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When I first began to feel ill, I had no time to slow down. Had I done so, perhaps the illness would not have become so severe, and yet we had no choice but to continue. Moriarty’s agents were after us again, and it was imperative that Holmes and I stay on the move. At present, we were prey.
My exhaustion had only worsened as we continued to travel, until it was increasingly difficult to stay on my feet. Pain wrenched at my muscles, especially my bad leg.
By the time the coughing struck, vicious waves of it tearing through me, I could no longer stand. My knees buckled, and I would have fallen had Holmes not dropped our bag in order to seize my arms.
“Dear me, dear me.” He cradled me to his chest, thin arms locked around me in firm support as he twisted to look around the crumbling tenements where we had taken shelter. “We cannot stop yet, my boy, for although the coughing of these other poor souls had given us a little cover, I have no doubt that there are still agents after us. We must at least reach the safe house.”
There were indeed many others coughing, both in the streets and unsteady structures that the city dwellers called home. A miasma had seeped through the city of late, following a procession of the Royals. Their very presence sickened many, and while Holmes and I are more accustomed to it than others, I had still fallen ill, most likely due to my past encounters.
“I can’t… walk,” I choked, and doubled over with another wave of coughing. I could no longer breathe easily, and my muscles had gone too weak to support me. “Just… leave me, Sherry. Please.”
“Do you really think I am such an automaton that I would abandon my friend and partner to certain death?” Holmes asked with some asperity, and perhaps even a little hurt. “Do not be absurd, Watson. I shall carry you.”
For his thin, spare frame, he is remarkably strong, and after slinging our bag over his shoulder he also lifted me in his arms without any sign of difficulty. And yet, he is an actor, and talented in concealing his true feelings. I had little doubt that he was concealing something, although whether worry over my condition or difficulty in carrying me, I could not say.
I was too ill to dwell on it, hovering on the edge of delirium without fully toppling over, aware that my perception of events was skewed but unable to affect it. I was aware of Holmes carrying me through the dark city, and of his too calm expression, and of the fact that I was feeling increasingly dazed. I briefly struggled to rouse myself, and then sank deeper into the fog.
For a time, I was aware of very little. When again my mind cleared, at least somewhat, I was coughing again. Coughing, and still being carried.
Holmes was breathing hard now, and I could feel his trembling. When I gave him a bleary, concerned look, he smiled. “It’s all right,” he said, breathless. “Nearly there.”
We were no longer anywhere that I recognized, instead inside a dark passage. Panic clutched at my chest at the shadows all around, and I tensed. Anything could be just out of sight, our enemies lurking down the passage, tentacles slithering down to seize us…
Holmes began to hum softly, still carrying me albeit at a much slower pace. The song calmed me, although it took me a moment to recognize it. It was a song that I had written for him to perform in a play, which he had set to music since that was not my area of skill. He often sang it to me after my nightmares.
We at last reached a chamber, and Holmes lay me down on soft blankets in a small, low bed. There was a lantern here, and I basked in the faint light with relief as Holmes rose to lock the door.
“Smuggling tunnels,” he said in response to my inquisitive look. “We are underneath the remnants of a church, and although the Old Ones have no fear of humanity’s forgotten gods, they consider such places ill luck.”
I knew this perfectly well, but I did not mind being told again. To listen to Holmes’ voice soothed me, and although I was no longer so afraid now that we had reached a place to rest, I desperately wished him to continue speaking to me.
He did, telling me all about his theories regarding the effect of old hallowed ground on our enemy. As he checked my pulse, bathed my face, and helped me to sip from a canteen, he whispered about his thought that perhaps those echoes of old belief might make those monsters fall ill, just as their presence had sickened me.
I did not wish to think of my own illness, but my thoughts returned to it anyway. When I had been wounded in Afghanistan, my leg torn open by a similar foul creature, I had fallen desperately ill. My fevered dreams for weeks had been full of grasping tentacles and too many eyes and crushing malice. The experience had, it seemed, left me as one of the number of humanity who are prone to falling ill after the processions where the Royals gloat over their victory.
I was a little feverish now, and wet coughs still wrenched at me. Holmes, though clearly exhausted from the great exertion of carrying me, tended to me with utmost gentleness and care. His slender hands shook, and he remained out of breath, but he lovingly sponged my face until my fever abated, and steadied me when I coughed too hard.
“We’re safe?” I finally asked when I had escaped my daze somewhat. Now that we were not fleeing and had a chance to recover, I at least felt a little better. “They cannot reach us here?”
“Well, well, for now. I fear we are never safe anywhere for long.” Holmes gave a shrug of comic resignation, a whimsical smile tugging at his lips. He stretched out his arms and rubbed his muscles, which no doubt ached. “But for the moment, yes, we are safe. And even were we not… Oh, my dear Watson. Pray never ask me to leave you behind again.”
He said no more about it, and did not need to. I knew him. I could hear it in his voice, the fear that I would resist his attempts to carry me to safety, the terror that he may not be strong enough to manage it. And, above all, the dread of being alone, that horrible dread that plagued us both but which neither of us ever voiced aloud.
“It’s all right, my dear Holmes,” I murmured weakly, fumbling for his hand. “We will not be parted.”
I was exhausted, and in desperate need of sleep, yet I said it with as much conviction as I could muster before falling prey to another coughing spell. Holmes helped me take another sip of water once it had passed, then bent and pressed a long, tender kiss to my brow. “Quite so. We shall not be parted.”
I managed a smile before I closed my eyes, letting myself drift into a comfortable doze. Many dangers lurked in the world beyond, but I was not afraid to rest. Holmes would watch over me, and once I had recovered enough to travel, we would be on our way again together.