Concern, A Sherlock Holmes FanFic
Title: Concern
Author(s): Sailing Hearts
Rating: PG - 13
Character(s): Watson, Holmes, Lestrade
Summary: Holmes has many reasons to be concerned about Holmes this day.
Warnings: Sick and threatened Watson
Word Count: approx 3,600
Author's Notes: I didn’t invent Watson, Holmes or Lestrade. I am only borrowing them. Please don’t sue!
Concern
Holmes
Journal of Sherlock Holmes
November 1, 1894
It is 2 am and I am sitting here scribbling, wondering if my mind will settle enough to sleep. It would be in Watson’s best interest if I could - the man worries incisively. He himself is not in the best of health right now. The dreadful weather has stirred up a demanding need for physicians, and he has been getting little, if any sleep. He stumbled in an hour ago. I heard the door and quickly stretched out on the couch, so that when he checked I could pretend to sleep. I could tell from his footsteps that his bad leg was giving him problems. Watson only came into the sitting room far enough to note me on the couch appearing to be asleep. He then went on to his own room, but not before I heard him muffle a cough. Even now I can hear his coughing from upstairs.
I had debated about telling him the news. I had received a telegram late that evening from Lestrade. It ran thus:
WARNING. STOP. MICHAEL JOHNSON ESCAPED NEWBERRY TONIGHT. STOP. WATCH YOURSELVES. STOP. BE BY IN MORNING. FINAL STOP. LESTRADE.
Johnson had been sentenced to a life of hard labor for the brutal murder of three children. This worries me greatly. He had, at the trial, sworn revenge on myself for meddling into his affairs. Ordinary criminals would not have concerned me, but Watson swore Johnson should have been sent to an asylum, not Newberry. I had to agree that Johnson was mentally deranged. This makes it harder to predict what the man would do, now that he was loose again. I shall have to see what information Lestrade has in the morning.
I started when I heard a loud pounding on the door. A few moment’s later, I could hear Mrs. Hudson’s voice and a child conversing downstairs. Then Mrs. Hudson was on the stairs. Curious, I opened the sitting room door.
“It is a lad after the Doctor, Mr. Holmes,” our landlady said upon seeing me. “Apparently one of his patients has taken a turn for the worse.”
“Has that freezing drizzle let up?”
“No sir,” she replied as she headed up the stairs to the Doctor’s door.
I sighed, and went back to the couch. Above me I could hear the Doctor moving about, followed by his steps down the stairs and the front door closing. I felt a stab of concern. As the door had closed, I had heard the Doctor muffle a cough again. Watson was getting sick himself, and had little rest. He would end up in the hospital himself at this rate. I would need to make certain that he rested when he returned.
Lestrade arrived just after Mrs. Hudson had brought the morning post up. He thundered up the stairs and stopped short at only seeing myself in the sitting room.
“Where is the Doctor?” he cried in dismay.
“He was sent for around 2 this morning for a patient, and has not returned.” Lestrade’s expression at this caused me great concern. “Why?” I asked sharply.
“Johnson has been sighted in London this morning.”
“Then,” I replied, “it is better that Watson is not here to become involved. The Doctor told me he felt Johnson should have been sent to an asylum, and I have to agree with his medical opinion.”
“Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said urgently as he stood in the doorway, wringing his hands. “You don’t understand. It isn’t you the man is after. It is Doctor Watson!”
I felt my face turn white, and started to frantically search through the morning post Mrs. Hudson had brought up. Grabbing a telegraph envelope, I tore it open and scanned the lines. Then I turned to Lestrade, smiling.
“This one is from Watson. It says that he stayed with his patient until early this morning, and then went on to his practice. He won’t be back until late this evening. I shall simply have to accompany him today on his rounds.”
I went to the door, grabbing my heaviest walking stick and various cold weather gear as I went. At a second thought, I turned and went to Watson’s desk. Opening the top drawer, I pulled out the box that held Watson’s gun. Checking to make certain it was loaded, I slipped the revolver into my coat pocket and turned again to join Lestrade. He stepped aside as I flew out the sitting room door, and followed me out the down the steps to where he had a hansom waiting at the curb.
I sprang into it, followed by Lestrade, and gave the address for Watson’s practice. Then I turned to Lestrade.
“What makes you think it is Watson he wants?”
Lestrade wordlessly pulled a tattered journal out of his pocket and shoved it into my hands.
“I wired you as soon as I received the news that Michael Johnson had escaped. I was at Newberry most of the night, Mr. Holmes, going over the cell. I found this finally, shoved into a crack between the bricks. When I could only bring myself to read the first page, then came directly to you.”
I opened the journal. A feeling of horror came over me as I read the first page. It described torturing Watson for condemning Johnson to a life of hard labor. It went on and on about Watson’s testimony and what Johnson planned to do to the Doctor once he laid hands on him.
To this day, I thank God that it is only 15 minutes by hansom from Baker Street to the practice near St. Bart’s he was working at then. Those 15 minutes seemed like forever as I quickly read more of the journal, my mind trying to grasp this madman’s thought process. It couldn’t, though, because there was no logic. I sprang from the hansom before the driver even had it fully stopped.
Watson’s waiting room was full of people looking all very frighteningly ill. No wonder the Doctor himself was growing sick. I started for the door of the exam room just as it opened, and a maid lead an elderly couple out. I quickly pushed past them into the exam room, followed by Lestrade. The maid followed us in, exclaiming instantly that we would have to wait our turn. Watson’s back was to me as I entered. He was standing at the wash stand scrubbing his hands. At the maid’s words, he spun around.
“Jenny, it is alright,” he said upon seeing us. “Let my next patient know it will be 10 minutes, please.”
The maid curtseyed and went back out the door, closing it behind her. Watson all but collapsed into the chair behind his desk.
“Holmes, Lestrade, what is wrong? I don’t have much time…” Watson’s voice trailed off as he fought a cough. His face was flushed and his eyes were rung with dark circles that spoke of a deep tiredness as well as illness.
I glanced at Lestrade. “Inspector, perhaps you could check the waiting room and around the building?”
Lestrade nodded, and went to do so. I locked the door behind him, thoroughly concerned about my friend.
I came back and leaned against the desk beside his chair, looking down at him. “How long have you been sick?” I asked directly.
“It is just a cough, Holmes. Why are you here? I have patients waiting for me.” Watson looked at me irritably.
I sighed. “Do you remember Michael Johnson, the deranged murder we captured this past summer?”
His hazel eyes clouded with worry. “The one I felt should have gone to an asylum. Of course. Why do you ask?”
“He escaped late last night, Watson. Lestrade found his journal in the cell in Newberry.”
Watson shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t say a thing, just continued to look at me, his hazel eyes full of concern.
“It isn’t me he is after, Watson. It is you, my good boy.”
Watson sat for a moment, and then got to his feet, stifling his cough again.
“I still have to see my patients, Holmes. You may remain in the waiting room, if you wish.”
“A moment, Watson,” I said quietly, putting a hand on his arm to stop him. I reached up to lay a hand on his forehead. He was quite warm. He sighed, realizing he couldn’t hide his illness any longer.
“It’s just a mild cold, Holmes,” he said, looking at me. “It is in the beginning stages. I am not contagous. There are people a lot sicker than me that need my help.”
“You can’t help them all, Watson,” I replied, then instantly regretted my words at the look of deep, profound sorrow that appeared on his face.
“You think I already don’t know that,” he muttered pulling away to open the door. I cursed my self for bring up his poor wife inadvertently.
“Watson,” I said desperately, “I didn’t mean-“
“I know, Holmes,” came the weary voice. Just then there was a sharp knock on the door, followed by Lestrade’s voice.
“Doctor? Mr. Holmes?”
Watson opened the door to a worried looking Lestrade. A constable stood behind him.
“I’ve been called to another case, gentlemen,” the Inspector said without preamble. “Please, keep a look out and I will check in on you tonight at Baker Street.”
I could tell Lestrade was unhappy to leave us. I twitched a smile at him. “We will take every precaution, Lestrade.”
The Inspector bade us goodbye, taking the constable with him. I turned to Watson. “Send for a locum, Watson.”
He began to protest, but I cut him off sharply.
“If Johnson tracks you here, there are way too many innocent victims in your waiting room.”
Watson looked at me with an expression of alarm. It spoke of how ill he was that he had not thought of that simple fact.
Watson called the maid, and sent her off to Bart’s with a note. That was one good thing about being down the street from the hospital - lots of doctors around when needed. Then he shooed me into the waiting room and called his next patient.
“Watson!” I protested this action, but he said that as long as we had to wait for a replacement, he could see the patients that were waiting. I sat myself down in the waiting room where I had a clear view of the door and wide window looking out at the street.
An hour later, the replacement had taken over the remaining patients, and I had bundled Watson up and led him out the back door into the alley. Relatively hidden from sight, I turned to him, pulling his revolver out of my pocket. He wordlessly took it and put it into his own pocket.
“Do you think it would be wise to go home, Holmes?” Watson asked, his voice betraying his poor state of health. I wordlessly grasped his shoulder, shaking my head.
“It is safer for Mrs. Hudson if we do not. Come, let us get you out of this blasted weather, though.” I turned and led the way hearing him sigh and follow.
For about 20 minutes, I led Watson thru the maze of London’s alleys. He followed wordlessly, focusing on not miss-stepping and stifling his cough. Finally, we reached the bolt-holed I had in mind to pocket Watson in. I helped Watson through the loose boards of the doorway into darkness. Lighting a single candle, I used it to light the other candles around the room. Then I turned to look at Watson in the light. He looked even more exhausted, and was swaying on his feet. It was just as cold in the room as outside it, unfortunately.
“Watson,” I said, moving to him, “come, sit. The couch here is comfortable enough.” I took his arm and pulled him to the couch. I took off his gloves and muffler, leaving the great coat for warmth, then pushed him down onto the couch. He didn’t even protest as I knelt to remove his shoes. His eyes drifted closed.
“I am going to take your temperature, Watson,” I said. He nodded and opened his eyes.
A look of horror crossed his face. “Holmes!” he cried out. I spun around. Michael Johnson was standing in the doorway, a pistol trained on us. I froze at the audible click the gun made as he cocked it.
“Move aside, Mr. Holmes, and I might let you live,” the deranged murder said. “It was the Doctor’s testimony that sent me to that damn place. And then I learn once I am there that he felt I was insane and should have been in an asylum.”
“It is the truth!” Watson exclaimed, pushing me aside slightly as he rose. “Why are you after me? I cannot change my medical opinion of your condition at that time. It is a matter of court record now.”
“Exactly! Exactly, exactly, exactly! I have no chance of getting released at the end of my sentence. I would have been shipped immediately to an asylum at that point, and spent the rest of my life with the deranged!”
I started at this. The man had been sentenced to spend the rest of his life at Newberry. He was never going to be released. I slowly rose to my feet, putting myself between Watson and the madman.
“Johnson, you were never going to leave Newberry,” I said slowly. “You were sentenced to hard labor for life. It was Watson’s testimony that you were not quite right mentally that kept you from swinging like you should have.” I kept talking, feeling Watson moving behind me. I was certain he was slowly withdrawing his gun from the pocket of his coat. I felt a gentle tap of his other hand upon my back. I could only hope that Watson was quick enough in his dehibilitated state to shoot Johnson before the murder could fire his own gun. I tensed then sprang forward in a dive at Johnson’s feet. He stumbled backwards, his gun going off. A second later, Watson sprung forward, hitting Johnson over his head with his pistol. They both collapsed to the floor. They rolled around for a moment, fists flying. Finally, they settled with Johnson on top. I took this opportunity to knock him soundly over the head with a candle stick.
“Watson!” I exclaimed. I quickly took Johnson’s gun from his senseless hands, and shoved it into my pocket. I pulled out a pair of derbies. Securing the murder’s hands, I turned to my friend.
Watson was starting to lever himself off the floor, coughing badly. I grabbed his arm, and hauled him to his feet. He was disheveled, but unharmed. “Thank god,” I breathed, holding onto his shoulders to stabilize him as he regained his balance. Watson tried to smile at me, but ended up in a coughing fit instead. I frowned worriedly, and sat him on the couch once again. I knelt in front of him, opening his black doctor’s bag. Rumaging around inside it, I withdrew the thermometer and handed it to the doctor. He sighed, shook it down and placed it inside his mouth.
I busied myself hauling Johnson into a chair and securing him to it. When I was done, I went back to Watson and wordlessly held my hand out. Watson handed me the thermometer.
“101.5,” I read aloud. I turned to Watson alarmed as he coughed again. “Watson, I believe you are much sicker than you allowed me to believe.”
“It is nothing a day of rest and some of Mrs. Hudson’s good cooking would not cure. What do you propose we do with this poor wretch?” Watson asked.
“Do you feel capable watching him while I fetch Lestrade?” I replied. I was quite concerned about my Boswell’s state of health, despite his words.
“He is quite restrained, is he not? I have my gun, I shall be fine.”
Nodding my head, I quickly donned my coat, muffler and gloves. Turning to Watson, I placed a gentle hand to his forehead. He felt much warmer then before. I cursed softly then went for the door.
“I will be quick, Watson. Then we will get you some medical attention.” I moved to suit my actions to my words.
It took 20 minutes to locate a constable and have him send for Lestrade. It was another 30 before I was at last able to return to the bolt-hole, Lestrade and three constables behind me. I entered and went directly to Watson, who looked even worse. He was coughing, and could not seem to stop. It was dark now, and the temperature was rapidly dropping. The constables took care of getting Johnson untied, and out of the room.
“Watson?” I asked sitting beside him and putting an arm around his heaving shoulders. “I think this is more than a mere cold.”
Watson looked at me miserably from red-rimmed eyes.
“Come on, Watson,” I said softly. “Lets get you home.” I was most concerned. He had been working himself to this state of exhaustion, and then to add an illness on top of it did not bode well. I got to my feet, and pulled him to his. I looked over at Lestrade. “I think you can handle it from here, Inspector. I am taking the doctor home.”
Lestrade nodded. “I will come get a statement from you in a day or two, Mr. Holmes. Thank you, and take care of the Doctor, won’t you?”
I nodded, leading the Doctor out the door with a hand on his arm. Once outside, Watson slipped slightly on the ice. I clutched his arm tightly to keep him upright then wrapped an arm around him to keep him upright.
His hazel eyes looked at me blurrily. “Sorry, Holmes,” he whispered.
I shook my head softly. “Watson, let me take care of you, alright? How many times have I worked myself to this state, and you have had to take care of me?”
“This is different,” his voice sounded even weaker. We rounded a corner onto a main street. A gust of bitterly cold wind hit us, and he began to cough strongly, almost doubling over with the force of it. I held onto him, looking urgently up and down the street for a cab. I saw one at the end of the street. Leaving Watson for a moment, I rushed to hail it. Once it stopped, I led Watson to it, helping him get in. I gave the driver the address to Baker Street.
Watson collapsed back against the seat. Closing his eyes, he let his head rest wearily against the side of the cab. I could hear his breathing rattling above the sound of the cab.
Once we reached Baker Street, I wasted no time in hustling Watson inside. It took a lot of effort on the Doctor’s part to make the 17 stairs. Truly frightened for him now, I settled him onto the couch.
“I am sending for a Doctor, Watson,” I told him as I stroked the fire to a roaring blaze.
“Don’t,” he whispered tiredly. “Just get my bag.”
I retrieved the black Doctor’s bag from where I had dropped it just inside of the doorway. Coming back to the couch, I pulled a chair over to sit beside him.
“Temperature first, Holmes,” Watson instructed. Impatiently, I shook the down the thermometer and then handed it to Watson. I quickly snatched it back as his shaking hand threatened to drop it. I gently placed it between his teeth. I then reached over and laid a hand gently against his neck, feeling for his pulse. It seemed fast and weak.
After a few minutes, I took back the thermometer. “102,” I read aloud.
Watson opened his tired eyes. He struggled to sit up, and I quickly assisted him, then handed him his bag. He rummaged around in it for a moment, pulling out a bottle. I wordlessly took it from him, and poured some into a spoon. Smiling wanly, he leaned forward and opened his mouth. I carefully fed him the medicine. Stopering the bottle, I sat it on the table beside the couch.
“Let me get you some more comfortable clothes, Watson,” I told him, rising to my feet. I swiftly went up to his bedroom, and returned with nightclothes and his dressing gown, as well as the pillows and blankets from his bed. I assisted him in changing, then settled him against the pillows to help ease his breathing. I covered him up. Once he was as comfortable as could be expected, I settled into the chair again. He was already asleep.
It was a long two days before Watson’s fever broke and his cough resided. I dozed in the chair beside him, and kept watch. During the night of the second day, he woke, lucid and fever free.
“Thank God,” I breathed to myself when I saw his eyes were lucid again. “Watson?” I said louder.
“Holmes,” he replied. “How long?”
“Two days,” I answered, my hand closing around his. “You gave me quite a scare.”
He smiled and then closed his eyes. “I think the worse is over, now. I am still dreadfully tired, though.”
Indeed, he was cool to the touch and his breathing sounded normal, unlabored.
“Then go back to sleep, dear fellow. Tomorrow will come soon enough.”