Chapter Thirty Six.
As the tiny fingers of dawn light began to illuminate the horizon, an air of disappointment, failure and depression hung over the male occupants of 221B Baker Street as they began to stir.
Cassia Ingram had finally drifted off to sleep at around 1.30am, and Holmes and Watson had kept their silent vigil, watching over her as she slept, soundly, curled up into a little ball on Holmes' couch, both waiting patiently, hoping against hope that she had been wrong about the spirit world blocking her dreams.
Nothing had happened.
Cassia had not dreamed.
They had continued to wait, but their guest had continued to sleep soundly, breathing slowly and rhythmically, muttering and whimpering softly from time to time as she shifted her position on the couch and snuggled her face deeper into the pillows, deep in REM sleep and still not dreaming.
At least not the dreams that Holmes had been hoping for.
By 4am, neither man could stay awake any longer, and pulling blankets up around their chins they had settled in their respective chairs and succumbed to the needs of their own bodies.
Holmes was the first to wake about two hours later, and casting aside the blanket he had risen from his chair, slowly and carefully stretching aching limbs, testing his legs to make sure that they would take his weight, noting that Watson too was stirring in his chair, and then he walked slowly over to the couch to check on Cassia Ingram.
She looked so peaceful, her face now turned toward him as he stood over her, and he found himself smiling softly.
He was glad that she had rested well, despite the disappointment that he felt that they had not achieved their goal.
She had needed the rest.
He did not doubt that there would be other dreams, nightmares, only he would not be around to share their horror with her and guide her to her goal.
He had made promises to two people that he respected, and he was a man of his word, if nothing else.
After going to the solicitors to sign the papers that would give John the legal right to make all the important decisions in his life while he was non compos mentis, he would go to the hospital and put himself in the hands of the eminent surgeon, Witty.
Que sera, sera.
Whatever will be, will be.
His only regret at that moment, that he would not be the one to help Cassia Ingram to solve this case.
Well, not his only regret...
He found himself thinking that it would be a pity if he did not see Cassia again, sometime in the future, if only to find out how the case had resolved it's self, from her lips.
In the cold light of day, he found that he could be brutally honest with himself.
He also realized that he might not have the chance to do so again in the future, if things did not go well.
Yes, I like her.
More than like her.
I admire and respect her.
And...
But what is the point?
There could be no future for them, even if he knew how to reach out to her.
Least said, soonest mended and all that...
But, just for a moment, it had been pleasant, holding her in his arms, and, when John had pointed out last night, that it was he that she had sought out for comfort and help in her moment of direst need, he had been extremely flattered.
It had appealed to his ego.
I am a man, just like any other, after all.
He smiled again softly and then he forced himself to walk away, heading firstly for the bathroom to shower and to shave and then to his bedroom to dress for the new day.
As he was dressing, Holmes heard someone enter the bathroom, and a few minutes later, the shower began to run.
When he re-entered the living room, it was to find John Watson, alone, standing by the window, looking down on the street below, yawning loudly and stretching his arms up to the ceiling languidly, working out the kinks in his spine after spending the night in the cramped armchair.
"Morning, John," Holmes greeted his friend cordially as he walked to his chair.
He had dressed sombrely, donning a black shirt and black trousers and black socks and shoes, Watson noted.
He looked like he was going to a funeral.
Not a happy thought, Watson told himself.
"Morning, Sherlock. I told Cass she could use the shower first. How do you feel?"
Holmes raised his shoulders in an absent shrug.
What did it matter, at this point, that his head felt as though it were in a vice, the world was a somewhat unsteady and topsy turvy place, dizziness added to blurred vision making him feel more than queasy, and he wanted to scream and tear his hair out?
He had accepted that this was as good as it was going to get, until he had the surgery to remove the offending mass accumulating in his brain.
"How is Cassia?" He enquired.
"Fresh as a daisy," Watson smiled.
They had only had a brief exchange of words, morning pleasantries mainly, but he had been pleased to see that she looked much rested after her peaceful, unbroken night's sleep.
That was something to be grateful for.
Holmes smiled too.
"And Mary? I assume you've spoken to her already this morning?"
"I sent her a text. She's ok. She had a good time at the theatre then met up with a few of her friends for dinner afterwards."
"Has she forgiven me for keeping you away from her for the night?"
"I didn't ask, she didn't say. That's between the two of you."
"Then I will endeavour to find the right words to soothe the savage breast."
"Good luck with that," Watson grinned wryly.
"Do you think it is wise for me to have something to eat or drink?"
"I don't see why not. I doubt they'll actually do the surgery today, Sherlock. They may have more tests to do first. You should be ok to have some tea and toast. Do you want me to make it for you?"
"No, thank you. I can manage. I think we'll need milk later." Holkmes recalled that there was about half a pint left in the carton in the fridge door, after their round of cocoa the night before. Just enough for a cup of tea each to start off the day nicely.
"I'll nip out to the newsagents before I get in the shower," Watson offered.
"Thank you. Would you like some tea and toast?"
Watson was pleasantly surprised by Holmes offer, then realized that his friend needed something to occupy himself, to help to take his mind off what was to come later that day.
Holmes looked calm and composed, but Watson could imagine what was going on in his head.
"Yes, please. Cass too, probably. By the time you get everything ready we should both be finished in the shower. And, do me a favour, Sherlock, try not to scald yourself this time."