Bedside Manner
Oct. 30th, 2010 08:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
capt_facepalmRating: PG-13
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John H. Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Hopkins (others mentioned)
Summary: Response to Challenge 015 at
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watsons_woes (required text has been emboldened; only in regards to font, alas!)Warnings: Vague summary; no slash
Word Count: 1750
Author's Notes:
- In my first encounter with "A Study in Scarlet" I was charmed to read that Watson kept "a bull pup." Of course, because I like dogs, I took it literally at the time. Since then, further research revealed that keeping a bull pup could also mean having a short temper, or it could be an allusion to having a handgun. Now that I am writing fan fiction, artistic license allows me to give Watson all three. (This diatribe has very little bearing on the story you are about to read.)
- Beta supplied by the long-suffering, and gracious
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med_cat. Any remaining errors result from my inability to accept good advice.
Tuesday March 15 1881
Early morning hours
While gentle spring rain fell throughout the London night, battles on two fronts raged within the smallest bedroom on the top floor of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes and Mrs. Hudson were pitted against the fever which ravaged Dr. John Watson, and the doctor was battling demons of his own.
Four days ago, the doctor retired early, complaining of a headache. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until he failed to appear for breakfast the next day. Let him sleep, advised Mrs. Hudson, she would let the bull pup out for his morning business.
When Watson still remained absent at afternoon tea, the housekeeper suggested that Holmes pop up and make sure the doctor was well. Instead, Holmes found his flatmate quite ill in the throes of a fever. Inconvenient somewhat; unpleasant certainly, but nothing out of the ordinary. The weary doctor apologised for the inconvenience he was causing when they brought him his meal, but advised them to stay away due to the possibility of contagion.
By the third day, his fever progressed from mild delirium to belligerent hallucinations and Watson’s state of nervous agitation prevented him from keeping even simple liquids down. Between the nausea and bouts of the sweats, he was dangerously close to dehydration but could not be calmed down enough to take fluids. Mrs. Hudson had given up trying on her own and enlisted Holmes' assistance. She knew from experience that there would be difficult times ahead.
Just when they thought the doctor had finally settled, Watson sat bolt upright again, straining and calling out in some exotic, foreign tongue, lashing out with both arms, thrashing against some unseen adversary.
Holmes wrestled the doctor back to the mattress where he laid panting, eyes wide yet unseeing, his skeletal chest heaving, showing the contours of every bone through his skin, revealing even the scar tissue where once broken ribs had knitted together slightly askew.
On the floor, the little dog was distressed and getting underfoot. Holmes roughly shoved the scruffy mongrel aside with his foot and a snarl of his own. Who in their right mind would give a helpless puppy to an ailing man, he wondered.
Again Watson uttered words in that foreign language. Was it Hindoostani, or perhaps one of the tribal languages of the Afghanis? This time it sounded like begging; piteous and pleading. Then once more, the doctor resumed his attack, arching his back, and lashing out with the remainder of his diminishing strength, desperate to break free.
Holmes had run out of patience long before now. He found a belt in the wardrobe and made a loop. Next, he caught Watson’s good arm, secured the loop around his wrist, and tied the loose end to the bedpost. Mrs. Hudson grabbed the doctor’s free arm with both hands and held him in place while the detective readied a syringe with a generous dose of morphine.
The doctor’s slender arms belied the vigour with which he resisted. There seemed hardly enough muscle for a safe injection. Holmes inserted the needle with the skill of an experienced practitioner, but before he could depress the plunger, the doctor tore his arm away with a jerk, his flesh ripping from where the needle had penetrated; the syringe flying across the room.
Now reacting to the pain, the doctor was fighting back in earnest. A wild flail of his elbow struck Mrs. Hudson on the cheek, knocking her to the floor. Holmes, in desperation, planted his palm on the jagged scar tissue of the doctor’s shoulder, and applying his full weight against it, forced the doctor back to the mattress with an agonised scream.
“Restrain his arm again, Mrs Hudson! Sit on him this time if you have to!”
Tears crowded her eyes as Mrs. Hudson held tight for dear life. Holmes, the syringe once again loaded with the powerful sedative, drove one of his knuckles sharply into the nexus of the wounded shoulder. Watson gasped and went completely rigid. Holmes reapplied the needle and successfully depressed the plunger.
Within seconds the doctor relented with a heart-rending sob. He tried to curl up as the drug’s effects began to take hold but his restrained arm made that impossible. He lay trembling on his back, his panting gradually subsiding, staring unseeing at the ceiling, silent tears leaving shining trails from his eyes to his pillow.
“I’m sorry Mrs Hudson,” said Holmes bitterly, “We were not meant to be nursemaids! If I had known that he was deteriorating instead of recovering, I would never have arranged lodgings with him!”
He never saw it coming. But he felt it long after Mrs. Hudson’s tirade ended. The slap rattled his teeth and nearly unseated him from the edge of the doctor’s bed.
“Mister Holmes!” the diminutive woman exclaimed, “How dare you say such a thing? That man has been a better friend to you than you deserve! It is not his fault that he has fallen ill! Can you not see how difficult it is for him to become a civilian again?
“Isn’t it obvious that he has had a bad war, and isn’t it the army’s fault that he is on his own with no one to care for him except us? Once they determined he was no longer of use to them, they just let him go! The army released him too soon; they washed their hands of him, and cut him loose to fend for himself before he was ready. It’s what they do to so many of their good young men!”
She burst into tears anew as she gathered up the soiled bed linens and fled down the stairs. Holmes began to get the inkling that Mrs. Hudson’s reactionary outburst was not entirely about John Watson, but emotions were something he understood poorly at best. With the doctor so naturally gifted in that regard, even in the short time he knew him, Holmes found himself relying on him more and more for that expertise.
“Watson, you must recover! You are useless to me like this!”
A whimper rose from the corner of the room. Holmes retrieved the cowering pup from beneath the dresser and placed him on the bed. It scampered up to Watson’s side and nudged insistently at the doctor’s arm. Gradually, Watson’s hand moved over to rest on the pup’s head. Holmes sighed; even the dog had a better understanding of compassion than he did.
.oOOo.
Twenty years later.
Charing Cross Hospital.
A different medical crisis.
John Watson lay quietly in the corner bed of the casualty ward, struck down, by some blackguard for the sake of the few shillings in his pockets. How long he had lain in the alley was unknown, and the only man who could correctly deduce that fact was more concerned with his friend’s current state, than with the misadventure which brought him there in the first place. Sherlock Holmes sat in a chair at Watson’s bedside, holding his friend’s unresponsive hand.
The nurses came and went.
The doctors came and went.
Days came and went.
They were now into the second week and the once steady stream of visitors and well-wishers had trickled to only a select few. Mrs. Hudson, of course, ignored the ache of her rheumatism and appeared faithfully each morning, giving Holmes a few hours of respite to go home to rest and refresh. Inspector Lestrade was the only other visitor to drop by every day without fail on his way home from work, going far out of his way to do so. The inspector had been in earlier and stayed for nearly an hour that evening.
Holmes looked up as the staff doctor appeared again with two nurses, an orderly, and a wheeled tray; its contents obscured by the sheet which lay folded on top. Was it that time again? Did another day pass already?
“I’m afraid I will have to ask you to step out, Mister Holmes. It is time for his meal. It will take a while, but we will let you know when you can return,” the doctor added kindly.
The nurse positioned the privacy screen but not before Holmes caught sight of the uncovered tray containing the feeding tube and other related apparatus. He shuddered and tried not to think about the intrusive procedure as he wandered vaguely towards the exit.
“Mister Holmes?” enquired a familiar voice.
The detective looked up to recognise Inspector Stanley Hopkins walking towards him.
“Oh, hullo, Hopkins,” said Holmes without enthusiasm. “Did you draw the short straw tonight?”
“I do beg your pardon, Mister Holmes,” the inspector replied hotly, “I am under no obligation to be here other than my own concern for Doctor Watson’s well-being. He is my friend too, you know.”
Holmes did not reply other than to resume his journey toward the exit.
“You cannot see him now at any rate. His doctor and associated minions are with him; they will be at least half an hour. Join me outside for a smoke, if you wish,” said Holmes by way of an apology.
“So, has there been any change?” enquired the young inspector, holding the door for the detective.
“None,” replied Holmes, “I thought he had grasped my hand yesterday, no, two days ago, but there has been no repetition of that activity. His doctor concluded it was an involuntary muscle spasm, or a convulsion. I’m not sure I know the difference anymore.”
Holmes opened his silver case to offer Hopkins a cigarette only to find it empty. When had he smoked the last one, he wondered.
“Here, Mister Holmes,” offered the inspector, “Please have one of mine.”
They smoked in silence; their conversation unnecessary. Eventually, a nurse found them and informed Holmes that they were finished for the time being. Both men roused themselves and returned to the familiar ward.
Doctor Watson was much the same as when Holmes left him except for a trace of blood around his left nostril. Hopkins watched with pity as the detective wet his handkerchief with water from the pitcher and proceeded to gently wipe away the remaining evidence of the hospital staff’s handiwork. Watson made no move or sound.
“Thank you for dropping by, Hopkins,” said Holmes quietly, as a means of dismissal.
“Goodnight, Mister Holmes…” was the reply and his footsteps retreated back down the corridor.
Holmes resumed his seat by the doctor’s side and once again picked up the pale, limp hand, hoping for some sign of response.
“Watson, you simply must recover. I am useless when you’re like this.”
Please leave a comment!
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no subject
Date: 2010-11-02 02:07 am (UTC)Nit-picking: I don't think you should put quotation marks around "bull pup" and if you do, they should still be double-quotes.
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Date: 2010-11-02 02:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-02 06:44 am (UTC)And fixed as per your suggestion.
(Don't tell Arthur I "fixed" the "bull pup"!)
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Date: 2010-11-02 06:45 am (UTC)I won't...though they do say that misery loves company...
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Date: 2010-11-02 04:02 am (UTC)Ari
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Date: 2010-11-08 02:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-04 08:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-08 02:28 am (UTC)Holmes IS lost without his Boswell.
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Date: 2010-11-06 01:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-08 02:34 am (UTC)(But it fits into the middle of my longer story arc, so... )
Thank you for commenting!
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Date: 2010-11-06 06:33 pm (UTC)OMG, it tore an involuntary angstful moan from me, as powerful as it was.
*sniffles*
WAKE UP, WATSON!!
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Date: 2010-11-08 02:25 am (UTC)Thanks for commenting!
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Date: 2010-11-07 04:57 am (UTC)I love the juxtoposition of these two scenes. Wonderful progression. And, of course, that glimpse of Tender!Holmes got me right in the ticker. Ouch!
(I must be a masochist. :D)
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Date: 2010-11-08 02:42 am (UTC)I was hoping this one didn't seem too contrived. I had a hard time wrestling with my muse this time. Poor Holmes still doesn't understand much more than he misses his friend.
Thank you for the lovely compliments!
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Date: 2010-11-10 04:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-20 01:10 pm (UTC)(Rebellious muse absolutely refused writing Watson hearing those words from Holmes. WTHeck, Muse, must you always test the limits, and bend the rules?)
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Date: 2010-11-15 04:20 am (UTC)In a good way.
What excellent wordplay and turn around. I love Holmes in a situation where he's utterly inept and uncomfortable but tries all the same. And, oh Lord, the outburst with Mrs. Hudson was perfect. He would say something like that, off-handed, not meaning it one hundred percent and she WOULD react that way.
:) Excellent.
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Date: 2010-11-20 01:28 pm (UTC)Scene One is early Holmes, and he has no filter. He absolutely meant those words. He would rather be anywhere other than attending an invalid. He does not depend on anyone and prefers that nobody depends on him. He is impatient and perfectly willing to drug his new flatmate into oblivion to solve the problem. Nor does he understand Mrs. Hudson’s reaction. (YAY, Mrs. Hudson… she was fun to write!) Holmes is a selfish man.
Scene Two is twenty years later and perhaps Holmes has learned some things in that time. He is still a berk towards other people (his attitude toward Hopkins, and disparaging remarks about the medical staff who are nothing but kind to him), and now finds himself wishing for any response from Watson. he is still selfish, but at least now, Watson actually matters to him.
Poor Watson! Doesn’t get to do much in this story, does he? Thanks again!
no subject
Date: 2010-11-20 05:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-22 02:13 am (UTC)Although sometimes I get concerned that I am not being obvious enough, I'm gratified to think that the readership here is sophisticated enough to read between the lines. Thank you for commenting!
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Date: 2010-11-24 07:25 am (UTC)The transition from Holmes knowing less about comfort and companionship than a puppy to his dutiful vigil at Watson's side was so wonderfully captured. This is so well written... powerful imagery and lovely structure. I also love the contributions of the minor characters (Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Hopkins). It is nice to see the support that Watson (and Holmes too) gets from the others. You use each character so deftly and really bring each scene to life!
(I'll comment on the chapters to your story later. They are wonderful... but it is bedtime!)
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Date: 2010-11-24 11:53 pm (UTC)Mrs. Hudson gets to illustrate early Holmes total insensitivity. Of course she has provides an example of forgiveness because she is still around, helping Holmes 20 years later. Poor Hopkins is used to show how Holmes is affected by Watson’s condition, and is treated shabbily. Lestrade doesn’t get to do much except show loyalty; whether he is there only for Watson, or if he is there to support Holmes too, is left to the reader’s interpretation. Even the hospital staff treat Holmes with kindness which is not returned. But Holmes realises that he would be a total misanthrope if it were not for Watson’s influence.
(PS Never underestimate a puppy’s capacity for comfort and companionship. Someone gave that little dog to Watson for a reason!)
Thank you for commenting!
no subject
Date: 2010-11-30 04:09 am (UTC)You do such good job of creating balance in your writing. As I said before, your structure is fantastic. Your writing has nice flow and just the right amount of detail before dropping off to leave things to the reader (Lestrade, Hopkins and other characters). I love how much thought you put into your writing (the fact that Mrs. Hudson sticks around means something without the need to state it outright)! I love this story that you've written!
(PS I just visited relatives that recently acquired a new puppy. It was a glorious visit! The powers of youthful canines are, indeed, potent...)
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Date: 2010-12-01 12:42 am (UTC)I just love other people's puppies!
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Date: 2011-01-17 07:21 am (UTC)Ow. That was just so...ow. In the good kind of ow way. I particularly liked contrast between early Holmes' words (raw, unfiltered, deeply uncomfortable) and his actions (doing what was necessary to address the problem, then going above and beyond with putting the puppy on the bed.) Really nice.
And definitely ow. Yeah.
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Date: 2011-01-18 02:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-29 02:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-31 09:58 pm (UTC)I am coming to the realisation that I too like this story. Moreso now than when I first wrote it.
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Date: 2012-02-09 03:48 pm (UTC)Was Holmes here injecting Watson into the muscle? If so, well done. A lot of fic writers describe Holmes injecting drugs intravenously (I've done it m'self) but I think that he would have more likely absorbed his cocaine via skin popping. IV drug use is more recent.
no subject
Date: 2012-02-09 04:21 pm (UTC)As for morphine, it was traditionally an inter-muscular injection, so all Holmes needed to do is get Watson to remain still enough so he can find a good jab site.