Work Text:
He wasn’t knighted when he met him.
He wasn’t a writer when he met him, either.
On a damp afternoon in the autumn of 1884, Henry found himself on the steps of 1 Bush Villas in Elm Grove, surgical tools wrapped under his arm, and he entered without hesitation. It was not often that he was asked for a consultation from other doctors, so it must have been something quite strange, which rather piqued his interest.
Upon crossing the threshold, he removed his cap and nodded to the women behind the desk. She had a clerical look about her, likely having worked behind counters all her life, her cheeks were rosy and her clothes, though plain to avoid emphasizing her beauty, were in good condition and fit well. Henry offered a warm smile.
“Good day, I’m Doctor Henry Morgan. I was asked here for a consult.”
“Yes, Doctor Doyle is waiting for you. I shall alert him of your arrival,” the woman said, disappearing into the back of the clinic.
While she was away, Henry took to peering around the small place. Even for a private practice, it was quite small, and to his knowledge, there was only one doctor and one nurse. He had personally worked in rather cramped and unpleasant circumstances before, but this little establishment was clean and tidy, coat rack empty except for one coat, two chairs perfectly in line against one of the walls, a copy of the daily paper on a small side table.
He was about to snoop around the counter when the young woman came back to usher him into the actual space of the clinic.
When he entered, he immediately spotted the young boy on the examination table, face flushed but no sweat dotting his temples, his nose running which he snuffled when it began to drip. He was thin and pale, sandy hair messy and grey eyes dull from his sickly appearance. The woman, his mother, he assumed, sat in the spare chair wringing her hands. Henry placed his hat on the rack beside the doorway and turned to the other man in the room.
“Doctor Doyle, I presume?” he asked, putting down his tools on a counter top and extending a hand afterward.
“Yes, but you may call me Arthur. You’re Doctor Morgan?” Arthur took his hand and shook it firmly.
“I am. So, what seems to be the problem?”
Henry turned back to the boy on the table who started coughing into his hand, the sound hacking.
“Cough, fever, and a queasy stomach.”
“I see… Might I have a pair of gloves and a mask, please? Oh, and if you have a stethoscope…?”
Arthur fetched the items for him and Henry geared up. He approached the boy and asked him to lift his shirt so he could place the cool metal on his chest and listen to his breathing.
“It’s cold,” the boy complained, coughing into his hand again. Henry could hear the congestion in his lungs, could tell he had mucus building up.
“I’m sorry, but I need to listen to your heart and lungs.” He reached around the boy’s body and listened to the back of his lungs. When he finished he turned back to Arthur, hooked the stethoscope around his neck.
“Did you take his temperature?”
“Thirty-eight Celsius. He’s got a cough and sore throat and his nose runs. I think he’s got the Russian Flu, but… I wanted a second opinion.”
Henry nodded and let the boy pull his shirt back down. He knelt down in front of him, placed his gloved hands over his shin.
“What’s your name?” he asked, rolling up the boy’s pant leg to look at his calf.
“Um… Lou.”
Arthur looked at Henry a bit strangely, a single brow raised. “What are you doing?”
“All right, Lou. Tell me if this hurts.” Henry ignored him and pressed his fingers to different spots on his leg, squeezed the thin muscle.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Lou mumbled, and a worried look crossed his face. “I can’t… really feel it.”
Henry perked up, furrowed his brow. “You can’t feel where I’m touching you?”
Lou shook his head. “My legs feel numb.”
Henry pulled his pant leg back down and stood. He sucked in a slow breath and let it out in a sigh. He turned to Arthur.
“This isn’t the flu that’s going around. I have good reason to believe that this is poliomyelitis.”
Arthur blinked at him and nodded, slowly. “All right… but how did you figure it out, how did you know to look for that?”
Henry stepped away from the boy and stripped off his gloves, put them on the counter beside his roll of tools. He sighed and looked to the boy’s mother.
“Well, it was quite simple, really. He may have appeared to have the influenza symptoms but his arms looked very thin for a boy his size. Usually it’s the legs that suffer so I thought to check and well… there is your answer.”
The mother looked stricken and her face was pale. “Will he…?”
“I’m afraid there is nothing we can do to help…” Henry turned to Arthur
“I can prescribe some things to help relieve the symptoms but that is all that I can do.”
Henry offered a sympathetic smile and he folded his hands in front of himself. He cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, it is also likely that you’ve contracted the disease as well since you’ve been in contact with him.”
Her face fell further and she gripped her bag tighter.
“I will prescribe you the same medications to help once you begin showing symptoms,” Arthur offered, tearing out his sheet to hand to the woman as she stood. She simply nodded and took the paper, helped Lou down from the table.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, under her breath, and she left, helping her son support himself.
Alone again, Arthur spoke. “That was incredible how you could just… see and perceive.”
“I’ve had quite some time to learn to notice the small details,” Henry said wryly, feeling a bit bashful from the praise.
“May I call on you to consult again in the future?”
Henry nodded and donned his cap and put his tools under his arm. “Of course. I’m glad I could be of assistance, Arthur.”
Henry shook his hand again before he left and Arthur sat down at his desk again, typewriter calling to him. This time, he had a muse. Perhaps a story of mystery with a man of clever wit would capture attention. He stretched his fingers and began to type.