Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This story is based on the BBC's excellent adaptations of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries, starring Clive Merrison. It takes place during the episode the devil's foot, and is my attempt to explain what took place when the friends performed their dangerous experiment.
Holmes
"There is one final test we could make." I spoke hesitantly, unwilling to give my idea voice, for if I was to be honest with myself I was not anxious to experience the affects of such a dangerous poison. Having witnessed the havoc it could wreak, I had no desire for Watson or myself to become its latest victims.
"Yes, there is." My dear friend met my gaze with a look of unwavering trust and calm which astonished me.
"We must light the lamp." I spoke with a mixture of forced calm and confidence.
My friend replied at once, his gaze as it met mine full of determination and unshakable loyalty which I considered a treasure beyond price.
"And burn the crystals.
"Watson, you've seen the affects these crystals produce. Are you sure you want to go through with this?"
"If I say no, you'll do it alone won't you."
"It's necessary."
"Then we'll see it out together." I grasped my comrade's shoulder briefly, hoping to convey through this simple gesture the gratitude and awe I felt, that he was willing to participate in this dangerous experiment.
Having taken all precautions, we returned to our chairs to await developments. The only sounds to be heard were the far off crash of waves, and the steady ticking of the mantel clock. Watson sat across from me, and although he strove to conceal it, I sensed that he was as nervous and fearful about this course of action as me. Indeed, he reminded me in that moment of a warrior preparing for battle, and in a sense I expect that we were. But this would be a battle fought within the labyrinthine corridors of the mind. A war based not on deductive reasoning, or logical methods of elimination, but strength of will alone.
And only God knew if we would be victorious.
And so we waited, in an atmosphere fraught with apprehension, determined to glean what we could from this experiment, and thus bring an end to this tragic and perplexing affair.
I have witnessed many strange and unsettling things in my life, but the darkness which began to invade my senses was of a kind I have never seen before. It was neither the darkness of a room devoid of light, nor the pitch black of a starless evening. Instead, it held a distinct quality of menace, as if every horrific memory or nightmare were awaiting some unspoken command to rush upon me unawares.
Determinedly I sought to quell my rising fear, telling myself that Watson and I had taken precautions against this devilish stuff, and that at the first sign of trouble we were to immediately cease this experiment. But all of my logical reasoning and rational words of reassurance proved fruitless against the coming impressions.
Out of the darkness arose the spectral form of a dog. Though it had been years since the affair my friend had named The Hound of The Baskervilles, the sight of that ghostly animal sent a thrill of fear through me. I could not suppress the cry of horror as I saw what lay between those enormous paws. For instead of the inert form of Sir Henry, there lay the body of my dearest friend, eyes open and staring, clearly dead.
But somehow, more chilling than this sight was the sound which issued from the jaws of this apparition. More piercing than the keenest winds of the moors it was said to inhabit, it was a howl that evoked all of the darkest and painful memories of my life. No sooner had this thought entered my mind then the procession of recollections began.
My new friend, awakening with a choked cry from a nightmare of war, brought about by the grim murders we had investigated on our first case together.
My struggle against that master of criminals, the thunder of theReichenbach Falls, and the possibility that death was close.
The heartbroken cries of Watson, calling my name again and again. Beneath each repetition a desperate hope that I would answer, and as so often occurred before emerge triumphant having captured yet another criminal.
My struggle to save the life of my dearest friend aboard the vessel Friesland.
Finding Watson during the affair at Weissberg Castle, injured and near death from exposure to the elements.
Through my mind ran the words of Wagner's hymn to death and love I had quoted to Watson only yesterday.
So let us die and never part
Together for the rest of time
How accurately those lines reflected my unspoken wish, that Watson and I would be spared the pain of being parted by the hand of death, that we could explore the greatest mystery of life together, in all its awesome splendor and glory.
No sooner had this thought been given form, than other images rose before me. And although I knew they were brought about by those damn crystals, indeed had little to do with reality or past memory, the horrors I witnessed during that hour were unspeakable.
Out of the darkness emerged every enemy Watson and I had brought to justice. Their specters surrounded me, each holding their weapon of choice, and began to speak of the tortures to which they would subject my dearest friend, as vengeance for us having brought them to justice. Each had their turn; each threat took form before me as it was described in detail by each criminal.
But mixed with these moments of horror came other memories and impressions. For in that hour I also witnessed moments of joy.
The first meeting between myself and Watson.
Various triumphs concerning a particularly difficult criminal's capture or imprisonment.
Moments shared with my brother and other friends of our acquaintance.
The sheer wonder of music, mastering the violin works of great composers, and basking in the performances of talented musicians.
Pleasure became pain, joy turned to sorrow, until the flood of conflicting emotions overwhelmed me and I could do nothing but beg for release from this darkest of torments.
I wanted to cry out, to beg heaven to stop this dreadful series of memories twisted by the influence of these unknown crystals. But despite my best efforts I could not give voice to my request, only repeat it in the turmoil of my thoughts.
And when at last the cry burst from me, it was neither a prayer for deliverance, nor the frantic disjointed sentences of one on the brink of succumbing to darkness. My need to escape this labyrinth of memories and nightmares was expressed in a single hoarse cry, a plea for help to the most loyal and truest of friends.
"Watson!"
Note from the authoress: Goodness, I never expected this chapter to turn out the way it did, hope it wasn't too dark for you readers. This is my first attempt at a Sherlock Holmes story. I've just recently joined this site, and am still rather nervous about sharing my writing. I've enjoyed Doyle's stories, and the BBC productions of the Holmes adventures for ages, and never expected I'd be writing a short story based on one of the mysteries.
My thanks to KCS, and Protector of The Gray Fortress, whose works have been the inspiration for this tale.
I hope you enjoy this story and look forward to reading any comments.
Next chapter is Watson's perspective.