did not mind getting out of the rain that had been falling for quite some time. Old age did not sit well with my own wounds, either.
“Here, hand me your coat and hat, Doctor. I shall put them by the fire to dry.”
“Thank you, Miss Stewart. Now, where is Holmes?”
“In his bedroom on the second floor - you know where it is. He has not allowed me to do anything for him since I contacted you.”
“I shall see what can be done, Miss Stewart, never fear.”
The bedroom on the second floor was, in fact, the guest room, however, since I was the only guest ever to visit the household, Holmes utilized it for his own purposes from time to time. Also, he had formed a silent agreement with his landlady that he would sleep in the guest room if he had worked late in his laboratory in the attic, rather than disturb her rest in the ground floor bedrooms, which lay side by side. That he had chosen the guest room to rest indicated that he strongly desired to be left alone. Very likely, the attack of rheumatism had come in all its severity while Holmes had tried to work in the attic because the weather had trapped him indoors.
I knocked gently on the half-closed door with my walking stick and entered, dumping my gladstone bag on a chair by the door. “Holmes?”
“So you have arrived. I thought she was 'phoning you.” He was hidden under a ridiculously fluffy blanket, the one his brother, Mycroft, had sent him for his birthday, both as a joke and out of genuine concern. Its warmth had worked wonders during previous bouts of illness; to see that it was apparently ineffective now was a cause for concern indeed.
And ineffective it was, for Holmes was curled into a ball under it, facing away from me. He showed no indication of movement, however minute, safe the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, and his eyes were shut, even as I moved around on the creaking floor to be able to face him. He was quite unnaturally pale, and thin lines of concentration creased his forehead. He had not shaved this morning.
“Holmes, is it that bad?”
He cracked open one eye and looked at me, appearing infernally tired. “What do you think, Doctor?” His mouth twitched into a brief smile, but the tension never disappeared from his features.
“It seems Mycroft's blanket has lost its magic, eh?”
“Watson, I am really not in the mood for jokes.”
“You should eat something. Have you taken the medicine I left for that purpose during my last visit?”
“Yesterday evening.”
“Then it is bad indeed.” I knew Holmes well enough that the unnatural tension in his features and body language where the clearest indications for strong pain I would ever get, and I would have assumed that the medicine I had left would suffice for Holmes's needs, but apparently the humidity of the last weeks had brought on an more severe attack than usual.
I collected my bag and sat again at Holmes's bedside. He seemed to feel the better for my presence, but I knew that a few jokes and gentle words would not improve his condition far enough to reawaken his appetite. “You have to drink something, at least.”
He endowed me with the ironic smile he used to reserve for his most dimwitted clients. “Watson...”
“I realise the pain is bad. I have recently obtained a sample of a new drug - it is said to work wonders for any kind of pain, especially rheumatism.”
Holmes shifted, and grimaced. As the blanket slid from his shoulder - he was apparently clad in his dressing gown only - it was left to me to readjust it.
“I assume you want to test if it works now.”
“If you forgive me for saying so, there is hardly any better opportunity. You are a scientific man, too, Holmes.”
“I have no objections. Provided it has been tested before, and on human beings.”
“It has. It's already in mass production in Germany.”
“I see.”
“Now, I shall help you to sit up - like this - and you will drink this glass of water here while I prepare the medicine.”
He had barely taken one sip when I turned back to face him again, but seemed to be alternating between clutching the glass tightly to hide his trembling and not holding it at all to spare himself the pain flaring up in his hands. If Holmes complained about rheumatism, it was always affecting his hands, robbing him of nigh on any activity or pastime he had ever taken up.
“A syringe it is, then.”
“At present, yes. I have heard the are planning on distributing the drug for oral ingestion. But we have to take what we have, don't we?”
Holmes sighed. “Such are the benefits of progress, Watson. Sadly, they come too late for any of us. Maybe someone will develop a telephone one day that does not ring.”
“Come now, Holmes! How then would one notice when one is being called?” I injected the medicine into his arm; another puncture mark to join the scars of numerous others, self-inflicted. There were no fresh ones - Holmes had given up his drug completely - but the scars became more prominent with age.
“True, Watson, true. This new era of ours is becoming more and more fast-paced and demanding.”
“That's only us slowing down.”
Holmes regarded me with a curious expression, then he frowned and coughed dryly. “Watson...”
“What is it?”
“What is this medicine?!” Suddenly, his breathing came in hurried wheezes, he was struggling to breathe at all, hyperventilating as he seemed to choke. “Watson!” He gasped, but apparently, the air didn't reach his lungs, and there was more coughing, more desperate wheezing as his hand went to his throat, all pain forgotten.
I must admit to have been so shocked by the reaction to what only could have been the new medicine that I failed to react at first. When I was by his side, the lack of oxygen had cut off his words, Holmes seemed to be slipping from consciousness, and I had to take his head between both my hands to make him lock his increasingly desperate gaze on mine.
“Holmes! There is nothing wrong with you airway! You are panicking! Try to calm down, for Heaven's sake!” I was no expert at handling such attacks, and I had only seen them once or twice before - sadly, the often ended with the death of the afflicted, if other parties in the room were not able to restore a regular breathing rhythm. To my horror, Holmes was far from any regular breathing. Instead, he had opened his mouth wide in a desperate effort to catch some breath, but his chest failed to expand, and he made a desperate chocking sound as I tried to calm him with my words. “Holmes, you have to calm down! You are not going to die like that!”
It was only as Holmes lips were turning cyanotic and his eyelids fluttered that he managed to take a deep, shuddering breath and fell limply back onto the pillows. More breaths followed the first, until they had resumed a more regular rhythm. His pulse was still too fast, but his lungs did not sound in any way out of the ordinary.
He lay limply during my examination, and only reopened his eyes as I, under the impression that he had fallen asleep, tugged the blanket up to his chin. “Don't you dare test medicine on me ever again, Watson.”
“It wasn't a test! The drug is supposed to be working, and I have never heard or read of it causing such an attack.”
“What was it, then?”
“It seemed almost like an allergy. You never told me you were suffering from allergies before.”
“I wasn't, Watson, until you came along with that infernal medicine!”
“Well, the pain has improved, has it?”
We both fell silent, as if to give Holmes time to confirm my observation.
“Yes. But it is hardly worth the risk, is it?”
Exhausted, I fell back into my chair. No matter how narrow-minded I considered Holmes's opinion of telephones, I had to agree that this product of modern science had done him little good. “I must agree, old friend. I certainly won't advice you to take it again.”
“Then it would prove some foresight to inform me as to its name, eh?”
“I believe it is called aspirin. It is supposed to be a milestone in medicine. A pain medication without negative side effects to the system.”
Holmes snorted. “The benefits of progress, indeed.”
A/N: Yes, aspirin was invented in 1899 and by the time this story is set in, Watson could have heard of it.
.................................... ~ oOo ~ ....................................
Plus, I made a new tag "retirement-ark". The reason is, I have quite a bunch of retirement fics and drabbles which I shall be posting sometime around. Now beta'ed by med_cat - thanks!
Title: The Benefits of Progress
Author: Jaelijn
Rating: G
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, OC
Summary: Watson receives a disturbing call from Mr Holmes's new landlady. Watson travels to Sussex to help...
Wordcount: 2137
Warnings: description of rheumatism, allergic attack
Author's Note: All canon characters were created by ACD, all original characters belong to me and may not be used without my permission. Challenge entry for challenge 003 at mere_appendix .
.................................... ~ oOo ~ ....................................
When I received the telephone call from Holmes's landlady, I instantly knew something was very much amiss. Usually, it was Holmes who called, if he contacted me in that way at all. Much to my amusement, he had developed a strong dislike of the telephone. While he used to be very open to any new developments in the past, or so I remembered, he had become less enthusiastic in his retirement. He had once remarked to me that the 'infernal ringing' of the device disturbed his bees, when, in truth, it was his delicate thought process that was interrupted.
Needless to say, I was much disquieted by his landlady's calling. I had hardly exchanged a word with the dear woman - she always was conveniently absent when I called at Holmes's cottage - but she had to be a very patient and calm person if she managed to live under one roof with Sherlock Holmes for any length of time. I knew that Holmes did not cherish her company; in fact, he had not taken the death of the dear Mrs Hudson very well. I, too, found it difficult to find any human being with a soul as kind and long-suffering as hers.
At any rate, this new landlady, whatever her other shortcomings may be, had taken to doting on Mr Holmes, and was therefore very observant and concerned regarding his health. While he had not told her of his rheumatic attacks at first, until I had convinced him that it was best for all concerned if she knew, the two of them had long since developed a system of caring that worked for both of them. Holmes was left in peace whenever he desired it, and she in turn was allowed some fussing if he was feeling unwell. Also, she was my eyes and ears in Holmes's presence when I could not leave London because of my own flourishing practice.
So far, shehad not resorted on calling me before Holmes himself decided to do so, which, as far as I was concerned, was a sign that it was not as serious as that. To receive a call now, and obviously without Holmes's consent, was enough to set my nerves on edge.
“Dr Watson?”
“Yes?”
“It's Violet Stewart, the landlady of Mr Holmes. It's because of him that I am calling.”
“What is wrong?”
“He has been feeling very unwell, Doctor. Wouldn't move from his room this morning, and has not eaten a scrap. He doesn't look like he has gotten much sleep, either. I don't know what to do, Doctor. The weather has been very bad down here, and the rheumatism comes along with it, you know, but the customary methods did not seem to work... Oh, Doctor, you don't think it is anything worse?”
I doubted it, but I could say nothing without seeing Holmes's condition for myself first. For Holmes, who had always been an active man with whom inactivity, whether physically or mentally, did not sit well, it was terrible enough to be forced to inaction. During the last years of his career, his tendency towards depressions had decreased, but I knew him well enough to be conscious of the fact that these rheumatic attacks still brought them on.
“I shall come down with the last train today, Miss Stewart.”
“Thank you, Doctor Watson. I hope you won't mind that no one will meet you at the station...”
“I don't mind at all, Miss Stewart. Stay with Mr Holmes, and I'll be with you as soon as I am able.”
When I arrived at the cottage Holmes fondly called his villa, Miss Stewart was already hovering at the door and excitedly ushered me inside. I did not mind getting out of the rain that had been falling for quite some time. Old age did not sit well with my own wounds, either.
“Here, hand me your coat and hat, Doctor. I shall put them by the fire to dry.”
“Thank you, Miss Stewart. Now, where is Holmes?”
“In his bedroom on the second floor - you know where it is. He has not allowed me to do anything for him since I contacted you.”
“I shall see what can be done, Miss Stewart, never fear.”
The bedroom on the second floor was, in fact, the guest room, however, since I was the only guest ever to visit the household, Holmes utilized it for his own purposes from time to time. Also, he had formed a silent agreement with his landlady that he would sleep in the guest room if he had worked late in his laboratory in the attic, rather than disturb her rest in the ground floor bedrooms, which lay side by side. That he had chosen the guest room to rest indicated that he strongly desired to be left alone. Very likely, the attack of rheumatism had come in all its severity while Holmes had tried to work in the attic because the weather had trapped him indoors.
I knocked gently on the half-closed door with my walking stick and entered, dumping my gladstone bag on a chair by the door. “Holmes?”
“So you have arrived. I thought she was 'phoning you.” He was hidden under a ridiculously fluffy blanket, the one his brother, Mycroft, had sent him for his birthday, both as a joke and out of genuine concern. Its warmth had worked wonders during previous bouts of illness; to see that it was apparently ineffective now was a cause for concern indeed.
And ineffective it was, for Holmes was curled into a ball under it, facing away from me. He showed no indication of movement, however minute, safe the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, and his eyes were shut, even as I moved around on the creaking floor to be able to face him. He was quite unnaturally pale, and thin lines of concentration creased his forehead. He had not shaved this morning.
“Holmes, is it that bad?”
He cracked open one eye and looked at me, appearing infernally tired. “What do you think, Doctor?” His mouth twitched into a brief smile, but the tension never disappeared from his features.
“It seems Mycroft's blanket has lost its magic, eh?”
“Watson, I am really not in the mood for jokes.”
“You should eat something. Have you taken the medicine I left for that purpose during my last visit?”
“Yesterday evening.”
“Then it is bad indeed.” I knew Holmes well enough that the unnatural tension in his features and body language where the clearest indications for strong pain I would ever get, and I would have assumed that the medicine I had left would suffice for Holmes's needs, but apparently the humidity of the last weeks had brought on an more severe attack than usual.
I collected my bag and sat again at Holmes's bedside. He seemed to feel the better for my presence, but I knew that a few jokes and gentle words would not improve his condition far enough to reawaken his appetite. “You have to drink something, at least.”
He endowed me with the ironic smile he used to reserve for his most dimwitted clients. “Watson...”
“I realise the pain is bad. I have recently obtained a sample of a new drug - it is said to work wonders for any kind of pain, especially rheumatism.”
Holmes shifted, and grimaced. As the blanket slid from his shoulder - he was apparently clad in his dressing gown only - it was left to me to readjust it.
“I assume you want to test if it works now.”
“If you forgive me for saying so, there is hardly any better opportunity. You are a scientific man, too, Holmes.”
“I have no objections. Provided it has been tested before, and on human beings.”
“It has. It's already in mass production in Germany.”
“I see.”
“Now, I shall help you to sit up - like this - and you will drink this glass of water here while I prepare the medicine.”
He had barely taken one sip when I turned back to face him again, but seemed to be alternating between clutching the glass tightly to hide his trembling and not holding it at all to spare himself the pain flaring up in his hands. If Holmes complained about rheumatism, it was always affecting his hands, robbing him of nigh on any activity or pastime he had ever taken up.
“A syringe it is, then.”
“At present, yes. I have heard the are planning on distributing the drug for oral ingestion. But we have to take what we have, don't we?”
Holmes sighed. “Such are the benefits of progress, Watson. Sadly, they come too late for any of us. Maybe someone will develop a telephone one day that does not ring.”
“Come now, Holmes! How then would one notice when one is being called?” I injected the medicine into his arm; another puncture mark to join the scars of numerous others, self-inflicted. There were no fresh ones - Holmes had given up his drug completely - but the scars became more prominent with age.
“True, Watson, true. This new era of ours is becoming more and more fast-paced and demanding.”
“That's only us slowing down.”
Holmes regarded me with a curious expression, then he frowned and coughed dryly. “Watson...”
“What is it?”
“What is this medicine?!” Suddenly, his breathing came in hurried wheezes, he was struggling to breathe at all, hyperventilating as he seemed to choke. “Watson!” He gasped, but apparently, the air didn't reach his lungs, and there was more coughing, more desperate wheezing as his hand went to his throat, all pain forgotten.
I must admit to have been so shocked by the reaction to what only could have been the new medicine that I failed to react at first. When I was by his side, the lack of oxygen had cut off his words, Holmes seemed to be slipping from consciousness, and I had to take his head between both my hands to make him lock his increasingly desperate gaze on mine.
“Holmes! There is nothing wrong with you airway! You are panicking! Try to calm down, for Heaven's sake!” I was no expert at handling such attacks, and I had only seen them once or twice before - sadly, the often ended with the death of the afflicted, if other parties in the room were not able to restore a regular breathing rhythm. To my horror, Holmes was far from any regular breathing. Instead, he had opened his mouth wide in a desperate effort to catch some breath, but his chest failed to expand, and he made a desperate chocking sound as I tried to calm him with my words. “Holmes, you have to calm down! You are not going to die like that!”
It was only as Holmes lips were turning cyanotic and his eyelids fluttered that he managed to take a deep, shuddering breath and fell limply back onto the pillows. More breaths followed the first, until they had resumed a more regular rhythm. His pulse was still too fast, but his lungs did not sound in any way out of the ordinary.
He lay limply during my examination, and only reopened his eyes as I, under the impression that he had fallen asleep, tugged the blanket up to his chin. “Don't you dare test medicine on me ever again, Watson.”
“It wasn't a test! The drug is supposed to be working, and I have never heard or read of it causing such an attack.”
“What was it, then?”
“It seemed almost like an allergy. You never told me you were suffering from allergies before.”
“I wasn't, Watson, until you came along with that infernal medicine!”
“Well, the pain has improved, has it?”
We both fell silent, as if to give Holmes time to confirm my observation.
“Yes. But it is hardly worth the risk, is it?”
Exhausted, I fell back into my chair. No matter how narrow-minded I considered Holmes's opinion of telephones, I had to agree that this product of modern science had done him little good. “I must agree, old friend. I certainly won't advice you to take it again.”
“Then it would prove some foresight to inform me as to its name, eh?”
“I believe it is called aspirin. It is supposed to be a milestone in medicine. A pain medication without negative side effects to the system.”
Holmes snorted. “The benefits of progress, indeed.”
A/N: Yes, aspirin was invented in 1899 and by the time this story is set in, Watson could have heard of it.
.................................... ~ oOo ~ ....................................