How I managed to sleep that night is still a mystery to me. I know that for several hours I lay wide awake, staring into the darkness of my bedroom and hardly daring to close my eyes even to blink. Terrible images continued to rise up unbidden that were hardly conducive to sleep. Yet sleep I did. I know this only because of the several times I jerked awake out of nightmares that all too closely resembled the real horrors that had entered my life.
As the thin, grey light of dawn crept through the window I could almost persuade myself that I had dreamt the entire ordeal of the previous night. But exhaustion, leaden limbs and gritty eyes were not enough to distract me from undeniable signs. My medical instruments were out where I had left them to dry after cleansing them thoroughly. There was the as-yet unwashed glass I had used for brandy left on the sideboard by the decanter. Mycroft's telegram sat half crumpled in my jacket pocket. Worst but most conclusive of all, there were minute remnants from the autopsical examination adhering to the elbows and cuffs of the shirt I had worn yesterday.
I felt my stomach roil as I contemplated this last piece of evidence and I thrust it from me hastily. Dwelling on Holmes's current, unnatural condition would do neither of us any good right now. Mycroft said he would investigate the necessary rituals and I had already done my part last night. Besides, we each had our professional duties to tend to. Late nights were hardly an excuse for a doctor to cancel his consultations and Whitehall was not likely to look kindly on an auditor who failed to show up because of a family emergency.
It was not until I had consumed two full cups of coffee that a sudden thought occurred to me: why would the wife of a visiting dignitary visit a mere Whitehall auditor? True, Mycroft Holmes was the brother of the world's foremost private consulting detective. But then, how could she have known Sherlock Holmes had a brother in the first place? I myself had thought him an orphan until seven years after we had taken rooms together. Doubtlessly there was a reasonable explanation but it was well beyond my poor cognitive abilities this morning.
So too was attending to patients, I fear. By sheer undeserved luck neither I nor my patients suffered any grievous mishaps though there were a few close calls. For one elderly woman with a cardiac murmur I wrote a prescription for strychnine that was well beyond a lethal dose before I realized my error and tore it up post-haste.
It was for this reason I drew my consultations hours to an early end and instead indulge in an hour of sleep. This was followed by a trip to the library where I discovered that every book conceivably linked to voodooism had been checked out already. This did not entirely surprise me. Having seen the depths of dedication shown by Sherlock Holmes to a chosen cause, it stood to reason his brother might share this tendency as they had shared other traits. I was only put out by my inability to help Mycroft in his research. But then, he had asked for my assistance in a medical capacity only. I had to content myself with that. And so, I turned my attention to various forms of food preservation and to the practice of leather-making.
Though Mycroft was not forth-coming with his progress, I saw no reason to be reticent in return. I revised my initial advice slightly and every third day I paid a visit to Pall Mall to check on Holmes's condition. While he did not improve, he did not seem to be deteriorating further. The salt water and vinegar washes and garlic rubs did eventually kill off the superficial black mold. Only then did I feel comfortable allowing preservation of his skin. My research showed me that tannic solutions would not be sufficient in reversing rot or in maintaining suppleness; reluctantly I determined it would have to be an emulsion of steer or porcine brain followed by a firm massage with tallow. It was a messy, tedious, and repulsive business but it was working.
Fortunately the teas were working also. To do any good, the leaves had to be stewed until the oils floated on the surface. The result was a brew so strong Mrs. Hudson would have tossed it into the gutter without a second thought. But it did its job. The scent of decay dwindled and what remained was masked by Holmes's continued use of shag tobacco. I could not discern if the smoke was fulfilling its intended role but if nothing else, it might help Holmes reconnect to his previous life.
In the meantime, we waited for Mycroft to make a breakthrough in the ritual. A fortnight went by and then another. Then another. Summer waxed hotter and hotter and I increased my visits to every two days as a precaution.
Finally one evening as the summer solstice approached, Mycroft sent me a telegram requesting my presence. Worried that something might have happened to Holmes, I rushed to Pall Mall with my medical bag firmly in hand.
To my astonishment, Mycroft himself met me at the door with a thin, worn dressing gown thrown over his shirt and trousers. Never had I seen him in such casual attire. Nor had I seen him look so grim save for that night in May when he had first asked my help.
"What has happened?" I gasped.
"I believe I am ready to perform the ritual," said he.