The Dresden Files / Bob / #45. Poison
Title: Desperate Measures
Author: Cyloran
Fandom: The Dresden Files (tv-verse)
Characters: Bob, Harry
Prompt: 45. Poison
Word Count: 2,370
Rating: G
Summary: How can a ghost save a dying wizard?
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me. Just passing through.
Table: Here There be Ghosts
"Harry? Harry, wake up!"
Lifting his hand, Harry limply waved at the buzzing around his ears, swatting at the annoying gnat before letting it plop down again.
"Go'way, Bob," he mumbled, refusing to open his eyes. He'd tried it once and his head had hurt like blazes. Not doing that again. Uht-uh, not me, he thought fuzzily.
But it was starting to get kinda cold. He wouldn't have minded a blanket. Maybe two.
"You have to get up!" Bob insisted. "You can't just lie there!"
"Sure I can," he murmured. "Watch me."
Bob's expression was a mixture of concern and frustration. Harry lay sprawled on the floor at his feet amidst the shattered remains of what had once been a coffee mug. The contents that had not been ingested spread in a dark puddle across the wooden floor like black blood.
"Harry, listen to me. This is very important." Stooping down so that his face was mere inches way from Harry's own, Bob's tone became stridently urgent. "You have been poisoned. You may be dying."
Harry smiled beatifically. "Good for me."
"I am being completely serious."
"Good for you."
"Harry, please!"
Harry winced, Bob's voice lancing through his head like a javelin. "Shuddup, willya? You're giving me a headache."
"I take no responsibility for that," replied the ghost indignantly. "You can thank that slip of a girl you took pity on and her neanderthal boyfriend. I told you they were trouble! But would you listen to me? No, of course not. I've only had several centuries of experience in-- Harry! Don't close your eyes! Do you hear me? Do NOT go to sleep! You have to remain awake until help arrives!"
". . . nag, nag, nag . . ." Harry flopped his hand at Bob again. "In the morning."
"If you fall asleep now, there may never be a morning!"
"Good. Overrated, mornings."
Bob clenched his fists and very nearly cried out his anguished frustration. Unable to effect the physical world, he could not simply drag Harry to his feet nor dash him with cold water. How then to keep him awake until help arrived? Transmute his spectral shape into an image that might stir some violent emotion in him? His dead father, perhaps? His mother? Or something worse? Justin Morningway?
But no. As effective as any of those visions might prove to be, Bob could not bring himself to visit such emotional trauma on Harry in his current befuddled state.
Bob spared a glance for the shop front's night shrouded window. The golden lettering he had inscribed still shone brightly, imploring anyone who passed to immediately call 911 and ask for, alternately, Lt. Connie Murphy and a doctor. Surely someone had noticed it by now!
He looked once more to Harry, his frown deepening at the wizard's ashen complexion. If he could somehow force Harry to vomit up some or all of the vile concoction, he might succeed in delaying the poison's progress until assistance arrived.
"I am sorry, Harry," Bob apologized. "I know how much you hate this, but you leave me no choice." Reaching out, he placed his hand on Harry's shoulder and let his dead, spectral fingers pass through the warm, living flesh.
Harry jerked in surprise at the sudden jarring, bone-numbing cold. "Hey! Stop that!" He actually managed to roll onto his side in an effort to escape that unsettling touch. "Hells Bells!"
Encouraged, Bob pursued. "I assure you, it is for your own good."
"Keep away," said Harry, scrabbling back from Bob's ghostly hand. "What's with you, anyway?" he demanded as his roiling stomach threatened to disgorge its contents. Dammit, why was Bob trying to attack him? "Back into your skull!"
Bob jerked back as if from a violent slap. "Harry--!"
"Go'way, Bob! Now!"
It had been a command, clear and succinct. Bob instantly felt the familiar pull as the ancient curse worked to draw his spirit back into his prison. For the first time in a century, Hrothbert of Bainbridge resisted that pull and actively fought it. He couldn't leave now. Wouldn't leave now. Not yet! Not with Harry in this dire state!
"No."
"No?" Harry blinked at Bob without comprehension. "Did you just say . . . no?"
"Only for a moment. I promise you," said Bob, his voice suddenly tight with strain. The pull increased, keyed to the ensorcelled manacles that bound his wrists.
Harry had never seen the manacles glow before. "What the--? What's going on?" he demanded, befuddled.
Bob's wrists were now circled by blazing, hellish blue light. The ghost's long, elegant white fingers curled into fists that shook with effort as he began to lose his small rebellion.
"Forgive me, Harry," Bob managed through clenched teeth. Lunging forward, he plunged both of his hands into Harry's chest and abdomen.
Harry yelled in surprise at the almost painful, biting cold of the assault. His muscles contracted, trying to draw inward and away from that frozen, eerie touch. A moment later his stomach spasmed, acid and bile and nerves suddenly coinciding to violently evict the contents.
With a groan, Harry doubled over and vomited. Shaking, he was only barely aware of what was happening next to him. Bob's shackles suddenly flared, dazzling Harry's eyes as an orb of harsh red light completely enveloped the ghost, wrenching from him a sharp, tortured cry. The spectral manifestation was instantly reduced to a black and orange cinder and abruptly sucked back into the skull that lay on the floor a few feet away.
Silence.
Harry collapsed, exhausted and spent, a burning, bitter taste filling his mouth and nose and throat. "Bob?"
The ghost was no longer beside him. There was something wrong with that, wasn't there? Harry couldn't quite remember. But at least it was quiet again. Now maybe he could finally get some rest…
* * *
"Hey."
Harry squinted at the face bending over him and wondered what Murphy was doing in his bedroom.
Then again, did it really matter? It was Murphy. In his bedroom.
"Hey," he replied in a voice dry from disuse. His gaze drifted a bit past Murphy's shoulder to the ceiling . When had he installed neon lighting?
"PAGING DOCTOR HOWARD. DOCTOR HOWARD, PLEASE."
Harry winced at the thunderous voice, raising a hand to his ear. "Ow," he moaned. Okay, so not his room. "Where am I?"
"And you call yourself a detective," snorted Murphy, not unkindly. "Chicago General."
"General what?"
"Hospital, Sherlock. Which is what happens when you add arsenic and belladonna to your coffee. You might want to stick to cream and sugar from now on," she quipped deadpan, but there was an echo of concern and relief in her eyes. "You also managed to hit your head on the way down to the floor. It's a good thing you've got such a thick skull, otherwise you'd be adding a concussion to the list."
Skull. Harry frowned. There was something about that word . . . something that should worry him . . . but he couldn't quite grasp the thought.
"-and dusted for prints," Murphy was saying in her direct, cop-business way. "But it would help if you could ID the person who poisoned you."
"Persons," said Harry, groaning slightly as he tried to sit up. He got as far as elevating himself onto his elbows, felt the bowling ball that was his head threaten to roll off, and quickly settled back against the pillows. "Clients. A girl. Nice legs. A neanderthal boyfriend."
"So let me guess. They come in for a consultation, sit by your desk, you offer them coffee…"
"Yeah." Harry scowled, trying to remember. "They must have slipped the stuff into the cup when I wasn't looking."
"Gee, you think?" said Murphy, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe I should have the lab boys dust the cups for prints." More sarcasm.
Harry's scowl deepened. That memory of something forgotten . . . something important . . . was nagging, nagging, nagging at the back of his mind.
"How long have I been in here?"
"Almost two days."
"How'd I get here?"
"Police cruiser." Murphy shrugged. "When we found you, I didn't think there was time for an ambulance. We got an anonymous tip that there was a neon sign in a shop window on your street telling people to call 911 and ask for Murphy. They thought it was some kind of a joke." She looked at him expectantly. "Turns out it wasn't a sign at all."
"Lemme guess. Letters in the air?"
"That's right. They evaporated the minute we opened the door." Murphy looked at him expectantly. "One of these days you're going to explain to me how you do that little trick. No excuses."
"Hey, don't look at me! I was down for the count, remember?"
"So they got there on their own? Ghost writers in the sky?"
"Something like --"
Ghost. Memory hit him like a physical blow. A flash of images, like a movie montage. Bob pleading. Bob in pain. Bob's wrists on fire.
Bob! Harry's fingers fisted in the thin coverlet and threw it aside. He would have launched himself out of the bed, dragging the IV and its pole with him, if Murphy hadn't suddenly blocked his path.
"Whoa! Hey!" Murphy grasped Harry by the shoulders, arresting his escape, and firmly pushed him back down. "You're confined to the hospital for the next 48 hours."
"You don't understand. I've gotta get back-"
"You recover here or locked in a cell. Your choice. Either way, you're stuck with bed rest for two more days. Doctor's orders." Murphy's voice was stern and brooked no argument. "Anything else can wait."
No, it can't, Harry thought bitterly, already plotting his escape from the hospital's confines.
* * *
Harry stood just inside the apartment doorway and Listened. He could hear the usual, familiar sounds around him; the tick of the wind up alarm clock beside his bed in the loft; the hum of the small 1950's refrigerator; the erratic, annoying drip of the bathroom faucet; the creak of a floorboard in the old building that was always settling.
But there was no imperious voice to greet him nor any hint of the stirring of spirits.
"Bob?" He padded through the apartment and pushed open the concealed door to the lab. "Bob? You in there?"
The lab was empty of life or afterlife.
Harry wandered through the apartment and into the adjoining shop, growing ever more anxious by the minute.
He eventually found the skull exactly where it had fallen, lying on its side on the floor, the dark eye sockets turned toward the wall as if in punishment.
"Bob!" Harry bent to retrieve the artifact, carefully cradling it in his arms as he brought it into the light. The ancient bone appeared undamaged and he breathed a sigh of relief. Fortunately, his would-be assassins had been ignorant of its true value.
"Bob?"
Silence.
"Come on, Bob. Don't do this to me."
Harry remembered now. Not clearly. Not enough to be certain. But enough to be frightened. He'd never seen Bob in physical pain before. But then, he'd never known the ghost to refuse a direct command. He was so used to seeing the manacles that bound Bob's wrists that he'd forgotten that they were more than adornment. They were shackles; the bindings of imprisonment and damnation. And now, it seemed, instruments of punishment and torture.
Had Bob been so badly injured that he could not respond to Harry's voice? Or was it possible that the manacles had done more than punish. Could they have destroyed?
No! Harry refused to believe that. Gripping the skull in both hands, he looked into the dark, empty eyes and said desperately, "Hrothbert of Bainbridge, I summon you."
The response was instantaneous. Black and orange flared, swirling outward from the skull. In its wake, the ghost of the dead and damned sorcerer appeared, stiffly upright but head slightly bowed as if in penance.
"Bob?"
The ghost lifted his head and blinked at his master without comprehension, a momentary confusion in his pale blue eyes. It was a fleeting thing; a heartbeat only that was quickly replaced with recognition and relief. But Harry had seen it nonetheless.
"Harry! Welcome back."
"Thanks."
"How's the stomach?"
"Better."
"And your head?"
"Still got a helluva headache."
"Yes, well, that's to be expected," said Bob, sympathetic. "But the prognosis is good? No skull damage? No internal bleeding? Wits not addled?"
"Everything checks out okay." Harry couldn't help noticing that Bob was keeping his hands behind his back. It was a familiar gesture but one that brought even closer to home the vision he'd seen - or thought he'd seen. "What about you?"
"Me?" Bob feigned ignorance. "I am exactly as I ever was."
"Let me see your wrists."
"I do not-"
"Show me."
Bob reluctantly moved his hands out before him, palms upward and open. The bands that bound his wrists were the same dull, slate gray they always were. The ghostly flesh showed no blemish or physical injury.
Harry's gaze left its inspection to meet Bob's eyes. There was the injury; an echo of pain reflected therein.
"That's what happens when you refuse a command?"
"A small consequence," replied Bob with a dismissive wave. "It does not matter."
"It matters to me," said Harry grimly. "Dammit, Bob! I ordered you back into your skull and you refused because you were trying to keep me from dying. I hurt you, didn't I?"
"No, you did not. You did not know the consequences of my rebellion. But I most certainly did," Bob assured him. "If there is to be blame, place it upon the curse itself and not your ignorance of its machinations."
"Yeah, well I … I know it now and I promise you -- it won't happen again," Harry said, determined. "Ever."
"Thank you," replied Bob, acknowledging the vow with a slight inclination of his head. "Hopefully there will never be another need. In that regard, might I suggest in future that you not turn your back on your clients and forego the ingestion of poisoned beverages? Your cooking is quite toxic enough..."
Author: Cyloran
Fandom: The Dresden Files (tv-verse)
Characters: Bob, Harry
Prompt: 45. Poison
Word Count: 2,370
Rating: G
Summary: How can a ghost save a dying wizard?
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me. Just passing through.
Table: Here There be Ghosts
"Harry? Harry, wake up!"
Lifting his hand, Harry limply waved at the buzzing around his ears, swatting at the annoying gnat before letting it plop down again.
"Go'way, Bob," he mumbled, refusing to open his eyes. He'd tried it once and his head had hurt like blazes. Not doing that again. Uht-uh, not me, he thought fuzzily.
But it was starting to get kinda cold. He wouldn't have minded a blanket. Maybe two.
"You have to get up!" Bob insisted. "You can't just lie there!"
"Sure I can," he murmured. "Watch me."
Bob's expression was a mixture of concern and frustration. Harry lay sprawled on the floor at his feet amidst the shattered remains of what had once been a coffee mug. The contents that had not been ingested spread in a dark puddle across the wooden floor like black blood.
"Harry, listen to me. This is very important." Stooping down so that his face was mere inches way from Harry's own, Bob's tone became stridently urgent. "You have been poisoned. You may be dying."
Harry smiled beatifically. "Good for me."
"I am being completely serious."
"Good for you."
"Harry, please!"
Harry winced, Bob's voice lancing through his head like a javelin. "Shuddup, willya? You're giving me a headache."
"I take no responsibility for that," replied the ghost indignantly. "You can thank that slip of a girl you took pity on and her neanderthal boyfriend. I told you they were trouble! But would you listen to me? No, of course not. I've only had several centuries of experience in-- Harry! Don't close your eyes! Do you hear me? Do NOT go to sleep! You have to remain awake until help arrives!"
". . . nag, nag, nag . . ." Harry flopped his hand at Bob again. "In the morning."
"If you fall asleep now, there may never be a morning!"
"Good. Overrated, mornings."
Bob clenched his fists and very nearly cried out his anguished frustration. Unable to effect the physical world, he could not simply drag Harry to his feet nor dash him with cold water. How then to keep him awake until help arrived? Transmute his spectral shape into an image that might stir some violent emotion in him? His dead father, perhaps? His mother? Or something worse? Justin Morningway?
But no. As effective as any of those visions might prove to be, Bob could not bring himself to visit such emotional trauma on Harry in his current befuddled state.
Bob spared a glance for the shop front's night shrouded window. The golden lettering he had inscribed still shone brightly, imploring anyone who passed to immediately call 911 and ask for, alternately, Lt. Connie Murphy and a doctor. Surely someone had noticed it by now!
He looked once more to Harry, his frown deepening at the wizard's ashen complexion. If he could somehow force Harry to vomit up some or all of the vile concoction, he might succeed in delaying the poison's progress until assistance arrived.
"I am sorry, Harry," Bob apologized. "I know how much you hate this, but you leave me no choice." Reaching out, he placed his hand on Harry's shoulder and let his dead, spectral fingers pass through the warm, living flesh.
Harry jerked in surprise at the sudden jarring, bone-numbing cold. "Hey! Stop that!" He actually managed to roll onto his side in an effort to escape that unsettling touch. "Hells Bells!"
Encouraged, Bob pursued. "I assure you, it is for your own good."
"Keep away," said Harry, scrabbling back from Bob's ghostly hand. "What's with you, anyway?" he demanded as his roiling stomach threatened to disgorge its contents. Dammit, why was Bob trying to attack him? "Back into your skull!"
Bob jerked back as if from a violent slap. "Harry--!"
"Go'way, Bob! Now!"
It had been a command, clear and succinct. Bob instantly felt the familiar pull as the ancient curse worked to draw his spirit back into his prison. For the first time in a century, Hrothbert of Bainbridge resisted that pull and actively fought it. He couldn't leave now. Wouldn't leave now. Not yet! Not with Harry in this dire state!
"No."
"No?" Harry blinked at Bob without comprehension. "Did you just say . . . no?"
"Only for a moment. I promise you," said Bob, his voice suddenly tight with strain. The pull increased, keyed to the ensorcelled manacles that bound his wrists.
Harry had never seen the manacles glow before. "What the--? What's going on?" he demanded, befuddled.
Bob's wrists were now circled by blazing, hellish blue light. The ghost's long, elegant white fingers curled into fists that shook with effort as he began to lose his small rebellion.
"Forgive me, Harry," Bob managed through clenched teeth. Lunging forward, he plunged both of his hands into Harry's chest and abdomen.
Harry yelled in surprise at the almost painful, biting cold of the assault. His muscles contracted, trying to draw inward and away from that frozen, eerie touch. A moment later his stomach spasmed, acid and bile and nerves suddenly coinciding to violently evict the contents.
With a groan, Harry doubled over and vomited. Shaking, he was only barely aware of what was happening next to him. Bob's shackles suddenly flared, dazzling Harry's eyes as an orb of harsh red light completely enveloped the ghost, wrenching from him a sharp, tortured cry. The spectral manifestation was instantly reduced to a black and orange cinder and abruptly sucked back into the skull that lay on the floor a few feet away.
Silence.
Harry collapsed, exhausted and spent, a burning, bitter taste filling his mouth and nose and throat. "Bob?"
The ghost was no longer beside him. There was something wrong with that, wasn't there? Harry couldn't quite remember. But at least it was quiet again. Now maybe he could finally get some rest…
* * *
"Hey."
Harry squinted at the face bending over him and wondered what Murphy was doing in his bedroom.
Then again, did it really matter? It was Murphy. In his bedroom.
"Hey," he replied in a voice dry from disuse. His gaze drifted a bit past Murphy's shoulder to the ceiling . When had he installed neon lighting?
"PAGING DOCTOR HOWARD. DOCTOR HOWARD, PLEASE."
Harry winced at the thunderous voice, raising a hand to his ear. "Ow," he moaned. Okay, so not his room. "Where am I?"
"And you call yourself a detective," snorted Murphy, not unkindly. "Chicago General."
"General what?"
"Hospital, Sherlock. Which is what happens when you add arsenic and belladonna to your coffee. You might want to stick to cream and sugar from now on," she quipped deadpan, but there was an echo of concern and relief in her eyes. "You also managed to hit your head on the way down to the floor. It's a good thing you've got such a thick skull, otherwise you'd be adding a concussion to the list."
Skull. Harry frowned. There was something about that word . . . something that should worry him . . . but he couldn't quite grasp the thought.
"-and dusted for prints," Murphy was saying in her direct, cop-business way. "But it would help if you could ID the person who poisoned you."
"Persons," said Harry, groaning slightly as he tried to sit up. He got as far as elevating himself onto his elbows, felt the bowling ball that was his head threaten to roll off, and quickly settled back against the pillows. "Clients. A girl. Nice legs. A neanderthal boyfriend."
"So let me guess. They come in for a consultation, sit by your desk, you offer them coffee…"
"Yeah." Harry scowled, trying to remember. "They must have slipped the stuff into the cup when I wasn't looking."
"Gee, you think?" said Murphy, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe I should have the lab boys dust the cups for prints." More sarcasm.
Harry's scowl deepened. That memory of something forgotten . . . something important . . . was nagging, nagging, nagging at the back of his mind.
"How long have I been in here?"
"Almost two days."
"How'd I get here?"
"Police cruiser." Murphy shrugged. "When we found you, I didn't think there was time for an ambulance. We got an anonymous tip that there was a neon sign in a shop window on your street telling people to call 911 and ask for Murphy. They thought it was some kind of a joke." She looked at him expectantly. "Turns out it wasn't a sign at all."
"Lemme guess. Letters in the air?"
"That's right. They evaporated the minute we opened the door." Murphy looked at him expectantly. "One of these days you're going to explain to me how you do that little trick. No excuses."
"Hey, don't look at me! I was down for the count, remember?"
"So they got there on their own? Ghost writers in the sky?"
"Something like --"
Ghost. Memory hit him like a physical blow. A flash of images, like a movie montage. Bob pleading. Bob in pain. Bob's wrists on fire.
Bob! Harry's fingers fisted in the thin coverlet and threw it aside. He would have launched himself out of the bed, dragging the IV and its pole with him, if Murphy hadn't suddenly blocked his path.
"Whoa! Hey!" Murphy grasped Harry by the shoulders, arresting his escape, and firmly pushed him back down. "You're confined to the hospital for the next 48 hours."
"You don't understand. I've gotta get back-"
"You recover here or locked in a cell. Your choice. Either way, you're stuck with bed rest for two more days. Doctor's orders." Murphy's voice was stern and brooked no argument. "Anything else can wait."
No, it can't, Harry thought bitterly, already plotting his escape from the hospital's confines.
* * *
Harry stood just inside the apartment doorway and Listened. He could hear the usual, familiar sounds around him; the tick of the wind up alarm clock beside his bed in the loft; the hum of the small 1950's refrigerator; the erratic, annoying drip of the bathroom faucet; the creak of a floorboard in the old building that was always settling.
But there was no imperious voice to greet him nor any hint of the stirring of spirits.
"Bob?" He padded through the apartment and pushed open the concealed door to the lab. "Bob? You in there?"
The lab was empty of life or afterlife.
Harry wandered through the apartment and into the adjoining shop, growing ever more anxious by the minute.
He eventually found the skull exactly where it had fallen, lying on its side on the floor, the dark eye sockets turned toward the wall as if in punishment.
"Bob!" Harry bent to retrieve the artifact, carefully cradling it in his arms as he brought it into the light. The ancient bone appeared undamaged and he breathed a sigh of relief. Fortunately, his would-be assassins had been ignorant of its true value.
"Bob?"
Silence.
"Come on, Bob. Don't do this to me."
Harry remembered now. Not clearly. Not enough to be certain. But enough to be frightened. He'd never seen Bob in physical pain before. But then, he'd never known the ghost to refuse a direct command. He was so used to seeing the manacles that bound Bob's wrists that he'd forgotten that they were more than adornment. They were shackles; the bindings of imprisonment and damnation. And now, it seemed, instruments of punishment and torture.
Had Bob been so badly injured that he could not respond to Harry's voice? Or was it possible that the manacles had done more than punish. Could they have destroyed?
No! Harry refused to believe that. Gripping the skull in both hands, he looked into the dark, empty eyes and said desperately, "Hrothbert of Bainbridge, I summon you."
The response was instantaneous. Black and orange flared, swirling outward from the skull. In its wake, the ghost of the dead and damned sorcerer appeared, stiffly upright but head slightly bowed as if in penance.
"Bob?"
The ghost lifted his head and blinked at his master without comprehension, a momentary confusion in his pale blue eyes. It was a fleeting thing; a heartbeat only that was quickly replaced with recognition and relief. But Harry had seen it nonetheless.
"Harry! Welcome back."
"Thanks."
"How's the stomach?"
"Better."
"And your head?"
"Still got a helluva headache."
"Yes, well, that's to be expected," said Bob, sympathetic. "But the prognosis is good? No skull damage? No internal bleeding? Wits not addled?"
"Everything checks out okay." Harry couldn't help noticing that Bob was keeping his hands behind his back. It was a familiar gesture but one that brought even closer to home the vision he'd seen - or thought he'd seen. "What about you?"
"Me?" Bob feigned ignorance. "I am exactly as I ever was."
"Let me see your wrists."
"I do not-"
"Show me."
Bob reluctantly moved his hands out before him, palms upward and open. The bands that bound his wrists were the same dull, slate gray they always were. The ghostly flesh showed no blemish or physical injury.
Harry's gaze left its inspection to meet Bob's eyes. There was the injury; an echo of pain reflected therein.
"That's what happens when you refuse a command?"
"A small consequence," replied Bob with a dismissive wave. "It does not matter."
"It matters to me," said Harry grimly. "Dammit, Bob! I ordered you back into your skull and you refused because you were trying to keep me from dying. I hurt you, didn't I?"
"No, you did not. You did not know the consequences of my rebellion. But I most certainly did," Bob assured him. "If there is to be blame, place it upon the curse itself and not your ignorance of its machinations."
"Yeah, well I … I know it now and I promise you -- it won't happen again," Harry said, determined. "Ever."
"Thank you," replied Bob, acknowledging the vow with a slight inclination of his head. "Hopefully there will never be another need. In that regard, might I suggest in future that you not turn your back on your clients and forego the ingestion of poisoned beverages? Your cooking is quite toxic enough..."