A/N: Haha, random factors have operated in my favour today and I was able to have a good chunk of time to write (or is that they operated in your favour? :), so here 'tis, the next to last chapter.

If you have not watched the Granada episode of DEVI (I did six times during the course of writing this) the end of the chapter is very much the way it happened, as far as the climactic moment goes. Which I will not name specifically lest it spoil everything for those of you who have not seen it. Enjoy!

Watson

I woke the next morning feeling a trifle under the weather due to a lack of restful sleep, but at least the five hours I had gotten after returning to bed from that conversation in the sitting room had not been filled with dreams like the first two hours had been.

I moved slower than usual that morning performing my ablutions and dressing, dreading going out and building the fire and so on as I had been every morning since we came here, but finally I opened the door to the sitting room and was very pleasantly surprised to see the fire had already been lit and was filling the room with warmth.

The smell of coffee was also permeating the air, and I walked over to the table. I felt a smile steal over my tired face as I saw that apparently Holmes had bestirred himself earlier than I and had made coffee and what looked to be rather edible soft-boiled eggs under the egg-warmers.

A page torn from his journal was stuck under the sugar bowl, covered in his unmistakably illegible scrawl. And people say that physicians have the worst handwriting of any mortals!

Have gone out for a walk on the beach. If you feel my culinary skills not worth chancing, feel free to join me there. Oh, and bring along a couple of pencils.

SH

I laughed – at least he was in a better humour this morning than he had been yesterday, and actually I was too. In the light of unclouded reason and a sunny day, my petty jealousy over the Vicar and Holmes's connection in archaeology seemed just that, extremely petty. And as I hastened through my breakfast and then snatched my jacket and cap, that horrible dream of the last night was nearly forgotten.

I rummaged through my things to find some writing utensils but found only blunted pencils. Having no desire to spend fifteen minutes finding a knife and then sharpening them I made my way to dig through Holmes's clutter in an effort to find a passable sketching tool.

Finally I found two in his valise and was about to leave when my gaze fell upon the bedside table, the drawer of which was standing open. With no little trepidation I walked over and glanced inside, only to feel my heart sink.

That Moroccan case was there – its contents were not.

No, no, stop. I refused to believe the instant conclusion that sprang to my worried mind, remembering how wrong I had been before, but as I left the cottage my brow furrowed with worry.

Was he carrying it on him? Using it? Or had he hidden it, either to prevent himself having easy access or else not trusting me to not check up on him? What had he done with it, and why? And if he was using it, carrying it with him, why not carry the case as well? Why leave it lying open in the drawer?

I reached the bottom of the path and stopped, seeing a single long line of footprints in the sand out to where a dark figure stood silhouetted against the morning sun, gazing motionless out over the choppy waves.

After a moment's hesitation I erased the worry from my face, pushing the fact of the missing syringes and cocaine-bottle to the back of my mind, and walked out to meet him. For a moment we stood there in silence, watching the beauty of the gold sun glinting off the blue water, the occasional white plume of spray splashing up to lap close to our feet. Then Holmes's voice broke the lovely quiet.

"Eggs that bad, eh?"

I snorted with laughter, for the remark was so completely incongruous with our gorgeous surroundings that it struck me as absurdly comical.

"No, I just partook rather hurriedly," I assured him, and I saw to my amusement his face relax in relief.

For several minutes we said nothing, just standing there looking over the beauty of the place, so different in the light of a sunny day as opposed to the bleak and grey landscape that had been seen during the storms this past week.

"How are you feeling this morning?"

"I believe that's supposed to be the Doctor's line, Holmes," I said with amusement.

He made no answer, and I pressed the matter no further for actually he looked more…himself, I supposed was the word, than he had since the start of this sordid business. His whole attitude was one of almost – not quite, but almost – happiness this morning, as if some wondrous change had happened to him.

It was similar to the mood he would go into when engaged upon a case, a suppressed excitement that seemed to fairly radiate from his eager form, and a gleeful love of life that was rather contagious.

And whatever the cause, I was glad for the change, and hoped desperately that it would last.

"Shall we take a walk together, old chap?" he asked at last, tearing his eyes from the water and surf and sand and setting them upon me with a sparkle.

"Certainly," I agreed, thanking Providence for the marked improvement I could see in him.

For a few minutes we strolled together along the path leading toward Treddanick Wallos, and I was pleased to see that he had not taken his muffler or ever-present afghan with him this fine morning; a sure sign that he was physically improving. For close to a half-hour we walked along, occasionally chatting about the random topic at hand, Holmes sometimes pointing out some ancient mark of the old civilisations that had populated this mysterious region in ages gone by.

I was quite content to just let him ramble happily onward about whatever took his fancy, trying to reconcile the man beside me with the moody, morose creature that he had been for the past week. What had happened to effect such a change in my companion?

We had turned our steps backward to the cottage and were preparing to enter when we heard a horse, furiously driven, behind us, and the Vicar himself pulled up in a flurry of hoofbeats and muddy wheels, calling anxiously to us.

All my resentment of the man disappeared as I saw his panicked, half-hysterical face and manner and his companion's deathly pale features. Holmes hastily unlocked the door and we pushed the two of them inside, I trying desperately to calm the distrait Vicar while Holmes pushed a couple of extra chairs close to the still-smouldering fire.

Readers of my chronicles will no doubt recall the sordid events surrounding the death and insanity of the sister and brothers, respectively, of Mr. Mortimer Tregennis; I shall not here recount every point in that investigation for the sake of redundancy.

Suffice it to say that I was most definitely not pleased by this turn of events; Holmes was still, although improving, in recovery and needed to stay as such. I said as much to the Reverend, but between his pleading and Holmes's insatiable love for the chase, I stood not a chance of getting my way, and within fifteen minutes of the Vicar's reaching us we were in the trap headed for the house of Treddanick Wartha, where the tragedy had occurred.

Holmes glanced at me excitedly, as he fired rapid questions at the poor Tregennis fellow (at the time I felt sorry for the man, not knowing the murderer he was), and shooting random comments at me to put down in my notes, which was deucedly hard to do in a furiously moving trap.

My friend shivered once and drew his coat closer about him, and I was about to remonstrate about his exerting himself – when I at last got a good glimpse of his face, which was literally lit up with excitement, his austere eyes as sharp and lucid as they had ever been; a bit tired, but completely alert, and fairly dancing with a life and fire I had not seen since our last case.

How then could I begrudge him this?

Much as I was wary of a relapse to his health, I suddenly realised that if anything would help him recover, the very thing he lived for, his work, was of course the best cure. My sole job here would be to simply make certain he did not over-exert himself, not to keep him from the work he loved so dearly.

Not to mention, if his tremendous faculties were engaged upon a case he would be far less likely to use that devilish drug. That in itself was reason enough for me to sanction this affair.

By that evening when the investigation was concluded, Holmes was thoroughly exhausted but in a far better temper than I had seen him yet. He talked incessantly over dinner, brilliantly jumping from one topic to another far faster than my slower brain could keep pace with.

But I was exceedingly glad to see the fact, for it showed that his remarkable brain was once again returning to normality. The case had stimulated him far better than anything else he had tried yet, and obviously it had very much helped to restore his powers.

So absolutely chirpy was he that he actually challenged me to a game of chess that night – and Sherlock Holmes rarely volunteered to participate in an type of pastime that did not involve chemicals or concerts. And therefore, even though I was myself exhausted, and puzzled too by the day's events, I agreed immediately to his proposal.

Six games later, having lost five and stalemated the last, I slumped back and sighed.

"Can we stop now?"

"Oh, come now, Watson, you're getting better. And I need the mental stimulation."

"Holmes, for pity's sake, have mercy on a less brilliant being!" I said in exasperation, firmly shoving the board away.

He chuckled indulgently and lit his pipe, sending a smoke ring toward the ceiling and then beginning to discuss the Tregennis case with me. As it was well after eleven, I confess to paying very little attention; but Holmes seemed not to notice as he merrily bounced from one clue to the other, throwing ideas in my direction and then tacking off on a new slant without waiting for my opinion, all the while scribbling furiously in his notebook – obviously sketching something.

The return to what had come to be normalcy in our odd partnership was extremely welcome, but a little disconcerting so soon after his invalidity. But I could not begrudge him his case, for the change in him was simply remarkable.

Finally, after I had already dozed off twice and was nodding for the third time, he told me to go to bed and I was more than happy to obey. I left him there, eagerly scribbling away in his journal, continuing his drawing that made him smile in an unusual fashion, at least for him, and soon was fast asleep, this time in a thankfully dreamless slumber.

The next morning I was standing by my dresser buttoning my collar when I suddenly saw a black-cloaked, white-collared figure come flying up the footpath, and I groaned in dismay and hastily shrugged on my jacket just in time to hear the front door of the cottage bang open and then Holmes's voice calling on the instant for me.

The Vicar was more hysterical than he had been yesterday, babbling almost incoherently until I managed to calm him down and get the horrible information out of him that his boarder, the Tregennis man we had met yesterday, was also dead, in the same method as his late sister. (At the time, none of us knew as my readers do now that the man was a murderer of the first water.)

Holmes shifted at once into that mood which reminded me always of a human bloodhound, grabbing his coat and shoving me and the still-panicking Vicar out of the cottage and along the road toward the Vicarage, firing questions at the poor man as if interrogating a prisoner at Scotland Yard. I concentrated on keeping up with my friend's mad pace – he truly must either be feeling a bit stronger or else running on pure adrenaline; more likely a combination of both.

I will not here record the remaining events of the Cornish investigation save the one that showed us not only how these victims were murdered but also that my friend was not quite up to his usual lucidity in suggesting the unintelligent method he did to aid us in our search for the truth; namely, exposing both of us to the effects of the drug that killed two people and sent two more over the edge into insanity.

It was two days after the Tregennis man's death, during which when I did see Holmes we rarely spoke of anything other than the case at hand; which was normal for the process of investigation but rather maddening for me as I had meant to at some point address the missing syringes and his odd attitude the morning I found the drug had vanished.

Holmes had come to a solution, I knew the signs full well by now, but of course he refused to tell me anything at all about the matter; yet another source of frustration for me as I was bursting with curiosity. Finally, however, he sat me down in the cottage one afternoon and told me what he had deduced thus far about the method of death, though he did not divulge the identity of the criminal to me at that point.

Needless to say, I was horrified at his proposal that we should try the drug he had found on the lamp-guard ourselves – it was the most foolish thing I had ever heard come from his lips! For a moment I wondered if he were under the influence of that cocaine once more, so absurd did the idea seem to me; but he had none other of his normal symptoms to tell me that he was on the drug so I decided that he was merely being his energetic and rather careless (when it came to his own safety in an investigation) self.

"Of course if you are a sensible man you will have nothing to do with the matter," he ended his proposal, setting the lamp and the envelope containing the reddish powder carelessly on the table.

"If I don't, then you will do it alone, won't you?" I asked, hoping he would reply in a denial. Not so.

"I mean to have the answer," he said matter-of-factly, scooting his chair up to the table.

I took a long, shuddering breath, more than a little nervous about the whole affair. I walked backward at Holmes's request, opened the door wide to let a breeze in – at least he was wary enough to take that precaution after seeing whatever it was that drove those men to madness and the woman and Mortimer Tregennis to their deaths. Then I walked slowly back to my seat and sat on the edge of it, prepared to end this mindless experiment at the first sign of any of the symptoms.

The reader has already no doubt seen my rather vague description of the horrors I saw in that drug-induced atmosphere, hallucinations too terrible to ever truly fully describe on paper. I have never asked Holmes what he saw that afternoon – nor would I ever, for it appeared to be too horrible even for his iron nerves.

For even after I had pulled his only feebly resisting form from his chair by the lamp and half-dragged him, staggering from his weight as well as from my own horrible visions, outside and put him on the ground, he still even in the sunlight and sounds of the surf struggled against my hold, his arms flailing wildly, and I shall never in my lifetime forget his absolutely terrified cries as whatever it was that he saw still attacked him.

I was still trying to cough the awful stuff out of my throat, my vision a little blurry, but I managed to catch hold of both his arms and hold them from his wild thrashing, shouting desperately at him over and over as he continued to fail to recognise me.

Dear God, had the drug already driven him to madness like those two Tregennis brothers?

I could have cried with relief when finally his bloodshot eyes lost a little of that crazed fear and fastened upon my face as I shouted hoarsely, trying to snap him out of whatever horror he was seeing.

"Holmes! For the love of heaven can you hear me, man?!"

For an instant he stopped struggling, and then I saw a tiny spark of reason light in his crazed eyes and his last frightened cry trailed away as he stared at me, obviously unseeing for a moment. Then, and only then, I saw recognition, and his normally controlled voice broke down completely.

"John!"

"Thank God you're all right!" I gasped, my voice shaking, my frightened mind not even registering at that moment that he had used my Christian name, a hitherto unheard-of occurrence, "That was a stupid and dangerous thing to do – we could have been killed!"

He had grasped his hair with both hands and then rubbed them across his eyes as if to dispel whatever lingered there, and then shocked me by grabbing me as tightly as his shaking grip would allow, as if wanting desperately to cling to something tangible, gasping out some kind of apology that I barely listened to in my anger and worry.

I slipped a gentle arm under his shoulders and helped him to sit up – the man was shaking worse than I was, and no wonder – having been far closer to the lamp than I and without the aid of the breeze that had lessened the effects for me. And he refused to let go even after getting to a sitting position, clutching the front of my jacket in a death-grip, shuddering violently, his breathing no more than shallow gasps.

I coughed a bit of the deadly vapours out of my throat and then put one arm round him; and then after a moment's hesitation the other, holding him tightly as he shook and trembled and tried desperately to regain his annihilated composure.

"Forgive me," I heard him whisper hoarsely from my shoulder.

"You bloody idiot," I murmured shakily, blinking my vision mostly clear and tightening my hold as a long shudder passed through him.

It was only then that it filtered through my mind that he had called me by my first name – never before had he done so and never since has he. Why we had never come to call each other by first names was a mystery I never had tried to solve.

In the early days, of course, we were unfamiliar with each other; and I supposed by the time we knew each other well enough to do so our surnames had become far more endearing and intimate than our Christian names would have been; they simply did not feel right to us. Besides, my friend was so strictly Bohemian by nature that he rather liked the slight distinction, the old-fashioned formality.

But here, in the throes of whatever terror he was escaping from, his distant and collected composure had snapped completely – as evidenced in the fact that the first words out of his mouth upon his return to sanity had been my first name.

He obviously had been far more terrified and shaken than he even appeared. I instinctively tightened my grip on my shivering friend as we sat there for several long minutes in silence.

Finally with the combination of the soothing crashing of the waves, the wind and the gulls, the sun shining its watery way through the clouds, as well as my comforting voice and support, Holmes finally began to calm down after the near-fatal ordeal, and he hastily pushed back from my grip as if ashamed to have been clinging so tightly to me, his deathly white face flushing slightly in obvious embarrassment.

After a minute or two of silence, in which time he finally got his too-rapid breathing under control, he mopped his perspiring forehead with his handkerchief, then staggered to his feet and offered me an unsteady hand, gently pulling me to mine.

"Stay here, I'll go get that lamp," I said, starting for the door.

"No, Watson!" he exclaimed, grabbing my arm, "this was entirely my fault – and you look as bad as I feel. Go sit in the arbour there and I shall rejoin you when I've tossed it over the cliffs."

At my immediate denial, he took my scarf from round my neck with a reassuring look and started to hold it over his mouth and nose.

"I am not taking any chances, old chap. Now go on, before you fall over."

Actually I was not feeling well at all, the adrenaline rush from seeing Holmes slowly going mad in front of me and having to stop it now draining from my body all too rapidly, leaving me feeling rather sick and shaky. Not to mention those fumes – and those hallucinations – were still evident in my hoarse throat and troubled mind.

I waited until Holmes reappeared with the burning lamp in tow and then walked the few feet to the arbour to sit rather heavily on the moss-covered seat, trying to catch my breath and banish my own demons that had haunted my minutes under that awful substance's usage.

After dashing to the cliffs and tossing the lamp over the side, Holmes dropped wearily into the seat beside me, glancing at me worriedly.

"Are you all right?"

I nodded and cleared my throat hoarsely, very glad to see that the redness had faded a good deal from his eyes and his manner and voice were returning to normality.

"I never thought I would say this, Holmes," I said, offering him a slightly unsteady smile, "but I should much prefer you use your other drug as opposed to that one, whatever it was."

He started violently, casting a wary glance at me to see if I were being facetious. When he saw my small grin he returned it with a short barking laugh.

"Never again, Watson," he sighed at last, leaning back and reaching into his pocket for his pipe.

I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. What exactly had he meant by that ambiguous statement?

To be concluded - only the fluffy eppie left! Reviews are always appreciated.