Who knows how long he might have gone on yelling like that? But at that moment, Arthur Pinner began to wheeze and cough.
“Oh…” said Watson, teetering deliriously. “That’s good. Yes… Good…” Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out over Mr. Pinner’s legs and began producing another grand puddle of nose blood. I was the last man standing, at the end of a very strange case indeed.
So, I lammed it down the stairs, out into the street, all the way to the station, onto the nearest train, and straight back to London.
Well… not straight back to London. It turns out the train I’d run onto had been going to Edinburgh. So… eventually back to London. As soon as I got there, I rushed to 221B, went upstairs, yanked the shades down over all the windows, threw myself in bed, pulled the covers up over my nose, and stayed there for days.
Because John Watson was back.
Despite all my best efforts to keep him safe, he was back.
And he had every reason to be cross with me.
THE FINALITY PROBLEM
DEAR READERS, HAVE ANY OF YOU DECIDED TO RUIN YOUR professional standing, your interpersonal relationships, and any credibility you might have with anyone who’s ever met you, but found it difficult?
Then why not try:
It’s really very simple. First: announce you are no longer yourself. Make sure to have no idea you ever were yourself. Fail to respond to your name. Pick a new, patently ridiculous name. Live with no memory of the events of your past life.
Now, without warning, abandon your new persona! Go back to your old one. Make sure to have no idea what transpired in the five months you were changed. Give no clear reason either for your initial transformation or for your sudden return to normalcy.
And there you have it, dear reader. Trust me, your life will be in tatters.
How do I know? I learned it the instant I told my servants that I wished to be addressed as John Watson once more. Clearly, they had thought never to see my return. And now that they did, they could only wonder how long it would last. Would I be asking to be called Hall Pycroft again the next morning? Or someone else entirely? They treated me like a dangerous maniac—one whose madness they did not want to catch.
Still, it was better than how Mary treated me. Upon hearing the news that I was back she gave a single, bitter curse, retreated to the confines of our bedroom, and locked the door. This, I deemed, was a futile measure. I knew Warlock’s curse would soon create, in both of us, a yearning so severe she would have no choice but to throw that door wide and beg me to attend her. I decided that, until she did, I would not disturb her. After all, Mary had been as much a victim of my recent transformations as I had—perhaps even more so. Though, I did have to wonder how complicit Mary had been to my existence as Hall Pycroft. Had she preferred him? Had she been glad to see me gone? Was she behind that door, lamenting that the ray of hope called Pycroft had faded away, returning the sentence of servitude-for-life that was John Watson?
Was she crying?
You must realize, dear reader, that I had yet to discover Hall Pycroft’s contributions to my journal. As such, you have already received a great deal of insight which I lacked. The clues I had to my missing months were sparse and frustrating.
I could have buried myself in my work, I suppose, to hide my pain. Could have being the operative term, as my professional standing was in ruins. It seems that suddenly refusing to care for your patients, on the grounds that you are now a different person, then one day announcing you are yourself again and let’s-go-ahead-and-have-a-look- at-that-gammy-leg-shall-we? is not the optimal way of inspiring the confidence that is so fundamental to the doctor–patient relationship.
This phenomenon was driven home to me during a chance meeting with one of my patients who had just been struck by a carriage. Walking down the street one day, I encountered a knot of horrified spectators shouting for a doctor. Pushing my way through the crowd, I encountered my old patient, Mr. Widders, lying by the side of the road with a hideously broken leg. The moment he saw me, his eyes went wide with fear and he tried to drag himself away from me, which—since I was approaching from the sidewalk—meant he would rather return to the flow of traffic than to my care.
Thus, only a few short days after my return, I found myself with nothing to do but sit in my chair by the hearth, sipping tea and wondering what had happened to my world. Even the tea could not comfort me as it once had. I stared resentfully down at it, wondering if it might not be wiser to try half a pint of cheap gin instead.
My left hand began its old habit. Often, when my mind would wander, it would unconsciously probe the crater on my thigh, from the jezail bullet I’d had at Maiwand. However, on this occasion, the practice caused me to give a sudden cry of alarm.
A few seconds later, Joachim appeared in the doorway. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Sir” the reader may note; not “thir”. Apparently, his Madrid lisp had lost its novelty in Mary’s eye while I was away. Though he had assured me he could not rectify it, my own displeasure was not nearly as frightening to him as Mary’s. He’d been doing his utmost to expunge it. It still came through, from time to time, but the vocal badge of his individuality was nearly gone. By God, he was almost a proper English butler.
As he neared, I cried, “My wound! The scar! It’s gone!”
“Oh, but that was a very small wound, sir,” he told me. “We had it seen to while you were… erm… not yourthelf. It mended quite well.”
“No, no! Not that little scratch I got from the misadventure with Garrideb Grub! The whacking great one from Afghanistan! Look! It isn’t here!”
He gave me a very strange look. “No, sir, it isn’t there.”
“But why?”
“Because it’s on your thoulder, sir.”
I stared at him, incredulous. “Is this some kind of joke? I was shot! Right here!”
Joachim’s look of sympathy and concern deepened. He drew near and asked, “Sir… if I may?” He patted my back, until he found what he was looking for. Then, almost apologetically, he slid his finger into the deep scar on my left shoulder blade.
“Aaaaigh!” I cried. “What the hell?”
“Sir has many times recounted the battle,” Joachim assured me, “and always—we have been told—sir was wounded in the thoulder. Sir nearly died of a severed artery. Forgive me, but I cannot remember the name of it.”
“Left subclavian. It would have been the left subclavian…” I muttered. And there was a flash of familiarity to the words. But no. I shook my head. “But… right here! I remember falling, Joachim! I remember clutching at my leg! The pain… the fear…”
All my poor butler could do was shrug and suggest, “Perhaps sir is mistaken. Can I refresh sir’s tea? I fear this cup has grown cold.”
“No. Absolutely not,” I said, then rose, went to the window, opened it, flicked my stupid cold tea out into the garden, walked to the side service, filled the teacup with brandy, and returned to my seat.
I had a whole new, wonderful worry now. Because, you see, it had been a few days. My bedroom door remained closed—save for when Mary rang for one of the servants to bring her food or bear away one of the shocking quantity of letters she was suddenly writing. That is to say: Holmes’s curse, binding me to Mary, had not manifested itself yet. But why? And might it have something to do with the fact that I could not remember my own wounds?
Do you see my concern?
What if, when he had erased John Watson to make room for Hall Pycroft, Warlock Holmes had killed John Watson? What if I was a brand-new creature designed to think it was the missing man, and—based on my incorrect memories—poorly designed, to boot? What if I was no longer bound to Mary because my soul was not genuinely John Watson’s?
Was I a counterfeit me?
The only way to know was three more brandies. Of this, I was certain. Sadly, no clarity lay in the bottom of those teacups. Somewhere towards the end of the third one, Joachim came in again. He
was pale; he knotted and unknotted his fingers repeatedly. I was deep enough in my cups that it made me cross to see him so.
“You shouldn’t frown, you know. It lessens your beauty. I feel like you should be smiling on a sunny beach somewhere, surrounded by a throng of admirers. I feel like that’s your natural state.”
He wrinkled his brow at me. “I used to think so too, sir, but that’s not a very thustainable career path.”
“Bet you miss those days, eh?”
He gave me a little shadow of a smile and looked down at his feet. “Ah… pardon me, sir, but I have a question. It’s your wife, sir. She is desirouth to know what became of the Agra treasure.”
“Why? Does she think she needs more treasure? Look at the size of this house, for God’s sake!”
“Oh… well… I think she was curious about a thertain item. A mysterious black coin, I believe.”
“Hmmm, yes. That was the heart of the thing,” I agreed. I’m sure if I had not had quite so much brandy coursing through my bloodstream, I might have been a bit less direct. “It was magic, you know. Terrible magic. The rest was just money. But the coin’s at the bottom of the Thames; she knows that.”
“Ah, yes, but where in the Thames? It’s a very big river.”
I screwed up my brows at Joachim and protested, “Yes, but Mary knows. Perfectly well.”
“Perhaps she did, sir,” said Joachim, wringing his hands again, “but maybe thomething has happened to her that made her forget. And Hall Pycroft… well… he understood little of such matters. But now that you are returned to us, sir… you must know where it is. Please…”
He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Please. I have displeased the missus. If I could bring her that piece of information, I’m sure it would be enough to put me back into her good graces.”
I gave a little brandy burp and regarded Joachim with some curiosity. He’d grown so much since I’d gone. He was a far better butler. But so much less happy. And what was all this mess with Mary forgetting where Jonathan Small had dumped her treasure? Why did it matter? Did she intend to go snorkeling about in the Thames after it?
By God, I’d pay to see that.
I gave a little shrug, swallowed the last few sips of teacup number three, grabbed the decanter to queue up teacup number four and muttered, “Well, it was definitely toward the south bank. Probably the southern third or fourth of the river. Between Blackwall and Plumstead. We didn’t see exactly when he dumped the treasure, so it could be anywhere in there. I doubt we’ll ever find it. In fact, I rather hope we don’t.”
“Thank you, sir! Yes, I think that will be enough to please her! I should be all right now. Oh, thank you!” Joachim cried, then turned and bolted through the door, presumably to tell Mary.
But definitely to leave me alone with brandy teacup number four.
Which I promptly demolished. Then I must have fallen asleep for a bit. I know, because I remember being jarred awake by the sound of raised voices. Little Sally was out near the entry, arguing with somebody. In my time away, she had truly come into her duties as maid. Plus, she’d probably turned ten, too.
I had the curious urge to buy her a pony.
“—care for your strange tricks!” she was shouting. “You can’t just barge in here, can you?”
She was answered by a man’s voice. “Well I hate to correct you, dear lady, but it seems I can, doesn’t it? Because I did.”
And suddenly, I was wide awake. That sounded exactly like Holmes! Holmes? I pulled myself shakily to my feet and headed towards the library door.
“Go on! Get out of here! You’ve got to leave!” said Little Sally.
“Very well, if you insist,” Holmes’s voice harrumphed. “But it’s got to be out the back window. And I want your assurance, before I go, that he is safe.”
“I told you before: he’s sleepin’ in the lie-berry,” Sally declared, but was instantly made a liar, as I staggered around the corner.
“No. No, I’m here. It’s all right, Sally. He can stay. You can leave us.”
My maid made a disapproving face at me as she shuffled past, but Holmes broke into a broad smile. And God help me, but I smiled too. I suppose it would have been fair of me to be a bit cross about being Pycrofted for several months. But no, my heart swelled with joy to find him at my door.
“Watson!” he crowed. “I am so glad to see you! How are you?”
“Oh… well… not at my best, I suppose.”
“But not shot or poisoned or murdered at all. That’s something, eh?” he asked, cheerily.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Holmes… is there something going on?”
He looked down at the floor for a moment, as if embarrassed. “John, do you remember what you told me when you were helping Arthur Pinner? About choosing your wars and the soldier’s price, and all?”
“Not really,” I admitted. “I think I might have been rambling a bit, before I fainted.”
“Well, you rambled quite convincingly. As a result, I have decided to include you in certain developments. Now… I don’t know if you are aware, but I have always had an arch-enemy, the whole time you’ve known me.”
I narrowed my eyes even harder. “Do you mean Moriarty?”
“Oh! You already knew?”
“Yes! He was my Christmas goose once! He was you once!”
“Oh, that’s right; he was! I’d forgotten,” Holmes laughed.
“Forgotten? I shot you in the heart!”
“Well done, too. Top marks. But recently I had some contact with Irene Adler.”
“Yes. I know…” I said, but caught myself just in time and added, “…nothing about that. Please… um… Please tell me.”
“She warned me that Moriarty might soon be returning, and might make a move against me. This seems to be the case. In recent years, the remains of Moriarty’s criminal empire have been aimless and unfocused, like a headless snake.”
“Headless snakes… usually just dead…” I noted to myself.
“Now London’s magical criminal element have displayed such sudden invigoration that there can be no question in my mind: Moriarty is directing them once more. So, I thought, ‘Let’s check in on John, eh? And get off the street, where all the bullets and falling bricks and mysteriously swerving carriages are.’ I thought you might have time for an old friend, as your hat rack proclaims you have no male visitors at the moment.”
I gave Holmes a contented smile and remarked, “It does my heart good to see you continuing your studies in the art of deduction. Yes, the only hats upon that rack are ones that you have seen me wear in the past. It therefore stands to reason—”
But my reflection was cut short by a shrill voice as my hat rack wiggled its little wooden arms at me and shrieked, “No, he don’t got no man friends over, do he? ’Cos he don’t got no men what likes him. And ladies? No, no, no. Oh, but you know who likes him? Dargs. But they never comes round, do they, less they slips off leash.”
This was answered by the voice of poor Little Sally, who shouted from the other room, “Hey! I told you! Furniture don’t talk!”
“She’s right, you know,” said Holmes sympathetically to my hat rack. “Best to hush up, eh?”
But the hat rack would not be distracted or denied. It continued to rail on about how it never got to meet any hats but mine, except at Mary’s parties, and then it had so many that it could barely hold them all.
My gaze hardened. “You put a spell on my hat rack?”
“I didn’t mean to, Watson, you must believe me. Look, I just ran in here all flustered because of the assassins. And I was wondering if you had anybody else over. And I didn’t concentrate hard enough to not cast a spell, so…”
“Holmes?”
“Yes, Watson?”
“Assassins?”
“Well… I mean… attempted assassins, yes.”
“Just outside? This whole time we’ve been talking?”
“Probably. I haven’t actually checked. Look here, Watso
n, if you’re going to stand there asking judgmental questions about my current lifestyle, might I at least take a moment to close your shutters? I’m afraid it won’t do to stand about casting visible silhouettes on the windows with so many assassins lurking about.”
He then promptly ignored his own advice, stepping directly in front of my window to close and fasten the shutter. Hardly had his hand reached the latch than the familiar poot! poot! poot! of Straubenzee air rifles filled the night. Holmes gave a cry of alarm as two bullets came ripping through the shutter and a few more thudded into the far side of my front door. One bullet must have struck at a narrow point in the sculpted woodwork, for it penetrated into the interior of my house.
“—think there should be more of those yellow rubber hats, with how much it rains around AAAAAIIIEEEEE!” shrieked my hat rack, as the bullet tore it in two and sent its top half and two of my hats clattering into the corridor.
Have you ever had an item of your furniture shot in half while you were standing right next to it? Can you imagine what emotion that might give rise to? Pure relief. But then such were the peculiarities of adventuring with Holmes. I turned to give him my most disapproving eyebrows, but he wasn’t paying attention to me.
Instead, he leaned down to one of the bullet holes and shouted out through it, “Good job, out there! That’s done it! That’s killed us all!”
“Thank you!” called a thick but happy-sounding voice from without, but then a moment later, it added, “Hey!” and a fresh series of air-gun shots spattered my house.
“Do you know what, Watson? I’ve just thought of something: let’s go on holiday,” Holmes suggested. “How does out-the-back-window-and-over-the-garden-wall sound?”
The Finality Problem Page 26
