Tables Turned
Voices faintly registered on my consciousness as I drifted in what appeared to be the darkness and heat of late-evening desert…
“Dr. Watson? Please say something!” and another, near-frantic voice that could only belong to Sherlock Holmes: “Watson, I demand that you answer me!” I attempted to respond but found myself unable to move a muscle or even to open my mouth, and then blackness slid over me…
When I next awoke, I could not at first understand where I was. Certainly the bed was not mine and I could smell antiseptic and other odours-a distinct hospital smell…wait, a hospital? Was I the patient this time? I opened my eyes and beheld the familiar figure of Sherlock Holmes slumped in the chair at my bedside. He looked as bad as I felt-the pallor of his face rivaled that of the bed linens and the circles under his eyes were black. He must have been exhausted since he hardly even stirred when I called his name.
“Holmes?”
“Mmhm?”
“Holmes!”
He opened his eyes and nearly leapt out of the chair when he saw me awake and looking at him.
“Watson! How do you feel?”
“Not very well-and that’s putting it mildly-but I suppose I’ll recover…What happened?”
“Do you recall the patient you saw on Wednesday?”
Indeed I did…how could I not? Grief stabbed me afresh at the recollection, and Holmes put a sympathetic hand on my arm. The patient was a delightful five-year old girl who died that day of meningitis. A thought occurred to me.
“Holmes? What day is it today?”
“Saturday, Watson.”
“So I have only been ill for a day or two?”
“No, Watson…it’s been over two weeks…” his eyes gleamed with what I could only assume were unshed tears, and it was my turn to grasp his hand in sympathy.
“Tell me what happened.”
“I came home from a case that Friday and found you delirious…you did not even recognize me. I called Jackson and he recommended that you be taken to the hospital. You slipped into a coma the next day…”
Oh…no wonder he looked so bad…
“Holmes, have you eaten or slept in the last two weeks?”
He gave me the ghost of a smile. “My dear Watson, always trying to take care of others…I’m certain I did at some point, although I cannot precisely recall when.”
“Would you do me a great favour?”
“Anything, you have but to ask.”
“Go back to Baker Street for a meal and some rest; I’ll still be here when you return.”
“Very well.” He reluctantly got to his feet and left the room. I smiled and closed my eyes, feeling sleep stealing over me.