Sherlock Holmes vs. Cthulhu

by Lois H. Gresh

  While I’d patented the den mode Eshocker, I still wasn’t ready to apply for patents for the hospital and extreme treatment modes. I needed more clinical trials first, needed to make sure that the two new modes worked as I had planned. Nobody knew how the two new modes worked; nobody but me, that was.

  The door shut behind the two nurses, and I locked it.

  I was alone with Bligh Braithwaite.

  “I believe you need extreme treatment,” I said, not cruelly but not kindly either.

  At this, he squirmed, and his eyes flew open. He stared at me in horror. His arms and legs thrashed against the restraints.

  “You shouldn’t have come here, Braithwaite. This is a hospital for the insane. I’m the director. What did you think would happen if you showed up? You knew full well what type of treatment you’d receive.”

  His cheeks puffed in and out. He desperately wanted to scream. The ball and gauze held tight. Sweat poured down his face, which turned red.

  “You know I want what’s best for you,” I continued, twisting off the screws from the top of the Eshocker box. Setting the top on the floor, I stared into the box, admiring my creation. It was beautiful. It was perfect. It was wondrous. A true medical breakthrough.

  His eyes beseeched me, but I just shook my head.

  “There’s no getting out of this, Braithwaite. You came to me for help. I’m going to give you that help. You’re a sick man. We both know that. You’ve always been sick, even as a child. The twitching, the wailing, the gibberish, the spasms. You can’t speak clearly to anyone. You can’t understand what we try to tell you. You’re a lost soul, aren’t you, Braithwaite? Lost, and you want me to comfort you. And I will do that, and you know why? Because you’re a very special man, that’s why.”

  The dull-wax eyes went wild. They flashed from me to the door to the gurney to the examination table to the Eshocker across the room. His clenched throat growled, a muted form of howling muffled by the ball and gauze.

  I placed a hand on his shoulder, and he shrank back.

  “Now, now,” I said calmly, “struggling only makes things worse for you. Settle down. Relax. You might even try to enjoy it. People pay for this pleasure in the dens. Addicts would sell their mothers for the dose I’m about to give you.”

  Moistening his forehead with a wet sponge, I placed two electrodes on him, then stepped back and enjoyed the moment.

  “Extreme treatment,” I said softly, and when he shuddered, I smiled. “For an extreme case,” I added.

  I didn’t look at him to see his reaction. I’m not cruel.

  I turned it on, and the Eshocker rumbled to life. The beautiful sound of electricity filled the air, a steady thrum that made my heart happy just to hear it.

  I applied the treatment, and I enjoyed every second of it.

  The patient convulsed, wheezed, and fought me like the lunatic he was, and finally, after a lengthy session with the Eshocker, he fell into a deep sleep.

  His face relaxed.

  Wasn’t he better off this way?

  Of course, he was.

  The man was a maniac. Totally out of control. Who knew what he’d do if let loose in society? He might attack children. He might kill somebody.

  But instead, with treatment from the Dr. Sinclair Eshocker, his sick mind floated in the peaceful fold of dreams. In dreams, we hallucinate and hear things, perhaps; but in dreams, we cannot hurt others, maim or kill them.

  Let the lunatics dream.

  Later, when Braithwaite awakened, I’d think about giving him further treatment. For now, I had to enlist the aid of my other lunatics, those with machinist skills. I had to build den Eshockers for Professor Moriarty and for the masses, and I had other patients requiring my attention.

  My worries centered on Moriarty. He was a dangerous man. He would kill without hesitation. He would kill me. Thankfully, he didn’t have the real Eshockers, the ones that would revolutionize medicine. He had only the den versions. I didn’t like negotiating with criminals.

  Such prices we pay for medical progress.

  Moriarty’s demands. Bligh Braithwaite showing up.

  I stared long and hard at my new patient.

  This was not turning out to be a good day in the lunatic business.

  7

  DR. JOHN WATSON

  London

  My wife had stuffed our lives into three large bags that now sat like garbage by the front door. The wall where I’d hung the painting of her father was now a blank slate, waiting for the next occupants of the rooms to put up a picture of their loved one.

  Samuel slept in her arms.

  She didn’t raise her eyes as I entered the room. She’d been crying. Her eyes were puffy, her face was wet.

  “Mary,” I said simply.

  I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t try to convince her to stay. London had become much too dangerous for her and Samuel.

  Henry Fitzgerald had sent a man to gas them. Moriarty had tricked and then transported them to a dangerous part of town near Willie Jacobs’s tram machine. Strange creatures haunted London and now seethed in the Thames; these must be the creatures that I had heard members of the Order of Dagon refer to as Old Ones, the Others, the Deep Ones—creatures they worshiped, believing they lived along energy lines deep within the earth and beneath the seas. In the same airless room I had heard them speak of another entity, as if they considered it the royal of all royals—they called it Cthulhu.

  I sat, resigned, in my favorite chair beside Mary’s rocking chair. Outside, the clouds shuddered and dumped rain onto the London pavements. My clothes, bedraggled oddities graciously loaned to me by Detective Harold Bentley, clung to my skin. My near-death in the Thames had left me deflated and weak, fighting a flu or heavy cold; I didn’t yet know which, but I feared mentioning my near-death and impending illness to Mary. It was bad enough that I was presenting myself to her with a bandage on my head, where a doctor—less skilled than myself—had applied ragged stitches. I would do nothing that might prevent Mary from leaving me.

  “It’s gone beyond Sherlock Holmes, and it’s gone past me,” I said softly, reaching for her hand.

  She burst out crying. She clutched my hand, her head bent over our baby.

  Samuel stirred, and his tiny eyes opened and blinked at me. He was too young to later remember me at this moment. But I would remember him.

  The furniture, comfortable and soft as ever, would feel hard and dead without her. I would not live here alone. I couldn’t.

  “The newspapers are full of the stories, John,” Mary said. “Everyone’s talking about it. When you didn’t come home yesterday or last night, I knew…” She paused. “I knew that you and Sherlock Holmes were involved. These are the same creatures, aren’t they, the ones you saw at Swallowhead Spring and in that warehouse by the Thames?”

  I nodded.

  “There’s what I think of as an infestation of these creatures in the river, Mary. Holmes and I saw one of enormous dimensions—a hideous, nightmarish vision, beyond anything we’ve yet seen—” I hesitated, and then I blurted it out: “We barely escaped with our lives.” I made a snap decision to tell her all, because she needed to know, for sure, how dangerous life was in London and how staying with me might mean certain death. I hated scaring Mary in this manner, but her safety came first, so I recounted all that had happened, and tried to end on a more positive note with how the police boat had rescued us, how Detective Bentley had stepped in and made sure we had baths and police beds for the night. Holmes and I had been incapable of anything more.

  She attempted a smile. She squeezed my hand a last time, then released it.

  “Samuel and I will return, I promise. I’m taking him to a friend of a friend’s—I’ll give you the address down south.” She supplied the information, then added, “When London’s safe again, we’ll come back to you, John.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I’d hoped that Holmes and I were done with these terrifying creatures. I see now that we are far from d
one. I must help him, Mary, I must see this through to its conclusion. I want you and Samuel to be safe. I didn’t know how to ask you to leave. It pains me, Mary.”

  My mind felt hazy, perhaps because I had spent a dangerous amount of time in the unclean river yesterday, but most likely, due to whatever had infected me during the past few weeks while Holmes and I resolved the case of the deadly dimensions. The visions, the terrible nightmares: I feared that I had been infected with a disease that caused madness. After I’d seen the effect the case had on Holmes—it had almost broken his belief in a sane world—I’d wished there was a way to travel back in time and run far away from London with my little family to spare them from all that had transpired and all that would transpire. I had not made that decision in time to spare Mary from suffering and worry.

  I didn’t pack my family into a cab right away. Instead, Mary and I dawdled, unable to part. I won’t relate here what transpired, for I maintain the belief that some matters in this world should remain private, and this was one of those times. I trust you can imagine the difficulties we both had in parting, and especially, how wretched I felt when finally I did tuck Mary and Samuel into a carriage and bid them farewell.

  Her final kiss lingered on my cheek. I pressed my hand to it, hoping to imprint it into my flesh.

  I had now done what I should have accomplished much earlier: protected my family from whatever threatened them in London. I felt relief, but also, a great sadness. How long would it be before I would see them again? How big would Samuel be? What would I miss?

  8

  “But surely you have no need to alter your mind or body with electric shocks, Holmes. You cannot possibly be bored. We have a case to solve like no other. Believe me, I am afraid of nothing, but these monsters in the Thames, well, I don’t know what to make of them. All London is hysterical. Mrs. Hudson is afraid to go out!”

  I swung from the window to face my old friend. We were fellow lodgers again. He’d kindly offered to take me back into 221B Baker Street.

  “Only until London is cleared of these creatures,” he’d said, “and then, we’ll send for Mary and Samuel, and you can return to your home. But for now, it’s best that you stay here as in former times.”

  Yet despite his acknowledgment that his skills might be required to rid England of this plague of creatures, Holmes had insisted on frequenting the Eshocker dens down by the river.

  When I’d pressed him about it, he’d cocked his head and slyly suggested that I join him.

  “It will help alleviate your melancholy,” he’d said, “and forget Mary for a space of time.”

  “I don’t want to forget Mary,” I’d spat back. “Even if it means that I’m melancholy, as you put it, I prefer to remember my family. Besides, my mind’s been fogged for more than a month. It’s as if I’m in a stupor. The last thing I need is to cloud my senses any further.”

  Now I settled into my old armchair by the fire, while Holmes sat across from me, his eyes narrowed, his mouth sucking in smoke from his pipe then releasing it in curls.

  “Perhaps you are suffering from nervous exhaustion, Watson. I agree that these creatures are bizarre entities, and yet, what do we know, as scientists, of the ocean and the multitude of life that swarms within its cradle? Perhaps these creatures come from the sea, have migrated into our Thames, have mutated into their current forms. Perhaps these creatures can indeed exist on land as well as water, and perhaps Professor Henry Fitzgerald and his underlings concealed them upon the warehouse roof that night. Perhaps—” his fingers tapped his pipe stem—“perhaps Fitzgerald’s gang unleashed them from that roof to provide the illusion of creatures snapping into existence seemingly from nowhere.”

  He looked quite delighted with himself. He crossed his legs, then rapidly uncrossed them and leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. He stared intently at me. It was the stare I knew so well, the one that often made me pull my eyes away from his due to its sheer intensity.

  “Perhaps, but as you always point out, Holmes, guesses do not equate with truth. We have insufficient facts.”

  “I am aware of that,” he said simply, settling back into his chair.

  “I need tea,” I said, “and some of Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits. Where is she? Is it not tea time?” Yes, I was irritable but knew that Holmes would correctly intuit that my family troubles were upsetting me.

  “Speaking of food,” he said, continuing his train of thought, “what do these creatures eat? Have you considered how they’re surviving in the Thames? If we deny them whatever it is they eat, then perhaps—to use that word you apparently despise—they will migrate elsewhere and leave us alone. They’ll return to the deep sea, if that is indeed their source.”

  The image flashed in my mind of the giant tentacle poised over his head. I dared not tell him that I thought he was a potential food source for these creatures, and with him, every inhabitant of London.

  Abruptly, Holmes leapt from his chair, excited by something, then turned and bellowed over his shoulder, “Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!”

  From beneath our flat, the landlady’s heels clicked across the floor and then up the stairs. In the meantime, Holmes wrenched a journal from his desk drawer along with two metal belts. He flipped open the journal and thrust it at me.

  “Read it,” he commanded. When I looked at him, confused, he said, “The advertisement, Watson. It’s from Pulvermacher and Company here in London. 1886.”

  I glanced at the page. Indeed, it was an 1886 advertisement, but in the Irish Journal of Medical Science. Pulvermacher had been forced to stop running similar advertisements in British medical journals such as The Lancet.

  “You see,” Holmes continued in a state of excitement, “these galvanic belts, of which I possess two types, strengthen both muscles and nerves, re-energize and reduce the very nervous exhaustion from which you suffer.”

  He shoved both belts into my hands. I dropped the journal onto my lap and clumsily grabbed the belts. The heaviest of the two was a Pulvermacher hydro-electric chain, a rudimentary electrotherapy device sold and promoted by doctors of much less standing than myself. I scoffed and set the chain on the floor at my feet.

  “My dear fellow,” I said, “you don’t imagine—?”

  He laughed, three quick bursts, and gingerly lifted the belt by its two large handles. He placed the belt—in truth, merely assorted wooden rods with copper and zinc wires wrapped around them and threaded all together—around his waist and gripped the insulated handles.

  I shuddered.

  “Really, Holmes,” I said.

  “Not to worry,” he chuckled. “I’ve not dipped the belt in vinegar, and also, I don’t intend to use it now.”

  There was a rap on the door and Mrs. Hudson came in.

  “Later, Mrs. Hudson!” he cried.

  “But… but…” She was flustered, one hand still on the door, the other clutching a handkerchief. “You called for me, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Yes, I did,” he replied, “but wait a moment, will you? Or better yet, go fetch our tea. The poor doctor might keel over at any moment if he doesn’t have some refreshment.”

  “Yes, yes,” she answered. “Right away. I’m sorry, Doctor. With all the commotion about those monsters, I’m not myself. I’ll prepare the tea straight away then.”

  She let the door close behind her.

  “You really should treat her with more courtesy,” I said.

  “You know I hold her in high regard,” he answered curtly. His gaze was sharp.

  Yes, I did know that Holmes was quite fond of Mrs. Hudson, and I also knew that she would do anything within her means to take care of him. Still, there were times when he treated her more like a slave than a landlady.

  I gestured at the belt he’d strapped around his waist.

  “Why are you showing me these belts now?” I asked.

  “I received a note from Mycroft, asking me to visit him. Here it is.”

  Scribbled in Mycroft’s terse script we
re a few short lines:

  Please dine with me at the Diogenes Club tonight and bring Dr. Watson. It involves your Whitechapel acquaintance—look in on him at the asylum today, if you can. His new abode has a shocking link to his previous one.

  —Mycroft

  “A shocking link?”

  “He means the Eshockers, Watson. Thrawl Street has become notorious in the past few weeks for its Eshocker dens. You must have noticed they were being set up even the last time we were there, when I calmed the tram machine.”

  “I must confess I did not. I had other things on my mind, and the smoke from that machine was oppressive. But what link is there to the Whitechapel Lunatic Asylum?”

  “Simply that Dr. Reginald Sinclair, the proprietor of that asylum, has made it his special study to apply electroshock therapy to his patients; indeed, he manufactures his machines himself.”

  Something occurred to me.

  “The Eshocker dens have devices with stronger currents than these belts?” I asked softly.

  “Much stronger, Watson. You see, with this old belt, the one you dropped on the floor, patients can control the amount of shock they receive using a clockwork interrupter apparatus.” He pointed to a protruding knob. “With the new belt, the one you hold, vinegar is no longer required, and the amount of shock is minimal, more like a tingle, I’d say. People are wearing these belts beneath their garments, Watson. Some wear half a dozen at a time, strapped around their stomachs, their chests; their arms, legs, necks, and yes, even the male anatomy. Yet with all of these devices wrapped around them, until the more extreme of them look like mummies—”

  I dropped the second belt to the floor and wrinkled my nose.

  “Mummies, you say, and wrapped around the male anatomy?” I dared not think what part of Holmes’s body this second belt had serviced.