Chapter 10

To my surprise, Holmes's bedroom door was still closed and locked when I arrived back at the cottage, and there was no sound from within.

Determined to end our disagreement and find a way to help him, I knocked on the door. "Holmes? Are you awake? I will be preparing breakfast now. I have been in the village, and brought fresh bread."

There was some movement on the other side of the door, and the key turned in the lock, but my friend did not appear.

"I say, Holmes?"

When he did not answer, I pushed open the door carefully. If this had been Baker Street, I would have expected the stale smell of smoke after such a lengthy interval of depression – else, Holmes made a point of not smoking in his bedroom, as he did keep things orderly there. The clutter was usually confined to the sitting room. As it was, this was not Baker Street, and things were far from normal.

However, there was not the faintest scent of smoke. As a matter of fact, the window was thrown wide open behind closed shutters, and Holmes had perched himself on the windowsill, staring at the wood of the same.

"What are you doing?"

"I am sorry, Watson. I should not have been so harsh to you. I know you were trying to help."

"Thank you, Holmes."

"However", he continued without acknowledging my interruption, "I fear that this little problem is beyond our control."

"I trust not. I have bought some books in the village that I want to look into. The subject of nightmares has been widely discussed lately, and I believe there have been some striking successes."

Holmes undid the hatch and opened the shutters, flooding the room in sunlight, including his figure. He was not even dressed, nor shaven, which was a clear indication that it was much worse than when we had started. Also, he had lost more weight, and in Sherlock Holmes, any loss of weight is clearly visible. But worse of all was his face. His eyes, bloodshot and deeply sunken in their holes, were surrounded by black circles, and his skin was so pale that even from the distance I could see the blood pulsating through the artery across his temple.

"Heavens, Holmes, you must eat something."

He dismissed my words with a wave of his hand, but quickly hid his hand again in the bend of his elbow, as if folding his arms across his chest would stop the offending trembling. "We both know that nutrition is not the problem."

"So we do agree that there is a problem."

"It would be foolish to ignore what is evident, Watson. I find myself unable to gather the strength to venture from this room, and indeed I have not been out of the house yesterday, as you believed."

"Your walking stick and your hat were gone..." At that, I spotted both items in the corner of the room. "You deceived me!"

"Yes. I thought I could cope with this alone. I see now that I cannot. I had endeavoured to sleep by day, Watson, but even though I tried, I could not. It is only late at night that I do fall asleep, but it is never for long. I would be remiss not to recognise that, however subconsciously, I am afraid."

"Afraid to sleep?"

"To dream. But now, the memory doesn't disappear, even by day. For years, I had buried it deep in my mind, and, if never forgotten it, never thought of it. However, since these dreams started, I find myself able to recall everything in abhorrent detail, and so far, nothing has served to distract me."

"What is that, Holmes?" Tangled in the bedsheets, I had spotted a small box, and although it was not the customary morocco case, I knew what it contained even before I opened it to reveal the syringe and tiny flasks of solution. "I thought you had finally given it up. You have not used it for years."

I was certain of that fact. Holmes had kept the device, and I myself had known that the habit was dormant, not shaken, but he had never used it. He had told me once that he would never again do so unless he had tried every possible option before that, and as long as I was there, we would always find something to occupy him, even in the phases of bleakest depression and boredom. Even though I was far from distrusting Holmes, I had made a habit out of controlling the solutions, and in fact had discovered that most of the solution had been replaced with saline by his own hand. It would not have surprised me if this phial was the last of the real seven percent solution of cocaine.

Needless to say that I was rather disappointed by the fact that he had gone to such lengths while defying my help.

Holmes took the box out of my hands and closed it. "I understand your sentiments, Watson. You are disappointed."

"Yes!"

"Allow me to finish. You have my word that I have not yet used it. I was merely... contemplating it when you returned. Maybe that fact is indication enough that I am losing my mind."

"Holmes!"

To my horror, he whirled around and threw the box against the wall, where it flew open and crashed to the floor in a mess of broken glass and liquid from the phials and the syringe. "None of that, Watson! It is the truth! I have lost any faculty to think, to deduce, even to observe – my thoughts keep circling, circling around that one point. Senseless, useless, endless."

"Holmes! Calm yourself!"

He flinched at my touch, but allowed me to guide him to his bed, where he lay down voluntarily. "How does one escape from his own mind, Watson? Tell me that, and I shall never again question your medical opinion."

I smiled weakly at his minute quip. "I am afraid I cannot tell you, Holmes. The only advice I have is that you allow me to help, and to cope with it. Ignoring it can't possibly be a solution."

"Well, what do you propose?"

"First of all, we are going to have breakfast together. Then, you will make yourself presentable. After that, we'll see."

At breakfast, I tried to occupy Holmes's attention with rather pointless chatter, but I soon perceived that his mind had strayed far from my words. To my relief, he did not look as haunted as he had on the windowsill.

In fact, he seemed surprisingly alert, and as I reached for the bread, he grasped my wrist and turned my arm over, apparently to examine my shirtsleeve. It was then that I perceived what had caught his interest. A drop of the alcohol I had used to clean myself up after the postmortem had fallen on my sleeve. Now that Holmes brushed over it with his finger, the smell assaulted my nose.

"Where have you been, Watson?"

I sighed. "You know very well what this is. I conducted an autopsy this morning as I was in the village."
"Why?"

"The vicar drowned. It was an accident, Holmes."

He let me go and honoured me with the shadow of a smile. "Of course it was."

"No cases, Holmes."

"I know. It was an accident, wasn't it?"

"You are prepared to take my word for it?"

"Certainly."

There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that was quite a delight to observe, even though I had the feeling that he would not let the matter rest that easily. To my surprise, he did not press the subject, not even after he had taken a bath and dressed, joining me in the sitting room after it.

I had been scanning the books I had purchased for anything that could be of help. However, they turned out to be rather more of an analysis than a manual for a cure. While I was certain as to the source of Holmes's dreams, I found it rather interesting that the main way to avoid nightmares was to talk and lessen stress, much as I had suggested anyway.

"What do your books say?" asked Holmes, leaning against the desk I was sitting at.

"Nothing I did not suggest anyway. We need to talk about it, Holmes."

"That is supposed to help? It did not in the first place."

"Yes, I know. Perhaps it is just a question of finally letting go. You have to cease blaming yourself."

"I am not blaming myself, Watson."

"So you say. But I still think that you do. Maybe not for Celine's death, but at the very least for the fact that you blamed her."

He flinched at my mentioning her name, but did not deny my words. "If I am, what am I supposed to do about it? I can hardly order my subconscious to stop."

"That's the problem, is it not?"

He cocked his head and regarded me with genuine interest. "What is?"

I felt a sudden prickling in the back of my neck, as one does when one experiences a flash of genius. This time, I was certain that I had hidden upon the truth of the matter, a feeling of extreme delight washing over me the likes of which one seldom experiences when in the company of Sherlock Holmes. "It is beyond your control. That's what terrifies you. It is your memory, your subconscious, and it eludes everything you set for yourself when you are awake. I am right, am I not?"

"Let us say that for the sake of this conversation, I do agree. What then should I do?"

"Relax."

He gave a cynic bark of laughter. "What do you think I have been trying to do, Doctor?"

"That isn't what I meant. Just sit down for a moment, while I fetch my stick. We are going for a walk."

He was evidently sceptical as to the wisdom of my actions, but, as I was not much surprised to discover, helpless enough in the face of his situation to allow me to proceed.

In my bedroom, I found my largest handkerchief, stuffed it into my pocket and collected my stick, before I returned to the sitting room.

Holmes followed me docilely, curiosity bringing some life back into his tired features. "Where are we going, Watson?"

"Along the path above the cliffs. You will see."