So Sorely Ever Since

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Watson

I shivered as the moon went behind another cloud bank, again plunging my dreadful prison into absolute darkness. I was very definitely freezing to death by degrees – I knew I would not last the night if I fell asleep again.

In a last-ditch attempt to remain alert, I put aside all thoughts of my present plight and what was no doubt happening out on the moors tonight, and instead began to plot out the next case I wanted to write up in story form.

Holmes did not know yet how deep my interest in writing went, and I had, to date, compiled a goodly assortment of our cases written out in longhand, in a kind of short-story form. I had been looking forward to making this Baskerville one into a more lengthy work like the one I had entitled a 'Study in Scarlet.'

But it was beginning to look as if I were not going to have that chance, after all, I reflected, as another coughing fit shook my exhausted frame. I winced at the pain, but it was more of a dulled sense than previously – proof that I was truly becoming numb with cold and exposure.

But once again I firmly pushed the deep despair I was beginning to feel aside and resolutely went back to the more pressing problem of staying awake.

It was becoming more and more difficult to do.

Holmes

I devoutly hope I shall never, ever have to make such a dangerous trek as that one across the great Grimpen Mire ever again in my lifetime.

The place was fearful indeed, the stench of rotting vegetation filling the chilly air, taking one's breath away, and the absolute panic one felt at each wrong step into the quagmire was nerve-wracking to say the least.

If I had not had Watson on my mind the entire time, I should have given the idea up in despair.

As it was, I was devoutly glad more than once to have Lestrade with me – many times my missteps in the quicksand would have cost me my life had he not been there to pull me out of the Mire.

It was indeed, a fearful place. But I knew that I had no more time to spare. I had to hurry – Watson's life now depended upon me, and upon me alone.

I had to hurry.

Watson

I was growing drowsy, so very drowsy, and I knew I was once again fighting a losing battle to stay awake. I had categorized all the cases I could remember from the day I met Holmes in '81 til now. I had planned out the next three stories I intended to write up and come up with rather good titles for each.

But I was now running out of things that would occupy my mind. Proof of how cold I really was, was evidenced in the fact that I could no longer feel any pain in my limbs. I could feel nothing, actually, and I was absently rather glad.

But still I continued to fight, knowing that I could not give up, not now. It would only be one more day, and then surely Holmes would have realized what was going on. He would find me – I had only to hold on for another day.

But my mind was fast shutting down, overruling my heart and my hope, and I was growing sleepier by the minute, lulled by my numbness into a false sense of security - or apathy, I did not know which. Nor did I really care.

It was with a start that I heard sounds behind me. Because of the way in which I was tied to the ring in the hut wall, I could barely move, and I could not see what the sounds were until the man – for it was he who was making them – stepped out into the clearing, brandishing a lantern.

My mind was so sluggish that I barely registered that it was Stapleton until he had been standing there for several seconds.

Holmes

"Mr. Holmes!"

At Lestrade's panicked cry I turned and grabbed the inspector, hauling him roughly out of a patch of quicksand - he had taken a wrong step and slipped into the morass.

Breathing heavily, he thanked me, and we both looked at each other, swallowing with difficulty. We had been at this for nearly an hour.

"We must be nearly there," he said breathlessly, indicating another guiding wand.

I could indeed feel the ground growing slightly more stable under my feet. But we were not out of the Mire yet. I resolutely stepped out once more, again testing the ground with my foot before placing all my weight upon it.

Hold on, Watson. I am almost there, old chap.

Watson

When my numbed brain registered that it was Stapleton standing before me, I instantly became more alert with a cold chill that sent shivers down my spine.

The violent coughing that again disrupted my focus brought some pain back to my body and woke me up even more.

Stapleton – alone? Where was the Hound? And why was the man back here?

It could only mean one thing, I realized, even with my tired mind. It meant that the Hound was dead.

Someone had killed the Hound of the Baskervilles.

And judging from the fierce look of hatred and rage on Stapleton's face, my deductions were correct.

"Your Hound's f-final performance really w-was his last, was it, Stapleton?" my hoarse voice through chattering teeth sounded strange, even to myself, so used had I gotten to absolute silence for the past thirty-six hours.

Stapleton's features were twisted with fury, and he glared down at me with undisguised hate.

"That fool, Sherlock Holmes!" he screamed, and I could see that the man's sanity was in grave doubt at the moment.

Holmes? Here? Then Stapleton had been lying! Holmes was here – he had killed the Hound, and he was here somewhere around the moor! He had saved Sir Henry from the fiend - now surely he was searching for me!

The elation on my face threw the villain into an even more violent rage, and he snarled at me like that awful dog he had kept in this spot for so long.

"Yes, Doctor, Holmes is really here – but he probably has fallen into the Mire by now! Beryl no doubt told him where I had gone; and if I know him, the fool probably tried to make it through the swamp to rescue his dear friend. And we both know, Doctor, that the morass is impenetrable to anyone but me!" The man's glee was taking on an undoubtedly mad tone now as he spat the words out with venom.

I realized the truth in what he said, and the dreadful thought must have showed on my face, for Stapleton gave one of those menacing little laughs and continued.

"Yes, Doctor, he died in a pathetic effort to save you. Isn't that a nice load of guilt to carry with you into the next life?"

I swallowed with difficulty, the naturalist's words cutting me deeply. It was true – I had failed Holmes by not being watchful; I had allowed myself to be captured, and now Holmes would perish in that dreadful quagmire because he was trying to make it through to me.

And if he were indeed dead because of my failures, I had no wish to continue this miserable existence.

Since my first remark I had said no more, not wanting Stapleton to get any satisfaction from hearing the rasping croak that was now my voice, uttered through my violently chattering teeth.

And even now, I thought miserably, silence was a better choice, because the man was obviously near-demented with rage that his plans should have been overthrown by Sherlock Holmes.

As Stapleton launched into a violently furious tirade, I shuddered to think of what the next few moments would hold for me.

But if I were responsible for Sherlock Holmes's death in an valiant effort to save me, then suddenly whatever Stapleton was planning did not seem so dreadful by comparison with that guilt.

To Be Concluded, at last! Please review!