Doldrums and Deep Waters
Chapter 6: The Descent
I arrived back following my walk to find the house still in darkness. I presumed Holmes must still be out upon his "tedious surveillance", and tortured myself a little more with guilt that I was not assisting him. Our sitting room looked particularly cheerless, and the smoke had left an acrid, stuffy smell behind it.
I just about summoned the energy to walk up the stairs to my bedroom and change into my night-clothes. The room seemed freezing, and I climbed, shivering, between the sheets, pulling the thick quilt around me.
It seems unsurprising that I passed a terrible night. Sleep would not come, except in short fitful bursts, punctuated by twisted nightmares. In one, Beaumarris was whittling the flesh from the legs of a screaming victim, whilst I held the man down, knowing there was something terribly wrong, but that I could neither speak nor stop it happening. Faces surrounded us, shaking their heads in condemnation. The victim turned, and he had the face of my brother, then Holmes' face, then my Mother's, and then it was I wielding the knife. I awoke trembling and soaked to the skin.
I could not seem to get warm, and the bed was intolerably lumpy. My shoulder throbbed with pain, and felt heavy and useless. The headache was increasing, and my stomach churned with nausea. I coughed, fitfully.
Worse than anything else was my state of mind. My depression and guilt had reached such levels that I felt I should never be happy again. I longed for sleep, for oblivion, but it would not come.
As sleep was denying me, I found myself craving tobacco smoke, my only other comfort. Having tossed and turned for hours, too tired to arise, yet too tired to sleep, I gave it up, and decided I would head down to the living room.
I arose and dressed automatically. I did not concern myself with washing or shaving, but settled myself in my chair, a blanket draped about me, and commenced re-creating my tobacco-cloud of last evening.
Dawn was breaking when I heard the front door open. There was a pause, then quiet steps ascended the stairs, and Sherlock Holmes walked back into the room, holding a thick slice of bread and lump of cheese he had evidently salvaged from the kitchen. He halted at the door and sniffed.
"Trouble sleeping, Watson old man?"
"Yes." I answered, even the monosyllable costing me a great deal of effort. I was curled in the chair, my back to Holmes, and could not bring myself to face him. He evidently respected my privacy, and did not immediately pry any further, but began a gentle stream of chatter as he pottered around the room behind me, evidently ravenously eating at the same time.
"Well, Watson, I'm sorry you are denied your rest. I have spent tonight awake also. This little case of the Yard's have proved more interesting than I anticipated, and also trickier. You recall my mentioning that it seemed a simple case of ring fencing, and that we only need catch the receiver at his trade?"
He paused for dramatic effect. It was obviously an invitation for me to comment, but I could not oblige. There was a slight pause, then Holmes continued, determinedly.
"The receiver is a slimy, bulbous villain named Dix. We know that he has a string of small bric-a-brac shops, chemists and tobacconists across the city, so he has a choice of locations for storage, and his suppliers can prearrange at which of these to drop the stolen goods. He tends to specialise in small, valuable items, which could be concealed in the false bottom of a tobacco jar, or disguised amongst his legitimate items. He breaks down the jewellery himself, and sells it legally, yet at establishments which do not demand too detailed a provenance. I got wind of his business when undercover on the Stebbing case, and the Yard had their informants too – minor players, yet able to shed a bit of light on where half the stolen goods in London are ending up.
"It has been quite a pretty little problem, tracing his hand to each of his establishments. I fear he may be a more dangerous character than I had originally imagined. We have been able to loosly tie him to a great many of his associates, and three of those associates, including one who was very useful to the Yard, have ended up in our city morgues. Of course, it could be cooincidence, as they deal in a dangerous trade, and one of them was a suicide, but I dislike cooincidence, as you know. People have been understandably nervous to talk. I have had to use a good many of my connections, as he uses several aliases, but I am certain we now have all of them. He has been cunning, like a lizard with many tails – if one of his shops was discovered, he could cut it loose, and use another. However, once we have all of them, his movements will be severely compromised.
"We did not think he was aware of our surveillance. I have been minding him directly, the Irregulars watching the other shops in pairs. As soon as we could finger him for one count of receiving, we could obtain proper warrants to search the rest of his property, and it would be plain sailing from then on in.
"A problem seems to have arisen though. He has not done any trade for almost two weeks, despite there being three robberies which would normally have his stamp upon them. Also, he disappeared into one of his shops the day before yesterday, and did not emerge. He must have a concealed entrance....
"I am sorry, am I boring you?"
His tone was acidic. I turned too face him then, and, as he took in my appearance, his expression became one of sympathy.
"I take it the interview did not go well?" he asked, softly.
"How did you know?" I asked, but I felt the barest of interest.
"I deduced that your avoidance of your usual routines was likely to be an avoidance of contagion, as you politely yet hastily left the room when Rosie brought the breakfast tray up, snuffling like a hedgehog. It seemed likely the reason was a special event, about which you had elected to remain silent, as you have borne occasional signs of anxiety, or fallen into brown studies whereupon you glance at your medical bag, your journals and the calendar. You have also changed your reading pattern, becoming far more systematic, over the last month.
"You were wearing your smart shoes yesterday, yet they have been carelessly discarded at the bottom of the stairs in an uncharacteristic display of untidiness, and they are splattered with blood. You also have a little blood in your hair, and you are unshaven; again atypical for one of your usually fastidious nature. Finally, there is a crumpled letter in the hearth, having missed the grate, that shows signs of having been carried around folded for a considerable time. A letter to attend an interview?"
I nodded, mutely.
"What happened, Watson?" He asked, kindly.
"I do not wish to discuss it," I croaked.
Holmes paused, then flung himself down into the armchair opposite me, viewing me with some consternation.
"I know I am not one to talk, Watson, but are you trying to smoke yourself to death? Even I find the air in here absolutely dreadful, and you sound quite hoarse, as well as looking as cheerful as a condemned man. It is not like you to turn a setback into a disaster, old boy."
I merely shrugged, and avoided Holmes' eyes.
"Are you in pain? You are holding your arm awkwardly."
I shrugged again. "It is of no account."
"And is your bedraggled air of general profound despondency also of no account?"
"Please, Holmes. I do not wish a string of deductions."
Holmes scowled, sympathy warring with exasperation. He then seemed to reach a decision, and picked up his cherry-wood pipe and his Persian slipper.
"Very well. I shall direct no further impertinent questions and deductions at you. God knows, I have been in the doldrums often enough myself that I have no right to castigate you for your silence. Let us contribute further to this pall together – a shared pipe may ease many a trouble."
I vouchsafed no answer, merely continuing to wallow in my private gloom. I sensed irritation from Holmes again, and felt the re-ignition of guilt. It had a new edge now – I felt myself to be a useless encumbrance, who served only to depress and hold back my brilliant room-mate. I began to dwell upon the frequent "doldrums" Holmes mentioned experiencing, and, in my disturbed frame of mind, began to attribute the blame of them to myself. What kind of a physician was I, if I could not even control my closest friend's dark humours?
The nonsensical nature of these musings barely troubled my conscious mind. That Holmes had been susceptible to his bouts of depression before I had ever laid eyes upon him, that I had done much to mitigate them over the years, that he always had been a law unto himself: such considerations faded into insignificance in the face of my self-loathing. I even upbraided myself for referring to him as "my friend" - how complacent and conceited of me. What would a man like Holmes see in a crippled failure like myself? I was more pitiable millstone than friend.
Holmes' strident tones suddenly cut into my morbid reverie.
"Watson. Whilst I am sympathetic to your obvious misery, I do not believe I can endure either your sniffing, or your sighing much longer. It has been at least four times a minute for the last hour and ten minutes now. Come along, man, pull yourself together! You have barely moved since I entered the room."
"I am sorry, Holmes." I muttered, listlessly, attempting to straighten myself in my chair, and extricate my handkerchief from my pocket. My hands were shaking worse than ever, and as I fumbled, I dropped my wallet and tobacco pouch upon the floor. Coins and tobacco scattered everywhere, and, as I bent to retrieve what I could, I heard Holmes mutter "clumsy fool" under his breath. I bowed my head as I reached under the sofa. One of Dr Effram Morgan's calling cards was hidden behind the chair-leg, and I tossed it into the fireplace. Currently, I did not even feel equal to the task of mollycoddling spoilt elderly ladies.
I took up a medical journal to appease Holmes' irritation, but it must have been perfectly plain I was not turning the pages, and my conversation remained as unedifying. Eventually, my morose attitude drove Holmes from the room.
I barely moved. Mrs Hudson came and went, three times, each time attempting to get me to eat, and each time seeming more concerned and aggravated than the last. At lunchtime, I allowed myself to be bullied to the table, but ate little. Holmes, emerging from his bedroom, was no more enthusiastic with his repast, apparently caught up in thought. Soon after, he gave a soft exclamation, and left the house again, not asking me to accompany him.
I sent dinner away, with the monosyllabic communication that I was not hungry.
I again dozed sporadically and restlessly, but again, my sleep was rendered hideous by my dreams, which had become less well formed but no less filled with slithery, greasy fragments of tortured subconscious thought. Eventually, I could bear it no longer, and I embarked upon a further descent. With my brother's sad example, I should have known better, but I was beyond reason.
With a tiny resurgence of energy, I snatched up the brandy decanter, and poured myself a large measure, then another, and another.
When the decanter was empty, I turned to the whiskey, and drained that too. I was now so entirely drunk, I could not walk straight. However, I managed the stairs to my bedroom, holding onto the walls as I went. I reached my bed, and fell, fully clothed upon it. I then passed into blessed and deep unconsciousness.
Oh, Watson. You're going to have one hell of a hangover. Let's hope that's not the least of your worries. What is the matter with you? I almost don't recognise you....
More in Chapter 7.
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