Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a long-suffering
woman. Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at all hours by
throngs of singular and often undesirable characters but her remarkable
lodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity in his life which must
have sorely tried her patience. His incredible untidiness, his
addiction to music at strange hours, his occasional revolver practice
within doors, his weird and often malodorous scientific experiments,
and the atmosphere of violence and danger which hung around him made
him the very worst tenant in London. On the other hand, his payments
were princely. I have no doubt that the house might have been purchased
at the price which Holmes paid for his rooms during the years that I
was with him.
The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared to
interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem. She
was fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentleness and courtesy
in his dealings with women. He disliked and distrusted the sex, but he
was always a chivalrous opponent. Knowing how genuine was her regard
for him, I listened earnestly to her story when she came to my rooms in
the second year of my married life and told me of the sad condition to
which my poor friend was reduced.
“He’s dying, Dr. Watson,” said she. “For three days he has been
sinking, and I doubt if he will last the day. He would not let me get a
doctor. This morning when I saw his bones sticking out of his face and
his great bright eyes looking at me I could stand no more of it. ‘With
your leave or without it, Mr. Holmes, I am going for a doctor this very
hour,’ said I. ‘Let it be Watson, then,’ said he. I wouldn’t waste an
hour in coming to him, sir, or you may not see him alive.”
I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his illness. I need not say
that I rushed for my coat and my hat. As we drove back I asked for the
details.
“There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been working at a case
down at Rotherhithe, in an alley near the river, and he has brought
this illness back with him. He took to his bed on Wednesday afternoon
and has never moved since. For these three days neither food nor drink
has passed his lips.”
“Good God! Why did you not call in a doctor?”
“He wouldn’t have it, sir. You know how masterful he is. I didn’t dare
to disobey him. But he’s not long for this world, as you’ll see for
yourself the moment that you set eyes on him.”
He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim light of a foggy
November day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it was that gaunt,
wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent a chill to my heart.
His eyes had the brightness of fever, there was a hectic flush upon
either cheek, and dark crusts clung to his lips; the thin hands upon
the coverlet twitched incessantly, his voice was croaking and
spasmodic. He lay listlessly as I entered the room, but the sight of me
brought a gleam of recognition to his eyes.
“Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days,” said he in a
feeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness of manner.
“My dear fellow!” I cried, approaching him.
“Stand back! Stand right back!” said he with the sharp imperiousness
which I had associated only with moments of crisis. “If you approach
me, Watson, I shall order you out of the house.”
“But why?”
“Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?”
Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right. He was more masterful than ever. It was
pitiful, however, to see his exhaustion.
“I only wished to help,” I explained.
“Exactly! You will help best by doing what you are told.”
“Certainly, Holmes.”
He relaxed the austerity of his manner.
“You are not angry?” he asked, gasping for breath.
Poor devil, how could I be angry when I saw him lying in such a plight
before me?
“It’s for your own sake, Watson,” he croaked.
“For _my_ sake?”
“I know what is the matter with me. It is a coolie disease from
Sumatra—a thing that the Dutch know more about than we, though they
have made little of it up to date. One thing only is certain. It is
infallibly deadly, and it is horribly contagious.”
He spoke now with a feverish energy, the long hands twitching and
jerking as he motioned me away.
“Contagious by touch, Watson—that’s it, by touch. Keep your distance
and all is well.”
“Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consideration weighs
with me of an instant? It would not affect me in the case of a
stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty to so
old a friend?”
Again I advanced, but he repulsed me with a look of furious anger.
“If you will stand there I will talk. If you do not you must leave the
room.”
I have so deep a respect for the extraordinary qualities of Holmes that
I have always deferred to his wishes, even when I least understood
them. But now all my professional instincts were aroused. Let him be my
master elsewhere, I at least was his in a sick room.
“Holmes,” said I, “you are not yourself. A sick man is but a child, and
so I will treat you. Whether you like it or not, I will examine your
symptoms and treat you for them.”
He looked at me with venomous eyes.
“If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at least have
someone in whom I have confidence,” said he.
“Then you have none in me?”
“In your friendship, certainly. But facts are facts, Watson, and, after
all, you are only a general practitioner with very limited experience
and mediocre qualifications. It is painful to have to say these things,
but you leave me no choice.”