In the 31 years he had been alive, Watson had seen a great many amusing and entertaining things. But not one of them came even close to watching Sherlock Holmes attempt to ride an elephant.
There was no saddle on the elephant's back, and no means of which to steer or control it. Seemingly sensing that Holmes was nervous, the man in the white robes assigned him the smallest elephant of the four. Irene had perfect control of her own elephant which lowered itself obediently so she could clamber aboard its leathery back.
"Sherlock, darling..?" Though he suspected she needed no help at all, Holmes hoisted Irene up so she was sat astride her elephant. She noticed his hands were shaking and, despite her previous annoyance with Holmes, suddenly felt a pang of guilt. Was it cruel of her to force him to ride an elephant when he was quite clearly terrified of them?
Barely straining under Irene's minimal weight, Holmes wondered briefly if his hands were shaking enough for his fear to be convincing, but not so much that it gave the game away. It was true that Holmes was less than keen on the idea of being so close to an elephant, but it was less than true that he was genuinely paralysed by fear. But he reasoned that the guiltier he made Irene feel, the larger his advantage would be when the next round of their 'game' began.
Holmes was already sweating slightly from the dense Indian heat, but he felt that further steps would need to be taken if he was to remain convincing. So, he turned to Watson and spoke in a low whisper.
"Do you have your doctor's portmanteau to hand?"
Watson was rolling up his shirt sleeves and preparing to mount his elephant.
"Of course. Why?"
"Petroleum jelly. Do you have some?"
"Holmes, why would you need petroleum jelly at a time like this?"
"Now please."
Sighing deeply, Watson found his portmanteau already strapped to the back of one of the elephants that was to carry their luggage to Kashmir. He produced a tub and handed it to Holmes.
"There you go, petroleum jelly. Now are you going to tell me why you need it?"
But Holmes did not answer. He was too busy smearing the translucent jelly across his forehead and down his neck. When finished, it gave him the impression of one who was suffering an acute attack of influenza; or at least that he was harbouring a dangerously high fever. Watson rolled his eyes and shook his head as Holmes handed the now almost empty pot back to him. This was not the first time he had seen Holmes use petroleum jelly as a means of staging a fever. Indeed, the first time he had tried it, Watson himself had not been in on the joke.
As for Irene, the shock was clearly etched across her countenance as she caught a glimpse of Holmes and saw the sorry state he was in. The detective's face was contorted with fear and coated in sweat which stood out on his forehead. He was visibly shaking and his chest was heaving uncontrollably. Watson watched him with a peculiar mixture of admiration and contempt. Even the world's greatest actors would have their work cut out rivalling Sherlock Holmes...
With much hesitation and the occasional involuntary shudder, Holmes made his way slowly towards his elephant and even gave a convincing bolt backwards when the elephant bent its front legs to receive him.
Unable to put up with his friend's pretences any longer, Watson grabbed a hold of Holmes' shirt collar and shoved him none-too-gently up onto the elephant's back. Holmes was forced to scramble inelegantly and hold his weight centrally in order to avoid falling straight off the other side.
Despite his previous experience, Watson was unprepared for the moment when his own elephant rose off the floor to a standing position. He found himself holding tightly onto the elephant's great ears and thinking to himself how very high he was above the ground.
The man in the white robe was to act as their guide through the jungle, and he showed them how to steer the elephants in the way you wanted them to walk. One simply had to pull on the ear and the elephant would turn in the opposite direction. For example, a tug to the right would turn you to the left, and visa-versa. It was, Watson insisted, just like riding a horse without reins. Holmes disagreed. He had never been on a horse whose head was three metres above the ground!
"We're to follow," Irene told Holmes and Watson. "Lose all the outer layers of clothing...it's only going to get hotter as the day goes on."
Seeing Irene gently kick her elephant to start it moving, Watson did the same. Holmes groaned out loud as his elephant started forwards; pouring his heart and soul into sounding as wretched as possible for Irene's benefit. Watson rolled his eyes, but made no comment. They started off out of the clearing and under the shade of thick trees and vines.
Holmes was getting into a routine of groaning miserably every time his elephant took a step forwards. He knew his tactics had paid off when Irene slowed her elephant and -with a concerned look on her beautiful face- came up level with him. Considering that procuring an emotional reaction from Irene Adler was like getting blood from a stone, Holmes was impressed with the speed of which he had cracked her.
Irene leaned over as far as she dared and took Holmes' hand. He clasped it tightly, keeping up the appearance of a terrified man whose only comfort was the support of his 'wife'. She kept her voice low as she leaned in and spoke into his ear.
"For goodness sake, wipe the Vaseline off your face...You're going to have to do better than that!"
They set off as a chain of four through the Indian jungle. The first elephant -laden with their luggage- was led at the front by the guide. Behind him was Irene; Holmes followed third and Watson brought up the rear.
There was about ten miles of jungle to cover, which worked out as about nine hours travelling time if they stuck close to the river where the vegetation was thinner. The river water was stagnant and in no state to be drunk (although Watson had to prevent Holmes from trying to test the river's iron content with his tastebuds). Instead, they drank rainwater that had gathered on giant palm leaves and lunched on fruit picked by their guide from the trees.
Although his piteous groaning had stopped when Irene had spoken, Holmes was finding it no easy task to ride an elephant gracefully. Though he was balanced and spritely on solid ground, he rode with a hunched back; fingers wrapped tightly around the elephant ears and his whole body lurching dreadfully whenever the elephant moved. What made matters worse for him was that the elephant didn't trust Holmes any more than Holmes trusted the elephant. If he hadn't known any better, Watson would have sworn blind that the elephant was trying to throw Holmes off its back. It had taken to stopping still in the middle of the path while Holmes nudged it furiously, and then finally jolting forwards again while Holmes clung on for dear life.
The heat was hard on all three, so little was said as their trek continued through the day and into late afternoon. Holmes was sulking; frustrated that Irene had seen through his ruse. But he was sweating genuinely by twelve o'clock, as was Watson. Even Irene's white shirt was damp with sweat by the time they reached the outer layers of jungle and finally emerged into open space.
In total contrast to the vibrant colours of the jungle, the landscape beyond it was rocky and barren. The river ran alongside a scattering of brown shrivelled trees and then curved around a great mountain which quite dominated the horizon. Raising a hand, Irene pointed the way.
"The village is behind the mountain," she said. "About two miles due-west of here. The only way is to walk up the mountain and then down again...there's no way we could get all our bags across the river."
Neither Holmes nor Watson responded- Holmes because he was still sore with Irene; and Watson out of pure exhaustion. Irene started forwards on her elephant and bade Holmes follow. The latter kicked his elephant to get it moving, and the elephant responded by stopping still and refusing to move. Watson felt a smile creeping up the corners of his mouth as Holmes tugged frantically on the elephant's ears and cursed fluently under his breath as the creature stubbornly refused to move an inch. Finally, the elephant snapped out of its trance. In one swift movement, it lowered its enormous backside to the ground while keeping its front legs erect. Holmes was taken totally by surprise and he slid down the steep gradient of the elephant's back; landing in the dirt with his own legs up in the air.
By this time, Watson was near to helpless with laughter. He steered his own elephant in front of Holmes', stopping to give the detective a merry wave.
"You alright down there?"
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Oh yes." Watson grinned as he overtook Holmes. He watched over his shoulder as the detective picked himself up off the ground and clambered astride his elephant with a new determination to emerge victor.
Though he never complained openly, the Afghan war had affected Watson in ways the others could not begin to imagine. Aside from the constant pain in his knee and shoulder, his strength had never quite recovered after a nasty bout of intestinal flu whilst on the front line. As a result, he suffered greatly with fatigue; especially in the heat. As they made their way across the barren landscape, Watson could barely keep himself upright on the elephant's back. It was not only physical ailments, but psychological ones too. Watson had seen terrible things in war, and being back in India was rousing some familiar, unwelcome emotions within him. He thought of Mary, Tilly, Rose and the baby with unbearable nostalgia, and it irritated him that Holmes and Irene could drop their responsibilities so easily. So many emotions and not one of them made sense to Watson at that moment. He needed rest and he needed sleep so as to get his mind in check, but it appeared there was little chance of sleep until they reached their destination.
The sun was dipping below the horizon by now, but Watson was too exhausted even to appreciate the beauty of nature. He was honestly considering asking Irene if they could stop a while and rest, when they came around the point of the mountain and saw the land that lay beyond.
A little shanty town lay in the shadow of the great mountain with the river running on the other side of a dense patch of ferns. The town was in darkness, but above the skyline sat a palace illuminated by artificial light. The palace roof was shaped like a pointed dome and decorated beautifully with tiles and mosaic. It was too dark now to see properly, but Watson could make out the shadows of people moving down in the town below.
"We're here," Irene said. She was stating the obvious, but it somehow seemed necessary. Watson broke into a relieved smile; his fatigue not lifted, but sweetened by a sense of victory.
"So that's the Maharaja's palace..." Watson stirred his elephant and they began to trek down the other side of the mountain. For the first time in several hours, Holmes spoke up.
"Am I to assume the Maharaja knows we're coming?"
"He knows I'm coming," Irene answered, wiping a thin layer of sweat from her forehead and gently coercing her elephant into stepping over a rugged boulder on the pathway. "I wrote to let him know before we left London, but I didn't mention you two..."
"Just a relapse of memory, I'm sure...?"
"Sure." Irene smiled over her shoulder at Holmes. "How's that elephant working out for you?"
"Nine hours and you've only just thought to ask?" Watson snorted amusedly. "Look at him. You wouldn't see him looking more uncomfortable if there was someone up on that elephant with him." Watson grinned. "Unless of course it was you, Miss Adler..."
Irene laughed, but uneasily so. They continued in silence for over half an hour; by which time they had reached the bottom of the mountain and the outskirts of the village. Their silent guide brought the group to a stop and Irene bade them dismount.
"The elephants aren't allowed through the village," Irene explained, "So we have to go by horse and cart."
Holmes nearly tripped over his own feet in his eagerness to get away from the great grey beast that would from this moment forwards be a key feature of his nightmares alongside Professor James Moriarty, Inspector Lestrade and -on some occasions- Irene Adler.
A small Indian man with a long plait of black hair was waiting for them with a rickety cart pulled by a grubby brown horse. Like the gentleman he was (or rather the gentleman he was pretending to be), Holmes helped Irene up into the cart and then stepped up beside her. Watson examined the lack of space remaining in the cart and then looked at the pile of their luggage that had been laid out on the road by the now retreating elephant man.
"How are we going to get the trunks up to the palace?" Watson asked. The man with the plait disappeared behind one of the shanty houses and emerged a few minutes later with another cart. It was clearly light as he pulled it behind him with minimum effort. With Watson's help, he loaded the trunks onto the cart and then took his place at the head of the horse on Holmes and Irene's cart.
Watson cleared his throat. "Aren't we forgetting something?" Holmes looked at him.
"Forgetting what?"
"Well where's the horse?" Watson realised he should have guessed the answer when he looked up and saw Holmes and Irene pointedly watching him with identical smiles on their faces.
"Couldn't we just have made two trips?" Watson yelled for the fifth time as he strained under the weight of the cart he was pulling.
"The Maharaja is expecting us, Watson," Holmes replied with a smug smile. "There's hardly time to make two trips."
"Well couldn't you come down off that cart and lend a hand?"
"Impossible." Holmes smiled down at Watson from his comfortable seat in the cart. "There could be any amount of vagabonds in this area, and it's my duty to ensure that my wife comes to no harm." With this, he rested a convincing arm around Irene's shoulders.
"Don't you try that one." Watson dumped the handles of the cart and stood glaring at Holmes, hands on hips.
"A man's place is with his wife."
"Then why," Watson asked through gritted teeth, "Am I carrying your luggage up to the door of a Maharaja's palace in India instead of being by the side of my pregnant wife while we wrap birthday presents for our two daughters?"
Holmes turned his body clockwise so he was facing Watson head-on.
"Because you, Watson, are a better man than I."
"You've got that right!" Sighing deeply, Watson picked up the handles of the cart once again and followed in the path of Holmes and Irene's cart as they began to ascend the hill that would take them through the peasant village and inside the walls of the Maharaja's palace.
"You know that's the third woman that's spat at me in the last ten minutes," Watson shouted to Holmes as they trekked through the village towards the palace. A small rock whizzed past, narrowly missing Watson's right ear. "And the fifth projectile that's been hurled at me."
"I know exactly what you mean," Holmes replied. He casually held up a handful of small rocks and pieces of litter he had accumulated in his lap. "I have quite a collection here myself. Perhaps it's some kind of welcoming ritual... a tradition of the province perchance?"
"No, Holmes," Watson said. "I'll tell you exactly what it is..." He eyed a group of Indian teenage boys who were staring suspiciously at him with irrefutable hatred. "English settlers took this province didn't they?"
"Some years ago," Irene said.
"Exactly." Watson's smile was fixed and terrified. "I'd wager that to these people, one Englishman is quite like any other... They think we're here for their children!"
"Do you have a remedy for extreme paranoia?" Holmes asked. "Because with the greatest respect, old chap, I feel that you could make use of some."
"Is that so?" Watson dodged another stone; this one thrown from a distance of less than three metres. "Then why are none of the stones aimed at Irene?"
"Respect for a lady?" Irene suggested.
"Common chivalry?"
"How about the fact that Irene is an American...?"
Holmes did not answer, so Watson changed the subject.
"It really does make you ashamed to be English when you see the conditions these people live in..." Watson grimaced as they passed huts and shelters; some made out of only sheets of filthy linen propped up by wooden poles and housing up to seven people at a time. "Disease must be an enormous problem here." He frowned and paused to wipe sweat from his forehead. "As a doctor, I only wish there was something I could do..."
Before Holmes or Irene could answer, the horse pulling the cart gave a terrible whinny and reared; the cart bucking about while its passengers held on for dear life. The man at the horse's head struggled to keep it under control and pulled on its rope harness in an effort to calm it. Something had spooked the horse badly, and it took Watson a few seconds to work out what.
Though the dusk made it difficult to see properly, Watson could make out something lying in the road ahead. And experience meant he had a horrible idea of what it was. He dropped the handles of the cart and rushed over. As he had feared, in the road there lay a tiny little girl; thin and emaciated as if a substantial meal hadn't passed her lips in months. Watson's heart broke to look at her; particularly as she couldn't have been much older than his own daughters at home.
By this time, Holmes and Irene had joined him in the road and without a word, Irene fetched Watson's leather portmanteau from the luggage cart.
"What's happened to her?" Irene whispered as Watson leant over the tiny girl, listening for her heartbeat.
"Malnutrition," Watson said grimly, "Is the most likely cause. But there's no way to say for definite." He shook his head. "Exhaustion...Starvation...Cholera...any number of terrible reasons; though not one of them justified as to why a young girl should face almost certain death on the streets of India."
Holmes sensed Watson was working himself into a collapse, and gently laid a hand on his friend's shoulder.
"I don't think there is anything you can do for her..."
"There's always something..." Watson snatched his jacket from the back of the cart and wrapped the girl up inside it. "Support her, Irene." Irene did so, and Watson slipped the opening of a bottle of brandy between her parched lips. "I keep it for emergencies," Watson answered Irene's quizzical look. "It's thought to numb the pain or bring patients out of delirium." He smiled as the little girl opened her eyes slowly. "If anything, it will help to make her more comfortable..."
"Don't overdo it," Holmes advised. "She is only a girl, Watson..."
Watson corked the bottle and gently lifted the little girl so she was out of the road. It always caused him great heartache to abandon a patient, but it was naive to assume the Maharaja would take kindly to his arriving at the door of the Royal palace with a malnourished girl in his arms. Besides, he reasoned as he returned unwillingly to the luggage cart, the girl would almost certainly have parents that were looking for her...
Nevertheless, Watson made his mind up to return to the village at first light so as to tend to as many people as possible. Even if the girl could not be helped, there would always be those who could.
He noticed the palace gates opening up to receive them as they climbed the hill. And he also noticed that the villagers were no longer hurling stones.
A homely light shone from within the confines of a tiny building that sat on the edge of the wall surrounding the palace. It was positioned adjacently to the gate so that the only way to pass through to the Royal palace was to first pass the cabin. It seemed to Holmes that -after a few seconds of observation- that the cabin had been erected long after the wall had been build around the palace. The brickwork of the wall was far more weathered than that of the cabin; and no climbing plants covered its surface. Next to the wall and the palace within, the small building looked horribly out of place. Perhaps this was the idea...
"That's the office of the Guard," Irene said, loud enough that Watson could hear her as well as Holmes.
"When you say 'Guard'," Watson said, coming up behind them, "Do you mean..."
"The British Guard," Irene finished. "Yes."
Holmes stayed silent. He had worked that much out for himself.
They drew level with the cabin and a man stepped out from within. He was short and stout with a balding head and a bushy black beard. The fingernails of his hands were frighteningly short, Holmes observed. A nervous habit? Or one stemming back to childhood...? He was dressed in black trousers and a red blazer adorned with gold trimmings and striped upon the shoulders. A military man... Holmes was confident that this was the uniform worn by every member of the British Guard, and that every member would doubtless carry the same weapons. He eyed the bulge beneath the man's blazer that would point to a pair of pistols on a belt, in addition to the fearsome musket swung over one shoulder.
"I trust you have passage to be entering the palace at this time?" The guard looked them over suspiciously; noticing that they were not locals but clearly not trusting them.
"It's alright, Sergeant," Irene spoke up, the flash of her most charming smile unnoticed in the darkness. "His Highness is expecting us."
"Do you have means by which to confirm your invitation?" the guard asked pompously. He reminded Holmes inexplicably of Inspector Lestrade; though in attitude rather than appearance.
"Well why don't you send a man up to the palace?" Watson took over, unable to keep the contempt from his voice. "I'm sure His Highness can confirm anything you feel is in doubt, Sergeant."
The guard glared ferociously at Watson, but turned around and shouted through a window into the Guard Post.
"Wilkins, go up to the palace immediately and inform the Maharaja that a Miss..." He looked at Irene.
"Irene Holmes."
"Miss Holmes is here to see him. I want a full confirmation and a physical description of our guest before I go further."
An awkward five minutes passed while Wilkins was away in the palace. When the young Private returned, he brought with him a scroll signed by the Maharaja himself. Holmes read the lettering in reverse as it was held up to the light by the guard, but the latter took far longer to finish than he had.
"It appears you were correct," the guard said finally, setting down the letter with an expression on his face like he had been sucking halves of sour lemon. "You may pass through once you have been through the inspection process."
"What inspection process?" Watson asked.
"No weaponry is allowed inside the palace walls," the guard said firmly. "Please surrender your weapons and set them on the counter. They will be returned to you when you leave the province."
Watson didn't like the way the man regarded them. The way he had said "When you leave the province" was almost as if he knew they would not be staying long. Just how much power did the British Guard have over the Kashmir province? Enough to control security, maybe, but enough to control the people as well? Irene had told them that the Maharaja was a kind and generous man. Why then were the people of the village starving?
Holmes placed his revolver on the counter and Watson did the same. Irene also had a firearm, and the guard raised an eyebrow when she handed it over. They made to move through the gates, but the guard stopped them.
"Hold it right there..." He stepped out from the booth and glared at Irene. "When I told you to surrender all of your weapons, Madam, I meant for you to surrender all of them!" Without another word, he lifted the sleeve of Irene's shirt and slid out a shaped wooden cudgel. There was a thin razor blade in the opposite sleeve; a knife tucked into her left boot and what appeared to be a lengthy piece of razor wire wrapped underneath the collar of her white shirt. With a sullen look on her beautiful face, Irene surrendered them all and then stepped back, arms folded.
"You may pass." The guard stepped back inside the booth to allow them entry to the palace. When they had passed out of sight beneath the shadow of the palace roof, he left his post and stepped through a door into the main building.
The Guard Post was set off a much larger building where the guards slept and spent their free time. There was a dining hall, a kitchen, several sets of barracks, a private infirmary and a storage room among many others. At the end of a winding corridor was the office of the Captain of the Guard.
Drawing himself up straight and tall, the guard raised a fist and knocked three times on the door.
"Enter." A soft voice spoke from within.
"Excuse me, sir." The guard stepped into the crack of light shining through the now open door. "I apologise for the inconvenience, but I think you would be most interested to know who has just arrived at the Post..."
Author's Note: I have the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to thank for Holmes' little trick with the Vaseline, as those of you who have read The Adventures of the Dying Detective will have realised! Just thought I should mention that one, even though I would like nothing better than to take credit for such a brilliant idea myself! :P