by Dana Cameron
The doctor blushed, but the words were simple truth.
“And you are a writer—your thrilling stories attract a wide audience. New generations of investigators will use their interest in your instructive accounts to improve our methods of detection—I have hopes even for those blockheads at Scotland Yard—and to make us Fangborn seem less strange if others can do much of what we can by logic rather than enhanced senses.”
John Watson nodded, slowly. “And now you’ve told me all this.”
My Cousin nodded. “I have. So I must ask you: Do you wish to remember this night? Or do you wish to continue as you were?”
“Every time, you must ask me this question, Holmes,” the doctor said after a moment, smoothing his mustache with a finger and concentrating, “I must say exactly the same thing, must I not, my friend? If I have no memory of these strange events, I have my abiding affection and admiration for you. The inspectors at Scotland Yard are rightly in awe of you, so I know none of this is a lie. I am no philosopher; my science is a workman-like art, so me knowing does neither you nor your family any good. And worse, it may make me a liability, like young Wiggins.”
“No liability, never, you or he,” Sherlock demurred. “But yes, it is dangerous for you to know.”
I thought with guilt and fear of Tommy’s brush with death and the cause of that.
“And we would be vulnerable to those—the Order?—who wish you harm.” The doctor shook his head. “Pray, take ’em away, the particulars of this case, and ease my mind. But I have one request.”
“Name it.”
“Let me help you again, if I can be of service. I may not remember everything precisely, but I know this. I feel quite rejuvenated after we’ve worked on a case together. I am a better man and a better doctor for it.”
“It is the same request you make every time, and I am delighted to honor it. There is no man in England—in the world—I trust more and whose respect I crave more than yours. And if there is ever a time when we are able to put our little plan into action, I promise you: You will be the first to know. I owe you that, and you deserve that honor—yes, even ahead of the queen herself!”
Cousin Sherlock does have a flair for the dramatic.
Then he said, “You have my secrets, Doctor. Keep them well.”
With that, Cousin Sherlock shook Doctor Watson’s hand. He then took him by the shoulders and made as if to salute him in the French manner. Startled, as he was every time, the doctor said, “Oh, I say, Holmes!” But rather than kissing him on each cheek, Sherlock bit the doctor on the neck.
I knew he employed the venom that would cause Watson to forget, heal his wounds, and make him suggestible to the story we would give him, spiced with as much truth as was safe for us all.
“Mycroft, if you would be so kind as to oblige John Watson in his request?”
Mycroft again took Watson’s hand, and closing his eyes, once again altered our history together. Mycroft and I vanished from this one; Billy’s kidnapping and the assaults on the Irregulars were elided, too; and the thefts were maintained to be the work of a gang with a taste for antiquities. The bullet wound in the Doctor’s leg was transformed into a second jezail bullet, another relic of his military service.
Doctor Watson sighed deeply, contentedly. His eyes fluttered open, and he started suddenly. “My apologies, Holmes. I’m asleep on my feet. Is there any chance my old room is free?”
“Of course—always. Good night, John.”
“Good night, Sherlock.”
We watched him climb the stairs.
“‘Si John Watson n’existait pas, il faudrait l’inventer,’ with apologies to Voltaire,” Sherlock said to me. He paused a moment and shrugged. “And to the Deity.”
“ ‘If John Watson did not exist . . . you’d have to invent him?’ ” I shook my head. “I’m sorry sir, but I do not understand.”
Cousin Sherlock sat down in his chair, stretched out his long legs, closed his eyes, and tented his fingers. “For many years, Amelia, I wrestled with the idea of a fictitious biographer. The idea would be to plant the seeds of an almost superhuman detective in the world’s mind. There is no such thing, of course, but John is the perfect reporter of our adventures as well as the perfect friend.”
“We need the stories to prepare the Ordinary world for our Introduction.” I understood his intent at once. “Coming from so respectable a gentleman, it could not but help our cause.”
“Amelia—Introduction? What’s that?”
We looked around. Tommy stood in the doorway. His eyes were wide, and he’d heard Mycroft’s story, no doubt. I was delighted to see that he was pale, but recovering, his arm in a splint.
“I’ll give you two a moment,” my Cousin said. He and Mycroft withdrew. Not too far away, I knew.
If the bolt-hole had been a test for Wiggins, this was a test for me.
Tommy took my hands. “What I’ve heard, Amelia! These things I’ve seen—Doctor Watson being healed! Your plans for the good of the world! It’s wonderful, and I want to help you! You know I’ve always . . . been fond of you. You will let me help you, won’t you? I . . . that is, if you feel the same way I do, we might take up your fight together.”
“I do—you know I care for you, Tommy. Very much. And it would mean the world to me to have the life you describe. It would be . . . a dream.” I shook my head. “But it is a dangerous dream, Thomas Turner, full of peril for us both. There would never be any quiet, any peace. The likelihood of our deaths by violent means would almost be assured. You must realize that.”
“I’m not afraid if I’m with you. And I know that you, in addition to being the cleverest and loveliest of girls, are also the bravest.”
“Danger is part of my Family’s trade,” I agreed. “All right, Tommy.”
The look on his face was purest joy. “You have made me the happiest man in the world, Amelia.”
“And I am delighted to be the author of your happiness, my dear.” With that, I kissed him, very carefully, on his left cheek.
It was the same moment the needle went into his neck, below his right ear. Thomas went limp, and his eyes flickered closed.
I held his hand as he collapsed, Cousin Sherlock taking his shoulders to ease him to the ground.
“You chose correctly, I think, Amelia,” he said as he worked. We brought Tommy back down to the kitchen, to make sure no one but the four of us would retain an accurate recollection of the evening. We retired to the sitting room. Mycroft handed a brandy to Sherlock, and to my surprise, one to me. The fire in the drink seemed to match the turmoil of my emotions.
“Then why do I feel so awful, Cousin Sherlock?” It was worse than seeing Tommy pale and unconscious on the table. My throat closed up, and I felt a sickening void yawn, wide and deep, before me.
“Because that is the terrible aspect of love; once given a glimpse and denied it, we never fully recover.”
“What will you tell him?” I asked. “Tommy, I mean.”
“Something good,” Sherlock said sympathetically. “Something to divert him from you. Then tomorrow, when he’s entirely recovered, I’ll send him to fetch that young bulldog Lestrade to hear my tale of the antiquity thieves.”
Sherlock narrowed his mouth. “And then I shall turn my wits to discover this new foe, this abstract thinker, this puppeteer of London criminals. As well as the sword—I do not like unknowns, and there are too many here. But, Amelia, will you be happy with Tommy not remembering you?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak for a moment. I wished I could take something to make me forget the pain of the decision I knew was correct. Perhaps I could go away from London, I thought. “Yes. Better he not recall any of this. Anything of me.” And maybe Hal would like me now, too.
“I work to keep love at a distance,” my Cousin said. “It is a dreadful thing, especially for our kind. Worse if we love Ordinary folk.”
“ ‘Keep love at a distance?�
�� ” Mycroft snorted, a stentorian noise, all disbelief. “Oh, yes, I recall many of these instances of swearing off, especially after our American Cousin was reassigned there. The moaning I heard. ‘Oh, she was the daintiest thing under a wolf pelt, Mycroft!’ he’d say, and ‘Oh, she has no equal!’ I suspect my brother’s still mooning. Don’t worry Amelia, his resolutions only last about twenty years or so. He’ll recover and fall in love again about 1905, if my estimate is correct.”
“Perhaps we could return to the matter at hand,” Cousin Sherlock said. It was as if the room’s temperature had dropped to freezing. He put a kind hand on my shoulder. “Amelia, it will fade over time.”
“Say twenty years?” I stood straight, trying to be brave when I felt anything but. “We have our work to distract us, I suppose. But what of when we have no work? How can I bear it in idle times?”
Sherlock smiled sadly. “I recommend the violin.”
Acknowledgments
A very big thank-you to my editor, Jason Kirk of 47North. Much gratitude, as always, to my first readers: James Goodwin, Charlaine Harris, Toni L. P. Kelner, and my agent, Josh Getzler. Thanks also to Leslie S. Klinger for his encouragement.
About the Author
Dana Cameron was short-listed for the Edgar Award and earned multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Awards for her work, including several Fangborn short stories. Her first two Fangborn novels are Seven Kinds of Hell (2013) and Pack of Strays (2014), both published by 47North. Trained as an archaeologist, Dana holds a bachelor of arts from Boston University and a doctorate from the University of Pennsylvania; she lives in eastern Massachusetts with her husband and two cats. When she’s not writing fiction, Dana continues to explore the past (and the present) through reading, travel, museums, popular culture, and food. More news about Dana and her writing can be found on her author website and blog at www.danacameron.com.
