Sherlock Holmes and the Servants of Hell

by Paul Kane

  Mary sniffed, tears welling. “Moran decided to leave you alone after that, for he could see how the grief of my passing had affected you so. As could I, but I was powerless at the time to do anything about it. When you travelled here... The link between you, me and Moriarty allowed me to...”

  I clapped a hand to my eyes. “I should have known it was... I should have been able to tell, to have found a cure. An antidote for –”

  Mary held my shoulders, looking right at me, crying. “There was nothing you could have done, sweetheart. I was already dead.”

  I’m ashamed to say that I was filled with a terrible rage then. That and a thirst for revenge, which I knew Holmes must be sharing. Not only him, but probably the Cenobites who’d just seen Glass slain right in front of them.

  “And so is he,” I said to Mary finally. “I swear it. Dead – for good this time!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Broken

  SHERLOCK HOLMES WAS broken; his body, his soul, his spirit. He knew that others had tolerated far more for much longer in this place; the Cenobites had mentioned eternity when he’d first encountered them. Had he not also been told by Moriarty that time worked differently here? He may have only been under the scrutiny of the Professor for minutes or hours, but such was the level of agony, that it seemed like he’d been abused for millennia.

  And he’d been able to withstand most of it. Everything he had exposed himself to, from diseases and poison to blows, burns and incisions, had been leading up to this.

  But then came the other tortures. The naming of all those he’d failed, often because he hadn’t seen them as people to help, but mysteries to solve. He had been able to understand motivations on an academic level, but not experience emotions, such as love and jealousy... at least not in the same way others did. What had been the chink in his armour, and Moriarty knew that more than most, was his ineffectuality; his inability to fix every problem, solve every puzzle in time; falling short in his efforts to keep not only clients safe, but his friends and family. Especially his family... And he counted Watson in that category. He owed them debts he hadn’t been able to repay, yet worse than that he was made to feel everything they’d ever felt because of him.

  That had been the last straw, that is what had broken Sherlock Holmes. The sight of Watson had hurt him the most; the friend who he’d placed in harm’s way, not only by sending him to Paris, but by dragging him into this mess in the first place – and for that he would never forgive himself.

  So, there he was, a sad excuse for a human being – not that far removed from those lost souls Moriarty had surrounded himself with.

  Except... when Holmes thought all hope was gone, imagine his surprise at seeing the quartet of Cenobites in the chamber! Come to take him back – and he was actually grateful for the fact. Nothing they had in mind or in store for him could have been worse than the suffering he had already endured.

  Only there was unfinished business between Moriarty and his own torturers; those who had come when he was falling towards the rocks; those who had taken him back with them, not knowing that at some point he would make a play for the Engineer’s position. A post that, as far as Holmes could determine, was separate from anything they did. Was perhaps even separate from this god of theirs? Had that entity underestimated Moriarty’s resourcefulness, his ruthlessness and ambition? Saw potential in him, but not fully understood it? After all, Moriarty had obliterated the leader of the Cenobites. ‘Hell’s favourite,’ the Professor had called him. Holmes had no idea what it took to kill one of those creatures, when bullets had as much effect as flea bites, but he suspected it was a lot. What was even more terrifying was that he also suspected Moriarty had only used a fraction of the power at his command to do so, revitalising his fallen troops at the same time.

  He recalled the interview they’d conducted with Lieutenant Spencer’s wife, the mention of black light, a power source here. One Moriarty had clearly tapped into.

  The others appeared completely bewildered by what had happened – which only confirmed to him that Cenobite deaths did not happen often, if at all. The female, who had freed Holmes from his bonds, paused to scoop something from the floor and hide it beneath her skirts, while the diseased Cenobite remained behind to stem the mounting tide of clockwork soldiers.

  And then they were hurrying through corridor after corridor and when they could run no more, the female Cenobite turned and looked behind her. “Carnivan!” she cried, warning her remaining associate, the largest of them, who spun around. Moriarty’s followers filled the tunnel and Carnivan threw himself into the fray. For the first time since he’d opened the box, Holmes began to wonder if the Cenobites had always been this way, if they had always been here. He knew, from Moriarty’s horrific change that, in exceptional circumstances, human beings could be transformed into these things – if they had the inclination and a certain something that had obviously been spotted in the Professor. If so, what or who had this Carnivan been before? He reminded Holmes of some of the bare-knuckle fighters he’d seen in the pits, even fought against himself when he was undergoing his training. Perhaps that was it; the flesh of his head moulded to more closely resemble what he’d once been?

  Carnivan rammed into the pseudo Cenobites, crushing them against the wall with his bony head. The corridor rocked, and the female dragged Holmes back along it, reluctantly leaving her brethren behind to be swamped by the Engineer’s creations.

  She continued to half-carry, half-drag Holmes along, through corridor after corridor.

  “W-where are you taking me?”Holmes said, though she didn’t reply.

  The pseudo Cenobites must have finished with Carnivan because they had renewed their pursuit.

  The female dropped Holmes and unfurled her whip, gripping it tightly. Holmes watched her swing it around her head several times, but it wasn’t the clockwork monstrosities she was aiming for. She struck the ceiling, dislodging masonry. A huge stone dropped onto an advancing pseudo Cenobite, crushing it; not even Moriarty’s magic would be able to resurrect the creature.

  The female Cenobite struck the ceiling again and the tunnel collapsed behind them, completely cutting off their enemies.

  As she lifted Holmes and hurried him along the tunnel once more he asked, blood bubbling from his mouth, “N... n-name… What... what is you... your name?”

  She paused, before answering: “Veronique. They call me Veronique.”

  “T-thank you, Veronique.”

  Veronique continued to ferry him along, and at various points Sherlock Holmes passed out from his traumas, but when he opened his eyes one final time they had arrived at their destination. The corridor opened out onto a spacious landscape, a stone platform overlooking more of the network that made up this section of Hell.

  And there, standing not far away, were two figures; one of whom Holmes recognised immediately. If he could have, he would have run towards the man, but his legs would not carry him any further.

  “Holmes!” shouted Watson as he hurried over. A woman in a white dress slowly followed, floating just above the floor.

  “Watson,” Holmes whispered. “Is... is that really you?”

  “Why, yes old fellow.”

  “I thought you dead.”

  “A deception. I am very much alive.”

  “Watson... Watson please forgive me... I am so, so sorry.”

  “No need, Holmes. No need.” There was sadness in his companion’s eyes as he looked over the detective, bending and reaching out a hand, then withdrawing it. “My God – look at the state of you.”

  “I... I fear not even your medical attentions will aid me this time, my friend.” He paused, then rasped one word, “Moriarty.”

  “I know. Mary showed me.”

  “Hello Sherlock,” she said, and Holmes suddenly realised who she was. “It’s good to see you again, although I would have preferred it to be under much better circumstances.”

  Before he could say anything, Veronique cut in, “W
hat are you doing here, ghost? You don’t belong in this realm.”

  “There are... no such things... as ghosts...” Holmes heard his own protest and couldn’t help laughing.

  Watson ignored Holmes’ statement and said, “Moriarty. He has to be stopped.”

  But Holmes’ attention had strayed past Watson and Mary, to the giant shape hanging above the labyrinth. “W-what...is that?”

  Veronique followed his gaze. “The one I serve. That is my god. The god of pain and desire.”

  Holmes coughed. “Lucifer?”

  “No. Not the Fallen One. He is but a legend here.”

  “Then take me to your god, Veronique.”

  “Holmes, are you quite sure that –”

  “Watson, please,” he implored, grabbing the Doctor’s hand with his own shredded appendage as best he could. “I need to do this.” Then, to Veronique once more. “Your world is broken,” he wheezed. “And I wish to broker a deal.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Knowledge is Power

  MARY WAS RIGHT, of course.

  They did come, though by the time they reached us there was only Madame and Holmes left. My friend was a mass of cuts, deep punctures and burnt flesh, leaving a blood trail behind him as he was hauled along by the Cenobite. I rushed over to him, distraught, though there was little I could do for his injuries, as he warned me himself. Holmes seemed happy that I was alive, but I feared he might not be for much longer.

  “We have to stop Moriarty,” I said to change the subject, though I had no idea how my friend would be of any assistance in this, especially now. I couldn’t see how Holmes might ever recover from such terrible wounds.

  Then came those dreaded words, “I wish to bargain with your god.”

  I tried to stop him, but it was clear that Holmes was clawing back some of that irritating stubbornness I hated and admired in equal measure. The Cenobite, whose name I discovered was actually Veronique, agreed and off they went to see the ‘King of Hearts’.

  “What now?”

  “Now,” said Mary, “there is a place we must visit.”

  As I followed my new guide, my Virgil if you will, I began to think about something Holmes had said during our brief conversation back on the platform. Holmes had asked Veronique if their god was Lucifer, and I wondered why I had never thought to question this myself. But if this was Hell, it wasn’t the one we had learned about in Sunday School. Why, then, should it be presided over by Satan?

  Hearing my inner thoughts once more, Mary said, “It’s complicated, John. There are different kinds of Hells, as you have seen for yourself. Different parts making up the whole. All you need to know is that if the Engineer is set to break down the barriers to our world, he will not stop there. He will go on a rampage that might see Hell fall completely. Others have tried before and no doubt will do so again, even if we succeed.”

  “But why should we care about that? I mean, home – yes. But Hell... Surely we’d be better off without such a horrible place and its inhabitants?”

  She turned and gazed at me. “There must be balances and checks, my love. Without darkness, light cannot possibly exist. It is the age old struggle. Ah, here we are...”

  We had arrived at an arched door made from antiquated-looking wood, covered in knots and ridges. Mary opened this, then held out her hand for me to cross over. I was staggered by what I saw. If I’d thought the libraries of the Cotton residence and the Diogenes were impressive, they were as nothing compared to what lay before me now. The shelves were so high I could not see to the tops of them, running so long I could not see their ends. The layout of the stone corridors might have been confusing, but the rows of books here gave them a run for their money.

  “What are we...” I began.

  “Knowledge, John. Knowledge is power. And this room contains all the knowledge we will need to fight Moriarty.”

  I looked back at her. “Then I’m surprised he hasn’t had the place razed to the ground.”

  She shook her head. “It would have tipped his hand too early to try. Besides, it cannot be destroyed. It is between worlds, and protected by forces more powerful than him.”

  I nodded, not really understanding and knowing that even if I asked her to explain I would probably be more confused than ever (I was – again – feeling more and more like that bumbling oaf I was later portrayed to be). I examined some of the spines of those musty old tomes, which had dates on them, the numbers reaching higher the further in we went.

  “This is the Scribe’s records section,” Mary told me. Ledgers then, just like Mr Cotton Sr kept, but infinitely more detailed. I pulled one of the books off the shelf at random, dust causing me to cough and sneeze. I opened it up and saw accounts of what had happened to a Scottish fellow named Johne Duncansone from the early 16th Century: beginning with his childhood, flipping forward to the meeting of the woman who would become his wife, the birth of his children and finally his death; it was all written like some sort of story, pages and pages of it. As a writer myself, I couldn’t help but be impressed. The narrative revealed his innermost thoughts and feelings, some of which he certainly would not have wanted anyone to know. These were records of anyone whose life had intersected with this realm.

  “Are there books about me in here, Mary? About us? About Holmes?”

  Mary took the huge volume from me and placed it neatly back on the shelf. “This is not what I brought you here for,” she said.

  She walked away and I followed, a little uneasy about the fact that my every step might be written about, recorded and kept somewhere in the library.

  Mary led me to a section, where I could see a book in an illuminated glass case. Writing was appearing on the pages as if by magic, some of it in languages I did not even understand.

  “What is it?” asked I.

  “Every library has an index, John,” Mary said. “It will tell us what we need to know – we simply have to ask.”

  “And what do we need to know, exactly?”

  “How to defeat someone who is becoming a god,” she said.

  I THOUGHT I knew a lot about warfare, about battle tactics and troop movement, but I came away from that library feeling like I’d been the worst student ever of such things.

  After we had ‘asked’ the great book what we needed to know, it replied by pointing us in the direction of various sections. One was devoted solely to the art of combat. It was a strange thing, but perusing these tomes I felt the information flooding into me. If I’d had access to books like these about the human body, it would have made my medical exams that much easier. I would certainly not have needed to spend the time learning anatomy by rote.

  Siege tactics, heavy force, human wave attacks, turning manoeuvres… I became intimately acquainted with them all; enough that I felt sufficiently able to engage the Professor and his troops on a battlefield. I was given more information about the battles of Vienna, Yorktown, Waterloo, Cajamarca, Hastings, Antietam, Leipzig and so many others than I actually knew what to do with. The basics, though, came down to strategy and cunning – which Moriarty, I was all too aware, had more of than anyone.

  It would also take a decisive leader to employ such techniques.

  Next we paid a visit to the sections on ancient magicks, where we intended to gather arcane knowledge that would aid and protect us, as I would definitely be in over my head facing the Engineer’s pseudo Cenobites. I was hesitant, but Mary once again managed to persuade me I was doing the right thing, for the greater good. But if that was the case, why did it feel so very wrong? Probably because all this went against everything I’ve ever believed in and stood for. It is not so easy to ignore such misgivings.

  As our research continued, I felt Mary stiffen beside me. “John... we are not alone.”

  I looked up. “I can’t see anyth –”

  But yes! I could sense it now: the strongest feeling that we were being watched. “There’s definitely someone in here with us,” I said.

  She nodded
. “Agents of the other side.”

  No sooner had she said this than the attack began. Moriarty may not have been able to destroy the library, but he could certainly stop people leaving it with vital information. Moriarty’s soldiers this time were arachnid in nature: spider-things almost as large as the Hound. Part organic – with human limbs as legs – part mechanical, they were the most hideous creatures I’d seen so far. And there were at least four that I could count... maybe even more waiting in the wings.

  The nearest one shot out a web, which looked to be made from strands of black light. I pushed Mary out of the way, as the webbing struck a bookcase, sending broken shelves and tomes flying. I wasn’t quick enough the second time, however, and a web struck Mary, pinning her to a bookcase; ghost or not, it was hurting her! As I went to help, two more spiders leapt at me – one scratching me down the side of my cheek with a sharpened mandible. What could I do? The only weapon to hand was the book I’d been reading, which I used to club the thing and send it flying. The second spider reared up in front of me, kicking me back into more shelves and winding me.

  I slid down, waiting for them to advance again – then rolled sideways out of the way, so they’d hit the shelving themselves. Books from above were dislodged and dropped onto the spiders, trapping them. I narrowly avoided being hit with another strand of webbing, kicking out at the spider who’d fired it and sending it spinning over and over. Breathing hard, I made my way over to Mary, only to find the final spider suddenly in my way. It rose up, ready to launch its web, when suddenly something wrapped itself around the monstrosity, tugging hard.

  The wrench caused the thing to split in two, pus-like ooze flowing from its body. I looked over in time to see Madame Veronique, aiming her whip at the webbing that was holding Mary, freeing her with a series of precision strokes. My wife fell and I caught her in my arms. “Are you all right?” I asked, and she nodded.