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Decay. Everywhere. I stood in familiar ruins, rotting wood and broken furniture scattered around me. What had happened here?
I had no way of knowing. A slow walk through the wreckage found nothing salvageable. Even the smallest item lay in two or more fragments, and most lay in much more. I doubted I could find all the pieces, much less put them back together.
At least the house had been empty. Harry, Mrs. Hudson, and Mary had not yet returned from their respective trips, and the Holmes’ had claimed some sort of tradition today. The brothers would seek me out eventually, Holmes barely hiding his worry that I could be buried in the debris. Could something have exploded?
Perhaps. That would explain the utter destruction. Walls had collapsed atop furniture, which in turn had gone through the floor. If an explosion had caused this, it had originated in Holmes’ bedroom. He would mourn the loss of the chemistry set and his indexes scattered amidst rotting wood.
“Any change?”
“Nothing.”
A faint noise caught my attention, and I looked up as a large section of wall succumbed to gravity. Dust rose as plaster crumbled. I should probably leave. I had no wish to be caught under that.
Footsteps crunched the gravel behind me, then broke into a run on sight of the house.
“Johnny!”
“Harry!”
Relief bloomed on my brother’s face, but horror shot through me as he hurried closer.
“Harry, what happened?”
He halted, confused. “What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, ‘what do I mean?’” I shot back. “Your hand is falling off!”
It traveled past his wrist as I watched, finger bones thumping to the dirt as their supporting tissue dissolved.
He merely shrugged, a distance in his manner I did not understand. “Don’t worry about it. Why is the house falling apart?”
“We need to get you medical attention,” I said instead of answering. “My bag should be around here somewhere—”
He took a large step back, avoiding the hand that tried to grab his right shoulder. “I’d like to keep that arm, thank you.”
Wait. What?
“You clapped my upper arm before you left,” he replied as if reminding me. “I lost feeling a bit later, then this started at the fingertips.” He studied the decay that dissolved his elbow. “It should stop about where you touched me,” he muttered, “if I gauge the sensation accurately.” He looked back at me, absorbing my shock. “You didn’t know someone had laid a curse on you?”
“No,” I nearly whispered. “I did that?”
“A healer with the touch of death,” he quipped, adding, “I don’t fault you, Johnny. Just wish we had discovered it before I lost my arm. There are measures we can take to protect the others.”
“What do you think he sees?”
The others. The mention mixed horror with fear. Had I touched the others this morning? Would I find them in a similar state?
“Stop panicking, Johnny. They’ll understand. And we’ll figure out who cursed you. They won’t last long against a Holmes.”
“Nothing good. He still needs the antidote. I will have it in another minute.”
I could only stare at his arm, guilt consuming me as the necrosis ate the last of the tissue around his radius and ulna and started on his humerus. For all that he wrote it off as no consequence, my touch was killing my brother. I could only hope it stopped at his arm.
“Sherlock!”
Mycroft’s alarm carried from the other end of the house, and I tore my attention away from Harry. The cry suggested something similar had befallen my friend. I needed to get there, needed to find some way to help.
Needed to avoid stepping on the body in my path.
“Mary!”
The name escaped of its own accord. She could not hear me. I had embraced her before I left this morning, and a glance found Mrs. Hudson beside her. They had not made it out the front door.
“Sherlock, stay awake!”
I forced myself to move, leaving Harry behind as I followed Mycroft’s voice to a large patch of dirt behind the ruins. I could not lose him, too, but grief tried to halt my progress as I rounded the final corner.
Holmes lay on the ground, his brother kneeling between us. Both legs had already joined Harry’s arm, but the decay had not stopped there. He would not breathe for much longer.
Mycroft looked up at my approach, grief and anger mixing in his normally unreadable expression. He alone showed no sign of a problem, though his hand firmly held his brother’s. For a moment, I could tell he intended to berate me, but a measure of his fury eased at my evident horror.
“There you are,” he rumbled. “He insisted we return as soon as he realized what had occurred. The others?”
I mutely shook my head, painfully hitting my knees beside my friend. I did not know where I had touched Holmes, but at the rate his affliction spread, I would probably find Harry next to Mrs. Hudson. Guilt split between insisting I should have stayed with him and wishing I had reached Holmes fast enough to say goodbye.
“Holmes, can you hear me?”
No response, and he stopped breathing a moment later. Mycroft bowed his head as loss rent my chest.
“Almost there.”
“Do you know who—?”
Overwhelming grief cut the question short. I had killed them. Harry. Mrs. Hudson. Holmes. I had killed them all. My touch was death.
Watery grey eyes met mine, but he needed two tries to reply, his voice impossibly choked with grief.
“Yes. I know who cursed you. They will pay, but you will need to avoid touching organic matter until they reverse it.”
I nodded, only half my attention on his words. What did removing the curse matter when everyone I loved was dead? They would not return, miraculously alive and whole again just because I could touch them.
“Do not do that, Doctor. Sherlock would never forgive himself.”
Holmes was not here. Would never be here again, and Mycroft would have no reason to stay without his brother here. I may have been a tool to reach an assassin’s true target, but they had done far more than that. Why stay here when I was alone?
“Bear with me, Watson. This will probably hurt.”
Harry had claimed to lose sensation first, but that mercy apparently did not apply to the cursed victim. A sudden, sharp pain spread beneath my hand, traveling outward from my chest. I gasped, then gagged as the skin immediately putrefied. A torn blanket wrapped around me as I fell sideways, guiding me gently to the ground before Mycroft leaned over me.
“You should not have done that, Doctor.”
I could not reply through the pain. It expanded, then strengthened, stealing my breath and sending hot agony through my chest wall. This must have been what Mrs. Hudson felt, I decided, and the knowledge provided a sort of balance. I could not bring them back, but I would feel the same pain I had inflicted on the ones I loved.
Movements twitched the blanket, catching my attention through the increasing fog. He should not touch me, could not lay that guilt on my shoulders yet again, but an attempt to move away only sparked more pain.
“I am immune to your curse,” he informed me, still doing something I could not see. “I would have preferred that wizard reverse his own work, however, rather than doing it myself.”
Himself? I wondered hazily. But Mycroft could not work magic.
His confidence said otherwise. “Sherlock did not tell you everything. I am the…”
The agony reached my center, and his voice faded to a quiet drone. Pain disappeared with the nerves, then my vision darkened. I would join the others less than five minutes after touching my own chest.
“Open your eyes, Watson.”
A voice filtered distantly through the fog. It prodded, pulling me closer.
“I do wish you did not insist on waking so slowly,” the voice continued. “Frustrating enough every morning, it is deucedly irritating when time matters.”
Something in me suggested I knew the person, but a name refused to form. Where was I?
Hinges creaked on a nearby door. “Anything?”
A pause, then the original voice sighed. “I do not know. His breathing changed a moment ago, but he has not yet responded.”
“He will.” The newcomer walked across a long, narrow room. Dishes thudded against wood. “Agar agreed he had received the correct antidote, but the poison would have taken a toll. Give him time to recover.”
I finally registered—and recognized—the hand gripping mine. Holmes, which meant Mrs. Hudson must be near the table.
That still did not tell me what had happened, however, and fear sparked when a thought recalled my dream. In what condition would I find them?
“Easy, Watson.” His other hand joined the first to cup my fingers. “You are alright and so are we. You stopped him.”
Good. I had no idea to whom he referred, but he would not lie about that. He and Mrs. Hudson were uninjured.
But what about Mary?
Dead. Right. Mary and my brother were dead and had been for years. Was Mycroft truly immune?
“Mycroft found me at the Yard,” Holmes answered, somehow gleaning a piece of my question. “You had already collapsed beside the intruder when I returned with the antidote’s ingredients.”
Intruder. Memory returned in a rush. A man had broken in while I ran an errand, and I had entered to find Mrs. Hudson captive in the sitting room. He had intended to force me to choose between them. Bile rose at what I had done instead.
“Watson!”
Hands quickly rolled me on my side, and a bowl touched the side of my mouth just before my stomach clenched. I had not known what the bottle contained, only that it held the label reserved for the most dangerous of Holmes’ many poisons. I might not have used it if I had known what it would do.
He steadied me back into the pillows when I had finished. A cloth touched my cheek, then his hand resumed its grip on mine.
“Watson?”
The man was dead, probably before I collapsed. I could not doubt that. He had died, and I had killed him in a gruesome, ungentlemanly way. Only defense of another saved me from a murder charge.
“Are you awake?”
The worry in his tone had only deepened. I should probably respond, but I could not yet look at him.
I could twitch a finger, though. Increased pressure on my hand announced the relief he would not voice.
“Open your eyes.”
He knew I was trying. I ignored him for the moment, concentrating on placing a familiar scent.
Food. A variety of foods lined the table. However long I had been asleep, Mrs. Hudson had spent the time cooking. That more than Holmes’ insistence displayed how much I had frightened them.
If my memory was accurate, I would be quite willing to never repeat the incident.
One eye finally obeyed me, then the other. His hand squeezed as I focused first on the ceiling, then on where Holmes sat beside me, Mrs. Hudson behind him.
“What have I told you about using my chemistry set?”
The worry lining Holmes’ forehead did not match the chiding words. I made no reply, studying them. They both appeared fine, thank Heaven.
“Watson?”
Right. I should answer, but each attempt to speak produced only silence. I had been breathing through my mouth, and my throat imitated a desert. I needed a drink.
Holmes’ worry increased with each failure, easing only slightly when I indicated the glass on a nearby table. He watched intently as I sipped from an offered glass.
“What—"
I could not finish the sentence, but most of his concern fell away all at once. My voice would return in a few minutes.
“How much do you remember?”
“Pieces.” I sipped between words. “Intruder. Hostage. Poison.”
He nodded. “The vial you threw contained a concentrated poison from the Americas that causes necrosis, among other things. Portions entered his mouth as well as an open wound on his chest. He would have died within minutes.”
I remembered that, had watched powerless to help due to my own pain. The vision would remain forever seared in my mind.
His hold tightened slightly. “A few drops transferred to you when you threw the vial. You started showing symptoms as the other man collapsed, but since I had not told you my plans for the day, you told Mrs. Hudson to send for Mycroft. He knew where to find me.”
Holmes would have rushed back, and his other comments indicated he had compounded the antidote himself, probably watching my condition deteriorate as he worked. I decided not to ask for details.
“How long?”
“A few hours,” he answered.
“It is noon, Doctor,” Mrs. Hudson added, “and you both need to eat.”
Mrs. Hudson set a plate on the nearest table, and a pointed look accompanied the one she placed near Holmes. I smirked, reaching to pull myself upright.
A hand on my shoulder prevented me.
“Stay down,” he ordered. “The antidote has its own side effects. Do not sit up until tomorrow.”
Irritation escaped in a huff, but I resettled against the pillows. Holmes refused to answer any more questions until I had cleared at least half my plate.
Maybe I could convince him to move his more dangerous chemicals out of easy reach. I rather doubted I wanted to win that way again.