The Wild Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Vol. 2 by Will Murray

Author:Will Murray [Murray, Will]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Odyssey Publications
Published: 2023-04-04T04:00:00+00:00

* * *

That evening, the insistent ringing of the telephone startled me out of a sound sleep. I fumbled for the instrument as my wife sat bolt upright in unwelcome surprise.

“Hello?” I shouted into the receiver. “Who is calling at this hour?”

The familiar voice of Sherlock Holmes gasped, “Watson! Come quickly! I fear that I have been poisoned.”

“Drink milk if you have it!” I told Holmes. I was soon in presentable clothes and carrying my doctor’s bag out into the night.

Fortune favored me. Finding a hansom cab not two blocks away from my home, I hired the conveyance. The sleepy driver urged his horse to Baker Street with all due dispatch.

Mrs. Hudson let me into 221b. She was as pale as a spectre.

“It is good that you’ve come, Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes is in a bad way.”

Rushing upstairs, I found Holmes sprawled upon his bed, the serpentine ring firmly on his finger and blood upon his right hand. There was not a great deal of it, but it had flowed out in ghastly strings.

“Did you drink milk?” I demanded.

“I did. Thankfully, my stomach cramps appear to be subsiding. But I fear I am poisoned.”

Bending down, I touched Holmes’s brow. It was clammy. I did not like his color.

“If I did not know better,” he said weakly, “I would think that I was bitten by an Egyptian cobra.”

Opening my bag, I took out a stethoscope and listened to his heart. It was pounding. His pulse was not steady. Quickly mixing a bicarbonate of soda, I gave this to my dear friend. He downed the mixture rapidly, then lay back on his pillow, handing me the empty glass.

“I see you have not removed the ring.”

“I lacked the strength. It was either remove the ring or summon you. I thought your assistance was more urgent, the damage being done.”

Mrs. Hudson brought in a wash bowl and cloth, and I removed the ring, which slid off Holmes’s blood-slickened finger without resistance. Washing the digits, I was shocked to discover three pinpricks, which bled only slightly.

Applying alcohol, I watched Holmes’s reaction. He winced. The alcohol stung. But that was a good sign.

“Describe your symptoms,” I invited, as I immobilized the affected arm with bandages and a makeshift splint.

As Holmes did so, I was struck by how similar the sensations were to snakebite, particularly numbness in the bitten hand.

“I would take you to hospital,” I told him, “but I fear too much movement would speed up the transport of whatever courses through your veins. It is best that you lie still whilst I observe you.”

I was deep in my professional mode of thinking, and so was concerned with the immediate issue. But in the back of the mind there came a creeping sensation of dread, for I feared that Sherlock Holmes was not long for this world. An hour would tell the tale, possibly less.

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