For All Our Sakes

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

Watson

I had been seated in the chair next to Holmes's hospital bed for what was beginning to feel like an eternity.

After we had run out the back door of Crawford's house, I rushed to the aid of the wounded police constable, whose name I learned later was Ernest Lawrence, and momentarily forgot about Holmes. Even when I realised that he was gone, I could not leave poor Lawrence—there were no other doctors there who could tend to him. As the ambulance arrived for the wounded constable, Lestrade returned to inform me that Patterson had Crawford and Cauldwell in custody, and that Duncan was taking Holmes to Charing Cross Hospital.

I hailed a hansom and followed the ambulance to the hospital, managing in one way or another to gain access to Holmes's room.

I am afraid that I grew hot enough under the collar during this arduous process that I believe a few of the staff thought I ought to be sent to the mental ward. It was fortunate that one of the doctors was an old friend of mine from medical school. I agreed to allow him to look at my arm—and I must confess it probably did need attention again, as I had used it far more than I ought to have—then he let me into Holmes's room.

Dr. Livingston, who was treating Holmes, had just finished putting in stitches in Holmes's shoulder when I entered. He informed me that Holmes would likely be staying for up to a week to recover his strength, and only then would he be released into my care.

That was about seven hours ago now. Dr. Livingston and two nurses had tried to convince me to go home for the night, but I refused to be moved. I knew how much Holmes hated hospitals, and it was very likely he would be upset and disoriented when he awakened.

I stared down at my friend. His face was still awfully pale and he looked exhausted. His thin chest shuddered a little as it rose and fell with every breath. He gave a convulsive shiver. I pulled the blankets up higher over him, and checked his pulse. That, at least, seemed to have improved surprisingly well. It was still a little weak, but as long as I kept him drinking plenty of fluids and watched his shoulder for signs of infection, it looked like he should be able to recover quite well.

After another twenty minutes, my limbs were stiff enough that I decided to stand up and stretch. I paced around the bed, and towards the small window. Pushing the curtain aside, I stared out at the darkened street. Two gas lamps could be seen from my position, and from their light I watched as the figure of a man drunkenly stumbled down the street and up to the front of one of the houses. The door opened, spilling light out onto the street, and a woman—presumably his wife—dragged him inside.

"Watson?"

I started when I heard Holmes's voice from behind me, quiet from weakness and disuse.

I turned around to face him. "Hello, Holmes. It's good to finally see you awake."

He grunted in reply, and closed his eyes. After a few seconds he suddenly opened them again. "What am I doing in a hospital?" he queried irritably.

I refrained from rolling my eyes and returned to my seat. "You have been rather seriously injured in the last couple of days, I'm afraid."

"Nonsense," he replied, using an arm in an attempt to sit up . "I am perfectly fine." He again struggled to sit up, and again failed. "When can I leave?"

I smiled a little sadly and shook my head. "It'll be a few days in all likelihood, but I promise I shall have you out of here as soon as I can."

"Fine," he replied, closing his eyes again. "I am holding you to that," he added in a slurred mumble. His breathing slowed and returned to a steadier rhythm as he drifted back to sleep.