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charleygirlTitle: The Hand of Seth 3/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Type: Gen, mystery
Characters Involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mycroft Holmes
Summary: The mystery deepens, and Watson finally starts to get to the bottom of Holmes's illness...
Disclaimer: These characters are out of copyright but still don't belong to me. Doctor Who elements are the property of the BBC
Author's Note: Holmes and Watson as they appear in this story are based on the performances by Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke in the Granada TV series. This fic is ostensibly set between The Sign of Four and The Devil's Foot in the Granada run. This chapter is where I've messed up Granada's internal continuity with regards to Mycroft, his second appearance of course being in The Bruce Partington Plans which follows The Devil's Foot. I hate that sort of thing, so this is an AU where the stories occur the other way round. :)
THE HAND OF SETH
CHAPTER THREE
I stared at the telegram.
Amsworth…dead. So the poor lad had been right all along. Another victim of the Harcourt curse. But what could this possibly have to do with Mycroft Holmes? It must be something of monumental importance to bring him here – only twice before had he visited our rooms, and Holmes had treated the visits in the same vein as one would view the descent of one of the gods from Olympus. Mycroft was not famed for his energy, and only ever seemed to communicate with his brother when there was a crime involved.
I debated whether to wake Holmes. This was certainly vital, but the poor fellow was at last getting the rest he so sorely needed and I was loath to disturb him. I was still dithering over the decision when an incredible knocking started up from below. For the second day in a row breakfast was disturbed by someone pounding upon our front door, and this time the visitor seemed determined to break it down!
Abandoning the table, I went swiftly to the window, but could see nothing more than a fairly innocuous four-wheeler outside the house. A moment later I could hear a conversation in the hall, followed by the heavy tread of someone who evidently found climbing our seventeen stairs something of a trial. Before the door was opened I had already guessed that it would reveal the huge figure of Mycroft Holmes, breathing heavily from his unaccustomed exertion.
“Ah, you had my telegram,” he gasped, producing a Paisley handkerchief with which he strenuously mopped his brow. His watery grey eyes scanned the room. “I was informed that my brother is at home. Where is he?”
“Mrs Hudson did not inform you that Holmes is ill?” I asked, surprised.
“The good woman did not have a chance. I regret the intrusion, but if you have read the telegram you will know that I have something of the gravest importance to lay before Sherlock.”
“And I regret that I must refuse,” I said firmly, my mind at last made up. “Your brother has been extremely unwell. Excitement is the last thing his nerves need at a time like this!”
Mycroft stared at me coldly. “I am sure that you have Sherlock’s best interests at heart, Doctor, but this could be vital!”
“And so is your brother’s health!” I countered.
“Thank you for your concern, Watson, but I do feel a little better this morning,” a familiar voice said, breaking into what was fast becoming an argument. I turned to see that Holmes’s bedroom door was open, and he was leaning upon the frame, wrapped in his mouse-coloured dressing gown. His gaunt and haggard appearance belied his words, however, and he coughed again. “Good morning, Mycroft.”
Even Mycroft started in alarm at the sight of his brother. “My dear Sherlock! What on earth have you been doing to yourself?” he demanded.
“A strenuous case, far too long spent abroad in these unseasonable conditions. Watson has chastised me repeatedly for my foolishness so you may save yourself the bother.” Holmes favoured us with a rather wan smile. “But something cataclysmic must have happened,” he observed, “or you would not be here, and certainly would not have ascended the stairs in such a hurry.”
I moved to my friend’s side and took his arm. “Come and sit down, Holmes. You should not have left your bed.”
He waved my concerns aside, reluctantly allowing me to help him to an armchair. Once he stumbled, and Mycroft, moving faster than I had ever seen him, swiftly caught his brother’s arm to steady him. Between us we settled him into a chair beside the fire, and I fetched a blanket. As I draped it around his shoulders I said quietly into his ear, “Lord Amsworth is dead.”
He looked at me, shock flaring in his eyes for a moment before he said, “Mycroft, will you not introduce Watson and myself to your companion?”
“Of course. Sherlock, Doctor, you may have already surmised that this is the Honourable William Ravensley, younger son of the earl of Harcourt,” Mycroft announced. “Sit down, Ravensley. We all need to draw near the fire in this damnable weather.” He sat down heavily in my armchair, reaching inside his coat for the snuffbox I have never seen him without.
For the first time, I realised that a young man was standing by the closed sitting room door. As small and lean as his brother, and bearing a marked resemblance to that unfortunate gentleman, he had been completely hidden by Mycroft’s bulk. His face was pale, no doubt from shock, and he wore a sober black suit.
“Please accept our condolences, Mr Ravensley,” Holmes said, with that remarkable gentleness that could be his when he chose to exercise it. “I do not doubt that the loss must have come as a great shock to you.”
The young man nodded as he took a seat on the sofa, in the exact same spot in which his brother had been sitting twenty-four hours previously. “Thank you, Mr Holmes. It has indeed stunned us all. Jamie was constantly talking about death coming to him, but we all believed he was merely being fanciful – he always did have an active imagination.”
“He certainly did seem very distracted yesterday,” I said.
“When he returned from visiting Mr Holmes he was far more relaxed, and even cheerful. He was convinced that you would solve the problem for him, sir.”
Holmes nodded. “I am sorry I was not able to assist him in time. And what is your connection with this matter, brother mine?” he asked, turning to Mycroft. “It must be an emergency indeed to shake you from your usual routine.”
Mycroft inhaled a large pinch of snuff and dusted the remains away with his handkerchief. “The earl of Harcourt is a member of the Diogenes, and is never backward in calling in a favour,” he said. “Young Ravensley was dispatched to me shortly after the police arrived to take charge of the scene in Grosvenor Square, almost at the exact moment as a telegram arrived from the foreign office on the same subject. We came here as quickly as possible.”
“Quite, but why?”
“Put simply - ”
“Put simply, Mr Holmes, not only is my brother dead but the statue of Seth has been stolen!” Ravensley exclaimed.
“Stolen? Good God!” I exchanged a glance with Holmes, and could tell that he must be thinking the same as me, that there was one man who had been seen acting suspiciously only the day before: Ibrahim Namin.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” Holmes said, “Leave nothing out.”
“Take your time and tell them what you told me,” Mycroft said to Ravensley in a slightly softer tone. The boy nodded and swallowed hard.
“There appeared to be nothing wrong when we went to bed last night,” he began, “in fact, as I said just now, Jamie was in better spirits than I had seen him for some time. He spoke of going down to Hampshire for a few days and seeing to some of the preparations for the wedding – he was to be married in a few months’ time, you see. All was normal – none of us could have suspected that such a thing could happen.”
“Exactly who is present in the house?” Holmes asked.
“My parents, my younger brother Charles and my sister Lucy. And myself, of course.”
“No other relatives? No aunts, uncles, cousins?”
“Only my father’s widowed sister, Lady Amelia – she never leaves town, and has a permanent residence in the east wing. My brother’s fiancée, Lady Amanda Barrington, is staying with her while her parents are abroad. And naturally there was Jamie…”
“At what time did you retire?”
“A little after eleven. We had been playing cards after dinner.”
“And when did the robbery occur?”
The young man thought for a few moments. “Between midnight and five o’clock this morning. The servants go to bed at twelve, and the housemaid was clearing the grates when she discovered the…body…” His voice cracked and he leaned forwards, his head in his hands.
“You heard nothing in the night?” Holmes asked. “None of you?”
Ravensley shook his head, but did not answer.
“Lord Amsworth was discovered lying on the study floor by the second housemaid,” said Mycroft quietly. “It was thought that he heard some kind of disturbance in the night and went to investigate – he was wearing his nightclothes and a loaded revolver was found at his side, its chambers undischarged.”
“How did he meet his end?” I enquired, as softly as possible so as not to cause the poor young man who sat on the sofa further distress.
Mycroft shrugged his huge shoulders, giving the effect of a mountain range suffering an earthquake. “That is what the police have so far failed to ascertain. There was no mark of violence upon the body, and we will not know until the post mortem is completed if poison was involved, or whether it was simply a case of heat failure.”
“But surely this was a healthy young man!” I objected. “He had an underlying heart condition, perhaps?”
“None that the family or their physician were aware of. I am told that Amsworth’s face was contorted, almost as if he had died from pure fright.”
“That is ridiculous. Healthy people cannot be frightened to death.”
“You would be surprised, Watson,” said Holmes. “We must wait for the results of the post mortem, then, but I would not expect the pathologist to find any trace of poison – at least none known to European science.”
“I have considered the possibility of some Eastern or African substance. Especially as…” Mycroft coughed and did not complete the sentence.
“Especially as some foreign agency may be involved,” his brother finished for him.
“I said nothing of the kind, Sherlock!” Mycroft protested.
“You did not have to. Why else would you have rushed straight here rather than summoning me to Pall Mall?” Holmes glanced at William Ravensley and a fleeting expression of concern touched his haggard face. “Watson, I think a glass of brandy would be beneficial.”
“Of course.” I moved to the sideboard and poured two stiff brandies. One I handed to the bereaved young man, who accepted it gratefully. The other I gave to Holmes.
“For medicinal purposes?” he enquired, raising an eyebrow.
“Naturally,” I replied. “You are not well enough for this.”
Mycroft had been regarding his brother with narrowed eyes. “Doctor Watson is right, Sherlock. Had I known of your illness I would never have brought the case to you.”
“And where else would you have taken it? Exactly,” Holmes added, seeing Mycroft’s expression. “Besides, the dead man was my client. Now, tell me exactly how you come to be involved – I take it that the Egyptian government are somehow connected with this?”
Mycroft nodded. “The new ambassador – a peculiar little fellow – has been vociferously demanding the return of the statue, claiming it to be stolen property, if you please. Now Harcourt is blaming the Egyptians for the theft of last night. He was vocal on the subject to the police, and his words were fed back to the foreign office, which has been buzzing like an overturned beehive since early this morning. If Harcourt cannot be persuaded to withdraw the accusation then there may be a diplomatic incident. The foreign secretary begged me to ask that you do your best to solve this mystery.”
“Then it is indeed important. And I shall of course do so.”
“Holmes - ” I began in a warning tone.
He waved a hand at me. “Not now, Watson. I must have more detail. Have you photographs of the statue?” he asked Ravensley.
“No, but the British Museum took several quite some time ago, when my grandfather considered giving the figure to them,” the young man replied.
“Excellent, then I shall apply there.” Holmes sat forward in his chair, one finger raised to his lips in his habitual posture when rapidly considering facts. “I think that we can be with you in Grosvenor Square by twelve. Who has Scotland Yard placed in charge of the case?”
“Inspector Lestrade.”
“Ah.” My friend nodded and smiled slightly. “You had better return to your home – no doubt your family have need of you. We will call on you there shortly.”
“Thank you, Mr Holmes.” Ravensley rose, and after shaking hands with us all, made his way down the stairs to the front door. Mycroft lingered, watching his brother carefully as Sherlock climbed unsteadily to his feet and tottered across to the door.
“Mrs Hudson!” he bellowed down the landing, “I need to send some telegrams!” Immediately following this outburst, he descended into a violent fit of coughing that alarmed me and sent Mycroft to the sideboard for a glass of water.
“Holmes, I forbid you to leave the house,” I said as he sank heavily onto the sofa. I pulled the blanket closer around his shoulders as his brother handed him the water.
“Don’t….don’t be ridiculous, Watson,” he gasped, trying to regain his breath.
“I am not being ridiculous!” I countered. “I doubt if you could even manage to walk down the stairs, let alone reach the front door!”
Mrs Hudson appeared at that moment. “Goodness, Mr Holmes, you look dreadful!” she exclaimed.
Holmes glared at us all. “If you do not cease fussing this instant, I shall order you all out of the room and lock the door,” he threatened. “Watson, your notebook, if you please.”
Reluctantly, I handed the book and pencil over. Holmes scribbled two short notes and gave them to Mrs Hudson to take to the telegraph office. It was clear that, despite his weakness, nothing would dissuade him from visiting the scene of the crime. Experience had taught me that arguing with him was useless – his was such a forceful personality that it flattened all resistance. Mrs Hudson did not dare disobey him, and truth be told, in his more masterful moment neither did I.
“Now,” he said with some dignity,” if you will excuse me, I shall go and dress. We have much to do.” With what was no doubt a superhuman effort, he stood, and walked quite steadily to his bedroom, closing the door pointedly behind him.
Mycroft shook his head. “He never would listen to anyone,” he remarked.
“I seem to have failed once again,” I said, disappointed.
“Not your fault, Doctor. You did your best. I am afraid that stubbornness is a failing in our family. But I would be grateful if you would keep a close watch on him – I feel that there is more here than meets the eye.” As he spoke, Mycroft glanced across the room, in the direction of Holmes’s desk, and a seed of suspicion was planted in my mind.
“I will do what I can,” I promised, “but as you have seen, I have little influence.”
“I believe you may have more success than you think, Doctor.” Mycroft clapped a huge hand on my shoulder, causing me to stagger. “After all this time, I have no doubt that you know my brother better than anyone.”
With those words he departed, leaving me alone in the sitting room, thoughts whirling through my head. Intentionally or not, that seed had been sown in my mind, and it was producing shoots. Glancing at Holmes’s door to check that it was still firmly closed, I crossed to the window and his desk. It seemed illness had made him careless, as the drawer that I knew held his syringe was unlocked. There, beside my chequebook and the photograph of Irene Adler, was the morocco case, the sight of which never failed to fill me with revulsion. I had not seen him use it for quite some time, but the suspicion that he had not renounced the drug, merely become more secretive about its use given my objections, had remained in the back of my mind.
I opened the case, and withdrew the needle. Some of the solution lingered in the syringe, positive proof that it had been used, and recently. The pieces finally slotted into place, pieces that I had overlooked while concentrating on the symptoms rather than the cause of the problem.
But what could I alone do to prevent my friend from destroying himself?
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Type: Gen, mystery
Characters Involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mycroft Holmes
Summary: The mystery deepens, and Watson finally starts to get to the bottom of Holmes's illness...
Disclaimer: These characters are out of copyright but still don't belong to me. Doctor Who elements are the property of the BBC
Author's Note: Holmes and Watson as they appear in this story are based on the performances by Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke in the Granada TV series. This fic is ostensibly set between The Sign of Four and The Devil's Foot in the Granada run. This chapter is where I've messed up Granada's internal continuity with regards to Mycroft, his second appearance of course being in The Bruce Partington Plans which follows The Devil's Foot. I hate that sort of thing, so this is an AU where the stories occur the other way round. :)
THE HAND OF SETH
CHAPTER THREE
I stared at the telegram.
Amsworth…dead. So the poor lad had been right all along. Another victim of the Harcourt curse. But what could this possibly have to do with Mycroft Holmes? It must be something of monumental importance to bring him here – only twice before had he visited our rooms, and Holmes had treated the visits in the same vein as one would view the descent of one of the gods from Olympus. Mycroft was not famed for his energy, and only ever seemed to communicate with his brother when there was a crime involved.
I debated whether to wake Holmes. This was certainly vital, but the poor fellow was at last getting the rest he so sorely needed and I was loath to disturb him. I was still dithering over the decision when an incredible knocking started up from below. For the second day in a row breakfast was disturbed by someone pounding upon our front door, and this time the visitor seemed determined to break it down!
Abandoning the table, I went swiftly to the window, but could see nothing more than a fairly innocuous four-wheeler outside the house. A moment later I could hear a conversation in the hall, followed by the heavy tread of someone who evidently found climbing our seventeen stairs something of a trial. Before the door was opened I had already guessed that it would reveal the huge figure of Mycroft Holmes, breathing heavily from his unaccustomed exertion.
“Ah, you had my telegram,” he gasped, producing a Paisley handkerchief with which he strenuously mopped his brow. His watery grey eyes scanned the room. “I was informed that my brother is at home. Where is he?”
“Mrs Hudson did not inform you that Holmes is ill?” I asked, surprised.
“The good woman did not have a chance. I regret the intrusion, but if you have read the telegram you will know that I have something of the gravest importance to lay before Sherlock.”
“And I regret that I must refuse,” I said firmly, my mind at last made up. “Your brother has been extremely unwell. Excitement is the last thing his nerves need at a time like this!”
Mycroft stared at me coldly. “I am sure that you have Sherlock’s best interests at heart, Doctor, but this could be vital!”
“And so is your brother’s health!” I countered.
“Thank you for your concern, Watson, but I do feel a little better this morning,” a familiar voice said, breaking into what was fast becoming an argument. I turned to see that Holmes’s bedroom door was open, and he was leaning upon the frame, wrapped in his mouse-coloured dressing gown. His gaunt and haggard appearance belied his words, however, and he coughed again. “Good morning, Mycroft.”
Even Mycroft started in alarm at the sight of his brother. “My dear Sherlock! What on earth have you been doing to yourself?” he demanded.
“A strenuous case, far too long spent abroad in these unseasonable conditions. Watson has chastised me repeatedly for my foolishness so you may save yourself the bother.” Holmes favoured us with a rather wan smile. “But something cataclysmic must have happened,” he observed, “or you would not be here, and certainly would not have ascended the stairs in such a hurry.”
I moved to my friend’s side and took his arm. “Come and sit down, Holmes. You should not have left your bed.”
He waved my concerns aside, reluctantly allowing me to help him to an armchair. Once he stumbled, and Mycroft, moving faster than I had ever seen him, swiftly caught his brother’s arm to steady him. Between us we settled him into a chair beside the fire, and I fetched a blanket. As I draped it around his shoulders I said quietly into his ear, “Lord Amsworth is dead.”
He looked at me, shock flaring in his eyes for a moment before he said, “Mycroft, will you not introduce Watson and myself to your companion?”
“Of course. Sherlock, Doctor, you may have already surmised that this is the Honourable William Ravensley, younger son of the earl of Harcourt,” Mycroft announced. “Sit down, Ravensley. We all need to draw near the fire in this damnable weather.” He sat down heavily in my armchair, reaching inside his coat for the snuffbox I have never seen him without.
For the first time, I realised that a young man was standing by the closed sitting room door. As small and lean as his brother, and bearing a marked resemblance to that unfortunate gentleman, he had been completely hidden by Mycroft’s bulk. His face was pale, no doubt from shock, and he wore a sober black suit.
“Please accept our condolences, Mr Ravensley,” Holmes said, with that remarkable gentleness that could be his when he chose to exercise it. “I do not doubt that the loss must have come as a great shock to you.”
The young man nodded as he took a seat on the sofa, in the exact same spot in which his brother had been sitting twenty-four hours previously. “Thank you, Mr Holmes. It has indeed stunned us all. Jamie was constantly talking about death coming to him, but we all believed he was merely being fanciful – he always did have an active imagination.”
“He certainly did seem very distracted yesterday,” I said.
“When he returned from visiting Mr Holmes he was far more relaxed, and even cheerful. He was convinced that you would solve the problem for him, sir.”
Holmes nodded. “I am sorry I was not able to assist him in time. And what is your connection with this matter, brother mine?” he asked, turning to Mycroft. “It must be an emergency indeed to shake you from your usual routine.”
Mycroft inhaled a large pinch of snuff and dusted the remains away with his handkerchief. “The earl of Harcourt is a member of the Diogenes, and is never backward in calling in a favour,” he said. “Young Ravensley was dispatched to me shortly after the police arrived to take charge of the scene in Grosvenor Square, almost at the exact moment as a telegram arrived from the foreign office on the same subject. We came here as quickly as possible.”
“Quite, but why?”
“Put simply - ”
“Put simply, Mr Holmes, not only is my brother dead but the statue of Seth has been stolen!” Ravensley exclaimed.
“Stolen? Good God!” I exchanged a glance with Holmes, and could tell that he must be thinking the same as me, that there was one man who had been seen acting suspiciously only the day before: Ibrahim Namin.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” Holmes said, “Leave nothing out.”
“Take your time and tell them what you told me,” Mycroft said to Ravensley in a slightly softer tone. The boy nodded and swallowed hard.
“There appeared to be nothing wrong when we went to bed last night,” he began, “in fact, as I said just now, Jamie was in better spirits than I had seen him for some time. He spoke of going down to Hampshire for a few days and seeing to some of the preparations for the wedding – he was to be married in a few months’ time, you see. All was normal – none of us could have suspected that such a thing could happen.”
“Exactly who is present in the house?” Holmes asked.
“My parents, my younger brother Charles and my sister Lucy. And myself, of course.”
“No other relatives? No aunts, uncles, cousins?”
“Only my father’s widowed sister, Lady Amelia – she never leaves town, and has a permanent residence in the east wing. My brother’s fiancée, Lady Amanda Barrington, is staying with her while her parents are abroad. And naturally there was Jamie…”
“At what time did you retire?”
“A little after eleven. We had been playing cards after dinner.”
“And when did the robbery occur?”
The young man thought for a few moments. “Between midnight and five o’clock this morning. The servants go to bed at twelve, and the housemaid was clearing the grates when she discovered the…body…” His voice cracked and he leaned forwards, his head in his hands.
“You heard nothing in the night?” Holmes asked. “None of you?”
Ravensley shook his head, but did not answer.
“Lord Amsworth was discovered lying on the study floor by the second housemaid,” said Mycroft quietly. “It was thought that he heard some kind of disturbance in the night and went to investigate – he was wearing his nightclothes and a loaded revolver was found at his side, its chambers undischarged.”
“How did he meet his end?” I enquired, as softly as possible so as not to cause the poor young man who sat on the sofa further distress.
Mycroft shrugged his huge shoulders, giving the effect of a mountain range suffering an earthquake. “That is what the police have so far failed to ascertain. There was no mark of violence upon the body, and we will not know until the post mortem is completed if poison was involved, or whether it was simply a case of heat failure.”
“But surely this was a healthy young man!” I objected. “He had an underlying heart condition, perhaps?”
“None that the family or their physician were aware of. I am told that Amsworth’s face was contorted, almost as if he had died from pure fright.”
“That is ridiculous. Healthy people cannot be frightened to death.”
“You would be surprised, Watson,” said Holmes. “We must wait for the results of the post mortem, then, but I would not expect the pathologist to find any trace of poison – at least none known to European science.”
“I have considered the possibility of some Eastern or African substance. Especially as…” Mycroft coughed and did not complete the sentence.
“Especially as some foreign agency may be involved,” his brother finished for him.
“I said nothing of the kind, Sherlock!” Mycroft protested.
“You did not have to. Why else would you have rushed straight here rather than summoning me to Pall Mall?” Holmes glanced at William Ravensley and a fleeting expression of concern touched his haggard face. “Watson, I think a glass of brandy would be beneficial.”
“Of course.” I moved to the sideboard and poured two stiff brandies. One I handed to the bereaved young man, who accepted it gratefully. The other I gave to Holmes.
“For medicinal purposes?” he enquired, raising an eyebrow.
“Naturally,” I replied. “You are not well enough for this.”
Mycroft had been regarding his brother with narrowed eyes. “Doctor Watson is right, Sherlock. Had I known of your illness I would never have brought the case to you.”
“And where else would you have taken it? Exactly,” Holmes added, seeing Mycroft’s expression. “Besides, the dead man was my client. Now, tell me exactly how you come to be involved – I take it that the Egyptian government are somehow connected with this?”
Mycroft nodded. “The new ambassador – a peculiar little fellow – has been vociferously demanding the return of the statue, claiming it to be stolen property, if you please. Now Harcourt is blaming the Egyptians for the theft of last night. He was vocal on the subject to the police, and his words were fed back to the foreign office, which has been buzzing like an overturned beehive since early this morning. If Harcourt cannot be persuaded to withdraw the accusation then there may be a diplomatic incident. The foreign secretary begged me to ask that you do your best to solve this mystery.”
“Then it is indeed important. And I shall of course do so.”
“Holmes - ” I began in a warning tone.
He waved a hand at me. “Not now, Watson. I must have more detail. Have you photographs of the statue?” he asked Ravensley.
“No, but the British Museum took several quite some time ago, when my grandfather considered giving the figure to them,” the young man replied.
“Excellent, then I shall apply there.” Holmes sat forward in his chair, one finger raised to his lips in his habitual posture when rapidly considering facts. “I think that we can be with you in Grosvenor Square by twelve. Who has Scotland Yard placed in charge of the case?”
“Inspector Lestrade.”
“Ah.” My friend nodded and smiled slightly. “You had better return to your home – no doubt your family have need of you. We will call on you there shortly.”
“Thank you, Mr Holmes.” Ravensley rose, and after shaking hands with us all, made his way down the stairs to the front door. Mycroft lingered, watching his brother carefully as Sherlock climbed unsteadily to his feet and tottered across to the door.
“Mrs Hudson!” he bellowed down the landing, “I need to send some telegrams!” Immediately following this outburst, he descended into a violent fit of coughing that alarmed me and sent Mycroft to the sideboard for a glass of water.
“Holmes, I forbid you to leave the house,” I said as he sank heavily onto the sofa. I pulled the blanket closer around his shoulders as his brother handed him the water.
“Don’t….don’t be ridiculous, Watson,” he gasped, trying to regain his breath.
“I am not being ridiculous!” I countered. “I doubt if you could even manage to walk down the stairs, let alone reach the front door!”
Mrs Hudson appeared at that moment. “Goodness, Mr Holmes, you look dreadful!” she exclaimed.
Holmes glared at us all. “If you do not cease fussing this instant, I shall order you all out of the room and lock the door,” he threatened. “Watson, your notebook, if you please.”
Reluctantly, I handed the book and pencil over. Holmes scribbled two short notes and gave them to Mrs Hudson to take to the telegraph office. It was clear that, despite his weakness, nothing would dissuade him from visiting the scene of the crime. Experience had taught me that arguing with him was useless – his was such a forceful personality that it flattened all resistance. Mrs Hudson did not dare disobey him, and truth be told, in his more masterful moment neither did I.
“Now,” he said with some dignity,” if you will excuse me, I shall go and dress. We have much to do.” With what was no doubt a superhuman effort, he stood, and walked quite steadily to his bedroom, closing the door pointedly behind him.
Mycroft shook his head. “He never would listen to anyone,” he remarked.
“I seem to have failed once again,” I said, disappointed.
“Not your fault, Doctor. You did your best. I am afraid that stubbornness is a failing in our family. But I would be grateful if you would keep a close watch on him – I feel that there is more here than meets the eye.” As he spoke, Mycroft glanced across the room, in the direction of Holmes’s desk, and a seed of suspicion was planted in my mind.
“I will do what I can,” I promised, “but as you have seen, I have little influence.”
“I believe you may have more success than you think, Doctor.” Mycroft clapped a huge hand on my shoulder, causing me to stagger. “After all this time, I have no doubt that you know my brother better than anyone.”
With those words he departed, leaving me alone in the sitting room, thoughts whirling through my head. Intentionally or not, that seed had been sown in my mind, and it was producing shoots. Glancing at Holmes’s door to check that it was still firmly closed, I crossed to the window and his desk. It seemed illness had made him careless, as the drawer that I knew held his syringe was unlocked. There, beside my chequebook and the photograph of Irene Adler, was the morocco case, the sight of which never failed to fill me with revulsion. I had not seen him use it for quite some time, but the suspicion that he had not renounced the drug, merely become more secretive about its use given my objections, had remained in the back of my mind.
I opened the case, and withdrew the needle. Some of the solution lingered in the syringe, positive proof that it had been used, and recently. The pieces finally slotted into place, pieces that I had overlooked while concentrating on the symptoms rather than the cause of the problem.
But what could I alone do to prevent my friend from destroying himself?
TBC
