A trustworthy friend is the truest anchor for the ship of life.

Anonymous

The Truest Anchor

Holmes

I slammed the door of Watson's stateroom and slumped against it, breathing heavily and literally doubled over with laughter at my friend's red face.

"One of these days, Holmes, you are going to cut those things too, too close!" he gasped, breathing more heavily than I after our unceremonious dash down the companionway.

I straightened up with an effort, still chortling.

"Your stitches, Holmes – are they are right?" he asked, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief and settling down on the bunk.

"Yes, yes, Doctor. Not a twinge. Sea air, you know, does wonders for your health," I said absently, riffling through the lists in my hands.

I heard a derisive snort from the bunk; evidently he did not think much of my medical prognoses.

I ran over to my own stateroom – that infernal child was still screaming bloody murder; oooh, this was going to be a long voyage – and returned in a moment with a blank pad of paper and several pencils, as well as my highest powered magnifying lens and a copy of Who's Who.

I dumped the items in question on Watson's polished cherrywood table, sending papers scattering everywhere.

"Really, Holmes, couldn't you perform whatever it is you are doing in your stateroom, not mine?" Watson asked tiredly, his eyes half closed as he flopped down upon the bed.

"No."

"Whyever not?"

"Because that confounded baby insists upon broadcasting to everyone within hearing range how unhappy he is!" I said, shuffling through the papers I had stolen from the ship's safe.

"She."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The baby. It's a nine-month-old girl."

"Whatever. They're all the same, anyhow, Watson."

"My dear Holmes, there are just a few differences," he said, his eyes opening in amusement.

"Not when they're screaming. They all just sound like spoilt little monsters. Now."

I began to copy the passenger list onto blank sheets of foolscap. Watson got up and seated himself beside me after lighting the lamps – it was going on evening now.

"Holmes, are you going to copy that whole passenger list?" he asked incredulously, "that could take all night!"

I laughed at his look of dismay.

"No, my dear fellow, just copying only the names of the people who could be Smith. We can eliminate all the women and children on board, which will cut the list from roughly 500 to probably 200. Then from there we can eliminate all men traveling in families or those who are too young to be Smith, even in disguise."

"Even so –"

"Yes, even so it is still a daunting task. But I can't go marking all over this original list, Watson! We have to get it back before someone misses it!"

"I'll ring for some coffee," he muttered, hastily arising from the table and ringing the bell for our steward.

Ten minutes and three cups of coffee later, he was faithfully and doggedly scribbling out names along with me of the people we would have to learn personally what they looked like and if they could be Culverton Smith.

"How old is Smith now, would you say, Holmes?" he asked me after a good several hours, stretching for a moment and flexing his cramped fingers.

"Oh, probably five or six years older than I," I returned, shuffling the paper I had been filling to the back of the pile and grabbing a new one.

"That leaves a wide range of men who could be he in disguise," my friend said with a resigned sigh, picking up his pencil again.

"True. We have quite a long while to investigate them, though, old chap."

"That is rather a good thing," he muttered, starting to scribble again.

I looked up two or three hours later when the ship bobbed slightly in the water. Watson turned a little pale.

"I do hope the sea isn't getting rough," he remarked in dismay, looking at me with a comical helplessness that made me want to laugh, poor chap.

I got up and opened the porthole beside his bed, letting in a cool breeze.

"Not a cloud in sight, Watson. Probably just a large wave," I said reassuringly.

He moaned a little and went back to his writing. I looked out briefly over the still, dark water, the stars shining so brightly they were nearly as luminescent as the moon itself. And it was rather stuffy in the stateroom, come to think of it.

"Need a break, Watson?"

"Yes!"

He wasted no time in taking me up on the offer, and I laughed at the alacrity with which he stuffed the confiscated lists into the closest drawer out of sight and grabbed his jacket eagerly.

We lost no time in making our way up the companionway into the fresh cool air of the deck. Even past two as it was now, the ship's lights were still ablaze, and straggling partiers were still to be seen in various stages of intoxication, lounging about the deck areas.

The music of the evening had ceased, the musicians retiring for the night, but the sounds of laughter and social gatherings still were in abundance as we strolled along.

Watson was looking up at the stars.

"Odd, isn't it," I said, following his gaze, "how we can't see any of this in London, eh?"

"Mmhm. Yellow fog pretty much obscures everything there, doesn't it?"

"I like fog."

"I know. Unless it causes the crime rate to go down."

"Well, yes, naturally."

"Naturally."

The breeze kicked up in earnest, whipping the smoke from the stacks above us to go flying away on the wind, disappearing almost as soon as it emerged from the black funnels.

"Whew. I believe I could do with evenings like this for a good many more nights," I heard Watson sigh wistfully.

"Well, you are going to have five more weeks of it, dear chap, unless you are planning to swim all the way back to England," I said teasingly.

"I can't swim, you know that, Holmes."

"Yes, of course."

"These railings are confoundedly low, now that you brought that to my attention – thanks very much," he said, glaring at me and peering cautiously over the iron rails.

"You think these are bad? The second and third class ones on the decks below us are even lower."

"Thank you very much for that piece of information, Holmes. Remind me to not go near those two decks," he replied dryly.

"I shall," I returned with mock earnestness.

"At any rate, this is rather a nice change from dreary old London, eh?"

"London is not dreary."

"You said it was yourself, just the other day at breakfast. 'London has become an exceedingly dull city since the death of the late unlamented Professor Moriarty'. I heard you," said he with a sly grin.

"Dull, yes," I agreed, merely for the sake of continuing the argument, "but not dreary!"

A rather inebriated man came staggering past us on the deck, and we watched with some amusement as he slammed rather forcefully into an iron support beam, tipped his hat with a slurred 'I beg your pardon', and continued his weaving way down the ship.

"Mornin', gents," a familiar voice said from the shadows behind us.

"Midshipman Lachlan," I replied, warning him by his title that there were passengers near and to be wary.

"Your expedition of this afternoon was a success, I trust?"

The man's blue eyes were twinkling like the stars in that sky above us as he glanced between the both of us.

"Oh, yes, definitely."

"Tha's good, Doctor. I must say, I'm a bit surprised to see you both up at this hour – thought you didn't like early mornin's?" This was accompanied by a knowing grin of remembrance.

"Morning?" Watson asked incredulously.

"Yes, Doctor – it's Middle Watch now," Lachlan said, "or in you lubbers' talk, two-fifteen."

"Two-fifteen!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Watson, we shall go to bed as soon as that list is finished," I said, elbowing him as he continued to glare at me testily.

"Then we had better get on it, Holmes – I am not going to have another day where I stagger round half-awake because of this infernal case!"

"Ooh, you'd better take him below, Holmes," Lachlan said, grinning at me, "if ye know what's good for you."

"Yes, I rather think you're right," I agreed hastily, pushing Watson toward the stairs, "keep a weather eye open, Lachlan, and good luck to you!"

"Right, Holmes, and likewise to you. Goodnight, gents."

We re-entered Watson's stateroom – that baby was still crying! Or at least crying once again! My friend tiredly retrieved the documents from the drawer where he had stashed them and spread them on the table.

"We're only to the letter R?" he asked dismally.

"Come on, Watson, it shan't be much longer," I said encouragingly, already busily scribbling away.

He sighed and picked up his pencil, rubbing his head wearily.

"Another headache?" I asked, suddenly concerned.

"No, no, just tired, that's all. Let's get this done, Holmes," he returned, stout fellow, doggedly copying the names of men who could possibly be Smith.

I started from Z and worked my way back up to meet him. The breeze blowing through the open porthole did much to alleviate the drowsiness of the room, and I was grateful for it – we had long since finished the coffee.

I had reached the end of the letter T, when I saw Watson's head start to nod forward – he was too tired to be doing this, poor fellow.

I was just reaching out to prevent him from slamming into the table when he suddenly jerked upright with a startled gasp.

"Easy, Watson," I said gently, "you need to go to bed now – we are almost finished, and I can do the rest."

"No," he said stubbornly, picking up his pencil yet again. I just as stubbornly pulled it out of his unresisting hand.

"Go on, old chap. It will only take me a few minutes."

"I'm not sleepy, Holmes," he protested, "I –"

He broke off rather suddenly, picking up a different pencil and hiding his face by bending over the paper.

"You what?"

"Nothing. Let us finish this," he replied, scribbling out another name.

I put my own writing instrument down and waited.

After several minutes, Watson glanced up to see me, elbows on the table, waiting patiently for him to look at me.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well why are you not telling me what is wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, Holmes, I'm – I'm just not sleepy, that's all," he said, his eyes telling me he wanted the matter dropped. I refused.

"Watson, it is almost three in the morning and we have had a long day and a longer night. You are nearly out on your feet – now go to bed and stop being so stubborn!" I cried in exasperation.

"I am not being stubborn! I just don't want to go to sleep!" he defended himself.

Then, as I realized what he had just said and he realized that I had grasped its hidden meaning, his gaze dropped again, this time in embarrassment.

"You've been having nightmares, is that it?" I asked softly.

Watson scribbled out two more names before nodding, still not looking up at me.

"Oh, my dear chap," I said, hating the fact that Smith had been visiting him in that horrible manner, "I suppose I need hardly ask what about?"

"If you need to, you are not very good at that precious deduction of yours," he replied gruffly, writing out three more names.

"You cannot stay up all night just because you're afraid to go to sleep, Watson," I told him.

"I'm not afraid, Holmes – well, not really," he amended at last, finally glancing up at me.

"Put the papers down, Watson, and get ready for bed. I shall be back in a moment," I said suddenly, getting up and leaving my friend's stateroom.

I went to my own cabin – thank heavens above that baby had stopped squalling at long last! – retrieved my pipe and tobacco pouch, and returned to find Watson had at least done what I asked. He really did look exhausted, and I cursed myself for not realizing earlier what the problem was.

"I want to get your mind off Smith, Watson," I said, pulling up a chair beside his bunk, straddling it backwards.

"And how do you propose to do that?" he asked, a tired smile quirking his mouth, "trying one of those psycho-analyses like that Freud chap is so fond of promoting?"

"No, but I can give you something to think about besides that madman. Did I ever tell you about the very first case I had after we moved in together at Baker Street? It was probably two weeks before the one you so floridly titled 'A Study in Scarlet'," I said, lighting my pipe as I spoke and watching his reaction.

"No, no, you didn't," he said eagerly, and it was an indication of how excited he was to hear the tale that he made no mention of my insulting his romantic writing style.

I folded my arms over the back of the chair and rested my chin upon them, occasionally lifting them to make some gesture to add to the story – just a commonplace little jewel theft, but it had its merits and also gave a little insight as to the struggle I had had in those early days trying to prove my worth as a private investigator.

Indeed, my struggle would have been even harder had my Boswell not taken it into his head to start publishing accounts of my cases. And whether I liked to admit the fact or no, his romantic stories were probably indeed the main source of my success and the making of my name.

Watson listened with eagerness as I unfolded the story – I had none of his innate gift for wordplay, but I did my best, trying to banish Smith and this infernal case from his mind; and after fifteen minutes, his eyes began to droop with sleep, and I knew he was struggling to stay awake.

I finished the tale, watching for his reaction, expecting to hear him ask drowsily if he could publish the thing or something of the sort – but it appeared that he had indeed fallen asleep at last before I could finish. Good.

I pulled the blanket up over him and silently closed the porthole. Then I turned down the gas except for one small lamp on the table – I would finish this task here in his stateroom, just to make sure no more demons from our past would disturb his sleep for a few hours at least.

And as I finished the list of names, I glanced back at the still figure of my dearest friend, thankfully sleeping peacefully, and I vowed anew to find the madman that even in our unconscious moments seemed to haunt us.

He had to be stopped, for all our sakes. And he had to be stopped soon.