1
London,
April 4, 1916
His friend was dying.
It was a thought he’d managed to keep at bay for the last year, since his initial examination and diagnosis. Yet more and more, as the planes of his old friend’s face grew sharper and his pallor more sallow with each passing day, the Doctor found the spectre of death assailing his every waking hour.
For long enough he had deluded himself into thinking their adventures, immortalized in writing, might somehow extend themselves into the world of flesh and blood, but this was a fanciful conceit on the Doctor’s part, and he’d come to recognize that fate would soon play her hand.
He’d seen much less of Sherlock Holmes in recent years. The venerable detective had retired his practice and led a quiet life in a small cottage on Sussex Downs, engaged in his passion for beekeeping, about the same time Watson had taken a second wife. It was only in the last six months that Watson, shocked by his friend’s sudden and rapid physical decline, convinced Holmes to spend extended intervals in London—a request to which the retired detective proved surprisingly receptive.
The Doctor’s first thought of suitable lodging returned him to 221B Baker Street, and while dear Mrs. Hudson was still its landlady, the flat was occupied and unavailable for at least a year. When asked for a recommendation, Mrs. Hudson referred Watson to her friend, Mrs. Annette Lorant, whose establishment was but a few buildings away, west of Baker Street and directly around the corner on Portman Square.
Mrs. Lorant proved agreeable, and the Doctor arranged for the accommodations. The new apartment was strikingly similar to the flat on Baker Street, save it was located on the ground floor, sparing its renters the seventeen-step sojourn to the parlor level, which given the current situation proved to be a blessing.
Watson sensed his old friend enjoyed the new surroundings immensely, but even so was surprised when after just a fortnight the retired detective ordered several trunks of personal possessions moved from Sussex Downs to the Portman Square residence.
*. *. *
The cab bounced as it hit one of the irregular patches in the cobblestone street, jarring the Doctor out of his thoughts.
“You all right, mate?” the cabbie inquired, his bushy brow arching in the cab’s rearview mirror.
“Quite fine, old boy, quite fine,” the Doctor answered, wondering if he’d been thinking aloud again, a habit his wife found abhorrent. He rubbed his right shoulder, as the rain had a particularly painful affect in the area where he had been struck by a Jezail bullet during his military tour in India.
The cab, a stylish 1914 Austin, turned the corner onto Portman Square with a bark of its tailpipes, shuddering as it came to a stop beside the curb.
The Doctor fished the fare out of his pocket and handed it over with a tip that was too generous, though his gesture brought a gapped-tooth smile to the cabbie’s round, ruddy face.
“Thank you kindly, sir. Have a good night and stay dry.”
Stay dry, indeed.
Outside the relative comfort of the cab, the rain slashed down in torrents—what the Americans colorfully called “cats and dogs.” At least it had washed away the latest coal fog, those toxic vapors that were the bane of city living, especially for the elderly and the infirm. For that the rain was welcome. The Doctor gritted his teeth, threw open the cab’s door and made a dash for the familiar doorway twenty feet away, but in his haste he left his Homburg in the cab. He held his hand to his head, his only protection against the howling wind billowing his trench coat and roaring in his ears.
Twenty feet.
It might as well have been a league, as the Doctor was soaked to the skin by the time he’d fumbled the keys in the lock and stepped inside.
He stood for a moment, the water running off him onto a throw rug, letting the warmth emanating from Mrs. Lorant’s parlor hearth wash over him—the air scented, as always, with a hint of lavender.
“Doctor Watson! Good heavens, you’re soaked to the skin!”
The Doctor spied Mrs. Lorant emerging from the pantry, bearing a silver tray laden with food, a frown of concern furrowing her brow.
“Good evening, Mrs. Lorant. I’m afraid I’ve soaked your rug.”
She shook her head in a dismissive gesture and placed the tray on a nearby table, the empty teacup clattering on its saucer.
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
Watson frowned. “How is he?”
She gestured towards the closed door at the end of the hall.
“Sleeping. He sleeps most of the time, now. But it’s three days he’s sent away his meals; he’s not eating, only a little soup...”
The Doctor held her diminutive hands in his clammy grip, feeling their warmth, her dry skin as thin as tissue paper. “There now, dear lady. There’s no need for you to be making yourself sick from all this worry.” He nodded toward the tray. “I’ll take this to our patient and have him eating in no time.”
Watson picked up the tray and headed for the door.
“It’s gotten so I’m afraid to leave him alone,” she said, her voice quavering. “He seems to be sleeping, so peacefully. Then he wakes up...with a scream! You’ve never heard anything like it, Dr. Watson! It’s horrible! What dreams haunt him so?”
Doctor Watson stopped and turned. This was a new development. Mrs. Lorant’s frightened expression prompted his next question. “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”
Mrs. Lorant nodded with a weary sigh, her lips quivering. “I thought we were going to lose him two days ago. I brought him his mail in the afternoon, as I always do, and suddenly he jumped up, and called out the window for a coach!
The tray shook in his hands and Watson saw Mrs. Lorant ‘s eyes widen.
“That’s impossible,” he argued. “He’s not been out of his room in weeks.”
“Don’t I know that! You should have seen him! He was back, two hours later, near collapse. I had to help him to his room, and into his chair...and he hasn’t stirred since!”
“Well, we’ll see what that was about. Thank you for telling me. I’ll take over now, go make a nice pot of tea and get some rest yourself.” Watson started towards the back room. “You know, he’s blessed to have a friend such as you.”
She watched the Doctor, his clothing still dripping water, as he slowly walked the length of the hall to the door of the flat.
If so...he is doubly blessed, she thought.
Reaching the door, Watson shook himself violently, as would a drenched dog. He was half-tempted to have a quick peek through the keyhole before entering, but with a light push the unlatched door creaked open and he crossed the doorstep. A blast of frigid air slapped him in the face, the west window being wide open, offering no protection from the driving rain and cold. A small electric wall sconce provided the room’s sole illumination, and it was just enough for the Doctor to make out the frail, skeletal figure sprawled in an ancient, overstuffed armchair, looking for all the world like a wraith.
Watson walked over to the open window and shut it with a thud. He noted with sadness a thin layer of dust covering the hard-shell case that protected Holmes’ beloved Stradivarius violin; a small but significant indication that another door in this remarkable man’s life had closed.
The Doctor studied his friend’s sleeping face in the shadowy light. Watson had seen the hand of death played many times, both as a soldier on the battlefields of India and as a practitioner of medicine. But after these many years he was still astonished by the physical transformation that so often precedes the end of life; a softening of the features, an almost youthful expression of innocence and acceptance. The Doctor truly believed this was due to the weight of a mortal life being lifted from a man’s soul. It was in this context, and with the utmost sadness, that he noted his old friend’s exquisite features. Holmes had never looked so handsome.
The silence was broken by a remarkably strong voice.
“You’re wet, Watson.”
“Oh…good evening.”
Holmes, too exhausted to open his eyes, continued. “How was your engagement at the Skinners Arms, and how is the delightful Miss Morgan? And you, a married man! Was her presence so mesmerizing that it could make you forget your hat on an infernal night such as this?”
“Holmes!” shouted the doctor, “You have yet to look at me…how did you surmise I had visited the Skinners Arms, and Miss Morgan…and my hat!”
Pleased with the reaction he’d coaxed from his old friend, the detective’s eyes fluttered open and he gestured towards the door. “There’s another hat on the cushion of the coat rack behind you. You must not catch your chill, come in and pull up a chair, have a brandy.”
Watson eyed the old man quizzically. “You had another hat waiting for me? This isn’t deduction Holmes, it’s sorcery!”
Holmes chuckled, affection for his old friend shining in his eyes. “Or a happy coincidence. You left that Homburg here two weeks ago, or hadn’t you remembered?”
“No, I hadn’t. But the Skinners Arms?”
Holmes paused, gathering his limited reserve of energy before proceeding. “As much as most men deride the boredom of their everyday lives, Watson, we are all in fact creatures of habit. If you arrive here on a Tuesday evening at 9:40, you’ve most likely just observed a final libation at the Skinners Arms, a pub you tend to frequent midweek.”
“And Miss Morgan?”
Surprised by the question, Holmes inquired, “And why else would you forget your hat?”
“And how did you know I forgot my hat?”
Watson noted with mild annoyance that Holmes was enjoying himself immensely.
“The sound of your canine machinations before entering, Watson….”
“Never mind that,” the Doctor said as he made his way towards the cupboard. “I’ll have that drink now; will you join me?
“Yes,” said Holmes, “thank you.”
Pouring two drams of brandy, Watson seated himself directly in front of his friend, handing him one of the snifters. Holmes nodded, taking the glass slowly and carefully, with both hands.
Watson raised his glass. “To your health, Holmes…and how is it, this evening? Let’s have a look….”
The detective could not help chuckling. “Watson! Your bedside manner is extraordinary!”
Watson peered into his friends’ eyes, then took his pulse. The concerned expression crossing his face was evident to his reluctant patient. “As bad as all that, old man? Don’t try and hide your prognosis.”
“Hide anything from you?” replied the doctor. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“And to what, Watson, do I owe this unexpected but most welcome visit?”
“Unexpected?” asked Watson. “I though all we mortals were creatures of habit….”
“Excellent, Watson! A figure of speech. But I am glad to see you….”
The doctor rubbed his friend’s thin hands to encourage the circulation of blood, and they proved even colder than his own.
“I came here tonight for a reason, old boy. I have an itch—and before you make a terrible joke about a physician healing himself, hear me out!”
“Watson!” laughed Holmes. “You read my mind—and accuse me of sorcery! But please, continue…”
“As I was saying, I have an itch to write again. To date we’ve documented sixty case histories...”
Holmes nodded. “Yes, the sixty we have collaborated on.”
“Precisely, Holmes. You inspire my literary instincts, but I fear we have run the gamut of collaborative ventures. I cannot help assuming that perhaps there were other adventures, before I had the good fortune to make your acquaintance, that merit documentation?”
Holmes considered this for a moment, then reached for his cigarette case. The doctor watched as his friend struggled to pick up the case, which was within easy reach. With great effort, he removed a cigarette—a Mangalore Ganesh Bidi, to be precise—and placed it in his mouth.
“Yes, Watson. I suppose it’s time for us to document anything that is left that warrants documentation, for I sense it is growing rather late.”
Watson’s expression saddened. Holmes noticed this and changed the subject.
“But stay true to the facts, Watson! Your exaggeration of my deductive abilities almost qualifies our collaborations as fiction.”
“I reserve the right to dramatic license,” said the doctor, “but in your case Holmes, I have never found the need to resort to exaggeration.”
Holmes nodded again, tapped the cone-shaped bidi, ridding it of its loose tobacco leaves and struck a match, which flared with a soft hiss. The tip of his cigarette sputtered and crackled as it touched the flame.
“Thank you, Watson. Given such confidence I shall do my utmost to recall some case that might prove worthy of your literary skills.”
Watson came prepared, removing an expensive fountain pen and a cheap notepad from his inside breast pocket.
“And I have your permission to translate your recollections into story form, and to publish them as such?”
“I can make no such guarantee if it compromises the safety or privacy of any of my clients,” stated Holmes, in his best barrister tone. “Or any other innocent parties, for that matter. That must be determined at a later date. At the moment, I can only...reminisce.”
“Yes, yes,” Watson concurred, “but think back. Your earliest cases will have the least likelihood of injuring innocent parties, by virtue of the passage of time.”
Holmes exhaled a plume of smoke, and Watson’s nose wrinkled.
“I trust the balsamic odor of eastern tobacco doesn’t offend you,” inquired Holmes.
The Doctor dismissed this with the wave of his hand. “You’ve been smoking those damn things, on and off, for over thirty years. I would have said something before this evening.”
The detective nodded before returning to the matter at hand. “Any type of case in particular? Did I ever tell you about the giant rat of Sumatra?”
“Murder is most interesting,” answered the doctor.
Holmes slowly rubbed his nose with his open hands. His mood was on the rise; it appeared to Watson that his presence was having an energizing effect on his ailing friend.
“Watson!” the detective exclaimed. “You have a penchant for colorful titles. Perhaps we should revisit one of my earliest cases, The Juxtaposed Body.”
“The Juxtaposed Body?”
Holmes nodded. “One early morning, some thirty-five years ago, a plain pine coffin was pulled from the Thames by two fishermen. Upon examination, the casket revealed a singularly odd cadaver—a corpse comprised of two different bodies. The top half belonged to a woman of oriental character; the bottom half to a muscular negro man. The two were joined at the waist by an impregnable green-hued glue.”
“Holmes! Is this a true story?”
“Quite true, Watson, but I’m afraid the resolution is mundane. The two victims were murdered by a carnival busker named Keeler. He created a top attraction—a mummified figure, using the top half of the negro, and the bottom half of the Chinese woman. The composite body found in the Thames were the discards; they were murdered for their other halves.”
“Good God, Holmes, why would he glue the discarded portions of the cadavers together?”
“Experimentation, Watson,” the detective explained. “Keeler was an amateur chemist, and the glue was of his own creation, though at first he couldn’t be certain it would adhere to—and bind—the flesh properly. But when a high electrical current was passed through the practice cadaver the fusion worked admirably. Keeler paid a ship’s captain, a seaman of questionable character, to bury the unwanted remains at sea. But the body was dumped in shallow water and the corpse returned on the morning tide.”
“The Case of the Better Half!” exclaimed the doctor.
“Pardon?”
“The title! It should be titled: “The Case of the Better Half!”
Holmes laughed and clapped his hands together. “Bravo, Watson! You’re marvelous! But in hearing the tale as I relayed it to you, the story doesn’t... excite me. Surely we can do better....”
Watson glanced at Holmes, then at the pen and paper that lay in his lap. He began scribbling furiously, committing the previously discussed case details to paper.
Holmes slapped one hand down, his habit when random elements fell into place and arranged themselves in a meaningful fashion.
“Watson! I have it!”
“What is it, Holmes?”
“Your story! A painful one to relay but so extraordinary it is certain to meet even your lofty literary standards!”
“You’d categorize this early case of yours as painful?”
“Not a case Watson, not a case,” Holmes clarified. “I functioned for the most part merely as an observer.” The detective bowed his head and continued. “And to this day, as you sit before me, it is without doubt the saddest story that has ever unfolded before my eyes. Poor Professor Beadle!”
The doctor had never heard such emotion in his old friend’s voice. “Was this Professor Beadle your client?”
Holmes shook his head, sadly. “No, Watson, he was my mentor.”
*. *. *
The detective sat, silently debating whether he had the strength—or even the moral right—to share the story with his friend, much less its transcription and publication in The Strand for the reading public. But the look in the Doctor’s eyes told him that to reconsider was no longer an option. Holmes took one more puff from the foul-smelling bidi, extinguished it in an ashtray, and exhaled. The cigarette’s dog-end smoldered, a trail of smoke wisping high into the air, refusing to die.
“It all began some forty years ago, during my second and final year as a student at the University of Cambridge. Before dedicating myself to my present calling, as a youth I indulged in my passion for bee farming. With that in mind I took every biology course the institution offered...”
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