Nicholas: Pretty little one-shot about the last few moments of Doc Holiday. Please read and review!!!
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't claim to, don't sue me.
Rating: T...language...death...morbidness...
"Mother Mary of Jesus Christ the Nazarene! Wyatt, if you don't put that blasted noise-maker down this instant, I swear I will get up out of this bed and beat you with my walking stick and relieve you of it myself." John Henry "Doc" Holiday was propped up in bed with a mass of pillows and currently was writing a letter. He would have had a bit more ease at that task if one Wyatt Earp wasn't playing a harmonica by his doorway—and badly, at that.
Wyatt smiled a moment before respectfully pocketing the cumbersome organ. "How's your head?"
"Much worse thanks to you and your dazzling display of decadent talent." The dentist really was a master of sarcasm.
"Some people ain't so multi-talented as you, John."
Doc looked up from his writing and the stupid pen that was just as cooperative right now as Wyatt could be with a shot of whiskey and a poker hand; which is about as helpful as a mad bull most times. "You always play such sad tunes. Well, you attempt to play sad tunes. Forgive me if I prefer the screeching of nails on glass."
For a moment, Wyatt felt familiar anger rise in his stomach. Doc always did that; made him feel like he wanted to knock the other's head against the floor a few times for good measure, and it was a tease because Wyatt knew he wouldn't be able to if he tried. Then it passed and Wyatt stood and cracked his back stiffly. "What are you writing anyway?"
"My last will and testament," Doc stated wryly, once more looking at the document in his lap.
"Now, Doc…that ain't funny."
"It's not meant to be." No glance up or light-hearted laugh to put Wyatt at ease. "I asked you here to sign as a witness when I'm done, not to imitate the screams of the damned."
Wyatt pulled his chair from the doorway to the bedside and sat down, more grave now. He looked up at his friend and winced as his eyes finally made the realization of how sickly pale Doc's skin was. He hadn't thought it was possible for Doc to be near death. Perhaps it was because of when he'd pretended he was about to die, but instead went to kill Ringo. Wyatt wanted to believe that he was playing at the same thing now, but that was a thin hope.
"You're being morbid," he said at length.
"No, I'm being prepared, friend." Didn't even look up or stop writing.
"You could get better…You already look better. You're sitting up in bed, that's a start, right?"
"Fuck, Wyatt…"
After a pause, Doc looked up at the lawman with a smile and a bit of sadness in his reddened eyes. "Please don't try and say that you have lied to yourself to that extent." The dentist gave a quiet, airy chuckle. "Wyatt, the truth of it is, I forced myself up so that I could write this. There's got to be a plethora of pillows holding my back straight right now. You're lucky I have any energy at all tonight, really."
Looking at him, Wyatt saw that it was true. Doc's shirt was hanging loose on the poor man's thin, frail form. He'd always been sickly like this, but now it was just more so. "No, John, look—"
"Wyatt Berry Stapp Earp!" The abruptness—the sharpness—immediately silenced Wyatt. "You are not an idiot." Doc annunciated every word independently to make sure it got through. "Take my hand, feel it."
Wyatt's first impulse when Holiday reached out a thin, bony, pale hand was to look away. It seemed as though some one had taken a skeleton and stretched white leather over it. Hesitantly, Wyatt took his hand.
"You're hot," he commented immediately. That was unexpected. In truth, Wyatt had expected him to be cold and clammy and…well, not warm. Still, Doc was a bit hotter than he should have been.
"A bit of fever," Doc stated indifferently. "It'll get higher or lower tonight, and I just get to let it have its way with me."
"Shit." Wyatt still attempted to findsomething to be a good sign. "You haven't been coughing," he tried, weakly.
"For the last five minutes."
And finally Doc laughed out loud. It was a raspy, harsh sound and it almost hurt to hear it. Of course, that's what triggered it. As he was laughing, he lost his breath for a moment and choked. A fit of coughing erupted from his throat and his entire body suddenly jerked up; consequently his pen and will slid off the bed.
Wyatt jumped back ever so slightly at the abruptness of it. He quickly found Doc's handkerchief—which had been left on the nightstand to keep his hands free—and put it in the dentist's hand. Doc barely noticed it at first. He bent a bit at the chest and his coughs grew into gags and retches. Hesitantly, Wyatt put a hand on his friend's back. He could feel the short, insufficient breaths force their way in and out while Doc tried to inhale smoothly.
It lasted too long. Wyatt thought that Doc was really about to die right then. Coughing, hacking and unable to get enough air; but Doc knew better. God wanted him to suffer just a bit more. He deserved it: things he's done, thing's he's stolen, people he's killed. So Doc waited patiently for the end of this particularly prolonged fit; and he reached over and grabbed Wyatt's arm as tightly as he could manage—which wasn't too tightly at all.
When it finally did pass and Doc took away the cloth he'd had pressed so firmly to his mouth, there was a lot of a curiously red liquid now staining the dull white fabric. A little blood dribbled down Doc's lip, so he slowly wiped at it with the handkerchief.
"I'm dying, Wyatt," he muttered. He was so tired all of the sudden; and his chest felt like he'd been hit by a train. With a sigh, he tossed himself back down into the many pillows behind him.
Wyatt opened his mouth to say something, but his jaw just fell slack. After a moment, he closed his mouth, nodded resignedly, and closed his eyes.
Once the excitement had officially passed, Wyatt picked up Doc's paper and pen and put them on the nightstand. Then he adjusted Doc's pillows, tossing some to the side so that he could lie comfortably. By now, the dentist was about half-unconscious.
"Wyatt, will you do me a favor?" Doc's voice was strained more than usual now. That episode had taken a lot out of him.
"Of course. Anything."
"Take a hammer to that instrument of yours."
Wyatt had already (finally) gone from the sanatorium. Even though Doc had told him, practically demanded that he depart, the chair now looked very empty. Doc held the pamphlet in his hand, but didn't have the will nor strength to lift it to read it except the title: My Friend Doc Holiday.
Doc smirked lightly and stared up at the bland, white ceiling that was shadowed as it had been the day before and the day before that. The same nurse walked past as always walked past at this time. That same numbness in his body, the same pounding in his head. It was all so boring and so regular that Doc would have asked for a pistol to his forehead soon.
For the longest while, Doc stared at the same spot on the ceiling, wondering if it just might change if he looked long enough. It didn't. Then he sighed and closed his eyes—the sigh wasn't exactly relaxing or long. He felt his breath once more coming harder and he expected another coughing fit, but nothing of that sort came.
What was so strange? Doc felt lighter and suddenly his head pounded less. He looked down at his body and realized that he wasn't feeling it at all. He couldn't move. Now that was definitely odd.
His eyes fell on his feet that stuck up a bit from the sheet and he found a quizzical thought waiting for him there. He looked at the pathetic, underused, purplish toes. A breath that was supposed to be a laugh flew out of his damaged lungs. Who would have thought that Doc Holiday—John Henry "Doc" Holiday—one of the fastest draws in Arizona and Texas combined, would die in bed with his boots off?
Doc managed another little laugh and laid his head back down on his pillow. "This is funny," he muttered with the last breath he could manage.