by Kane, Paul
‘I simply refuse,’ I told him.
‘Then more innocent people will die before this is all over,’ Holmes said to me. ‘The killer has a taste for this now. He is using more and more “hands on” methods, from what I can ascertain. He is taking pleasure in the tactile aspect of ending lives. If you will not do this for me, Watson, then do it for the victims yet to be claimed.’
Reluctantly, I agreed, returning to my surgery to gather what I would require. The safest way I could think of to stop Holmes’ heart temporarily was by way of administering an injection; a lethal concoction of my own devising, for which I also had the antidote. For Holmes had explained that he only required me to impede the beating of his heart muscle for a short amount of time. ‘Long enough to lure our prey out into the open,’ Holmes informed me.
Quite how ‘killing’ my friend would achieve this, I did not know, apart from the obvious parallel it had with friends and loved ones suddenly doing the same thing across our city. Did he wish to recreate the madness of extinguishing life in such a way? If so, he could scarcely have chosen a more apt person to perform this action; Holmes has always been, and will forever remain, my best friend.
The wait of a day passed slowly, as I contemplated what I was about to do. In a few hours I would achieve what every single one of Holmes’ adversaries had failed to do. Even Moriarty. I would murder the great detective, and he was going to let me – had asked me to do the very deed! The merest thought of it boggles the mind, does it not?
Nevertheless, I found myself once more travelling back to that cemetery as another thick fog descended upon London. The sky was darkening and the overall effect succeeded in chilling me to the bone. As I walked through that graveyard, knowing full well the people contained therein could not harm me, I still found myself shivering. When Holmes stepped out from the depths of a bank of fog and tapped me on the shoulder, it was very nearly I who found his heart stopping that night.
‘You gave me an awful fright,’ I told him.
‘My dear Watson, please forgive me.’ In spite of the circumstances, and by the light of the lamp he was holding, I detected the hint of a smile playing on his lips. ‘Did you bring the required items?’
I nodded, showing him my medical bag.
‘Splendid, then we shall begin.’ Holmes took me over to where a flat slab of stone was located, somewhere for him to lay as I carried out his request. He placed the lamp beside him so that I could see.
‘Holmes, are you quite sure about this? I still do not understand why—’
He silenced me with a finger. ‘Please proceed. I know that I am in the most capable of hands.’
Sighing, I took out the hypodermic and a vial, siphoning off a massive dose of my poison. Holmes, for his part, rolled up his sleeve and I saw exactly what the cost of his experimentations were; red welts on his arm, digging into the lines along his vein. I frowned, but said nothing, instead taking up his arm to give him the injection: quite possibly the last I might ever administer to him.
As the needle went in, Holmes reached over and patted my hand gently. Neither of us said a thing as he shut his eyes and waited for the drug to take effect. I sat there and noted the look of complete peace on Holmes’ face. It was the first and only time I had seen him so content.
I took his wrist and felt for a pulse. It was still there, but faint.
‘I never got the chance to tell you this before, Holmes,’ I whispered, still keeping hold of his wrist as the beats slowed. ‘But thank you. Thank you for everything.’
Then, suddenly, the beating ended.
I bowed my head, choking back the wave of emotion I felt at seeing my companion as dead as those corpses I had examined after the murders. Then I experienced it, a sudden jolt – so fierce I almost let go of Holmes’ arm. I wonder now if I would have seen what followed had I done so, for I firmly believe it was the physical connection to Holmes at the time his spirit departed his body that allowed me to bear witness to what transpired. Yes, that is correct – you did not read wrongly. I can finally unburden myself of the knowledge of what happened in those ensuing moments. It is a memory I have carried with me now for so long.
A shape began to coalesce beside the slab, indistinct at first and shimmering – but as I blinked, refocusing on it, a familiarity began to reveal itself. A head, shoulders, arms, legs…it was a body, glowing white in appearance, and transparent. But eventually it took its true form. It turned to stare at me, and it was then that I saw the unmistakable visage of none other than Holmes himself. He mouthed something upon seeing me, but I could not hear him at that point and was too much in shock to reply anyway. I wondered whether Holmes had somehow infected me with his madness, for this must surely be what it felt like to experience insanity.
There had hardly been enough time to adjust to this new development when something else happened. The fog parted, close by, and at the same time began swirling round, taking on a form itself. It was difficult to separate the darkness beyond our lamp and the glow of Holmes’ spirit from that which was bending the mist to its will. I soon realised my mistake, however, because again this was not a thing of our world. It was nebulous in appearance itself, mist-like though not of the mist enveloping us. The only reason I could see it at all was because of my physical connection to Holmes.
Like the latter, it too settled on a form eventually: tall and black, wearing what looked like robes but were not made from any kind of material known to man; rather fashioned from the same miasma as the rest of it. Its hands, when it reached out, were in contrast white and thin, almost bone-like but lacking substance. A finger whipped out, pointing at my companion’s shade.
And its voice, when it spoke, sounded like thousands of voices speaking at once in my mind. ‘Sherlock Holmes,’ it stated simply. ‘I have come for you.’
All the times he had cheated Death, in particular that celebrated occasion at the Reichenbach Falls, and now I feared that it had sought Holmes out – all because I had ended his life. But Holmes was right, there was a distinctive smell; it was one I recognised all too readily from my time serving abroad, and my career as a doctor on these shores.
‘No,’ I heard my friend say then, in a voice that was his but not his. ‘I have come for you.’
There was silence then, as if the creature in front of Holmes did not quite know how to reply. That silence was filled eventually by an explanation of sorts.
‘It wasn’t quite enough for you, was it?’ Holmes continued abruptly. ‘Taking lives like this. It wasn’t…satisfying.’ He uttered the last word with all the contempt it deserved. ‘You have watched for so long as we have found new ways to kill each other. Watched and come for us when needed. All the while wondering what it might be like to actually kill, to tighten a cord until the last gasp of air emerged from a mouth, to plunge a knife through someone’s heart until it beats no longer, to hack a child to…’ Holmes paused. ‘I saw your pattern, you see. This isn’t the first time you have slipped inside; you’ve worked your way through battlefields, have you not, choosing those who would not readily be missed. The poor, the destitute. I have seen them all. They told me what you have done. Yet that was not enough for you. The sweetest sensation, the longest and strongest high of all, comes from the murder of a loved one. To feel the connection severed at your hands. Your very hands!’
Listening to Holmes’ explanation, something I have done on many occasions at the conclusion of a case, everything fell into place. The reason why Miss Cartwright’s cousin, Anthony, had done what he did – the reason those others did the same. It was a disturbing revelation to say the least.
‘You dare to pass judgment on me?’ came the voice that was a thousand voices, almost screeching the reply. It was filled with indignation that Holmes was even talking to it.
‘When your actions result in…’ Holmes’ spirit looked over again at where the family from the train had their plot. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
There was a snarl from the black, mist-like shape,
and it flung itself forward, just as Holmes had done back in Baker Street after wallowing in depression and indulging too much in his seven percent solution (or more?). The intent was different here, however, and we could both see it.
The shape raised both hands, in an effort to grab Holmes, to take him back with it, to drag him away and undo his very existence. I wished there was something I could do… But there was! I could bring Holmes back as he had instructed. We knew the identity of the killer, we just could not do anything about it – and never would be able to, I feared.
It was time to administer the antidote and restart Holmes’ heart.
He looked sideways and could see what I was about to do. ‘Not yet, Watson!’ he cried, then those hands grabbed him and Holmes was grappling with Death itself. Not in any figurative sense this time, but as he would have done any other criminal he was tangling with. Though how would he be able to defeat such a creation?
‘You…have been…with me…every step of the way,’ Holmes grunted as he struggled with his enemy. ‘But even…you should know…there are consequences…to one’s actions.’
Something was happening behind me. I took my eyes off the spectral pair, to glance around. More shapes in the mist, breaking through in fact: one after the other. It did not take them as long as Holmes or Death to form. They had been waiting for this moment and were eager to strike. Not only were there the victims of Death’s atrocious crimes, such as Judith Hatten, Mr Thorpe, the husband and child murdered on the Waterloo Train, but also those who had been so tormented by their spectral appearances that they had taken their own lives – and, I had to wonder, given a helpful push by Death itself? So there followed Anthony, Mrs Thorpe, the mother who’d turned that fire axe on her beloved husband and child, and more besides. I watched as those Holmes had spoken about, the earlier victims, both the murderers and the suicides that had gone unnoticed, unreported – the ones who had told Holmes their tales – all came marching through the mist. But they were also joined by those who’d been lost during the last few weeks, while Holmes had been attempting to get to the bottom of this very mystery: the ones Lestrade had not been able to keep from the morning editions. They surged through that graveyard as one, a phantom army heading towards Death, all craving revenge.
The black figure – whose face was still unclear to me, and I would imagine to Holmes – turned towards them, letting go of my friend. The horde encircled Death, crowding in and raining down blows that I did not think would have any effect, but evidently did. They were backed up by the power of those trapped between life and…whatever was on the other side. It suddenly dawned on me then exactly why Holmes had wanted to wait a day. It was October 31st, All Hallows’ Eve – the time of year when these spirits would be at their most powerful.
‘Now, Watson!’ shouted Holmes, limping away from the scene. ‘Bring me back now!’
I snapped out of my daze, not wanting to let go of Holmes’ hand because I wished to witness the last of this, wanted to see Death’s end. But, of course, I should have known that Death is never, ever truly gone. How could it be? It is the other side of the coin to life. I saw the dark figure being smothered by ghosts, then let go and watched as the vision faded. While I worked – injecting Holmes with the antidote then pounding on his chest to get his heart beating again – I heard a faint voice. A voice made up of so many more. ‘We will meet again,’ Death promised Holmes, ‘and not even your friend will be able to save you then.’
The words filled me with dread.
I couldn’t see the ‘spirit Holmes’ anymore, couldn’t see any evidence of the battle that had taken place, but it did not matter to me at that point. I beat on Holmes’ chest one final time, and he sat bolt upright, taking in a lungful of night air. He began to cough, though whether it was the result of coming back or the fog still surrounding us, I had no clue. But I held on to him anyway, until he was strong enough to sit up on his own. ‘Rest a little, Holmes,’ I warned him.
‘I’m…I’m fine,’ he told me. ‘Thank you, Watson.’ Then he clasped my arm.
I nevertheless had to half-carry my friend through the graveyard and through the fog, into a more public place where we could hail the cab that would take us back to the relative safety of Baker Street.
Holmes spent the next few days recuperating, enjoying the ministrations of both myself and Mrs Hudson. When Lestrade called on us once more, I was able to inform him of the conclusion to the case. ‘You should not see any more deaths like those,’ I assured him. I could not promise him the madness of the population would not continue, as indeed it did in the final stages of the 19th century until everyone was certain the world would not end. But of the murders committed by loved ones and subsequent suicides, there was no more sign. Due note had obviously been taken of the repercussions. As I already mentioned, the matter was put down to the singular time of the year and our calendar. I would not be pressed further on what had been amiss with those people, in spite of Lestrade demanding answers from both myself and later Holmes – for one thing, I did not know where to start; for another I was positive he would have us both committed if we spoke of what we’d uncovered. Nor did Holmes and I talk about what had happened and what we had seen that day. To do so seemed somehow to invite the premature return of the culprit.
So you see, it is only now, with my friend passed on and myself nearing the end of my years, that I am committing this to paper. Even then, I doubt very much whether it shall see the light of day. Instead it will probably be dismissed, I fancy, as a work of fiction less credible even than some of those by Mr Stoker or Mr Verne. The final ramblings of an aged adventurer.
But I know the truth.
Holmes once spoke about his greatest foe without realising it, before he ever encountered the thing, during a case a long time ago. ‘The Adventure of the Six Napoleons’ I believe it was, though my memory is waning, I must confess. He was in the mortuary then, not the graveyard, but he mused: ‘I am just contemplating the one mystery I cannot solve. Death itself.’ How prophetic those words should turn out to be.
Because although he may have prevented more innocents from going the way of Judith Hatten and the others, spared future ‘murderers’ from the blame and guilt of something they had not done, Holmes had far from solved the mystery of exactly what Death was – nor what happens when we take our final breath.
The voice had been right, of course. It had seen Holmes again, and I had not been able to save him. But that is a story for another time.
For now, I have entrusted my recollections to the page and all that remains is for me, myself, to await the hand of Death on my own shoulder.
Perhaps then, at least, I will discover the mystery of what Holmes already knows himself.
Baggage
He was just carrying around too much baggage, that was the problem.
It was worrying Nicholas, even right now. If this one worked out the way he thought, he’d give up completely on finding any kind of happiness. Resolve himself to a life of being alone.
That was what had motivated him to start looking in the first place; the fear he’d probably end his days sad and lonely; no wife, no kids. Nothing. If he could only make some kind of a relationship work, then—
It wasn’t so easy, though, was it? Nicholas couldn’t help feeling bitter about his previous failures – especially those in his youth. It wasn’t as if he was hideous or anything, in fact he’d been told he was quite attractive. He was just incredibly shy, and liked to treat girls with respect. Inevitably, that had led to them either taking him for what little money he had, or taking him for granted.
Even those he’d thought were nice had stabbed him in the back. Take Julie, for instance, back when he was twenty-one – and still a virgin, though he did his best to hide it. They’d worked together at the coffee shop, and he’d been sweet on her for so long. She’d kept him dangling, saying they should just be friends. On the rebound, however, she’d dragged him out to buy her drinks one night, then dragged hi
m back to her place. He hadn’t been able to hide his inexperience then; couldn’t conceal the fact he was terrified. And when he asked her if she was really sure, that she’d always said they should just be mates, she’d taken it as an insult and told him to get out. The next day, he was the butt of all the jokes at work, while Julie had already moved on to her next conquest.
He’d learned from this mistake, but it hadn’t been any better once he’d finally popped his cherry. Nicholas treated all the women he’d dated well, and what had he got in return? ‘You’re just too…nice,’ they told him. ‘Too clingy. I need my space.’ At the same time they accepted all the nights out he paid for, all the gifts. It drove him to spend years not bothering with the opposite sex for fear of getting hurt.
But man wasn’t meant to live by himself, so every now and again he’d get drawn back into the fray. It was easier than ever now the internet was around. He’d found himself surfing the dating sites in his spare time, signing up for free and checking out who might be a suitable match. The first time he’d found what he thought was a nice woman – liked to spend cosy nights in, watching movies – he’d bucked up the courage to mail her, then hadn’t even received a response. Despondent, he’d kept away from the site for a fortnight, before finally receiving an email to say he’d had a reply.
Valerie had been away on holiday when he mailed, and yes of course she’d like to talk more. She’d seemed ideal, but when they actually came to meet it had been a disaster. Not on his part – it never was – but because she wasn’t what she’d said at all. Turned out she liked nightclubs and picking up blokes by the dozen. She hadn’t been on holiday either, she’d been in contact with at least a dozen men on that same site (and Lord knows how many others on different ones).
Reluctantly, and in desperation, he’d tried a few more profiles, each one more disastrous then the last. GSOH? You’d need one to cope with all the catastrophes: most didn’t know what they wanted from a man (or from life in general), others were just plain crazy. Some had lasted a few days, others a few weeks, but inevitably he got the same response he had out there in the real world. Towards the end, and now seeing forty approaching like the edge of a cliff, he’d also been getting a new brush off: ‘You’re just carrying too much baggage.’ He’d ask them what they meant, and they’d tell him they could see it on him – like he was dragging around the weight of all those romantic fiascos. You get to a certain age, it’s only natural for a person to have some history. Right?
