Hippocratic Oath (Tables Turned ch.2)
I awoke the next morning feeling marginally better. The throbbing headache had diminished in intensity, and the nausea had subsided. I opened my eyes to find Sherlock Holmes sitting in a chair by my bed watching me with a small smile on his face. Several morning newspapers were piled at his feet. I sat up in bed and licked at my dry lips, and immediately Holmes poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the bedside table and handed the glass to me. As I sipped the water, I marveled at how much more considerate he has become in the years we’ve known each other; I liked to flatter myself that I had some small influence on him in that regard.
“Watson?” he ventured, still watching me so intently as if afraid I would disappear at any moment.
“Yes?”
“Do you feel up to talking?”
“Of course; go on.”
Holmes said nothing for several minutes, lacing and unlacing his long fingers and studying them with such intensity as if he had never seen them before.
“Well?” I finally inquired. “What deductions can you draw from your hands?”
He gave his usual quirk of a smile at that.
“My apologies, Watson…it appears I am having more difficulty broaching the topic than I anticipated.”
Needless to say, I was taken aback…Holmes, hesitant to speak his mind?!
“Just go ahead and say it,” I suggested gently. “Surely we’ve known each other long enough to be able to discuss just about anything?”
“Very well. I wrote once, half in jest, that I am lost without my Boswell. I have come to realize, over the years, that I meant it more than I thought…” he broke off as his voice cracked.
“Holmes, are you attempting to say that for the past two weeks, you’ve been worrying that I would not recover?”
The look on his face was answer enough.
“Holmes, how many times have you been injured on a case or disregarded your own health so as to aid a client? I do not believe you have done these things only because you love the mental stimulation your work provides…I have sworn an oath to help those who come to me to the best of my ability. The relationship of patient and doctor is a sacred trust…I cannot take it lightly when I hold someone’s life or at least good health in my hands. I cannot refuse to treat a patient for fear of infection, especially a child…for I know how it feels when you lose a child…” here my own voice broke.
Holmes, on the other hand, seemed to have regained his usual control over his emotions.
“My apologies, Watson. I did not intend to distress you. I know what you said is what you whole-heartedly believe. I remember your emphatic remark when I told you to keep away for fear of deadly contagion in the Culverton Smith case: "Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consideration weighs with me for an instant? It would not affect me in the case of a stranger.” I was merely attempting to say, as you correctly surmised, that I was…well, why mince words between such old friends? I was deathly afraid you would not recover…I cannot express to you how relieved I am that you will.”
“And one thing more,” he added, thoughtfully tapping a finger against his lips. “Notwithstanding what you’ve just said-and I can certainly understand your sentiments, even if I do not always agree with them-I beg you not to take unnecessary risks. I truly would be lost without my Boswell.”
We shared a glance of perfect understanding…no further words were necessary.