The Shadow
Then: 1902
"Hello, Arthur," he said. "Or should I say 'Sir Arthur'? Congratulations."
The man in question started up, seeing the boy at his open windowsill, and stammered, suddenly as flustered as he had been as a young man, when he had met Ciel for the first time. It made Ciel smirk, feeling suddenly glad that he had decided to drop in on this old acquaintance unannounced. Of all the people who had known him when he was alive, the newly-knighted Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was perhaps the only one who would not be surprised to find him still breathing, and not a day older than he had been then. The idea had grown in him to visit when he had run across that recent novel by the man; the first new Holmes story in almost a decade, and he had poured over his copy of the Strand in as much baited anticipation as every other fan of the good doctor's until every twist and turn had at last been revealed. From the mystery, to the terrible, lonely atmosphere of the moors, everything convinced him that he had been right in his initial assessment of the works—the writing was as good as he remembered it; and, seeing Holmes, that adroit detective, in a new story, Ciel felt as though he had run across an old friend he had never expected to see again. And why should he have? Holmes was dead, so Arthur had stated emphatically, and for eight long years that had been the last anyone had heard of him, except in those numerous parodies and novels by other interested persons that failed utterly in capturing that unique spark that had made Holmes so renowned.
"Please don't," the man answered, at once, when he was finally able to stop gaping and stammering and speak like an ordinary person. "Arthur is fine, as I told you once—Ciel."
How odd it feels to be called that, Ciel thought. It had been years now since he had heard the sound of his own name, and he was surprised by the sudden rush of confused pain and contentment that seemed to battle inside him at the sound.
"I'm sorry," said a man, about the same age that Arthur was now, who was sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, and gaping like a fish. "Do you know this boy, Doyle?" He had a thick moustache and piercing eyes set in the prominent hollows under his eyebrows.
Ciel was at once interested in such a man whose first action had not been to scream or to doubt his own senses, or inquire how a child had managed to climb to a windowsill so high and at such a late hour.
"A friend of yours, Arthur?" he said, slipping into the room and shutting the window behind him.
"Yes," Arthur responded, looking from Ciel to his friend and making a good show of introductions, though he still seemed at a loss. "Ciel…"
Ciel gave a nod. It was fine; no surname would be required. Arthur hesitated, then went on. "This is my friend, James Barrie. James Barrie, Ciel."
"A pleasure to meet you," the man replied.
Arthur offered him a seat, and the three sat in silence for some moments, as Ciel and Barrie watched each other inquiringly. At last the silence was broken by Arthur. "Where's your shadow?" he asked.
That startled a laugh out of Ciel; he knew at once of whom Arthur was asking, and he felt a very faint pity for him and the way he, even now, seemed scared of Sebastian; the question had been so diffident. But he was a writer, and the spark of interest in his eyes was already burning.
"How should I know," Ciel said at last, bitterly. "I am sure we will run into each other again, at some point—there is no way he can separate himself from me entirely, even if he tried."
"I hope it isn't too forward of me," Barrie said at last, "but may I be entirely correct in assuming… that is," he said, "are you human?"
"No," Ciel said.
Arthur startled, at that, though he must have suspected the answer already. There was a silent question in his gaze that Ciel didn't like, and he turned away. "But I haven't come here to talk about me," he continued.
"So, what have you come here for?" Arthur said.
Ciel hesitated. "I…" that, he had not quite thought through. It had just seemed right, and so he had come. "I very much enjoyed your new novel," he blurted out at last, the skin on his cheeks burning. Had he really said that? He had. It was impossible to take back now.
Arthur groaned.
Barrie laughed, and slapped his hand on his knee. "Doyle, I didn't know you had fans of Holmes even among the fairies!"
Arthur, who had buried his head among his hands, muttered something half-audible that sounded like, "speak of the devil."
"Have you been following the series long?" Barrie continued.
"Yes," Ciel said. "Since the first book. I knew Arthur would come to something in the writing world." It gave him no small satisfaction to know that indeed, he had been right.
That friend of Arthur's had soon become quite easy in speaking to him; though Arthur had cast him odd glances for much longer than that. But, with two writers in the room (though Barrie wrote more plays than novels) it was hard to keep the conversation dragging for long, and with the proper application of brandy, any remaining awkwardness was soon dissolved. It was with great reluctance that Barrie at last left the house, at some point after one in the morning, and Ciel and Arthur were left alone.
"Why did you really come here, Ciel," Arthur said quietly, as Ciel pushed open the window once more and leaned out to watch Barrie find his way to a cab. The autumn air was not yet cold, but turning fast. He paused, there, on the sill, and looked back at the writer.
"I don't know," he said.
"Are you all right?" Arthur asked.
"Why would I not be?" Ciel said, mechanically, although he did not feel 'all right' at all. Lizzie had started seeing someone. It had shocked him so to find out that she had; though he should have expected it.
"I went to your funeral," Arthur replied.
"Thank you."
"You haven't… visited anyone else, then?"
"No," Ciel answered sardonically. "It would be rather hard to explain."
"It might be managed."
"It couldn't be," Ciel replied.
"Need you leave yet?" Arthur said, at last, with some hesitance. "The tumbler isn't empty."
Ciel looked out the window, and then, slowly, he hopped back down into the room. Arthur shut the glass, and poured them both another drink. Ciel curled up on the couch in the small, cosy study, and watched the fire dreamily for some time, the cup filled with warm liquid between his hands. Arthur sat beside him, and they talked, sporadically, of Andersen's magical and melancholy tales, while the clock whiled away the remaining hours of the night.
.
.
.
Notes:
(1) Sir Arthur - in 1902, Doyle is knighted for his writing on the Boer war
(2) August 1901 - April 1902 - "The Hound of the Baskervilles" is published serially in the Strand, after the author's eight-year absence from writing about the Great Detective after Holmes's death in "The Final Problem." (Doyle had gotten very tired of writing about him - hence the death - and it was thought for some time he would never write a Holmes story again.) Hound was presented as a flashback story, as Holmes would continue to be officially dead until "The Empty House."
(3) "numerous parodies and novels..." The Holmes stories inspired what (might) be the first real fandom... and of course much satire... "A House-Boat on the Styx", a very fun novel about dead people/characters hanging out, published in 1895, includes Holmes in it; Arséne Lupin, the gentleman-thief, wouldn't meet him till 1906. I'm sure there were others, as well - (and Ciel has read all of them, of course.)
(4) Barrie - J. M. Barrie, of course, author of Peter Pan.
(5) Andersen - Hans Christian Andersen
