by Steve Emecz
“No, Watson, Mycroft was right. Were word of this to get out, the repercussions would be calamitous.”
The next few moments seemed like an age. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Sherlock Holmes, a murderer…
“Surely there must be another way?”
Holmes let out a long breath, which I wished to God would have been longer.
“Let me do it then…”
Holmes looked at me for a moment.
“No Watson…”
“He’s my commanding officer! And when a commanding officer commits treason, the penalty is death. Forgive me Holmes, but some heroes need to remain pure.”
We stood there for a moment, the air itself seeming to freeze with the weight of it. Slowly, Holmes began to nod.
Two days later, Holmes left the front, the General’s death being put down to a heart attack.
I must have inquired as to the General’s motivation at some later date, for I have Holmes’ response specifically noted.
“I cannot know Watson. Perhaps in the end he saw all the death and destruction he himself was ordering, and felt the quicker end to the war was to support the enemy. When one man’s sin is another’s virtue, can we ever truly know? Can right and wrong ever be truly known?”
A Train Ride To London
By C.M. Vale
Bronx, NY, USA
I’d no reason to think over-much of the matter until, having disembarked from the train at Euston Station, I found the strangest thing in my pocket…
At the time I received word of my father’s death in December of 1887, I had been, for nigh on six years, residing in a sleepy Scotland village. There I had taken up a country practice, far away from the grimy roads and venomous air so customary to the great cesspool that is London. Thus it came to be that, being the eldest sibling and only living male heir to our negligible fortune, the morose task of settling the family’s estate fell solely upon my shoulders. The chore promised to be an arduous one, as father’s financial papers were always kept in a state of profound disorganisation. It was not so much the inconvenience of being forced to shut down my rather lucrative general practice to make some sense out of the confusion of bills and (in all probability) overdrawn bank accounts that nettled me about the whole business. The source of my irritation stemmed from being kept away from home and hearth during Christmas, which was, incidentally, to be the first celebrated with my lovely young wife, Violet. She is as headstrong a woman that ever drove a husband to distraction, and so intent was she on coming along, no argument on my part could persuade her otherwise. It was my hope one of us could be spared from the tedious proceedings and spend the season with a proper Christmas dinner alongside a roaring fire in the home of one’s closest relatives, but it was not to be. We embarked upon our wearisome journey the day before, so that on Christmas Eve, arrived at the Oxfordshire railway station, which would take us directly into London. It proved an awful wait for the blasted train, for despite our arriving promptly at four minutes past seven, the time indicated by our Bradshaw, it was bitterly cold, making the merest moments spent standing idly enough to freeze the very blood in one’s veins. There also appeared to be some sort of a commotion further down the platform, as some queer - not to mention obviously disturbed - fellow got it in his head that now was as good a time as any to wander along the tracks. Of course, when the train did arrive, it was held up expressly because of this venturesome individual. Eleven minutes and thirteen seconds worth of hold up, which might have been spent thawing off inside, in the blessed warmth. Somehow, these goings-on were finally put to rights, though I dare say hushed up is more like it. I cannot tell for sure how the thing was resolved, since despite the lateness of the hour a fairly large crowd was gathering, probably all with the intent of hurrying to their respective families before morning, and blocking my view in the process. When at last we were allowed to board, I made it a point to ask the conductor precisely what had been going on. “Strangest thing I ever saw,” he remarked. “Some fellow who weren’t right in the head was sifting through the dirt, he was, all the while going on about samples he needed for a monograph. I never heard the likes of it in all me days!” “How irregular,” said I, as he brought us to the last available carriage. “What have we asylums for if lunatics are allowed to wander freely?” He did not know what to make of it either, and left us pondering over what this world was coming to. It has ever been my preference to travel privately on railway sojourns, short or extended as they may be, for one never can be too cautious, what with all those of unsound mind among us. Our friend taking a leisurely stroll on the rails proved that much. Thus, I was reasonably perturbed when, upon entering with Violet’s cumbersome portmanteaus and my own humble carpetbag, (whilst she twittered with some lady or another) I was met with a scrawny fellow of substantial length already occupying a seat. Well, I say a seat, which anyone would take to mean that of the solitary variety, but this inconsiderate person was sprawled out in such a fashion that his feet had invaded the seat opposite. His confoundedly long legs were a terrible hindrance as I made several valiant attempts at heaving my wife’s luggage into the rack. How someone appearing so wanting for a decent meal could overwhelm a space is beyond my understanding. All the while, a cloud of malodorous smoke billowed out from underneath his cloth cap, which was tipped over his brow. “This is a no smoking compartment, my good sir,” I informed him after having taken my own seat, though at least he’d the barest modicum of courtesy to remove his shoes from my side. However, his reply to my grievance came in the form of a renewed puff of smoke. It was here that my wife, all danger of having to assist me with her luggage having passed, joined us and my vexation with our travelling companion only compounded. The man, imagine his insolence, gave a most dismal groan upon her entrance, mumbling something or other about the intolerable proclivities of the fair sex. I was in the very act of opening my mouth to form a defence on Violet’s behalf when the fellow broke his silence. “My condolences on the loss of your father.” “Why, thank… good heavens! How can you know about that?” My mourning band, of course, was concealed beneath my greatcoat. If this uncanny knowledge of my personal affairs was not enough, to my utter astonishment, he broke out into a chuckle. “Sherlock Holmes!” I ejaculated, for he’d raised his head and those angular features were instantly recognisable. “As I live and breathe, I never thought to see you again!” Hoped it, in fact. Ever since I realised the full implications of what I had done to a poor, unsuspecting invalid in dire need of peace and normalcy to heal his strained constitution. It’s all very understandable that the doctor would take an interest in such an intriguing fellow with so finely honed an intellect, but to endure his constant company was another matter entirely. I do realise the man sorely needed to go halves to afford his lodgings, and I did suitably warn him, but how could poor Dr Watson ever know the full extent of the madness he should be submerged into until the two actually cohabitated? Most assuredly, he did not deserve to be thrust into confined quarters with a man who beat corpses to a pulp in the name of science and scoffed at most basic of human emotions. When I thought on the horrors Dr. Watson may have been subjected to in that man’s company… well, I could but inwardly wince. I imagine that, desperate as the doctor was, he was likely cursing my name for years afterwards. “Nor I,” said Holmes, and was that a hint of sincerity in his voice? The next shock of the night came in the form of Mr. Sherlock Holmes extending to me both a hand and a warm smile, offering what was, by his standards, an effusive greeting. Such cordiality was the last thing to be expected from so cold hearted a character. What on earth had warranted this? “I see you are still up to your old tricks, though the devil knows how you do it,” I remarked. “But yes, you are indeed correct. My father has passed on and my wife and I are headed back to London to settle his estate.” “The devil has nothing to do with it, Stamford. What you perceived as witchcraft was in fact my observation of the method by which y
ou tied your left boot-lace and made quite the hash of your shaving this morning.” “Obviously,” said I, content to allow him his delusions. I then proceeded to introduce Violet to my old acquaintance, whom I could have sworn sneered at the mere mention of my marriage. Never did much care for women, that one. It was no shock he was alone even now, no wedding ring on his finger and probably not a friend in the world. Not that the Sherlock Holmes of my memory had any great want for friendship. He was simply the sort of chap you might have admired for his astounding brain, but held humanity at such a distance, regarded his fellow man with such sheer apathy, that it was impossible to get on with him for any great length. Not the makings of anyone’s friend, for who could ever care for such a cold-hearted reasoning machine? “Tell me, whatever have you been doing with yourself all these years? We were always curious as to what line of occupation you intended on with such… unconventional interests you took.” Holmes gave a soft hum of amusement. “My profession is undoubtedly unique. In fact, I am the only one in the world.” Yes, you certainly are one of a kind, Holmes, you smug, arrogant… “Oh, you mustn’t keep us in the dark,” my Violet chimed in. “What exactly is it that you do, Mr Holmes?” He leant forward, snuffing out his cigarette stub on the windowpane. With no little pride, Holmes stated that he was a “private consulting detective”, emphasising his independence from those “blunderers” at Scotland Yard, mind you. At this self-aggrandising speech, I raised an eyebrow. The man caught my gesture and sniffed. “A detective? Come now, man. Surely you jest!” I admit to a modicum of unintended cruelty, yet his haughtiness of old seemed to have sharpened. “I most certainly do not,” said he, crossing his arms in a petulant manner. “I have created my own profession, at which I am rather accomplished, or so my faithful chronicler shall attempt to convince you. He does tend to give me more credit than I am due,” said he, eyes fairly glittering at the mention of this alleged chronicler. Truth be told, I was a bit taken aback by all this. Who should take the pains to set down the biography of Sherlock Holmes? “Really, man. You go too far! Whatever have you achieved to warrant such things?” Of every possible reply I thought he might make to substantiate this claim, his actual response was what startled me most. “Nothing.” Then, with his usual bearing, continued. “My success is based solely on an elementary class of deduction which escapes the swift wit of the professionals. I’ve done nothing great, save to rely on a healthy dose of logic and imagination. In fact, I regularly invite Scotland Yard to apply my methods, but this seems to be a most painfully difficult task for that lot to grasp.” “If it is all so simple as you make it out to be, why the deuce would anyone take the pains to chronicle your exploits?” “Oh, hush, dear. My husband is being unforgivably rude. Surely you have solved some important cases, then, Mr Holmes?” “Some are of great importance, yes, though I prefer the most abstruse problems to challenge myself, and these are often of little interest to the Yard, or the reporters.” The thought had crossed my mind this was nothing more than a fancy of some deep rooted vanity, and was of a mind to say so, when another fellow burst into the carriage, bringing with him a blast of infernally cold air.
He was a dashing chap of medium height and build, fair haired and moustached, whose very demeanour suggested an amiable disposition. For all he seemed troubled by a limp whilst he struggled with two hands full of overstuffed valises and a medical bag, he ever retained a pleasant smile. It occurred to me this man was vaguely familiar, but I was hard pressed to place who he might be or where our paths had crossed. “Awfully sorry,” he apologised, as with a great effort, he heaved the bags into the rack, and I imagine had a worse time of the task than I had. Sighing heavily, he slumped down beside the consulting detective, who was preoccupied with lighting a pipe procured from his greatcoat pocket. “I take it the engineer was a trifle put out,” said Holmes whilst he fiddled with a match. “My dear fellow, he was livid!” “Unreasonable man.” “Not to worry. Everything’s been straightened out, though I think it best to mention he’s threatened to set loose his three legged dog if he ever catches either of us on these rails again.” Propriety dictates I not record the response this drew from Holmes. “I believe,” said Sherlock Holmes as he turned his attention back to me, “that you already know my friend, colleague, and lately, chronicler, Dr John Watson. Doctor, you remember Stamford, do you not?” The spark of recognition shone in those startlingly blue eyes once he gave me a proper look. They were dimmer, surely, the last time we met, but this was indeed the retired army surgeon I’d introduced to Holmes several years ago. Watson had changed considerably, for gone was the nerve wracked, gaunt shadow, his once haggard face glowing with health. He had put on a layer of weight, which bespoke of his former wellness, and certainly that sombre air prevalent that day at the Criterion bar was now replaced by a palpable cheerfulness of spirit. How he came to manage this in the presence of the world’s only consulting detective remains to me one of life’s insoluble mysteries. Impolite it may have been, my curiosity got the better of me. “Not sore at me for introducing you to Holmes?” I ventured, clasping his hand. Remarkably, Watson only laughed and was prompted to wring my hand more enthusiastically at I thought to be a most reasonable query. “This must be your lovely wife,” he gestured to Violet. The doctor always did have the lion’s share of manners, which is more than I can credit to the other passenger, who smoked in silence, apparently weary from the exertions of condescending to converse with us mortals.
Over the next few hours, we exchanged pleasant chatter, until the topic of Holmes’ line of employ was again brought up. Watson, I must admit, had us listening raptly to the tales of his companion’s singular cases, and it was plainly evident what a natural flair for storytelling he possessed. Be that as it may, Holmes could scarce resist the urge to roll his eyes heavenward at regular intervals or criticise those same flourishes and romanticisms, which so piqued our interest, enlivened the tale. Even so, I fancied there were instances when I caught the ghost of a smile leak out from behind that abominable pipe, something I at first mistook for an arrogant enjoyment of having his brilliance flaunted to an audience. At the stroke of midnight, the train ground to a halt in Euston Station. “Merry Christmas, Holmes,” said the doctor to his friend with an affectionate pat on the knee. “Bah!” Was what he got for his efforts, though this curmudgeonly response seemed not to phase him in the least. “What’s the matter with him?” I enquired while tugging down my bags. Watson had meanwhile risen to assist me with the chore, never mind that leg appeared to be smarting him fiercely. “Oh,” said he, calm as you please, “He’s only upset because the season seems to restrict the criminal element to misdemeanors.” Madness, it appears, is contagious.
Once we made our way onto the platform, Watson took me aside to offer his thanks for the chance introduction, claiming to have been more shattered by the Afghan campaign then he at first realised, that he was not so certain how else he might have survived those wounds whose mark was intangible. Unspoken words heavy in the air, I confess to being grateful that Mr. Holmes chose that moment to emerge from the train and step up beside me, for Watson never did conclude that dismal thought. He proceeded to make some snide comment about bringing our eminently stimulating evening to a close, affecting a yawn to enhance his spectacular state of ennui. This led to the doctor fussing over his miserable sleeping habits, and we said our farewells soon after, having all four of us shaken hands with genuine fondness.
As I mentioned at the beginning of this long-winded account, once we parted ways with the doctor and that insufferable detective, I was set to consider the incident noting more than a (mostly) agreeable night of reminiscing with old acquaintances, a welcome way to pass the hours on a not so welcomed journey. And then I dug my hand inside my pocket, and found the strangest thing had been placed inside. A rolled up edition of something called ‘Beeton’s Christmas Annual’. On the front page was a bold advertisement for a story within, by one A.C. Doyle, literary agent of John H. Watson, M.D. The
story itself was marked off with a note scrawled in a sharp hand. The contents were short and precise, and for some moments I stood rooted to the spot, staring somewhat dazedly at the words I’d read over enough times to have already permanently memorized. I saw then just a fraction of what the doctor must have seen all those years ago in a cocksure student at the lab, bragging over his haemoglobin experiment. Taking Violet’s arm, I read the note one last time, and before heading into a waiting cab, whispered to no one in general, “Merry Christmas.”
Stamford,
Consider this a Christmas gift. If I am not much mistaken, in due time you shall find it a very valuable token of our mutual appreciation. Thank you, for having saved two lost souls.
- S.H.
The Adventure Of The Exploding Moon
By Scott Varnham
Slough, UK
It was the year 1897 when Sherlock Holmes and I were called to the case of the ship simply called Moon, a tale, which has some small points of interest for fans of the art of deduction.
My friend was serenading me to sleep with a violin composition of his own after the conclusion of the Abbey Grange case. Just as I was drifting off into my slumber, my reverie was interrupted by the sound of flat-footed stamping up the 17 stairs of our Baker Street lodgings. Our old friend Inspector Lestrade opened the door to our lodgings and rushed in.
“Please, Lestrade, take a seat. It’s a long way from the docks and the earliness of the hour suggests that there weren’t many cabs to be had. I expect you’re quite well exercised!” my friend remarked.
“Upon my word, Holmes, how’d you know I’d come straight from the docks?” Lestrade looked nothing short of astonished at my friend’s casual deduction.