Sherlock Holmes- A Study in Blood

Chapter 20

He was startled by a hand covering his own.  He looked up to see Watson give him a small, understanding smile.  "I know you were only doing what you thought was best.  For all of us.  And I know there is nothing you wouldn't do for my daughter.  Had I been in my right mind, I never would have reacted the way I did."

They were silent for a moment before Holmes cleared his throat and said, "Yes, well.  How do you feel now?"

Watson sighed wearily.  "My leg is acting up, which is just brilliant.  Exactly what I need."

"I'll wager you're exhausted."

Watson hummed his reply when, without warning, Holmes shot out his hand to feel Watson's brow.

"Holmes, what in God's name are you doing?" he demanded, attempting to pull away, but Holmes put his other hand to the doctor's chest to keep him still.

"Checking your temperature, old boy.  Now behave and stop talking."

Holmes pressed the back of his hand to Watson's forehead, and his wrist to each cheek, taking note of the flush of his skin.  "Slight fever," he concluded at last.  "Easily treatable."

Watson rolled his eyes.  "Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?"

Holmes pulled himself up in a dignified, albeit in his typically over dramatic manner, and answered, "Indeed, Doctor."

Watson's laugh soon turned into a coughing fit.  When he pulled his fist away, he sighed in relief.  "No blood.  Thank God."

Holmes' features darkened.  "Just how often have you been coughing up blood, Watson?"

"Weeks, I suppose," he hedged, attempting to shrug off the troubling look of concern in his friend's calculating stare.  "It's nothing, Holmes.  Just an irritation."

In an instant, Holmes' concern was replaced with a smile.  "Of course, Watson.  Of course."  Rising then to his feet, he said, "I must see to my wife and ensure Nanny has your daughter well in hand.  If you'll both excuse me."

Irene met her husband as she was coming up the stairs.  He caught her upper arm and pulled her close.  "A word, Miss Adler."

Irene drew herself up straighter, her expression darkening.  "Then it's true?"

Holmes nodded.  "I'm afraid the past has returned to haunt us, my dear."

Her pretty mouth set in a tight line, she gripped his hand and slipped into Watson's nearby room, shutting the door soundly behind them.

Rubbing a hand along the back of his neck, Holmes admitted, "It's worse than I feared."

"What do you mean?"

"Watson's illness.  It is no ordinary contagion.  It was by design."  He began to pace the short distance from the bed to the window.  "How could I not have seen it?  How could I have been so careless?  I was so preoccupied in my concern for Mary, I neglected to see he'd given Watson the same strain of tuberculosis he used to infect you."

"Not entirely."

"Pardon?"

"Not entirely the same," she said, placing herself in his path and forcing him to look at her. "Think, Sherlock.  John was ill a month ago now, and though his symptoms linger, I was immediately sent to a sanatorium.  Whatever he's done to John, it's not the same as what he did to me."

"You're right," Holmes sighed.  "Of course, you're right."

Irene placed her hands on either side of her husband's scruffy face.  His dark eyes settled on her dear features.  "Darling, you're letting your emotions get the best of you.  Use that famous brain of yours and think!  You're the only one who can help John."

Taking a deep breath, Holmes closed his eyes and began to sift through memories of the past month, searching for anything he may have missed.  There were signs.  So many symptoms Watson had tried to hide that Holmes saw but did not truly notice, wrapped up as he had been in his concern for and need to protect Mary.

Insomnia.  Fatigue.  Headaches.  Increased pain and weakness in his bad leg.  Tremors.  And the blood.  Dear Lord, the blood!  Frequent nosebleeds and the coughing had left at least three of the doctor's handkerchiefs stained with a spattering of scarlet.

What had changed?  Where had this begun?

The tea?

No.  Mrs. Hudson was far too particular.  She would notice if her tea had been tampered with.  And Moriarty was highly unlikely to use the same methods twice.

A toxin that absorbed through one's skin?  Perhaps in the ink?

No.  Watson cared too much for his appearance and was altogether too neat to allow for ink to stain his life-saving hands.

Images flashed through his mind's eye more quickly than the average man could find sense in.

Mary's toys.  Firewood.  Vials of medicine.  Newspaper. Whiskey...

"Tobacco."

Irene's finely arched eyebrows rose in anticipation of his explanation.

Stepping away from his wife, Holmes went directly to Watson's chest of drawers and picked up the tin of tobacco.  "This is not his typical brand of choice. Eight months ago, he brought this home instead.  I'm afraid he's been using it ever since."

"The more he smoked, the more poison he ingested.  The symptoms don't appear for months, and by then it's too late."

Holmes's expression grew dark as he clenched a white knuckled fist around the tin box.  "No, not too late.  The game, my dear, is on."