Vampyre
By ElenaC

Prologue

My breath sounded overly loud in the small, dark room. Amidst my worry and confusion, a corner of my mind that had always been attuned to my friend noticed that I could no longer hear Holmes' breath, and I had no idea when it had stopped – when it all began, or only a few minutes ago.

The skin beneath my hands, when I finally was close enough to touch, was cold. It warmed slightly to my touch, then chilled again. Like a dead man's.

He raised his head at my touch. "Let me go, Watson," he whispered, a black, slim shape in the gloom, eyes glinting in what little light there was. Or were they glowing?

"No."

He shuddered. "I shall… harm you if you don't."

I looked at the metallic shine of the manacle around his left arm that attached him to a lamp fastening in the wall, praying both would hold. I had no idea how strong he would grow, or how fast. All I knew was that I could not allow him to leave this room. Who knew what might happen out there, to him or to others?

"You won't kill me," I repeated, surprised at the calm in my voice but not at the words I said. "That's all that matters."

He groaned. "I can smell you, Watson. It's getting harder to resist… Heavens, I'm so hungry."

I moved closer to him, eliciting another groan, and used my free hand to undo my necktie. "Then do it. I can stand to lose a little blood if it will help you."

"Let me go. I beg you." The plea was torn out of him, his voice almost unrecognisable. But at the same time, he leaned in as if unable to help himself.

"No." The thought of someone else being allowed to sustain him, to bring the colour back to his dead white skin, was abhorrent. "I shall be there for you, Holmes. As I have always been. Drink from me."

He made a sound between a groan and a cry. Then his free arm, stronger than it ever had been, was about my shoulder and head, tilting my neck just so; there was a sharp pain that instantly turned into the most intense pleasure, his lips were upon my skin, cold as ice, and then the sucking started; small, desperate, needy sips, again and again and again.

I nearly swooned, not from blood loss, but from the intensity of sensation. I wanted it never to stop. His lips against my neck warmed; the hand holding me no longer felt as if it were lifeless, and, pressed against my chest as he was, I could feel his stilled heart start beating again.

I was giving my life to him, making him live again. I could have wept with the joy of it.

Chapter I: The Living Dead

The whole extraordinary affair had begun, like so many before it, with Holmes accepting a case, this time one of theft. While theft of an object of negligible value was normally not something that attracted him, in this case the circumstances were quite extraordinary, for the object – a clerical artefact – had, to all intents and purposes, been stolen from under the nose of the priest who had been present in his church in Whitechapel the whole time and yet had seen nothing. And so, Holmes threw himself into the investigation, necessitating him to stay away from Baker Street for many hours per day.

What an inauspicious beginning, and how unutterably incredible its outcome! None of the investigations my friend had handled before this, and indeed nothing in our combined experience, could possibly have prepared us for the consequences. Even now, I hesitate to put it all down upon paper, for my patient readers will surely be hard-pressed to credit this tale. I was there, yet there are times when I myself can hardly believe it ever happened.

I was not involved in the beginnings of this particular case, so I cannot recount the particulars except for what I have already stated. My friend's investigations called upon him to spend much of his time in any one of his various disguises which he used to hide his own formidable identity from the lower classes whenever he needed to move among them, and I had gathered, from one of his infrequent remarks, that he was using as a base of operations one of his boltholes, of which he had four or five spread over all of London. "Not something you can help me with, my dear Watson – it's all tedious gathering of minute indications. Never fear that I shall call upon you, as always, when things do become interesting."

So I waited, and I thought it not unusual when he did not return one night, or the next, but I did grow worried when his disappearance extended over the third day. While it was not unlike Holmes to stay away even for this long, he usually did find the time to send a message or telegram assuring me that all was well with him.

In the absence of other sources of information, I paid particular attention to the newspapers, but they offered no indications as to Holmes' doings, but neither did they report anything that would give cause for concern. This did not reassure me much, however, and by the fifth day I was quite frantic. Mrs. Hudson, our inestimable landlady, even went so far as to make me her best trifle – which showed me how much the state of my self-control must truly have deteriorated -, but even that failed to soothe me, much to our mutual consternation.

It was only late in the evening of the seventh day after I had last seen Holmes that I finally received a sign of life. Mrs. Hudson handed in a telegram, and I tore it open eagerly, expecting a summons to his side, or a laconic message of well-being and admonishment not to worry, but instead I found that the sender was a complete stranger.

"Mutual friend very ill STOP" it ran. "Come immediately to…" and then it gave an address in one of the vilest parts of Whitechapel. It was signed "Shinwell Johnson".

I was in hat and coat and halfway out the door when a terrible thought occurred to me. What if this was a trap? What if, for once, Holmes had found himself overwhelmed by his enemies, whoever they were, and now they had sent this telegram to get their hands upon me as well? After all, I had never heard him mention the name Shinwell Johnson. I had no way to prove if the message was genuine.

But what if it was? What if Holmes really was ill and needed my help? How could I justify even wasting time deliberating what to do? I would simply have to be careful. With that thought in mind, I pocketed my service revolver.

My cab brought me to the address indicated where I could see, even before I alighted, a large, massive, red-faced man pacing up and down and stopping to look expectantly at my cab.

"Dr. Watson?" he greeted me even before I had paid the cabbie, and I noticed from the tremor in his voice that he either was genuinely worried, or a very good actor. From his cloth cap to his worn worker's clothes, he was every inch a Whitechapel resident.

"Shinwell Johnson?"

He nodded, looking at me earnestly out of bright blue eyes that fairly shone in his scorbutic face. "Please, Doctor, come inside. There's not a moment to lose. But, by God, I'm afraid the worst has already happened."

I followed him inside the dilapidated building. By now, all thought of this being a trap had vanished from my mind, for my new acquaintance's manner was so serious and his worry so evident that I could not help but share in it. I latched upon the last thing he had said; the worst might have happened! "What can you tell me?" I asked his broad back as we navigated a badly lit staircase.

"I wasn't there, Doctor, but from what little he could tell me before he lost consciousness, I gather that he was attacked by someone and left for dead. I found him not long after in a mews, lyin' there among the rubbish like a discarded toy, and I brought him here."

"Was he able to walk?"

"No, Doctor. He was barely alive."

I fought down my worry. "What is your connection with him, Johnson?"

"Long story, Doctor, but nowadays I'm his eyes and ears in these parts. Known him for almost two years now. Wait, does that mean he never mentioned me?"

"No, but that is hardly surprising."

"Hum! He mentions you a good deal, that's for sure. I thought… Well, never mind what I thought. Here we are." He opened a door that led into a small, darkened room.

Holmes lay motionless upon a dingy, narrow bed, eyes closed, his face looking stark white in the light that was filtering in through the dirty window. As I approached, I noticed that he must still be wearing his disguise, for his clothes were as disreputable as those of Shinwell Johnson. Sitting down upon the bed, I reached for his wrist to take his pulse, and his eyes opened. Johnson exhaled in relief.

"Watson…?"

"Yes, Holmes, it's me. How are you feeling? Where are you hurt?" I could see no obvious injuries, but there were some stains upon his dirty clothes that I strongly suspected to be blood. His pulse was so faint that I could not find it in his wrist, and the skin was very cold.

"What happened?" he asked, frowning. "How did I – oh." His brows contracted further in thought, and he froze, obviously remembering.

The light was too bad for me to do any sort of decent examination, so I struck a match, thinking to find a candle to light.

Never have I had such a shock! He shrieked – yes, shrieked, in a high, thin voice such as I had never heard from him before and should not have suspected him of being capable of producing. At the same time, quick as a thought, his hand lashed out and slapped the match away to fall to the ground and extinguish itself.

"Holmes!" I cried, dumbfounded at this behaviour, but he ignored me, sitting up abruptly. I could not help but notice that, in spite of Johnson's report and Holmes' ghastly appearance, my friend's movements were as energetic and abrupt as of old, if not more so. He continued to stare at me, and there was an expression in his eyes that I had never seen before, a mixture of horror and determination.

He blinked, and then his expression settled. "Watson, what are you doing here?"

I was taken aback by the question. "I –"

"I did not send for you, and I do not appreciate this intrusion into my work. Johnson, why did you bring him here?"

The big man blinked and exchanged glances with me, apparently as confused by Holmes' mood as I was. "I thought –"

"While that makes a welcome change, now is not the time for undue exertion on your part. Please leave. Now. You too, Watson. I have work to do, and I should very much prefer to do it alone."

I dug in my heels. "Holmes, if you know anything about me at all then you know that there is no way I will leave you now. I cannot find your pulse. You have been injured, and I know you well enough to tell that you are concealing from us how badly you are really feeling. I should be a sorry friend indeed if I simply left."

Rather than relenting, he lowered his head and peered at me out of light silvery eyes from under his black brows. The effect was singularly disconcerting. "I was trying to put it delicately, but you leave me no choice. Watson, you are in the way. I have no use for you and your slow-wittedness. And you, Johnson - why are you still standing there? Get out, both of you."

I was deeply hurt. Never, in all the time of my shared life with Sherlock Holmes, had he deliberately insulted me like this. I could not help thinking, in that moment, that maybe this was how he truly felt about me – a drag shoe that only slowed him down. With an effort, I schooled my face into stony calm and rose to my feet. "As you wish, Holmes," I grated out. "Far be it for me to be a hindrance to your work. Come along, Johnson. We're not wanted here."

Dejected, angry and hurt, I led the way out of the room, but then a thought struck me, and I slowed. Johnson, too, was moving reluctantly, muttering something about the world paying with ingratitude.

In the front hall, we both halted as if by unspoken consent. "Doctor," Johnson said, "something's wrong here. A few minutes ago, before you arrived, I was sure he was dead. I'd have sworn to it. I was mistaken, obviously, but not even Mr. Holmes can recover so quickly from bein' out cold like that.

I nodded, slowly. "Well, he obviously wasn't dead, but I agree. Something is wrong. I'll take care of it, but I think it might be best if…" I trailed off, not wanting to offend, but my companion was already on his way out.

"Don't worry, Doctor. I'm gone."

"Thank you!" I called after him, and then I once more ascended the stairs.

Holmes' behaviour was so utterly unlike his usual manner that, now that I had a chance to think about it, that, instead of being offended by his words, I found myself even more worried. It was a ruse. It must be. Clearly, he was trying to get rid of me, and of Johnson. But why? To conceal the true state of his health? That made no sense. While he hated me fussing over him, he had never actively refused my treatment if he agreed that it was indicated.

A series of wild, improbable scenarios crossed my mind, from Holmes testing some poison that had made him appear dead for reasons known only to himself to even more fantastical explanations such as hypnotism, but I was well aware that speculation would not serve my purpose, so, with an effort, I pushed it aside.

When I approached the door, I found myself treading softly, for I could not help but anticipate Holmes' reaction to this my blatant disregard of his express wishes. So silently did I move, in fact, that when I entered, it turned out that I had inadvertently managed to approach completely unnoticed by even his acute senses, for Holmes was sitting upon the narrow bed, barely visible in that gloomy room, elbows upon his knees and face buried in his hands, the very picture of utter despair.

With two steps, I was next to him. "Holmes, please tell me what's wrong."

He raised his head. His eyes looked strange, as if he were wearing kohl around them, and his expression matched his posture. The next instant, the aspect of desolation was gone, replaced by fierce anger. "Watson, I told you –"

"It's no use, Holmes. I know now that you were merely pushing me away just now, and it will not work a second time."

"Watson." He was still glaring at me.

I set my jaw and glared back.

He seemed to realise that I would not relent, and his expression changed again. "Very well, I'll try to explain. This is really for your best, you know. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, that you can do. It's done." He abruptly slumped, and the despair was back in his expression. "I cannot pretend that I even begin to comprehend this thing, Watson, but I do know that I should keep away from you, and you from me."

"But for pity's sake, why, Holmes? What harm could being near you possibly do me?"

He raised his eyes to mine. "A good deal, I'm afraid. Believe me, I should sooner face this alone than chance to drag you down with me."

"I do not understand. If it's some sort of danger -"

"… I should never expect you to shirk it. I know my Watson well enough by now. But this is not danger, at least not the sort we have faced together. This is a threat to health and sanity. Yes, definitely to sanity."

His manner was more serious than I had ever known him to be, and I felt a cold grip take hold of my heart. What could it be that made him, whom I had always known to be of almost inhuman resilience, talk in tones almost approaching fearfulness? "Tell me, Holmes."

He nodded with a thoughtful expression. "Very well. I suppose it cannot hurt, and chances are that you would not believe me anyhow. But we must take precautions. Yes, that is quite indispensable." He reached into the pocket of his overcoat that was lying on the foot of the bed and took out the derbies he habitually carried and removed the key, throwing it away onto the threadbare carpet. With a click, he fastened one metal ring about his slim wrist, and closed the second ring about a light fitting in the wall behind him. Giving a yank, he nodded. "Quite secure. Take the key, Watson. Good. Now we may safely proceed."

I did as he told me, mystified, but I said nothing, trusting, as always, that he would make everything clear to me.

"I should tell you where we stand, my dear Watson, but it is best simply to show you." He held out his free hand. "You were trying and failing to find my pulse earlier. Try again. Examine me as you will, but be prepared for the unbelievable."

I took his wrist, again feeling the unnatural coldness of his skin, and again failing to find a pulse. The carotid artery at his throat yielded the same result. Taking out my stethoscope, I listened directly to his heart - or tried to, for his chest was utterly silent.

My face must have shown my incomprehension, for he smiled a resigned smile. "Trust your senses, Watson. It is true. My heart no longer beats."

"But that is impossible!"

"So anyone would think. And yet, it is true."

"You must have a heart beat. Everything else is a biological impossibility. You are moving, talking. There can be no neural or muscular activity without oxygen, and that must be supplied through the blood. It's impossible." I was aware that I was babbling, and Holmes shared that awareness, of course, for he smiled.

"Allow me to give you a demonstration. You know what a corpse looks like, don't you. It is not something that can be faked simply lying still and holding one's breath."

I nodded cautiously, afraid to think where he was going with this.

"Then what do you think this is?" He slumped onto the bed and lay immobile, his eyes half open. They were glassy.

A creeping sensation gripped the back of my neck as he continued to be silent and still, and I understood what he was trying to tell me. There was no movement in him. No amount of bodily control would be able to stop all those constant little vibrations that are caused by a living organism. I was indeed looking at the dead body of my dearest friend. "Oh my God."

His eyes flicked to mine, the only thing moving in his still body. Now that I knew what to look for, I realized they looked dead even now. His voice was very low. "Now, do you understand, Watson? I have changed. I am no longer among the living. You must leave me, before I infect you with my evil."

The metal of my stethoscope dug into my palms. "I cannot accept that. Even if it's true, and you are now something other than human – and I never thought I should ever find myself uttering those words -, what makes you think that your condition is evil?"

He sat up again, something very much like pity creeping into his eyes. "Watson, do you truly not know what I've become?"

"All I know is that a terrible change has come over my friend, but that will not make me leave his side."

"That's my dear, staunch Watson," he said, again with that sad smile. "However, you have always complied with my wishes, therefore you will comply with this one also. Let me attempt, once more, to explain. I am not breathing, I have no pulse. By any definition of the word, I am dead, except, as you so astutely noticed, I have not ceased moving. We must assume, therefore, I am undead."

He saw my expression and continued. "I was on the trail of the thief, Watson, when he noticed my pursuit. That in itself is quite remarkable, for you know how well I normally conceal my presence when I do not wish to be noticed. He did notice, however, and he ambushed and attacked me in a mews. He was tremendously strong. He was but a single person, yet I had no hope of besting him in unarmed combat. He simply held my arms immobile as if I were no stronger than a child, and then, Watson, then he bit my neck and drank my blood until I lost consciousness. When I came back to myself, he made me drink his blood. His blood, Watson! Think! When Johnson found me, I was dying. I can but deduce that I must have been dead at some point. I came back to myself just when you were bending over me, and now, everything is different. My entire perception of myself has changed. And not only of myself." He bent forward slightly, nostrils flaring. "I can hear your heart beating, Watson. I can smell your toilet water, the soap you used to wash your skin, the soap that was used to wash your clothes, and I can differentiate all that from the smell of your skin itself. I can see more minute details than ever before. This dark room is as lit by dozens of candles to my eyes. And, as a last proof, I can do this."

He stood, bent to the solid wooden bedstead upon which he had been lying, and raised the whole thing off the floor with his free arm. "In short, if someone tried to pursue me, they would suffer the same fate as I did. I have become like him, like the thief of Whitechapel. He is a vampire, Watson. And now, so am I."

It was too much to take in. His proof was incontrovertible, and yet I found my mind quite unable to accept the evidence of my senses, at least now. Hoping there would be time for thinking later, I forced myself to form an intelligent sentence. "Very well, Holmes, let's suppose that you are right. It still will not make me just walk away. On the contrary; it appears to me that you need a friend at your side now more than ever."

He had sat down once more, his shackled arm twisted half up and behind him. "Oh Watson, what can I do to make you understand? I may give the impression of being a rational human being, but that is due only to the power of my will and will cease as soon as that will gives out. I am unspeakably hungry, Watson, and, if you will forgive my saying so, but you leave me no choice – you are looking intensely appetising just now."

I swallowed, then smiled. "You are trying to shock me into leaving, Holmes. It will not work either. I shall leave this room together with you, or not at all."

I could not see much of his face in that gloomy room, but still I felt his eyes upon me "That is precisely what you will not do. There is nothing you can do to help me. However, as a last service to me, before our paths will part forever, you will walk out of here and not look back. And then you will do your utmost to forget me."

In answer, I pulled up a chair and sat down. "Not an option, Holmes."

He glared, then he slumped down upon the bed in resignation. "Oh Watson, Watson," he whispered. "What am I supposed to do with you? Do you truly want me to kill you?"

"The Sherlock Holmes I know would never harm me, no matter what he may have become," I stated from the bottom of my heart. "If you truly were evil as you suspect, why would you try so hard to get me to leave? Wouldn't you rather lure me in so you can kill me?" I smiled. "Logically, you are not evil. Ergo, I'm staying."

"Unless I were so cunning that this would be the exact conclusion I wanted you to form," he retorted, but he was smiling also. "Very well. I can see that nothing will shift you. Promise me one thing, then."

"Anything, Holmes."

"Do what you can to keep me from leaving this room." He looked at the manacle. "I cannot tell if this will hold me when the hunger grows stronger, and I have no idea what I'll do to free myself. But whatever I do or say, Watson – you must not allow me to leave."

"I promise."

"Capital. And now, you will ready your service revolver and place it where you can easily get at it."

I did so. "How did you know I had it with me?"

"I can smell it. Oh yes, the mixture of steel, gun oil and gunpowder is quite unmistakable. Now, Watson, have no compunction about using it on me if I should get lose."

"Holmes –"

"You will promise that to me also, Watson. If I lose control over myself sufficiently to tear that fitting out of the wall, I will be a danger to you and to all the innocent people beyond that door. You are honour-bound to promise."

I understood, of course, that he was correct. For myself, I was prepared to accept any danger that might emanate from my friend, but I could not take the same risk for any innocent bystanders. Besides, I had to hope that a gunshot would not permanently harm him, if he truly were undead. I shivered, but my voice was firm. "Very well. I promise, Holmes."

He nodded, and slumped back against the wall. "Good. Good. And now, we wait for daylight. What will happen then shall be our incontrovertible proof that I am indeed a vampire. Only a few hours to wait, Watson." He closed his eyes as if gathering all his willpower. "Only a few hours."

As it turned out, however, the impulses to which he was now prey grew too strong even for his formidable mental resilience, and a mere hour later, he was lying on his side upon the bed, his unshackled arm wrapped about his legs, face buried in the threadbare blanket and giving every indication of being in terrible pain.

I had watched him worriedly from my position halfway across the room, but finally, I could stand it no longer.

His head snapped up as I approached. "Stay back," he hissed. "For the love of heaven, Watson, stay away from me!" His eyes, wide open in his pale face, seemed to glow in the darkness. "I would not harm you for the world, my dear friend, but I cannot…" He shuddered and groaned, high in his throat. "Watson, you must go. I can't do this for very much longer. Throw me the key, and then leave. Run as fast as you can. Now, Watson!"

For the first time in our association, I was in a position, by following his express wishes, to have to refuse one of Holmes' orders. "I told you I won't leave you, Holmes."

"Then let me go," he rasped, in a voice quite unlike his usual urbane tones. "I beg of you, Watson. Throw me the key."

It was painful to see him like this. Despite his warning, I approached him, and he groaned again, a sound full of despair from the very depths of his being. "Don't do this, Watson."

But I had made my decision while I watched him fighting the hunger. I needed to keep him alive, or whatever condition he might be in now, which obviously meant that he must be fed, and there was only one way to do so that I could see.

And so I fed him with my blood, feeling him growing stronger with each drop he took from me, wrapped in a cocoon of the most perfect pleasure and contentment. It is true that he might have killed me now, and I would have offered no resistance. What better way to go, after all, than by offering up my life for my friend?

Suddenly, he wrenched himself away, panting, sobbing. "Forgive me – forgive me!"

The abrupt loss of pleasure was nearly painful, but I forced a smile. "I wanted it, Holmes."

He turned. Now I was certain that his eyes were indeed glowing in the dark. "You know nothing, Watson," he hissed. "I, too, wanted it, but in another way. I wanted it to go on and on. I wanted to make you mine. Like me!" He pulled up his long legs and hugged them, burying his face upon his knees. "I could practically feel it, how to do it, as if some… something within me was guiding me. I would have killed you. My dearest friend." He raised his head. "That would truly be the cruellest trick that fate could possibly play upon me – making me responsible for your death!"

"But you did not kill me. You stopped. It's all right." And indeed it was. I felt fine. The puncture wounds that should be there had closed already, or at any rate I could not feel them when I passed my fingers over my neck.

Puncture wounds! I was suddenly filled with the desire to light a lamp and finally see Holmes as he was now, appreciate fully the change in him, but I still remembered his violent reaction to the sight of a lighted match. This was not the time to frighten him. "You will find the strength to stop again. We can do this. Together."

He stared at me, his eyes like glowing coals. "What are you suggesting, Watson? That you will let me feed upon you like some perverse leech until I do manage to kill you? I will not! I should rather starve to death. Final death." He paused, then repeated, "Final death…" in a voice so full of longing that, for the first time since this extraordinary chain of events had started, I experienced true fear for him.

I knew, of course, that a large part of my confidence was due to pure bravado, and that I had not yet grasped the full implications of our situation. But no matter the source, I would put my strength at his disposal as I had my blood. There simply was no other way.

Newly strengthened and calmed, Holmes remained quiet and motionless upon the seedy bedstead, his arm still shackled, and awaited dawn with the steadfast expectation characteristic of the man. I sat upon the chair opposite, feeling slightly lightheaded after my bloodletting, and considered and discarded topics for conversation. After all, being in the extraordinary situation that we were in, what could we possibly talk about?

Finally, Holmes broke the silence. "There are two ways this can play out, my dear Watson," he said softly. "Firstly, dawn will come and go, and nothing will happen. If that is the case, all is well. I can feel a mighty fool, and we can continue our lives the way we have. Secondly, sunrise will confirm my theory and prove that I am now among those legendary undead that we call vampires. In this case, you will have to decide what to do, for it would surely be the height of carelessness to allow a bloodsucking monster to live under the same roof as yourself."

"Holmes…"

"I confess I am not very knowledgeable about the subject," he went on, ignoring my interjection, "but I seem to recall that there is a rather failsafe way of doing away with a vampire. A weighted stick and a sharpened log should do the job quite nicely."

"Never."

He saw my determined expression and smiled sadly. "My dear Watson," he said, much moved. "That ever a man should have a friend such as you. I never –" He broke off, his voice failing, and looked away.

I remained perfectly still, amazed at this sudden and profound insight into the heart he was guarding so closely – the same heart, I could not help thinking, that he was asking me to pierce with a wooden stake in order to protect myself from him.

The next instant, his head rose again, and his self-control was as absolute as before. "Nevertheless, there will be no way around it, so let us spend what may be my last hours upon this earth in a congenial manner. Go ahead and smoke, if you want to. I believe that, if I am prepared, I shall be able to withstand the sight of a naked flame."

It was chilling to hear him talk in that calm, almost disinterested fashion about his possible demise. However, the realisation that he would not join me in a smoke the way he had done countless times before, that he would in fact have to bring himself to face the sight of fire as if it were a deadly snake, finally brought home to me the fact that he was indeed changed. This was not merely a phase, or Holmes involved in a complicated strategy designed to elicit some result. This was real.

A powerful impulse took hold of me, gripping my insides and obliging me to reach out to my friend, which, if brought to its conclusion, would no doubt have led to an embarrassing display of maudlin sentiment on my part, and possibly on Holmes' as well. I therefore suppressed the gesture before it could evolve fully, redirecting it to brush at the threadbare seat cover. "Holmes," I blurted out, "you know that I have always tried to do whatever you asked of me to the fullest of my ability, but I beg you – I plead with you – not to ask this of me. Your life is –" I broke off, reconsidering what I had been about to say, and finally ending my sentence with, "too valuable to me. Just as you do not wish to be the cause of my death, so I could never be it for you. For heaven's sake, let's agree to move this option to the bottom of the list, or preferably onto a whole new page. If nothing else, I am a doctor, and taking a life is anathema to me."

He closed his eyes and opened them again after a pause. "I cannot force you to go against your instincts, old boy. But I sincerely hope that you will not regret this.

We fell silent after that. There was nothing more to say, and nothing to do but wait for the new day.

To be continued...