Sherlock Holmes Nightmare

by John Pirillo

  Manley’s eyes shut a moment. He gasped and a huge flood of blood broke forth, some spilling over onto Holmes.

  “It’s not empty. It’s not. Don’t...Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  Manley’s eyes froze open. His soul fled this world.

  Holmes laid he man down gently, shut his eyes, then jumped to his feet, took out his pistol and ran out the door.

  Pahalgam, India

  “Death is a tease.”

  “How so?”

  “It veers off course many times, surprising us, and then courting us, then offering redemption, only to come about and stab us in the back. But always, always it is fair. And under most circumstances, except our last breath on this world, is fair.”

  “Most, not all?”

  “Death is not a person; it is a state of mind we create as we nourish each day with our thoughts and actions.”

  “So then death is not inevitable?”

  The Monk smiled. “Is a wave on the shore inevitable? Is the rise of the sun, the moon?”

  “Waves are created by weather patterns. The sun doesn’t rise; the earth rotates, changing its position in its orbit, as does the moon.”

  The Monk laughed.

  “You still haven’t answered my question, Sherlock.”

  “Because it makes no sense.”

  The Monk smiled. “That’s because death is just an illusion. There is no such thing as real death, only transition. Otherwise, every tide that swept ashore would be a death, the fall of a moon, the descent of the sun a death, and yet they continue each day as always.”

  Holmes considered the words as he and his friend, the Monk, sat on the huge boulder overlooking the mighty Ganges, whose roaring waters surged swiftly below, crashing against the banks and tossing huge waves into the air.

  It was a very breezy night and tiny whitecaps kissed the air above the waters as it crested and fell, ever rolling forward and onward to its destination in Delhi, and finally into the Indian Ocean.

  “So, if I were to jump into the Ganges now, I would not die unless it was my time?”

  “Only a fool would believe that.”

  “But what if Death was dancing on the waves below and invited me?”

  “Only a fool would dance with Death.”

  “But what if Death saved me from drowning; pulled me from the freezing waters and blew fresh breath into my lungs?”

  “I would thank Death and then run for my life.”

  Holmes laughed.

  The Monk smiled. “Tell me the meaning of our discussion. The lesson to be learned?”

  “Never take anything for granted. Not even death.”

  The moon was full and golden from the sun setting far over the horizon. The clouds were golden fleeced lambs being herded to distant shores where they would flock and graze for others the next day.

  Holmes lies down on his back and shut his eyes.

  “I think I shall not be afraid of Death, when he or she comes.”

  The Monk nodded. “Why be afraid of the destiny we all must face. There is no reason to do so. Not when we know the truth of life. That we are not the body, but pure spirit inhabiting this vehicle. That and only that will free us of all fear.”

  “In that case when this vehicle is destroyed, I’ll secure another.”

  The Monk and Holmes burst into laughter.

  Secrets and Secrets

  Watson edged sideways into a flung open door, its doorway gaped open like a huge set of jaws, dark and inviting, ready to consume any who entered and churn them into dark chunks of hellish matter and God forsaken detritus.

  “I know you’re in there.”

  “Do you now?”

  Watson’s lips tightened as he considered his next move. “I’ve no intention of harming you.”

  “Oh, but I...I intend to harm you in the worst possible ways.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A nightmare.”

  “From what?”

  “A woman you let die. My mother!”

  Watson felt a cold chill rush up and down his spine. “I’ve never let anyone die!”

  “Liar!”

  “I’m a doctor. I save lives, not give them up!”

  “You gave hers up!”

  Watson felt a cold fist clench at his guts. The man was obviously insane.

  The man inside chuckled. “To kill or not to kill, aye, that is the question. And I am not insane. Far from it. I am a man of reason. Of purpose.”

  “Shakespeare had better intent than you.”

  “Shakespeare’s my brother.”

  Another and larger cold chill seized Watson.

  “Impossible! He has no living brother.”

  “Who said I was alive?”

  The voice sounded distant and moving.

  Watson turned fully into the doorway and stepped inside.

  Something large tumbled towards him.

  He felt something slam into his legs, carrying him free of the falling ladder, which had been laden with hundreds of pounds of brick and mortal for the work on the morrow.

  It smashed into the floor, spilling dry mortar and bricks across the floor, tumbling end over end until friction finally stopped their deadly dance.

  The sound of a groan.

  “Holmes.”

  “More or less. Maybe less than more at the moment since several of those bricks struck my back.”

  “You all right?” Watson asked, carefully moving away from the bricks that had struck him.

  Holmes rose slowly, shoving himself to his knees. “I’ve been better. You?”

  “My scones have wet my pants.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to have to live with,” Holmes replied with a warm chuckle.

  “Indeed. But to all else it will seem I have wet my pants.”

  “Small price to pay.”

  A hand grappled along Watson’s leg, and then Holmes sat up next to him. “I leave you alone for just a moment and the whole house comes falling down on us.”

  Watson chuckled. “It does have a habit of doing that, doesn’t it?”

  “Far too often than either of us prefer.”

  “With that I whole heartedly agree.”

  “I heard the conversation.”

  “The man’s surely gone by now.”

  “I agree. We’re done here.”

  “I thought you wanted to explore the secret room.”

  “I do. But I fear that whatever secret it held will be held for a time longer. We have larger fish to fry now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “William.”

  “We should be able to catch him tonight no problem. Harry’s performing. He likes his late shows. Gives him more time to sleep in the morning of.”

  Holmes chuckled.

  They gave each other a hand as they rose, brushed off their pants, coat and shirts, and then headed for the doorway.

  “What about Manley?”

  “We’ll send a constable back to him once we’re out of here.”

  “Poor soul. And I thought for certain he was part of the problem.”

  Holmes shrugged. “Maybe he was.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not all debris rises to the surface of a flood all at once.”

  With those final words Holmes hurried down the corridor with a puzzled Watson hurrying to catch up, not only walking wise, but to the meaning of Holmes words.

  The Globe Theater

  William Shakespeare pulled on his Van Dyke beard, smoothing it, and then pulling again. “No, no, no. I have no living brother.”

  Watson chuckled. “He distinctly asked me, ‘Who said I was alive?’”

  “That’s a great line from a play I once wrote.”

  Holmes eyed the backdrop that was being put in place backstage and the workers there. “Your next play?”

  “It is.”

  “New?”

  “Old, actually.”

  “And it’s title?”

 
“March through Hell.”

  “Rather morbid sounding.”

  “The working class loves this kind of play. It’s how they see the world, dark and foreboding. A challenge they can never win at. It shall have a happy ending.”

  Holmes smiled. “They need hope.”

  “We all do, especially you if what you say of my brother is true.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The man was certifiably insane when he left this world.”

  Watson scowled at those words. “You mean we’re being haunted by a bloody ghost with mental problems?”

  William barked with laughter. “What a great line, might I use it with my play?”

  “Be my guest.”

  William nodded, and then considered what he had asked. He tended to be somewhat impulsive at times, acting upon the moment, when further thought would yield far better results. He paused, chewed on his beard a moment, and then smiled. And as a guest, I shall much like you to review the changes in my play just this moment to reflect what we have talked about.”

  Holmes eyed William questioningly.

  “I shall call my new play “The Ghost of Warden’s Borough.”

  “The insane asylum,” Watson chuckled. “Will, I don’t know whether to be flattered, or to think you truly as mad as your departed brother.”

  William laughed. “Thank God for that!”

  Holmes turned back from what he had been

  watching. “Tell me, William, if you had a brother....

  alive that is...how tall would he be?”

  “Almost your height. Very gaunt and slender. Rough voice, but cultured.”

  “I see.”

  Watson turned to watch where Holmes was looking. “And how old would he be?”

  William turned to watch the workers. He frowned a moment, then pointed. “About the same as that man carrying the swords.”

  The man carrying the swords swung about, almost as if on cue, a smile on his face.

  Watson gasped. “It’s him, Holmes! The stranger who attacked us!”

  The man moved so quickly that none of them were prepared for what happened next. A triple bladed dagger hurled through the air.

  At Watson’s face!

  Death Comes Courting

  Without thinking, Holmes flings his cap into the air and the triple bladed knife catches it and altered by the weight of the cap falls to the floor at the feet of Watson.

  “Harry!” Holmes shouts.

  The Stranger, who was pretending to be a worker, dashes for the right exit.

  Challenger steps into view, a long gun in his right hand, smiling.

  The Stranger dashes cross stage to the left exit. Conan steps out with a pistol in his hand. Conan isn’t smiling.

  The Stranger freezes for a moment, then seizes a curtain weight backstage, breaks its pin free and is hurtled towards the overhead crossbeams.

  He lands on the top crossbeam and the weight flips over it and down.

  Backstage workers cry out and flee the falling bag of sand.

  The Stranger grins, and then makes his way towards the crossbeam exit. He almost reaches it when Harry Houdini steps into view, his right fist lit up a brilliant blue.

  Holmes and Watson come running from behind him, followed by William Shakespeare.

  “Brother!”

  The Stranger scowls at William. “Traitor!”

  He pulls out a pistol to fire, pulls its trigger. A flower blossoms from the barrel. He looks at it in surprise, then looks up to see a smiling Harry Houdini.

  Holmes steps in front of the others. “We have many questions for you; you have many to answer for!”

  The Stranger scowled at him. “You’re fools!”

  He turned sideways to the crossbeam he stood upon, and then templed his hands together like a diver gracefully preparing for a swan dive from a cliff into the waters below and then dove from the beam.

  “No!” William cried out in horror.

  221B Baker Street

  Watson sits next to Mrs. Hudson on the couch. Harry, Challenger, and Conan sit at the table. Conan and Harry play chess, while Challenger polishes and cleans his long gun.

  Holmes stands at the window overlooking Baker Street, his eyes distant.

  “Funny thing that fellow turning out to be William’s long lost brother.”

  “Harry, no one’s long lost. William despised the fellow and it’s easy to see why, seeing as he’s acted. I imagine William loathed him so much that he just plain erased him from his memories rather than face having such a scoundrel related to him.”

  Conan nodded his head in agreement. “I agree with that Challenger. A dark soul tiptoeing through a life of grim possibilities and revenge.”

  Holmes didn’t turn around, but he added, “Revenge is sweet only to those who have no taste for life.”

  He turned then.

  The others looked at him. “But I fear we have not had our last taste of this adventure brought upon us. I wish now I had not brought the three of you into this. I fear for your lives.”

  Watson chuckled. “Holmes, you’re the one that told me that yogi fellow advised you to be fearless.”

  “And he did exactly that,” Holmes replied with a slight smile. “But that doesn’t make it any easier for me to bear the weight of your possible deaths upon my soul.”

  Challenger rocked with laughter. Finished, he wiped at the tears in his eyes. “Ah, Holmes, stop worrying so much about what will or won’t happen.”

  “That is not what worries me.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s what I can’t see in this.”

  Watson got it. “The secret room that Manley died in.”

  “That.”

  They all grew pensive a moment.

  Mrs. Hudson got up and headed for the stairs. “My scones should be ready. Come, my love, help me retrieve them.”

  Watson scurried to catch up with her as she vanished down the stairs.

  Challenger chuckled. “She’s got him well trained.”

  “Had you stayed with our Good Queen Mary of Scots, she would have had you well trained and your head in a hangman’s noose,” Harry teased.

  “Likely so, but I would have loved every moment of it.”

  They all broke into laughter.

  “One thing bothers me about this whole affair though, Holmes.”

  “Yes, Conan.”

  “How did William’s brother managed to take that leap and not be found on the stage with a broken body.”

  “For that matter,” Challenger roared. “At all!”

  Harry smiled. His right hand lit up a bright blue. “Let’s just say that he had a few tricks up his sleeve.”

  Holmes nodded. “Let’s just hope he has no more.”

  “What about the secret room, Holmes?”

  “Conan, we need to give this a bit of time to cool down and then we shall return to divine its true purpose.”

  He headed for his room. “Good night everyone!”

  Watson and Mrs. Hudson returned with two trays of steaming scones, a pot of tea, bowl of honey and sugar and cream.

  “Where’s Holmes off to this time?” Watson demanded, setting down his tray and helping Mrs. Hudson with hers.

  “Bed.”

  “Well, it’s not ruining my dinner!”

  He and Mrs. Hudson sat together and they all passed around the pot of tea, honey, crème and sugar and finally the scones.

  They all had at least four each.

  Mrs. Hudson smirked. She knew Watson had eaten at least four before he followed her up the stairs. The man was incorrigible.

  But he was her incorrigible!

  After a few minutes they all were eating happily, not a sour face among them.

  They neither saw nor heard Holmes climb out his window and descend to the street below, then hurry off without looking back.

  He was too excited to sleep. He had learned much more than he had revealed or alluded to. Now was the time to put his hunch to
the test, unburdened by any worries over the loss of his friends in the process.

  As he hurried off, a dark shadow moved in the alleyway nearby and then stepped onto the street to watch him.

  The Stranger.

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  Did you love Sherlock Holmes Nightmare? Then you should read Sherlock Holmes A Dangerous Act by John Pirillo!

  "I will not stop my performance because of someone who hates me," Harry proclaims.

  But how do you stop someone from your past whose powers just might be equal to your own or greater.

  A student of Merlin, Harry has great magical powers, but there are those who might have more.

  Will even the great Holmes be able to help him stop the person who is after him?

  Read more at John Pirillo’s site.

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