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Sherlock Holmes lay on the other gurney, the backboard holding his head straight by the application of red canvas straps. He strained to catch one more glimpse of Dr. Watson as they took him away to St. Francis Hospital. He managed a peek as they loaded him into a shiny white and red box-shaped truck that roared black smoke from underneath.
He was in awe when they hoisted him up as well and latched his gurney to rings on the inside wall of another red ambulance and departed. “It must be a fine set of horses that can pull this rig at this speed,” he said and then was even speechless when he noticed that there clearly were no horses.
Radio chatter squeaked from the dashboard console and the voice of men not present could be heard. “Ambulance crew number 12. Do you copy?” Yes, a young man in a neat blue uniform spoke with a Boston accent – one that was almost abrasive to the English language, in Holmes’ mind at least. “Do you have ID on the victims?”
“Not at this time, but the taller fellow with the tweed jacket seems a bit delirious. I recognize him from the newspaper. He is the detective novelist that bought the Mark Twain estate in Hartford. I recall his name is Arthur Doyle.”
Holmes gave a look of frustration when he realized the communication was about him and apparently they had him mixed up with some unknown author in Hartford, Connecticut. “I am Sherlock Holmes,” he protested with the finest English accent to his voice and he searched for a match to light the Meerschaum pipe he had drawn form his waist coat pocket.
“Hey, you can’t light that thing in here.” the uniformed man ordered. Holmes dropped the pipe with start. “You are on oxygen and there is risk of explosion.”
Holmes remembered Watson’s face and condition. He was out cold and nothing gave away the man’s profession except a Royal hospital name badge fastened to his broad double-breasted lapel. Watson’s pockets were turned inside out and his right arm pulled from his winter coat where a needle entered a bulging vein in his muscular forearm. Watson, on holiday with Sherlock at his forensics laboratory, had three days of fresh stubble on his face, a way of relieving the pseudo folliculitis barbae from which he suffered with due to his tight curls of red hair. A rudimentary stethoscope was just barely visible, the ear pieces just peaking out of the inner coat pocket.
Holmes was jostled about as his own rescue truck began to tear up the road. A siren roared from the racing vehicle. An uncomfortable ride resulted from quick turns, sudden lurches and potholes. Tension resulted especially from not understanding what propelled the bright red ambulance through the mysterious streets in Hartford, Connecticut.
