Chapter Twenty Seven
"Feeling better?" Cassia Ingram asked Holmes, closing her sketch pad and propping it up against the side of the couch and then dropped the stick of charcoal back into the old tobacco tin she used as a container.
"Much."
"Liar."
"If you know the answer, why ask the question?" Holmes took a sip of the hot tea. "Where's John?"
"He went out. I think he was hoping to go home for a while and make up to his wife for letting her down tonight. He's bringing Chinese takeaway back with him."
Holmes wrinkled his nose in distaste.
He wasn't hungry.
At least his head no longer felt like it was going to explode.
The pain was still there, in the background, but it was manageable, at least until he could take some more painkillers, which would be any time now.
"Did you sleep at all?"
"A little."
"Good."
"You, I hope, did not."
"No chance of that. Mrs Hudson and I had a lovely chat."
"Really? I find it hard to understand a word she says most of the time, she waffles so."
"She loves you too, dope."
They sat in strained silence for several minutes, neither knowing what to say to the other, unused to each other's company and struggling for small talk to fill in the silence.
"Do you trust me?" Holmes spoke at last, setting his tea mug aside and regarding Cassia Ingram with now bright, clear eyes, all signs of sleep gone.
"Yes, Sherlock."
"Really? Even though I hit you? I wouldn't blame you for being upset with me. I assure you, I don't usually go in for that sort of thing."
"I told you, Sherlock. I understood. You had no choice. I was making rather a spectacle of myself."
"Mmmm, still, I feel that I should have been able to do something other than resort to physical violence."
"Forget it. I have. I don't plan to sue, if that is what you're worried about."
There then followed another lengthy, uncomfortable silence while Holmes sipped at his tea, and Cassie scrutinized him surreptitiously from beneath her fringe, realizing that he was starting look a little better, more colour in his cheeks and his hands much steadier.
Whatever it was that had overcome him earlier, he was over it now, and getting ready to face the evening ahead.
"Do you trust me, Sherlock?" Cassia asked suddenly, turning the tables on him and drawing Holmes curious cool blue gaze.
"I have invited you to stay in my home as a guest. I am not in the habit of doing that."
Indeed, he could recall only one other time before now, and ironically, that had also been a damsel in distress.
The woman, Irene Adler, and technically he hadn't really invited her in. She had broken in through the bathroom window and gone to sleep on his bed like Goldilocks.
"And I certainly wouldn't have done so if I thought you would abscond with the family silver."
"That's not what I meant, and you know it, clever clogs."
She sat back on the couch and crossed one leg over the other as she regarded Holmes with steady green eyes.
"I think that you have accepted that my gift is genuine, but do you trust me, Sherlock?"
"Yes."
"Then can I be frank with you?"
"Oh please, do. It seems to be my day for it," he mumbled sarcastically.
"You're really pushing your luck, you know."
Holmes reacted by silently quirking an eyebrow.
"On both counts," she added. "I'm not stupid, Sherlock. I know exactly why you opened your home to me. It's not completely selfless, but, I do understand. I know that you are hoping that I will dream again, or at the very least have another vision," she told him in a steady, not unattractive contralto voice.
"I understand your motive," she gave a soft sigh now. "And while the prospect scares the hell out of me, I do trust you. I know that you and John will stop it before it gets out of hand. But, you should also know that you could be playing with fire, Sherlock."
"You're the second person to tell me that today."
"I know, and John is right. That's the second thing, but I'll come back to that in a minute."
"I can hardly wait."
"Do you always have to be such a smart mouth? Look, Sherlock, what I am trying to say is, I know it has to be done, and that no matter what happens, my mind and my body will be in your hands. That is how much I trust you."
Holmes was impressed, but he remained silent.
She hadn't finished with him yet.
"You need to be taking better care of yourself. You're getting worse, Sherlock, oh you don't want to admit it, not even to yourself, but you are. I see it."
"My aura again?"
"Yes, but I see it in your eyes and in your face, too, Sherlock, and so does John. The pain is worse, your symptoms have changed, and you can't hide it any longer, no matter how much you try. John sees it too, but he's too good a friend to go against your wishes. He understands what it means to you to finish this case. Your last case."
"Is it? My last case?"
"No," she spoke confidently. "No, Sherlock. It's not your last case."
"I'm reassured by your confidence."
"Oh grow up!" she told him impatiently. "You know what I'm trying to say. You are not going to die, but you are in grave danger of losing your sight, speech and ability to reason," she told him bluntly. "The blindness might only have been temporary this time, but if it happens again, there are no guarantees, Sherlock."
She paused for a moment, watching his face closely, and saw a brief flash in his eyes that told her that he knew that she was right, while he also wondered just how she had known that he had lost his vision, briefly, for neither he nor John had alluded to it during their unsteady sojourn to his room earlier.
"But it doesn't have to be that way. There's still time for you to do something about your problem, but you're cutting it awfully fine, and that is why I agreed to stay, to endure your little experiment. I want it over with too, but you need for it to be over so that you can let go and take care of your own health before it's too late and too much damage is done."
"You said I was your guardian angel, and you're right, Sherlock. Your grandmother is getting anxious about you, because she knows that once the damage is done, it cannot be undone, and she knows better than anyone what it will do to you to have to live as the less than perfect man that you are now."
"I'll go along with this hare-brained scheme of yours, but under one condition. You have to make me a promise, and mean it, Sherlock. No matter what happens tonight, whatever the outcome, in the morning, you will allow John to take you to the hospital so that you can have the surgery."
Holmes opened his mouth to speak, but Cassia Ingram hadn't quite finished.
"Your life is more important than this case, Sherlock. There is no value in killing yourself just to prove a point. You have to take better care of the 'transport', Sherlock. You need it every bit as much as your brain and your intellect. Your brain won't be much use to anyone pickled in formaldehyde in a jar on a shelf at Bart's Hospital. A healthy body and a healthy mind. You're a whole person, Sherlock, not just your mind, if one fails, the other isn't much use."
"I will bear that in mind in future."
"Why do you place so little value on your life, Sherlock? Do you really hate yourself so much? How can you not care whether you live or die, when you have come to realize that the people closest to you do care?"
Holmes made no reply.
"Anyway, if it's any consolation, Sherlock, your grandmother is also very sure that you are close to fulfilling your part in this, whatever that may be, but you have to face facts, stop being so stubborn and start thinking about yourself for a change. Stop thinking of it as a game. This is serious. It's about as serious as it gets."
"Alright, I promise," he gave a huge sigh, but refused to meet her gaze.
"No, say it like you actually mean it, Sherlock, or I'm out of here, right now."
She was angry now, and defiant.
"And you won't hear from me again. You'll have to work on the case by yourself, and you probably won't get any of the answers you seek, and then you'll still have to have the surgery, and he'll go on killing and I'll slowly go out of my mind, and it may be years before you finally find out what happened and who the killer is, and in the meantime, you'll eat your heart out every day knowing that you had the chance to stop it, and didn't, because of your own stupidity and obstinacy."
She tormented him now.
"Or I might just find someone else to help me. I convinced you, I could convince someone else. But, I won't be held responsible for the world's only Consulting Detective destroying himself. You can do what you like, but I won't stand by and watch, Sherlock. Why the hell should I place my trust, my mind, my body, my life, in the hands of a man who has so little regard for his own? If you can't care about yourself, how can you care about what happens to me?"
"I do care," Holmes insisted now. "That is why I wanted you to stay here, so that your next vision or dream would happen under controlled conditions, under the supervision of a doctor no less, so that I could assure myself that you would be safe."
"I know." Cassia let out a long, heavy sigh. "You're not so cold hearted as you make out after all, are you, Sherlock?" Cassia Ingram gave him a sweet smile now.
"So why do you find it so hard to show yourself a little of that warmth and understanding? Be good to yourself, my friend. You still have a lot of work to do, and you're going to need all the gifts that God gave you to do it. So stop procrastinating, and accept the inevitable. Be the man you are, Sherlock, no more, no less. Just you. You are what makes the difference. You are the counter balance, the good that equals out the worst of the evil in this world, Sherlock. So? Will you make me that promise?"
"I promise," and this time he genuinely sounded like he meant it, deeply touched by the sincerity of her words, meeting her steady green gaze with his own blue/grey one.
They appealed to more than his ego.
And in truth, he had no desire to push this particular envelope any further, the sudden loss of his sight more than frightening to him than he cared to admit.
He wasn't brave.
He wasn't a hero.
Yet, nor was he stupid.
He knew the implications of delaying the surgery, but what harm could a few more hours do, especially if they could get some concrete evidence to pass on to the Police, and perhaps, help to save the life of another poor unfortunate child.
"Whatever happens, even if we don't get the results you want?"
"Even if we don't get the results we all want. I promise, but I have one condition of my own."
"Oh?"
"I ask you for the same amount of time that I asked John for. Twenty four hours. At the end of that time, if we still have no firm evidence to take to Inspector LeStrade, then I will go to the hospital and allow Sir Roger Witty to crack open my skull like an egg. Do we have a deal, Cass?"
"If John feels that it is alright, then I suppose I don't have any choice, do I? I will agree to abide by his medical knowledge and experience. But the minute he says it's over, Sherlock ..."
"Thank you."