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charleygirlTitle: The Hand of Seth 9/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Type: Gen, mystery, angst
Characters Involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Marcus Scarman, Sarah Jane Smith
Summary: Professor Scarman offers some information, and Watson has another encounter with the mysterious Sarah...
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.
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight
THE HAND OF SETH
CHAPTER NINE
I cursed myself for my poor timing.
Holmes was fairly animated, but I could not tell whether it was from more rest and a little nourishment or some other, more sinister, source. I submitted to being waved to my armchair, and Scarman resumed his seat upon the sofa.
“Bretherton asked the professor to call,” Holmes clarified for me. “He is the foremost authority on the god Seth.”
“An academic colleague suggested that Bretherton contact me when he asked about the Harcourt statue,” added Scarman. “He was fortunate to find me in the country. Had my brother not urgently wired me to say that the Harcourt Seth was for sale, I would still be in Cairo. I have long wished to possess the statue.”
“Did you make the earl an offer, then?” I asked, attempting to turn my attention to matters I found of little interest at that moment.
“I did, Doctor, but was turned down flat. It was only afterwards that I learned of the ludicrous reserve price forced upon Christie. What Harcourt hoped to achieve by setting the academic world in such an uproar I have no idea.”
Holmes regarded the professor for a long moment, then said, casually, “Were the statue to be offered to you, by the back door, as it were, would you take it if the price was right?”
Scarman looked affronted at the suggestion. “I would not, sir! I am not in the habit of trading in stolen goods, for such it would be. And no one could ever steal the statue – Harcourt has made sure that his security cannot be breached.”
“I apologise, Professor, I had not intended to insult you.”
“Even were the statue to be stolen, purchasing it in such a manner would be dangerous in the extreme. The piece is unique, and to even attempt to sell it would draw unwanted attention upon the thief. As I am known for my interest in the god and his cult, I should fall under immediate suspicion. I should not wish to throw away my academic standing, Mr Holmes, even for such a prize.”
Holmes nodded. “Yes, I see. You have studied the statue yourself?”
“A few years ago, when Lord Harcourt was more amenable to academic applications than he is at present. We know very little about it, not even the name of the person in whose tomb it was found. No records were made on the subject by Napoleon’s antiquarians at the time. All that is certain is that the piece was in the possession of the countess of Harcourt when she married the fourth earl in 1803. It had been left to her by her father, a noted French antiquarian, who had died suddenly in 1799, and she brought it with her to England on her marriage. Beyond the fact that it has been in the family ever since, we know nothing. The same is true of the corresponding statue of Horus in the British Museum – study of that piece had proved inconclusive,” said Scarman.
“So the statues may not be genuine?” I enquired.
“I did not say that. They certainly appear to be old enough. Their style may vaguely date them to one period or another, but it is impossible to say exactly when they were made, or for what purpose. That is part of their appeal, I confess, the mystery attached to them.” The professor smiled. He was so gaunt that the action was vaguely unsettling, like that of a death’s head grinning. It was an unfortunate impression, as there was nothing threatening in his manner – he seemed to me to be a genuinely passionate academic, who lived and breathed his chosen subject. “They are much sought-after.”
“By the cult of Seth?” Holmes asked. Beside Scarman, he seemed positively plump-faced.
“Indeed. The cult has existed for millennia, mainly underground. Worshipping such symbols as the ones we have been discussing has been frowned upon for some time, but still a few of the brotherhood flourish. They believe that Seth – or Sutek as they call him – will lay waste to the world, raise the desert sands and wipe the planet clean. For their services, they will be well rewarded by their god, once he is in control.”
“That seems a little extreme,” I remarked, surprised that there were still people who would pledge allegiance to a dead religion.
Scarman shrugged. “Fanatics usually are, Doctor. There is that dark mystery to Seth which draws them in, fires their imagination. He has always inspired fanaticism because of his reputation as the Destroyer. You will always find more fanatics drawn to the dark side than the light.”
There was a pause. Holmes pointed to the chemical bench behind Scarman. “What do you make of that?”
Startled, the professor looked round. The scarab still lay where I had last seen it, its open abdomen displaying the clockwork within.
“Good God.” He was on his feet in a flash, bending over the creature. “Where did you get it?”
“It was brought to me by a client,” said Holmes truthfully. “As you can see, it is an ingenious little thing.”
“Holmes believes the mandibles to be poisoned,” I said, as Scarman reached out to touch the scarab.
He looked alarmed by the suggestion and accepted the pencil I passed him. Pulling a jeweller’s eyeglass from his pocket, he screwed it into place and used it to survey the creature. “The Egyptians worshipped the scarab because they believed its method of rolling dung into a ball and pushing the ball before it mimicked the sun’s movement across the sky. You will find scarabs represented all over Egyptian iconography,” he said. He prodded at the insect with the pencil, taking care to keep well away from its jaws. At length, he straightened. “I have never seen anything like this. Whoever made this creature was most certainly not an Ancient Egyptian. Their society was highly advanced, but the mechanism inside this insect would be far beyond their capabilities.”
“Then someone made it recently,” I said. “But why? To frighten? To kill?”
“That is entirely possible, especially if one is indeed dealing with fanatics,” Scarman replied.
“It is a horrible thought.”
“Professor Scarman, have you ever had dealings with an Egyptian called Ibrahim Namin?” Holmes asked. He had had his eyes closed, assimilating the information, but now they snapped open to fix the professor with a sharp gaze.
“I have not,” Scarman said immediately.
“You can categorically state that?”
“Of course. I deal with academics, Mr Holmes, and scarcely venture from that rarefied world. I have never heard the name before. Should I know it?”
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “The man believes himself to be a follower of the god of which you profess to be the authority. I merely thought that your paths may have crossed – perhaps at the British Museum?”
“I have not been to the museum since my return from Egypt, so there is little likelihood of our meeting.” The professor consulted his watch. “I fear that I must return to my work – I have arrangements to make for my voyage next week.”
“You are going back to Cairo?” I asked.
“I have much still to do there. Only a fraction of the tombs have yet been uncovered – the work will take a lifetime and still not be finished. Good day to you both, gentlemen – I hope I have been of some assistance to you.”
Holmes nodded, returning to contemplation. I saw Scarman to the front door, and hailed a cab to take him home. After seeing him into it, I turned back to the door to find a familiar figure standing on the pavement and regarding the departing professor with something I could only describe as astonishment. It was the girl, Sarah, still in her distinctive boots though her skirt hem had lowered to a more decorous length than it had been the day before.
“Good afternoon,” I said, and she jumped.
“Oh,” she gasped, relief settling over her pretty features as she saw me, “it’s you! You startled me.”
“You looked as though you had seen a ghost. Are you acquainted with Professor Scarman?”
“Then it was him,” she muttered, and then seemed to shake herself. A big smile settled on her face. “In a…manner of speaking. He wouldn’t remember me. Especially as we haven’t met yet…” There was something a little evasive about her manner which made me suspicious. She was charming, there was no doubt about that, but one might, if they were being particularly uncharitable, describe her as shifty. She leaned against the railings, feigning nonchalance.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. Twice now she had popped up unexpectedly in connection with the case. “Is your friend not with you today?” I looked around, but the man in the scarf was conspicuous by his absence.
“Oh, the Doctor?” She smiled again. “He’s around. We have a lot to do.”
There was a pause, and I decided to take the opportunity to ask the question that had been puzzling me since the previous day. “Your friend, this Doctor – he sent me a message. Why - ”
“That reminds me.” She dug in a pocket and produced a crumpled envelope. “Another one for you.”
I took the letter mechanically. “Could he not come and speak to me himself?”
“Busy,” she replied simply.
“Well, could you not come in and explain to myself and Mr Holmes? You seem to know about this case, and any information - ”
Sarah glanced up at the first floor window. There was a flash of movement, and the blind swung across the glass. Holmes had evidently been watching us. Sarah hesitated for a long moment, and then shook her head. “I mustn’t. It could be dangerous.”
“Dangerous? For whom?” I asked, now utterly perplexed.
“Everyone.” She pushed herself up straight and moved off, stopping briefly to add, “You’re on the right track, you know,” before she slipped between a message boy and a woman pushing a pram and was gone.
***
Shaking my head, I climbed the stairs once more.
In my absence, Holmes had changed his coat for his mouse-coloured dressing gown and was stretched full-length upon the sofa, papers scattered around him on the floor. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep, even though he had been observing me through the window only a few minutes before. One sinewy arm trailed over the side of the settee, the sleeve drawn back by the angle to reveal a mottling of dark puncture wounds, some old, some not so. I felt my anger rise again at the sight of them, and slammed the envelope Sarah had given me down on the table.
“Is something the matter?” he asked without opening his eyes.
“I do not know why I even try to help you,” I said hotly. “You seem hell-bent upon your own destruction.”
After a moment, one eyelid lifted, and he saw the drawn-up sleeve and his bare forearm. “You have a suspicious mind, Watson.”
“If you were not so damned secretive, I would have no need of one.” I paced the floor, desperate for some outlet for the rage and anxiety that welled up within me. “Do you have any idea what you are doing to yourself?”
“It is only temporary. I had need of the stimulation – things are coming to a head, and I cannot be out of action at this moment.”
“Is that all you can think about? This blasted case?”
“What else is there?”
He was so perfectly calm, so apparently unconcerned that he was slowly, inexorably, killing himself, that I confess I wanted to hit him. I wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him until his teeth rattled, until I had shaken some sense into him. But I did not. One never did with Sherlock Holmes, the man who could deduce the sum total of another from the merest detail, and yet fail to grasp even the most obvious emotions of compassion and concern. His illness only bothered him insofar as it limited his activities. He had no notion of the worry that was gradually turning my nerves to shreds.
“You have no thought for me, then,” I said. “You do not care that I am having to stand here and watch you inch ever closer towards death? I have seen you tread that knife-edge many times, Holmes, and always you have escaped. You always wanted to escape. But now I’m not so sure. Even Moriarty could not do what you are now doing to yourself.”
There was no answer. Was he ignoring my fears as he had done so often in the past? Or did he just – for once – not know what to say? I waited, but nothing was forthcoming. I stood with my back to him, not daring to turn and see whether he was looking at me, or if he had just settled back down on the sofa as though I had never spoken.
I waited, and after five long minutes I left the room, shutting the door carefully behind me. I sincerely hoped that Doctor Moore Agar would have more success, as heaven knew I had done my best and failed utterly.
There was nothing more to be said.
***
My first inclination was to leave the house once more, but I soon realised the foolishness of such a gesture. Where could I have gone? Only to the surgery, and I would be wondering the entire time whether Holmes had taken a turn for the worse while I was gone, whether the next syringe of cocaine would be the one that brought about the end of the world’s foremost private consulting detective.
I should have left him, but I was not one to abandon a friend. I had never done so in the past, whatever the provocation; and I would not begin now, even if that friend frequently treated me shabbily and took me for granted. Had I objected I would have cut my ties long ago. The demon of the drug had been with us for a long while, lurking in the background, always ready to rear its ugly head.
I would have remained in my room, but hunger eventually got the better of me and, as Mrs Hudson would not serve me dinner in my own quarters, I was forced to descend to find the table laid and a covered plate before my chair. Holmes sat picking at the light repast our landlady had prepared for him. No words were exchanged as I took my seat and began my meal.
I half expected him to refuse food, just to spite me, but he would have to concede that if he wished to see the case through to its end he would have to do as I had prescribed. He did at least allow me my medical expertise, some of the time at least.
The atmosphere in the room could have been cut with a knife. The only sound was the clatter of cutlery on china, and the occasional pop and crackle from the fireplace. Eventually Holmes left the table, having consumed more than half of his food, much to my relief. He wandered the room, fingers idly tapping on the desk, the mantelpiece, the window frame, with that same nervous energy I had seen earlier and now put down the effects of the drug. At length he sat down at his chemical bench and drew the microscope towards him. I left him to his experiments and settled down beside the fire with a yellow-backed novel. Still not a word had been spoken between us. It was childish, but I could not bring myself to break the silence. What could I say? I did not think I had any words left.
The evening continued in the same vein. I must have dozed off, as when the clock struck ten I started into wakefulness with the feeling of a man emerging from a dense fog. The fire had burned down low, and Holmes had abandoned his chemicals to drape himself once more over the sofa. Exhaustion had finally claimed him as it had me – in sleep his face seemed younger, less haggard, care and illness temporarily washed away. I wished that the real problem could be solved so easily.
With a sigh I leaned forward to take the poker to the dying embers of the fire, and it was as I did that I noticed from the corner of my eye a movement on the other side of the room. I turned in my chair, trying to blink the sleep from my eyes, wondering whether it was a mouse, but Mrs Hudson kept the place spotlessly clean in spite of Holmes’s perpetual untidiness and I had never seen any vermin in the house before.
There was a flash of movement again, and I got to my feet to investigate. I rounded the back of the sofa, but could see nothing on the floor. A check beneath the chemical bench and the sofa itself revealed nothing untoward, so I straightened, scanning the carpet with my tired eyes, straining to see anything out of the ordinary. I bumped into the sofa, bruising my knee and nearly overbalancing, though the impact did not wake Holmes, much to my surprise for he was usually a very light sleeper. I pushed myself upright, and it was then that I saw it.
Something black and shiny was crawling up Holmes’s shoulder, its spindly legs dragging it over the crumpled fabric of his dressing gown. I froze in shock and horror as I realised what I was seeing, unable to move as the scarab, its deadly jaws extended, crawled inexorably towards my friend’s exposed throat…
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Type: Gen, mystery, angst
Characters Involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Marcus Scarman, Sarah Jane Smith
Summary: Professor Scarman offers some information, and Watson has another encounter with the mysterious Sarah...
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.
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight
THE HAND OF SETH
CHAPTER NINE
I cursed myself for my poor timing.
Holmes was fairly animated, but I could not tell whether it was from more rest and a little nourishment or some other, more sinister, source. I submitted to being waved to my armchair, and Scarman resumed his seat upon the sofa.
“Bretherton asked the professor to call,” Holmes clarified for me. “He is the foremost authority on the god Seth.”
“An academic colleague suggested that Bretherton contact me when he asked about the Harcourt statue,” added Scarman. “He was fortunate to find me in the country. Had my brother not urgently wired me to say that the Harcourt Seth was for sale, I would still be in Cairo. I have long wished to possess the statue.”
“Did you make the earl an offer, then?” I asked, attempting to turn my attention to matters I found of little interest at that moment.
“I did, Doctor, but was turned down flat. It was only afterwards that I learned of the ludicrous reserve price forced upon Christie. What Harcourt hoped to achieve by setting the academic world in such an uproar I have no idea.”
Holmes regarded the professor for a long moment, then said, casually, “Were the statue to be offered to you, by the back door, as it were, would you take it if the price was right?”
Scarman looked affronted at the suggestion. “I would not, sir! I am not in the habit of trading in stolen goods, for such it would be. And no one could ever steal the statue – Harcourt has made sure that his security cannot be breached.”
“I apologise, Professor, I had not intended to insult you.”
“Even were the statue to be stolen, purchasing it in such a manner would be dangerous in the extreme. The piece is unique, and to even attempt to sell it would draw unwanted attention upon the thief. As I am known for my interest in the god and his cult, I should fall under immediate suspicion. I should not wish to throw away my academic standing, Mr Holmes, even for such a prize.”
Holmes nodded. “Yes, I see. You have studied the statue yourself?”
“A few years ago, when Lord Harcourt was more amenable to academic applications than he is at present. We know very little about it, not even the name of the person in whose tomb it was found. No records were made on the subject by Napoleon’s antiquarians at the time. All that is certain is that the piece was in the possession of the countess of Harcourt when she married the fourth earl in 1803. It had been left to her by her father, a noted French antiquarian, who had died suddenly in 1799, and she brought it with her to England on her marriage. Beyond the fact that it has been in the family ever since, we know nothing. The same is true of the corresponding statue of Horus in the British Museum – study of that piece had proved inconclusive,” said Scarman.
“So the statues may not be genuine?” I enquired.
“I did not say that. They certainly appear to be old enough. Their style may vaguely date them to one period or another, but it is impossible to say exactly when they were made, or for what purpose. That is part of their appeal, I confess, the mystery attached to them.” The professor smiled. He was so gaunt that the action was vaguely unsettling, like that of a death’s head grinning. It was an unfortunate impression, as there was nothing threatening in his manner – he seemed to me to be a genuinely passionate academic, who lived and breathed his chosen subject. “They are much sought-after.”
“By the cult of Seth?” Holmes asked. Beside Scarman, he seemed positively plump-faced.
“Indeed. The cult has existed for millennia, mainly underground. Worshipping such symbols as the ones we have been discussing has been frowned upon for some time, but still a few of the brotherhood flourish. They believe that Seth – or Sutek as they call him – will lay waste to the world, raise the desert sands and wipe the planet clean. For their services, they will be well rewarded by their god, once he is in control.”
“That seems a little extreme,” I remarked, surprised that there were still people who would pledge allegiance to a dead religion.
Scarman shrugged. “Fanatics usually are, Doctor. There is that dark mystery to Seth which draws them in, fires their imagination. He has always inspired fanaticism because of his reputation as the Destroyer. You will always find more fanatics drawn to the dark side than the light.”
There was a pause. Holmes pointed to the chemical bench behind Scarman. “What do you make of that?”
Startled, the professor looked round. The scarab still lay where I had last seen it, its open abdomen displaying the clockwork within.
“Good God.” He was on his feet in a flash, bending over the creature. “Where did you get it?”
“It was brought to me by a client,” said Holmes truthfully. “As you can see, it is an ingenious little thing.”
“Holmes believes the mandibles to be poisoned,” I said, as Scarman reached out to touch the scarab.
He looked alarmed by the suggestion and accepted the pencil I passed him. Pulling a jeweller’s eyeglass from his pocket, he screwed it into place and used it to survey the creature. “The Egyptians worshipped the scarab because they believed its method of rolling dung into a ball and pushing the ball before it mimicked the sun’s movement across the sky. You will find scarabs represented all over Egyptian iconography,” he said. He prodded at the insect with the pencil, taking care to keep well away from its jaws. At length, he straightened. “I have never seen anything like this. Whoever made this creature was most certainly not an Ancient Egyptian. Their society was highly advanced, but the mechanism inside this insect would be far beyond their capabilities.”
“Then someone made it recently,” I said. “But why? To frighten? To kill?”
“That is entirely possible, especially if one is indeed dealing with fanatics,” Scarman replied.
“It is a horrible thought.”
“Professor Scarman, have you ever had dealings with an Egyptian called Ibrahim Namin?” Holmes asked. He had had his eyes closed, assimilating the information, but now they snapped open to fix the professor with a sharp gaze.
“I have not,” Scarman said immediately.
“You can categorically state that?”
“Of course. I deal with academics, Mr Holmes, and scarcely venture from that rarefied world. I have never heard the name before. Should I know it?”
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “The man believes himself to be a follower of the god of which you profess to be the authority. I merely thought that your paths may have crossed – perhaps at the British Museum?”
“I have not been to the museum since my return from Egypt, so there is little likelihood of our meeting.” The professor consulted his watch. “I fear that I must return to my work – I have arrangements to make for my voyage next week.”
“You are going back to Cairo?” I asked.
“I have much still to do there. Only a fraction of the tombs have yet been uncovered – the work will take a lifetime and still not be finished. Good day to you both, gentlemen – I hope I have been of some assistance to you.”
Holmes nodded, returning to contemplation. I saw Scarman to the front door, and hailed a cab to take him home. After seeing him into it, I turned back to the door to find a familiar figure standing on the pavement and regarding the departing professor with something I could only describe as astonishment. It was the girl, Sarah, still in her distinctive boots though her skirt hem had lowered to a more decorous length than it had been the day before.
“Good afternoon,” I said, and she jumped.
“Oh,” she gasped, relief settling over her pretty features as she saw me, “it’s you! You startled me.”
“You looked as though you had seen a ghost. Are you acquainted with Professor Scarman?”
“Then it was him,” she muttered, and then seemed to shake herself. A big smile settled on her face. “In a…manner of speaking. He wouldn’t remember me. Especially as we haven’t met yet…” There was something a little evasive about her manner which made me suspicious. She was charming, there was no doubt about that, but one might, if they were being particularly uncharitable, describe her as shifty. She leaned against the railings, feigning nonchalance.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. Twice now she had popped up unexpectedly in connection with the case. “Is your friend not with you today?” I looked around, but the man in the scarf was conspicuous by his absence.
“Oh, the Doctor?” She smiled again. “He’s around. We have a lot to do.”
There was a pause, and I decided to take the opportunity to ask the question that had been puzzling me since the previous day. “Your friend, this Doctor – he sent me a message. Why - ”
“That reminds me.” She dug in a pocket and produced a crumpled envelope. “Another one for you.”
I took the letter mechanically. “Could he not come and speak to me himself?”
“Busy,” she replied simply.
“Well, could you not come in and explain to myself and Mr Holmes? You seem to know about this case, and any information - ”
Sarah glanced up at the first floor window. There was a flash of movement, and the blind swung across the glass. Holmes had evidently been watching us. Sarah hesitated for a long moment, and then shook her head. “I mustn’t. It could be dangerous.”
“Dangerous? For whom?” I asked, now utterly perplexed.
“Everyone.” She pushed herself up straight and moved off, stopping briefly to add, “You’re on the right track, you know,” before she slipped between a message boy and a woman pushing a pram and was gone.
***
Shaking my head, I climbed the stairs once more.
In my absence, Holmes had changed his coat for his mouse-coloured dressing gown and was stretched full-length upon the sofa, papers scattered around him on the floor. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep, even though he had been observing me through the window only a few minutes before. One sinewy arm trailed over the side of the settee, the sleeve drawn back by the angle to reveal a mottling of dark puncture wounds, some old, some not so. I felt my anger rise again at the sight of them, and slammed the envelope Sarah had given me down on the table.
“Is something the matter?” he asked without opening his eyes.
“I do not know why I even try to help you,” I said hotly. “You seem hell-bent upon your own destruction.”
After a moment, one eyelid lifted, and he saw the drawn-up sleeve and his bare forearm. “You have a suspicious mind, Watson.”
“If you were not so damned secretive, I would have no need of one.” I paced the floor, desperate for some outlet for the rage and anxiety that welled up within me. “Do you have any idea what you are doing to yourself?”
“It is only temporary. I had need of the stimulation – things are coming to a head, and I cannot be out of action at this moment.”
“Is that all you can think about? This blasted case?”
“What else is there?”
He was so perfectly calm, so apparently unconcerned that he was slowly, inexorably, killing himself, that I confess I wanted to hit him. I wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him until his teeth rattled, until I had shaken some sense into him. But I did not. One never did with Sherlock Holmes, the man who could deduce the sum total of another from the merest detail, and yet fail to grasp even the most obvious emotions of compassion and concern. His illness only bothered him insofar as it limited his activities. He had no notion of the worry that was gradually turning my nerves to shreds.
“You have no thought for me, then,” I said. “You do not care that I am having to stand here and watch you inch ever closer towards death? I have seen you tread that knife-edge many times, Holmes, and always you have escaped. You always wanted to escape. But now I’m not so sure. Even Moriarty could not do what you are now doing to yourself.”
There was no answer. Was he ignoring my fears as he had done so often in the past? Or did he just – for once – not know what to say? I waited, but nothing was forthcoming. I stood with my back to him, not daring to turn and see whether he was looking at me, or if he had just settled back down on the sofa as though I had never spoken.
I waited, and after five long minutes I left the room, shutting the door carefully behind me. I sincerely hoped that Doctor Moore Agar would have more success, as heaven knew I had done my best and failed utterly.
There was nothing more to be said.
***
My first inclination was to leave the house once more, but I soon realised the foolishness of such a gesture. Where could I have gone? Only to the surgery, and I would be wondering the entire time whether Holmes had taken a turn for the worse while I was gone, whether the next syringe of cocaine would be the one that brought about the end of the world’s foremost private consulting detective.
I should have left him, but I was not one to abandon a friend. I had never done so in the past, whatever the provocation; and I would not begin now, even if that friend frequently treated me shabbily and took me for granted. Had I objected I would have cut my ties long ago. The demon of the drug had been with us for a long while, lurking in the background, always ready to rear its ugly head.
I would have remained in my room, but hunger eventually got the better of me and, as Mrs Hudson would not serve me dinner in my own quarters, I was forced to descend to find the table laid and a covered plate before my chair. Holmes sat picking at the light repast our landlady had prepared for him. No words were exchanged as I took my seat and began my meal.
I half expected him to refuse food, just to spite me, but he would have to concede that if he wished to see the case through to its end he would have to do as I had prescribed. He did at least allow me my medical expertise, some of the time at least.
The atmosphere in the room could have been cut with a knife. The only sound was the clatter of cutlery on china, and the occasional pop and crackle from the fireplace. Eventually Holmes left the table, having consumed more than half of his food, much to my relief. He wandered the room, fingers idly tapping on the desk, the mantelpiece, the window frame, with that same nervous energy I had seen earlier and now put down the effects of the drug. At length he sat down at his chemical bench and drew the microscope towards him. I left him to his experiments and settled down beside the fire with a yellow-backed novel. Still not a word had been spoken between us. It was childish, but I could not bring myself to break the silence. What could I say? I did not think I had any words left.
The evening continued in the same vein. I must have dozed off, as when the clock struck ten I started into wakefulness with the feeling of a man emerging from a dense fog. The fire had burned down low, and Holmes had abandoned his chemicals to drape himself once more over the sofa. Exhaustion had finally claimed him as it had me – in sleep his face seemed younger, less haggard, care and illness temporarily washed away. I wished that the real problem could be solved so easily.
With a sigh I leaned forward to take the poker to the dying embers of the fire, and it was as I did that I noticed from the corner of my eye a movement on the other side of the room. I turned in my chair, trying to blink the sleep from my eyes, wondering whether it was a mouse, but Mrs Hudson kept the place spotlessly clean in spite of Holmes’s perpetual untidiness and I had never seen any vermin in the house before.
There was a flash of movement again, and I got to my feet to investigate. I rounded the back of the sofa, but could see nothing on the floor. A check beneath the chemical bench and the sofa itself revealed nothing untoward, so I straightened, scanning the carpet with my tired eyes, straining to see anything out of the ordinary. I bumped into the sofa, bruising my knee and nearly overbalancing, though the impact did not wake Holmes, much to my surprise for he was usually a very light sleeper. I pushed myself upright, and it was then that I saw it.
Something black and shiny was crawling up Holmes’s shoulder, its spindly legs dragging it over the crumpled fabric of his dressing gown. I froze in shock and horror as I realised what I was seeing, unable to move as the scarab, its deadly jaws extended, crawled inexorably towards my friend’s exposed throat…
TBC
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no subject
Date: 2008-04-20 04:17 pm (UTC)Also! I like your spunky Watson. He should always have been as inclined to lose his temper with Holmes as he is now. :)
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Date: 2008-04-20 05:06 pm (UTC)More on its way as soon as I get a chance to type it!