The Demon of 221B Baker Street (Part 2)
Title: The Demon of 221B Baker Street (Part 2)
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Chapter Rating: PG
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
A/N: Apologies this was so long in coming! Hopefully the wait was worth it. :)
I manage to hold my silence on the train for a full hour. After returning from his mysterious errands, Holmes had dragged me to Scotland Yard - my hastily and grudgingly packed suitcase in tow - and proceeded to explain the case in detail to a bewildered Lestrade, down to the only possible culprit.
“Last I heard we'd a whole list of candidates -” the inspector had begun, his slight chest puffed in anticipation of defending his professional pride.
Only to be cut off by Holmes, who'd said, “Yes, and now there's just the one.” With an air of a lord granting a stable boy the honor of being trusted with the care of his steed, so Sherlock Holmes entrusted wrapping up the case to Lestrade.
The inspector clearly had much to say about being treated such, especially as in this instance “wrapping up the case” involved actually finding the villain, tracking down his accomplices, presenting the findings to the courts, and informing the client, Ms. Lee, of her husband's messy demise. But Holmes was already back out on the streets and guiding me alongside him with a hand on my shoulder before the good Lestrade could utter a syllable in protest.
Now Holmes alternates between pacing the small compartment and staring avidly out the window, as if he expects someone to appear on the other side of the glass. The entire compartment vibrates with his tension, and I find my foot tapping against the floor in helpless sympathy.
As usual, I give in long before he is even conceiving of the notion. “Are you planning on providing me with some explanation as to why we're currently on this train, heading in a direction you I believe chose at complete random? Or am I to guess?”
Perhaps he'd been waiting for me to speak, then. Holmes instantly ceases his pacing and sits opposite me, his eyebrows raised and his attention focused entirely on me. He appears utterly intrigued, and I have a mind to flush red under his scrutiny. “Do you have a guess as to why?”
“Of course I've not. You've given me not the slightest indication!”
He frowns, and his sigh is one to which I've long grown accustomed; there is some embarrassingly obvious detail I've overlooked. Again. “To be fair, our entire acquaintance has been an - indication, should one have the knowledge of how to interpret the facts correctly.”
“And as I clearly don't have this knowledge, then what good is a guess?” I'm not going to be able to pry the least bit of detail out of Holmes when he is in such a mood, and I suddenly have not the inclination to even try. “Never you mind, Holmes. I'm no longer curious.” I turn my attention to watching the scenery rush past the window, although it is not so easy to completely ignore Holmes's presence. I am always aware of him, even when I do not wish to be.
“Come now, Watson. Throwing in the towel so quickly? That's not like you.” A pause, and then Holmes persists over my continued silence. “Watson? You cannot tell me in all honesty that you are no longer curious. And although I've long - well, I admit, dreaded this day of reckoning, now that it is upon me I am quite eager to see it through. And it is not so awful as I'd once feared. Watson! Are you listening to me at all?”
I am listening despite my every intention. Day of reckoning? Of what could Holmes possibly be speaking? Something in my demeanor must betray my reawakened interest, for Holmes's tone regains its smugness before I even turn away from the window to face him. “It has become necessary to inform you of a slight, ah, detail of my existence. I only must do so for your safety, you understand. I have - I would not go so far as to say enemies, but men and women of some very old acquaintance who may, for a variety of reasons, show some interest in you.”
“Are you going to tell me this detail, or merely allude to it?” I ask.
“As I mentioned, our entire acquaintance has been an allusion.”
“Holmes!”
His lips quirk upwards, contrarily amused by my refusal to play along with him. “Yes. Of course. The detail. My dearest Watson, you are going to overreact and take this detail quite out of proportion. This is why I had never actually wanted to enlighten you. It is barely worth noting, and truly changes absolutely nothing, and yet I think you will never regard me the same again. I would ask that you swear my confession will change nothing, but I would not ask you to swear something so outrageously impossible, and so I will not even attempt it.”
“Holmes! Just tell me!”
“Since I can see I am straining even your legendary patience,” Holmes says, “I shall just be plain. I am a demon.”
There is a beat of absolute stillness and silence, as my mind wraps around this nonsensical statement and Holmes inexplicably drains of tension, lounging slackly against the compartment seat even as I straighten.
Then I understand, and I restrain a sigh. This man! Trust Holmes to overreact to a simple argument already three weeks' past in such a dramatic fashion. “I have already apologized for calling you inhumane and heartless,” I say. “On multiple occasions, in fact. I was in a foul temper, not that this excuses anything. There is absolutely no need to -”
Holmes shakes his head and stands up once more, striding to the window and craning his neck to look at - at I can't even imagine what. The tops of the trees, perhaps? Or the gloomy sky? Then he turns to me, leaning against the window as he says, “You misunderstand entirely, I'm afraid. I am not reprimanding you, nor am I jesting. There was nothing to forgive, my dear fellow, especially as you were merely speaking plain truth. I am not of your race. Well, my flesh currently is, but not the spirit that masters it. I am demon.”
“Truly,” I say. If he wishes to see this farce through to some conclusion, it is best not to deny him. He shall succeed in any event, and I shall have nothing to show for my effort save a headache. I watch while he moves to the door and carelessly taps his knuckles against a dozen seemingly random places along the frame and surrounding wall, pausing once or twice to press his ear against the wood and listen.
As he does so, he says, “I am. Are you not the least bit curious as to what that entails?”
“I am sure you'll enlighten me in due time,” I say, my tone undoubtedly dry even as I remember I've just resigned myself to humoring him.
“Remarkable. Here I've worried that I won't be able to answer half of what you ask, and you have not one question on your lips,” he says, and then again, “Remarkable.”
Having finished his inspection of the wall to his unknowable satisfaction, Holmes sits down right beside me so that his leg nearly touches mine. I am uncommonly aware of the heat emanating from him, even through cloth. His hands rests on his thighs, and the long fingers of one hand begin tapping a rapid staccato against his thigh as he regards me silently. When I see he has no intention of elaborating, I return my attention to the passing sights outside the window even as the dull tap of his fingers remains. The taps are not even a sound, flesh against cloth as they are, merely displacements of air that I cannot seem to block from my awareness.
I glance at him to see that his stare is still fixed on my face, though his brows are now furrowed. Settling further down into my seat - and incidentally moving my leg infinitesimally closer to his - I lower my hat just over my eyes with the intention of dozing until we arrive at our unknown destination. Over the next ten or so minutes the soundless taps increase in tempo in a maddeningly inconstant pattern. When I can stand neither his unwavering stare nor the inconstant taps, I open my eyes and say in as reasonable tone as I can manage, “You're a demon. How ... unexpected.” I wrack my mind for an appropriate question, and settle on, “Since when?”
The tapping vanishes, and Holmes leans forward eagerly, gesturing rapidly as he speaks. His hands brush nearly against my chest with every other movement as he does so, and it is an effort to actually focus on his words. “Since this body was three years of age. Sherlock Holmes - the being born Sherlock Holmes, that is - had been conceived for the very purpose of sacrificing his soul to a powerful demon so as to ensnare that demon in the mortal flesh. In order to do so, Siger Holmes and his close colleagues had - well, I suppose I won't bore you with the theological details of their cult or the particular ritual in which I was summoned. Unless you'd care to know?”
“Perhaps at a later date,” I say. I wonder if I am witnessing some sort of mental breakdown. Has the stress of his career, the unbearable burden of his superior intellect, finally shattered my already admittedly cracked friend?
“You need merely ask. I will say this of the ritual. Demons - and you must understand that when I speak of 'demons,' I am speaking of something that is not at all your conception of a demon, but it is the closest definition at hand that you will be able to comprehend. As I was saying, demons are not ignorant of the machinations of man. Mr. Holmes endeavored to summon a quite powerful demon. I was merely a lowly one, hardly worth noting. I was tricked, you see. This powerful demon, wishing to sabotage the humans' goals, could not simply refuse to show. If he did not show, they would merely try again. But this demon said to me, 'go through that -' well, it was not a door, precisely, but that's an analogous image to hold in your mind, so 'through that door, and consume that child's soul.' I did as I was told. Even as I did so, the door behind me closed. There was no returning. And here I am. I should add that while I am demon, I am concurrently as human as this flesh and so prone to the same faults. When my mortal life ends, I will return to my other existence.”
“Very well,” I say. “You are a demon tricked into this world for the duration of a mortal existence.” Holmes nods at my assessment, as if I've just deduced something quite clever. I want to see how intricately Holmes has woven his tale, so as to know how deeply this psychosis runs. This way, when we return to London and I recommend him to a psychiatrist, I will have a good foundation from which that man can begin treatment. “Why take up your profession if the fate of man is nothing to you? Why choose the nobler side? Why room with a human, from whom you would have to continually hide your true nature?”
Holmes grins his little grin with just the hint of a white tooth that he saves for when he is deeply satisfied. “Now this is far more how I'd anticipated this confession of mine to unfold. Each of those most excellent questions has a most excellent answer with which I feel you will be most pleased and fascinated. I cannot tell you what a relief this is. I know you've still some overreacting to overcome, but for the moment you are handling this remarkably well.”
There is not suggestion in his expression or manner that he is engaging in a grand fabrication. Nothing to suggest he is having a drawn-out chuckle at my expense. If I were to take him at face value, he believes utterly in what he says. What game could he be playing?
He stands and starts to pace the small compartment. He walks unevenly, stopping every few feet to tap the floor or kick against the seat, tilting his head as if listening. If he has such fantastical delusions often, then maybe it is no wonder he can never sit still. “I suppose you're most curious as to why I wish to board with you. You are not wrong in believing that my life would be simpler should I room alone.”
Holmes is ill. His mind is sick. The thought keeps circling through my thoughts, and with each pass I find it more difficult to bear. He glances at me, and I realize he's expecting a response. “We lodged together under the pretense that neither one of us could afford lodgings on our own,” I manage. “Surely as a demon you could - I don't know, summon yourself enough money to do so? Or trick someone into allowing you board for free?”
“Watson! There is so much misconception in that statement I hardly know where to begin! Demons in human flesh are not capable of nearly so much as you seem to think. Suffice it to say, I have as many limitations as any other human, and as many liberties - they are just not always the same limitations, nor the same liberties. Do you follow?”
What logic could there possibly be to follow? But he's sick. I must humor him until I am able to get him the treatment he needs. I say, “Yes.”
“I truly needed someone with whom to split the rent, and when I first met you - my God, before you'd even entered the room but were still halfway down the hospital hallway - I knew it would be you.”
Despite my growing worry, I feel a spread of warmth through my chest at his words. “Truly?” I say, unable to help myself and knowing that I should be satisfied he's said such a wonderful thing once and not force him to repeat him. Nevertheless, I could stand to hear him say such a thing multiple more times.
“Truly,” Holmes agrees. The train gives a slight jolt, and Holmes is immediately at the window. The movement is nothing the train hasn't done a hundred times before, and yet he acts as if we're about to derail! Evidently finding nothing of interest, Holmes resumes his pacing, this time without the stops to test the floor and seats. “I could feel it - your soul.” His voice turns nearly dreamy in a way I've never before heard. “Watson, how it shines and tantalizes! You've no idea the trial it is to sit beside you and not - you've no conception.”
“My ... soul?”
He sits down next to me, nearer this time, and takes one of my hands in both of his. “Your soul. Now, to be sure, when you say soul it is not the same phenomenon as when I do. For you, a soul is something both less tangible and yet somehow more tangible than your physical person, while for my kind, a soul has a quite specific and definitive definition, although that definition would still be incomprehensible to you, should I attempt its explanation. In any event, your soul, as demons define it, is ... incandescent, if you follow me. Like the most perfect meal a being could imagine. It's as if -”
“A meal?” I don't even know if I'm following him correctly enough to be horrified, but surely that's a misstatement? I snatch my hand back from him.
“Yes, a meal,” Holmes says. Damn him, but he seems merely puzzled at my outburst. “Demons, of course, eat human souls. Not for sustenance - there would be no humans left! But as a - well, a delicacy, one could say, or for a particular purpose.”
“A delicacy.” I am, if I am allowed to say so myself, an eloquent man; but Holmes - even half out of his mind - can reduce me to stutters and one-word answers with barely even the appearance of effort.
“There's nothing to concern yourself with,” Holmes says. “I have grown extremely used to your company. I would no longer consume your soul without your permission. I promise you this.”
My mouth works silently as I wonder if, perhaps, I am going mad instead of Holmes. “But you have?”
“Have what?”
“Considered it?”
“Considered what, exactly?”
Good Lord! It doesn't matter that he has clearly gone insane, nor that I don't believe one word he's spoken has even a grain of truth to it. “You will answer me,” I say sternly. “Have you, or have you not, ever contemplated eating my soul?”
Holmes has the absolutely audacity to look astonished. “Have you even been listening? Of course I have. I still do, on occasion, when my resolve to keep you hale weakens. But as I've said, you need not -”
“I've had quite enough of this.” Before I can stand to leave, the train jolts once more and Holmes has leapt to the window.
“Watson -”
I cannot deal with this any longer! “I am leaving, if you will excuse me. Preferably to a compartment that is not housing the irredeemably insane and deprived.”
Holmes grasps my shoulder, and announces, “You're right!” He studiously ignores my attempts to brush his hand off of me. “We should be moving. We should leave not just this compartment, but this entire train.”
“Our next opportunity is not for another twenty minutes,” I say. “And I have no desire to spend those twenty minutes -”
“You're incorrect, I'm afraid,” he says.
“I am not! The next station is -”
“The train won't stop for another twenty minutes,” Holmes says. “But our next opportunity is, in fact, at any moment.”
It takes a moment for this comment to register. When it does, I immediately shake my head. “Absolutely not! I will not -” But Holmes has already grabbed my suitcase and is shouldering his own, and somehow herds me out of the compartment and down the narrow hallway towards the end of the cart.
“Holmes, I will not -”
He hums wordless agreements even as he manages to shuffle me along another few feet without quite touching me or shoving me. Before I am entirely aware of it, we are at the door of the cart and he is trying the handle, only to find it locked.
“See?” I say. “How do you intend on picking that lock before someone stumbles upon us and realizes what you're about?”
Holmes contemplates the lock for a moment, and then moves his shoulders in a slight shrug. He turns an almost apologetic smile my way, murmurs, “I suppose there is nothing to be gained by pretending at this juncture,” and proceeds to crush the metal handle in his hand and tug it out of the door. He tucks the ruined handle into his luggage, and then swings open the door, gesturing for me to follow him.
“Why are we doing this?” I ask, since it seems the easier thing to focus on. The ground below us is blurred from the train's dizzying speed.
“I've just explained why,” Holmes says. “Dear Watson, if only you'd listen.”
Abigail Evans sits alone at her table for two, her posture as impeccable as her make-up and attire. A waiter returns to refill her water glass, and the smile she graces him with causes the man to blush before hurrying away.
A tall, rotund man moves to sit opposite her. He is not the man she had invited to join her, but then again, she had not actually expected the doctor to show.
“Holmes has left the city,” the man says. “He knew instantly.”
Ms. Evans smiles. “I never for one moment thought he wouldn't.”
TBC
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Chapter Rating: PG
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
A/N: Apologies this was so long in coming! Hopefully the wait was worth it. :)
I manage to hold my silence on the train for a full hour. After returning from his mysterious errands, Holmes had dragged me to Scotland Yard - my hastily and grudgingly packed suitcase in tow - and proceeded to explain the case in detail to a bewildered Lestrade, down to the only possible culprit.
“Last I heard we'd a whole list of candidates -” the inspector had begun, his slight chest puffed in anticipation of defending his professional pride.
Only to be cut off by Holmes, who'd said, “Yes, and now there's just the one.” With an air of a lord granting a stable boy the honor of being trusted with the care of his steed, so Sherlock Holmes entrusted wrapping up the case to Lestrade.
The inspector clearly had much to say about being treated such, especially as in this instance “wrapping up the case” involved actually finding the villain, tracking down his accomplices, presenting the findings to the courts, and informing the client, Ms. Lee, of her husband's messy demise. But Holmes was already back out on the streets and guiding me alongside him with a hand on my shoulder before the good Lestrade could utter a syllable in protest.
Now Holmes alternates between pacing the small compartment and staring avidly out the window, as if he expects someone to appear on the other side of the glass. The entire compartment vibrates with his tension, and I find my foot tapping against the floor in helpless sympathy.
As usual, I give in long before he is even conceiving of the notion. “Are you planning on providing me with some explanation as to why we're currently on this train, heading in a direction you I believe chose at complete random? Or am I to guess?”
Perhaps he'd been waiting for me to speak, then. Holmes instantly ceases his pacing and sits opposite me, his eyebrows raised and his attention focused entirely on me. He appears utterly intrigued, and I have a mind to flush red under his scrutiny. “Do you have a guess as to why?”
“Of course I've not. You've given me not the slightest indication!”
He frowns, and his sigh is one to which I've long grown accustomed; there is some embarrassingly obvious detail I've overlooked. Again. “To be fair, our entire acquaintance has been an - indication, should one have the knowledge of how to interpret the facts correctly.”
“And as I clearly don't have this knowledge, then what good is a guess?” I'm not going to be able to pry the least bit of detail out of Holmes when he is in such a mood, and I suddenly have not the inclination to even try. “Never you mind, Holmes. I'm no longer curious.” I turn my attention to watching the scenery rush past the window, although it is not so easy to completely ignore Holmes's presence. I am always aware of him, even when I do not wish to be.
“Come now, Watson. Throwing in the towel so quickly? That's not like you.” A pause, and then Holmes persists over my continued silence. “Watson? You cannot tell me in all honesty that you are no longer curious. And although I've long - well, I admit, dreaded this day of reckoning, now that it is upon me I am quite eager to see it through. And it is not so awful as I'd once feared. Watson! Are you listening to me at all?”
I am listening despite my every intention. Day of reckoning? Of what could Holmes possibly be speaking? Something in my demeanor must betray my reawakened interest, for Holmes's tone regains its smugness before I even turn away from the window to face him. “It has become necessary to inform you of a slight, ah, detail of my existence. I only must do so for your safety, you understand. I have - I would not go so far as to say enemies, but men and women of some very old acquaintance who may, for a variety of reasons, show some interest in you.”
“Are you going to tell me this detail, or merely allude to it?” I ask.
“As I mentioned, our entire acquaintance has been an allusion.”
“Holmes!”
His lips quirk upwards, contrarily amused by my refusal to play along with him. “Yes. Of course. The detail. My dearest Watson, you are going to overreact and take this detail quite out of proportion. This is why I had never actually wanted to enlighten you. It is barely worth noting, and truly changes absolutely nothing, and yet I think you will never regard me the same again. I would ask that you swear my confession will change nothing, but I would not ask you to swear something so outrageously impossible, and so I will not even attempt it.”
“Holmes! Just tell me!”
“Since I can see I am straining even your legendary patience,” Holmes says, “I shall just be plain. I am a demon.”
There is a beat of absolute stillness and silence, as my mind wraps around this nonsensical statement and Holmes inexplicably drains of tension, lounging slackly against the compartment seat even as I straighten.
Then I understand, and I restrain a sigh. This man! Trust Holmes to overreact to a simple argument already three weeks' past in such a dramatic fashion. “I have already apologized for calling you inhumane and heartless,” I say. “On multiple occasions, in fact. I was in a foul temper, not that this excuses anything. There is absolutely no need to -”
Holmes shakes his head and stands up once more, striding to the window and craning his neck to look at - at I can't even imagine what. The tops of the trees, perhaps? Or the gloomy sky? Then he turns to me, leaning against the window as he says, “You misunderstand entirely, I'm afraid. I am not reprimanding you, nor am I jesting. There was nothing to forgive, my dear fellow, especially as you were merely speaking plain truth. I am not of your race. Well, my flesh currently is, but not the spirit that masters it. I am demon.”
“Truly,” I say. If he wishes to see this farce through to some conclusion, it is best not to deny him. He shall succeed in any event, and I shall have nothing to show for my effort save a headache. I watch while he moves to the door and carelessly taps his knuckles against a dozen seemingly random places along the frame and surrounding wall, pausing once or twice to press his ear against the wood and listen.
As he does so, he says, “I am. Are you not the least bit curious as to what that entails?”
“I am sure you'll enlighten me in due time,” I say, my tone undoubtedly dry even as I remember I've just resigned myself to humoring him.
“Remarkable. Here I've worried that I won't be able to answer half of what you ask, and you have not one question on your lips,” he says, and then again, “Remarkable.”
Having finished his inspection of the wall to his unknowable satisfaction, Holmes sits down right beside me so that his leg nearly touches mine. I am uncommonly aware of the heat emanating from him, even through cloth. His hands rests on his thighs, and the long fingers of one hand begin tapping a rapid staccato against his thigh as he regards me silently. When I see he has no intention of elaborating, I return my attention to the passing sights outside the window even as the dull tap of his fingers remains. The taps are not even a sound, flesh against cloth as they are, merely displacements of air that I cannot seem to block from my awareness.
I glance at him to see that his stare is still fixed on my face, though his brows are now furrowed. Settling further down into my seat - and incidentally moving my leg infinitesimally closer to his - I lower my hat just over my eyes with the intention of dozing until we arrive at our unknown destination. Over the next ten or so minutes the soundless taps increase in tempo in a maddeningly inconstant pattern. When I can stand neither his unwavering stare nor the inconstant taps, I open my eyes and say in as reasonable tone as I can manage, “You're a demon. How ... unexpected.” I wrack my mind for an appropriate question, and settle on, “Since when?”
The tapping vanishes, and Holmes leans forward eagerly, gesturing rapidly as he speaks. His hands brush nearly against my chest with every other movement as he does so, and it is an effort to actually focus on his words. “Since this body was three years of age. Sherlock Holmes - the being born Sherlock Holmes, that is - had been conceived for the very purpose of sacrificing his soul to a powerful demon so as to ensnare that demon in the mortal flesh. In order to do so, Siger Holmes and his close colleagues had - well, I suppose I won't bore you with the theological details of their cult or the particular ritual in which I was summoned. Unless you'd care to know?”
“Perhaps at a later date,” I say. I wonder if I am witnessing some sort of mental breakdown. Has the stress of his career, the unbearable burden of his superior intellect, finally shattered my already admittedly cracked friend?
“You need merely ask. I will say this of the ritual. Demons - and you must understand that when I speak of 'demons,' I am speaking of something that is not at all your conception of a demon, but it is the closest definition at hand that you will be able to comprehend. As I was saying, demons are not ignorant of the machinations of man. Mr. Holmes endeavored to summon a quite powerful demon. I was merely a lowly one, hardly worth noting. I was tricked, you see. This powerful demon, wishing to sabotage the humans' goals, could not simply refuse to show. If he did not show, they would merely try again. But this demon said to me, 'go through that -' well, it was not a door, precisely, but that's an analogous image to hold in your mind, so 'through that door, and consume that child's soul.' I did as I was told. Even as I did so, the door behind me closed. There was no returning. And here I am. I should add that while I am demon, I am concurrently as human as this flesh and so prone to the same faults. When my mortal life ends, I will return to my other existence.”
“Very well,” I say. “You are a demon tricked into this world for the duration of a mortal existence.” Holmes nods at my assessment, as if I've just deduced something quite clever. I want to see how intricately Holmes has woven his tale, so as to know how deeply this psychosis runs. This way, when we return to London and I recommend him to a psychiatrist, I will have a good foundation from which that man can begin treatment. “Why take up your profession if the fate of man is nothing to you? Why choose the nobler side? Why room with a human, from whom you would have to continually hide your true nature?”
Holmes grins his little grin with just the hint of a white tooth that he saves for when he is deeply satisfied. “Now this is far more how I'd anticipated this confession of mine to unfold. Each of those most excellent questions has a most excellent answer with which I feel you will be most pleased and fascinated. I cannot tell you what a relief this is. I know you've still some overreacting to overcome, but for the moment you are handling this remarkably well.”
There is not suggestion in his expression or manner that he is engaging in a grand fabrication. Nothing to suggest he is having a drawn-out chuckle at my expense. If I were to take him at face value, he believes utterly in what he says. What game could he be playing?
He stands and starts to pace the small compartment. He walks unevenly, stopping every few feet to tap the floor or kick against the seat, tilting his head as if listening. If he has such fantastical delusions often, then maybe it is no wonder he can never sit still. “I suppose you're most curious as to why I wish to board with you. You are not wrong in believing that my life would be simpler should I room alone.”
Holmes is ill. His mind is sick. The thought keeps circling through my thoughts, and with each pass I find it more difficult to bear. He glances at me, and I realize he's expecting a response. “We lodged together under the pretense that neither one of us could afford lodgings on our own,” I manage. “Surely as a demon you could - I don't know, summon yourself enough money to do so? Or trick someone into allowing you board for free?”
“Watson! There is so much misconception in that statement I hardly know where to begin! Demons in human flesh are not capable of nearly so much as you seem to think. Suffice it to say, I have as many limitations as any other human, and as many liberties - they are just not always the same limitations, nor the same liberties. Do you follow?”
What logic could there possibly be to follow? But he's sick. I must humor him until I am able to get him the treatment he needs. I say, “Yes.”
“I truly needed someone with whom to split the rent, and when I first met you - my God, before you'd even entered the room but were still halfway down the hospital hallway - I knew it would be you.”
Despite my growing worry, I feel a spread of warmth through my chest at his words. “Truly?” I say, unable to help myself and knowing that I should be satisfied he's said such a wonderful thing once and not force him to repeat him. Nevertheless, I could stand to hear him say such a thing multiple more times.
“Truly,” Holmes agrees. The train gives a slight jolt, and Holmes is immediately at the window. The movement is nothing the train hasn't done a hundred times before, and yet he acts as if we're about to derail! Evidently finding nothing of interest, Holmes resumes his pacing, this time without the stops to test the floor and seats. “I could feel it - your soul.” His voice turns nearly dreamy in a way I've never before heard. “Watson, how it shines and tantalizes! You've no idea the trial it is to sit beside you and not - you've no conception.”
“My ... soul?”
He sits down next to me, nearer this time, and takes one of my hands in both of his. “Your soul. Now, to be sure, when you say soul it is not the same phenomenon as when I do. For you, a soul is something both less tangible and yet somehow more tangible than your physical person, while for my kind, a soul has a quite specific and definitive definition, although that definition would still be incomprehensible to you, should I attempt its explanation. In any event, your soul, as demons define it, is ... incandescent, if you follow me. Like the most perfect meal a being could imagine. It's as if -”
“A meal?” I don't even know if I'm following him correctly enough to be horrified, but surely that's a misstatement? I snatch my hand back from him.
“Yes, a meal,” Holmes says. Damn him, but he seems merely puzzled at my outburst. “Demons, of course, eat human souls. Not for sustenance - there would be no humans left! But as a - well, a delicacy, one could say, or for a particular purpose.”
“A delicacy.” I am, if I am allowed to say so myself, an eloquent man; but Holmes - even half out of his mind - can reduce me to stutters and one-word answers with barely even the appearance of effort.
“There's nothing to concern yourself with,” Holmes says. “I have grown extremely used to your company. I would no longer consume your soul without your permission. I promise you this.”
My mouth works silently as I wonder if, perhaps, I am going mad instead of Holmes. “But you have?”
“Have what?”
“Considered it?”
“Considered what, exactly?”
Good Lord! It doesn't matter that he has clearly gone insane, nor that I don't believe one word he's spoken has even a grain of truth to it. “You will answer me,” I say sternly. “Have you, or have you not, ever contemplated eating my soul?”
Holmes has the absolutely audacity to look astonished. “Have you even been listening? Of course I have. I still do, on occasion, when my resolve to keep you hale weakens. But as I've said, you need not -”
“I've had quite enough of this.” Before I can stand to leave, the train jolts once more and Holmes has leapt to the window.
“Watson -”
I cannot deal with this any longer! “I am leaving, if you will excuse me. Preferably to a compartment that is not housing the irredeemably insane and deprived.”
Holmes grasps my shoulder, and announces, “You're right!” He studiously ignores my attempts to brush his hand off of me. “We should be moving. We should leave not just this compartment, but this entire train.”
“Our next opportunity is not for another twenty minutes,” I say. “And I have no desire to spend those twenty minutes -”
“You're incorrect, I'm afraid,” he says.
“I am not! The next station is -”
“The train won't stop for another twenty minutes,” Holmes says. “But our next opportunity is, in fact, at any moment.”
It takes a moment for this comment to register. When it does, I immediately shake my head. “Absolutely not! I will not -” But Holmes has already grabbed my suitcase and is shouldering his own, and somehow herds me out of the compartment and down the narrow hallway towards the end of the cart.
“Holmes, I will not -”
He hums wordless agreements even as he manages to shuffle me along another few feet without quite touching me or shoving me. Before I am entirely aware of it, we are at the door of the cart and he is trying the handle, only to find it locked.
“See?” I say. “How do you intend on picking that lock before someone stumbles upon us and realizes what you're about?”
Holmes contemplates the lock for a moment, and then moves his shoulders in a slight shrug. He turns an almost apologetic smile my way, murmurs, “I suppose there is nothing to be gained by pretending at this juncture,” and proceeds to crush the metal handle in his hand and tug it out of the door. He tucks the ruined handle into his luggage, and then swings open the door, gesturing for me to follow him.
“Why are we doing this?” I ask, since it seems the easier thing to focus on. The ground below us is blurred from the train's dizzying speed.
“I've just explained why,” Holmes says. “Dear Watson, if only you'd listen.”
Abigail Evans sits alone at her table for two, her posture as impeccable as her make-up and attire. A waiter returns to refill her water glass, and the smile she graces him with causes the man to blush before hurrying away.
A tall, rotund man moves to sit opposite her. He is not the man she had invited to join her, but then again, she had not actually expected the doctor to show.
“Holmes has left the city,” the man says. “He knew instantly.”
Ms. Evans smiles. “I never for one moment thought he wouldn't.”
TBC