Sherlock Holmes Nightmare

  Sherlock Holmes

  Nightmare

  John Pirillo

  Copyright 2019

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Prologue Two

  221B Baker Street Front Porch

  Marching Song

  Prologue Three

  Prologue Four

  221B Baker Street

  Clues to Madness

  Mrs. Hudson

  Archives

  Regent’s Park Zoo

  Danger Walking

  The Archives

  Regent Park Zoo

  221B Baker Street

  Regent’s Park

  The London Times

  221 B Baker Street

  The Secret Room

  The Chase is on

  Pahalgam, India

  Secrets and Secrets

  The Globe Theater

  Death Comes Courting

  221B Baker Street

  Prologue

  “This way!”

  “Holmes!”

  “Seriously, Watson.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Come, or be left behind. Time is of the essence.”

  “Very well!”

  Prologue Two

  “I knew I shouldn’t have followed you.”

  “Always follow your heart, John.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry, John, but I warned you to follow me closely.”

  “I did, drat it all!”

  “But not that closely.”

  Sigh. Sometimes a day just doesn’t go the way you want, Watson thought as he looked at his right ankle, which was turning a dark purple.

  “Well, at least we caught the confounded criminal.”

  Holmes looked over as Constable Evans put an arm around a man and they walked up laughing.

  “Perhaps not.”

  Watson looked too.

  “What!”

  “Not all games are a win, Watson.”

  221B Baker Street Front Porch

  The first thing I noticed when I got up that morning was the London Times was on our porch.

  The second thing I noticed was the splotches of blood on the paper.

  The third thing I noticed was when I opened the paper up. It had an extraordinary photograph damning its white paper front. An image that should never have been there. Some bloke; probably an arrogant young photographer had sold them an image of me at least ten years old and then ruined it.

  On purpose.

  Maybe it was supposed to be a joke.

  “Watson murdered horribly!” Read the headline.

  What made the headline both maddening and frightful was that it was of me.

  Of me.

  My face was above the lead lines: Watson Murdered Most Foully.

  My face was slashed in two and blood splattered.

  Now that’s just not a proper way to wake up in the morning, is it?

  Marching Song

  March by number.

  March by fault.

  March your feet.

  Forget the dross.

  Watch the hours

  Slide slowly by.

  March to the rhythm

  Of your song.

  And cry.

  —Ancient soldier’s marching song

  Prologue Three

  Mrs. Hudson bandaged his right ankle as he looked on, gritting his teeth in frustration.

  “Now “She said sweetly. “That didn’t hurt at all, did it?”

  “Not one bit,” he replied, looking at the fireplace and not into her eyes, gritting his teeth to stop from screaming.

  “Watson, do be grown up about it.”

  “I am blast it!”

  Prologue Four

  Watson sighed with relief as he sat on the bench by the Thames. He and Mrs. Watson had to walk about a quarter o the day to find a private spot, there were so many lovers out and about, holding hands, sneaking kisses when their chaperons weren’t looking, and some, the sailors mostly, grabbing what they could get away with and ducking the usual swinging fists, elbows, purses and devices the fair maidens held to fling t them in defense.

  But despite all that chaos, it all felt warm and snuggly to him as he nuzzled Mrs. Hudson with his cheek.

  “You’re hot!”

  “Please, let’s not discuss that.”

  “Not that, you silly old fool. Your cheek!”

  “Who are you calling old fool?”

  “You, you grouch and growl like a premature bulldog who’s been aged twenty years inside the mother’s body and suddenly thrown out into the world.

  He snapped his head away and gave her a surprised look.

  She pinched his cheek.

  “That woke you up, didn’t it?”

  “Not very nice of you.”

  “Oh, I can be quite nice, thank you, or have you forgotten...”

  A constable strolled by, twirling his night stick.

  She clammed up and whispered into Watson’s right ear.

  Watson’s face turned as bright as a red light.

  221B Baker Street

  “Holmes, this is just disgusting.”

  “Truly it is, Watson.”

  “Then why are we playing it?

  “Because we need to break away from our routine.”

  “You mean yours.”

  “Same thing.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Watson, don’t let that newspaper throw you off center.”

  “It wasn’t’ your face on the cover.”

  “It could have been. It has been. Many times.”

  “Past does not count. Present does. And at this moment it’s my bloody face, not yours!”

  “Did you eat yet this morning?”

  “You know perfectly well I have.”

  “It’s just a photo.”

  “Well, it bloody well wasn’t. It was mine!”

  “Grumbly Bear!”

  “Whoops!” Watson whispered to Holmes. “She’s been there the whole time, hasn’t she?”

  Holmes smiled. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been too distracted to notice.”

  “Liar.”

  “Prove it!”

  Watson hissed angrily, and then when a dainty hand caught his shoulder and pressed, he sighed unhappily. “I can never win sometimes.”

  Mrs. Hudson bent over and kissed the top of his head. “You’re too busy counting the times you’ve lost to appreciate the things you’ve won.”

  He looked up at her.

  Her face was radiant. Her eyes dancing with mirth.

  “Walk. Now.”

  “I...”

  Holmes rattled the fireplace screen with the poker. “Oh, so sorry.”

  “You did that on purpose.”

  “Now why would I do that, Watson?”

  “You two are ganging up on me!”

  Mrs. Hudson snorted angrily. “Very well then, be a grumbly bear. I shall take the walk by myself then and if by chance some handsome stranger comes up and mugs me, I shall think only of you with my dying breath.”

  Holmes laughed.

  Watson didn’t.

  Clues to Madness

  Holmes felt bad on one level to leave before Watson returned. He truly hoped his friend would feel better after his walk with dear Mrs. Hudson. He hadn’t wanted to go behind his friend’s back, but with such a fine resource as Mrs. Hudson at hand, he would have squandered a fine opportunity to do otherwise. And one thing he was not wont to do, was squander an opportunity.

  Watson had blossomed in many ways since he had been with her. For that, Holmes was eternally grateful. At least one of them deserved a happy life, even if it was troubled at times by their field of work.
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  Himself, he was resolved to end up like his friend in India. Not celibate. He didn’t believe in that. But, of course, if you stayed purely platonic in a relationship, celibacy was the norm. That he couldn’t guarantee, but it seemed to be the pattern of his life to this point in time.

  For the most part.

  But he couldn’t dance back to those moments when his youthfulness had plunged heartily into a healthy and blossoming relationship. He shrugged the thoughts away, for they just brought grief. His relationships hadn’t ended well. Though they had ended, not by his hand, but by that of another.

  He sighed, and then thought of India again. It was such a vast place and so much to explore. He still wanted to see if there was a path to Agharta, the place called Shamballa, where all the wise men of the world lived in peace and harmony.

  He knew it must exist. He just wasn’t certain it was as perfect as described. Humanity had a tendency to make gods of men who were far less than and heaven of spots that were equally as remote from being heaven as a man an ape.

  Still, perhaps, he would retire there and tend to flowers, or feed the poor. Maybe he would tour the world, searching for mystical points of interest. So many things to be done that needed being done and so little time to accomplish them in.

  He wasn’t angry or dismayed at the prospect of leaving this world with his life unfulfilled in that way. He had done much good with it thus far, and if he were to be called by the Creator to leave tomorrow, he would not go sadly from this world, except in that he would miss his friends and loved ones here.

  Still, it seemed, as is path stretched before him that he might retire to the grave, much as his father had.

  He smiled.

  He could think of worse things to accomplish.

  His father had been a good teacher, statesman and leader of men. He was the one who sparked Holmes interest in forensics. As a matter of fact even though he would never, at the time at least, have admitted it, he was in many ways the father of forensics.

  “Son, maybe I am, but you, my son, you will be the crowning glory of it. Now get back to your room and study your chemistry. College does not allow entrance of dull headed students. Not yet, anyhow.”

  Holmes had given his father a blank look.

  His father had ruffled Holmes bushy hair, and then laughed. “You’ll understand one day. Now...shoo!”

  He had given Holmes a kiss on his forehead and ushered him back to study.

  What his father didn’t know was that Holmes was not studying chemistry at the time. His father hadn’t realized yet that his son could memorize everything he saw with a brief glance. It was this ability and his father’s genetics for organization that had given Holmes a computer like brain, well in advance of the things that Jules and Wells spoke of so glowingly when they returned from their brief time journeys.

  They had told him about a journey they made once with the old Holmes to a world much like this one, but more in t he future to visit with an author who would write about them some day. He had laughed at what they told. Imagine how confused Conan would be and perhaps a bit jealous to know that his creation had been taken further and modernized by a man not even British by birth, though perhaps a Londoner in his heart.

  His friend Jules had explained, “Someday, Holmes, every man and woman shall have a computer they can carry in their pockets. They will have access to all the knowledge of the world.”

  Holmes had given them a suspicious look.

  Jules had laughed. “Holmes, it’s true. We’ve seen it.”

  Holmes had shrugged it off at the time, but now as he was gaining in years, he had seen so many things in this world and others, that the idea of a pocket computer...whatever that ultimately was named...was not such a far off concept for him, though he felt the human mind would always be better than a mechanical one for interpreting facts and figures.

  But who knows. Man is clever. Perhaps someday he shall become a creator like God and bring a new consciousness to life that would surpass him in time.

  He had laughed one day after he learned of the devices, because he had read a new book by Edgar Rice Burroughs, wherein the author wrote in excruciating detail about a clocklike machine that you could pull the handle of, after you asked a question, and it would answer it...precisely.

  Computer?

  Perhaps. But amusing at the very least.

  Ah!

  He paused in his brisk walk. Time had fled before his footsteps and memories to bring him before the humble building that housed the London Times. He craned his neck to survey its length and breadth. It had grown quite a bit in the few years he had been on this world and as he spotted recent construction cranes at work, he realized their spurt of growth was not abating.

  “Sherlock?”

  He turned in surprise. He recognized the voice, if not the person.

  A pudgy man with mutton chops that stuck out on his cheeks like a chipmunk’s jaws. It was a deep yellowish brown...almost blonde, but burned orangish from too much time out in the sun. The man’s skin was burnished a soft bronze color. It matched his eyes, which were also a soft bronze, but with dancing flames in them.

  He always was the jolly sort.

  “Victor?”

  “Indeed, Sherlock.”

  Victor rushed forward and gave Sherlock a huge hug, which lifted him off his feet. He set him down and hurriedly backed off. “So sorry, Sherlock, it’s been so long!”

  Holmes smiled. Put his hand out.

  Victor took it and pumped it as vigorously as he had squeezed with his bear hug.

  He finally let go, his face a sunrise fresh in the morning, bursting with life and happy to nourish the world once more.

  “How many years?”

  “At least ten.”

  “I’ve grown wider...and you’ve grown narrower.”

  Holmes laughed. “I’d say of the two I’d prefer your wider. You’ve grown quite strong. Though as I remember it when we played March through Hell, you were quite capable of bowling me and the other chaps over before we could recover.”

  “Fear of the dark can cause one to discover all manner of resources one didn’t realize one had, especially blind fear.”

  “Indeed.”

  They stood there in an amiable silence a moment.

  “Sherlock...”

  “My friends call me Holmes now.”

  Victor didn’t know whether he had just been scolded or privy to new information.

  Holmes smiled. “You’re my friend.”

  Victor smiled. “Indeed. Have been and always will be. But tell me, what brings you here to watch the construction?”

  “Actually, I was interested in the archives of the Times.”

  “Ah.”

  Victor got a sly look on his face. He leaned closer. “I know a quicker way than the front door.”

  Mrs. Hudson

  I offered my arm to Mrs. Hudson, the love of my life as we descended the porch steps from 221B. I was quite sure she and Holmes had this planned the whole time, but I’m afraid both are much too clever for me sometimes to stop their nefarious plans.

  I gave my love a forced smile. “Lovely day for a walk,” I said, pretending to be in a good mood.

  “You’re not getting off that easy, John, I heard you and Sherlock fighting. I was there!”

  “You...”

  I stopped. Can’t win this one. But...“It wasn’t a fight. It was a philosophical disagreement.”

  “John, you and Sherlock are beginning to sound like an old married couple.”

  “What a horrible thought!” I exclaimed.

  “And rightly so, as that would be a perfect loss of good men for the eligible females of London. Least in Sherlock’s case.”

  I gave her a swift and disapproving glance. She was looking way, thank God. I lost it.

  “A first class grumble-fest.”

  I muttered beneath my breath. “Damn newspaper!”

  “John!”

  I glanced her way again. T
his time she was looking straight into my eyes with those great big, beautiful brown ones that could Teddy Bear clutch at my most tender self, or emote lightning and thunder to cease and desist my staunchest attempts to prove my manhood.

  Her brown eyes were stern enough, so she was serious, but not so serious she could hide the smile teasing the corners of her strawberry lips, which I felt at that moment to crush against mine, but being the proper sort I am, held back from doing. I didn’t want to embarrass her in front of our neighbors.

  It just wouldn’t be the proper thing to do.

  Morality was changing in modern London; but not that much!

  Besides, none of the neighbors were out on the street, which made it more likely they were peeping from behind window shades, so as not to get caught watching their fellow citizens on the street.

  I hurriedly glanced up.

  No open windows.

  No open shades.

  Well, I could have been right.

  London is filled with many late nighters, because of its metropolitan nature, so I shouldn’t be that shocked. Most Londoners worked two, even three jobs to keep their minds busy and their wallets full so they could pay the most common of expenses.

  I and Holmes were quite lucky to be the center of constant need, thus improving our financial situation considerably, not to mention my journal articles in the London Times, which brought in a sizable endowment to me.

  Still, I felt for my fellow citizens. Even with the help of our Good Queen Mary of Scots, many were starving or near starving.

  Holmes and I contributed most of our payments to the local charities, but we were just a few, when they needed the help of so many more. The many, being the Lords and Ladies, who hoarded their money.

  Not all, of course. There are always good apples in a barrel of rotten ones. Lord Graystone and Lady Shareen came to mind immediately. They bequeathed thousands of quid on a monthly basis, with many more thousands dispensed quietly through various channels that they drew from their vast resources in Fairie.

  The dragons shared their wealth with that man, unlike some humans who do not even share the slightest bit of their wealth with their own children sometimes.