"Master, don't let him bite his tongue."
"I've done this thousands of times. Who do you think was responsible for initiating so many Kamar-Taj Arcanists over the past thousand years?" The Sorcerer Supreme skillfully turned Sherlock Holmes's head to one side, extending a hand to cast a spell that stabilized his breathing and convulsing body. "Though I don't mind leaving this opportunity to modern medicine. That wouldn't have worked in the past. Medieval doctors knew nothing but enemas and bloodletting; after treatment, the living would become the dead."
"The medical team will be here shortly." The Emperor of Latveria pressed a button among the many devices on his desk. "Though I believe you simply wanted to slack off this time."
Less than three minutes later, a medical team belonging to the Sacred Guard entered the office under Hammurabi's leadership. They did not see the Sorcerer Supreme standing beside the sofa. It was as though only the Emperor could see her; to everyone else, The Venerable One was like a ghost in thin mist, naturally overlooked by the mind.
This medical team was not an emergency measure prepared for the Emperor, but for visitors entering the castle. Following established procedures, they lifted the unconscious Sherlock Holmes onto a gurney and cut open his clothes with blunt-tipped scissors to administer first aid—lying on his side, assisted ventilation, intravenous glucose, external cooling, intravenous sedatives, antihypertensives, and so on. Hammurabi had informed the team beforehand. They knew they would be dealing with a patient suffering from an unusual form of epilepsy, as well as strange symptoms unlike those of ordinary epileptic seizures.
Though they found it strange, the medical team did not ask questions. They simply followed orders and repeatedly practiced the specialized emergency procedures. Any ordinary person subjected to an intense influx of