Memento Mori
CHAPTER II
Mr Watson had a wide, handsome face, with a square jaw and deep blue eyes that glinted with sympathy as he stretched Mrs Bellamy’s hand between his own and offered her his deepest condolences. A dark, neatly trimmed moustache sat upon his upper lip and curled when he smiled, and his sandy blond hair flickered softly under the weak London sunshine. He was dressed in a plain brown suit, and walked leaning a bit too much on his cane. It was clear he had been injured on his right leg, for he had a slight limp, and the stiffness of his left arm suggested he had been injured on his shoulder as well. Holmes didn’t move to greet him, and merely stared at him from a corner of the room.
Whether Mr Watson had noticed Holmes’ icy gaze upon him, he didn’t seem affected by it. With the precision and calmness of a surgeon, he retrieved his suitcase from the floor, placed it upon the dining table, and emptied its contents one by one upon the surface: A set of white candles with a three-branched candelabrum, a small bronze incense pot, a small bag of charcoal, another one of frankincense pellets, a matchbox, a leather notebook, and an old, battered silver pocket watch. Only when he found Holmes standing at his side, silently examining each of the objects he had just placed down, did he acknowledge his presence.
“And who may you be, my dear fellow?” he asked him, his gaze flicking to the pocket watch that Holmes was currently holding in his hand. His tone had been warm and welcoming, but when Holmes met his eyes, he was pleased to find a dangerous spark in them. It seemed that the gentle, chivalrous facade that usually served so well to charm foolish old ladies had already begun to crack.
Holmes offered him a smile that did not reach his eyes. “The name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a consulting detective.”
Watson’s eyebrows frowned with confusion, but he quickly schooled his expression into one of politeness. “Ah, you’re with the police! How nice to make your acquaintance, Mr Holmes. My name is John Watson. I am a spiritist, as you might have heard.”
“Yes, I have heard of you,” replied Holmes. He ignored the comment about Scotland Yard, and drew himself closer to him with a sneer. “You are a charlatan, a conman. A liar who earns his keep taking advantage of grieving men and women who know no better than to believe the tales spun by a wounded veteran. You may fool them with that ridiculous charade of yours, but you cannot fool me, Doctor,” he all but spat the title. “No matter how pitiful your tales of the war are, how gentle the tone of your voice is, or how kind the look of your eyes, I know what you truly are: nothing more than a dirty scoundrel.”
Watson’s eyes widened with surprise at the outburst, and the dangerous glint Holmes had seen in them a moment before returned. He, too, smiled. It was the same smile he had offered Mrs Bellamy along with his condolences: sweet, kind, attractive—and absolutely captivating. Being so close to it, Holmes could understand how both men and women had fallen under its spell so swiftly. But there was a wicked quality to it as well, brought out by the dark look in his eyes, that reminded Holmes of the Convallaria majalis, a beautiful flower that was often used to make all sorts of remedies and concoctions, despite the fact that it was deadly. “Well, it would seem there is not much I can do to convince you of the veracity of my talents, Mister Holmes, as you have already made up your mind,” Watson said in a low whisper. He wrapped his warm fingers gently but firmly around Holmes’ wrist and took the pocket watch from his hand, putting it inside his breast pocket. Their bodies were so close that Holmes could feel the warmth coming from him. They stared at each other for the length of a heartbeat or two, —hostility and something that Holmes refused to call desire colouring their gazes—, until Watson continued. “Although I must admit such accusations are bold coming from a man who has a profession that by all accounts does not exist.”
Holmes snapped his hand from his grip and took a step back. “Just because you have never heard of it does not mean it doesn’t exist, Doctor.”
“Oh, is it a new rank then? Higher than Sergeant, perhaps?”
“It has nothing to do with the police,” said Holmes brusquely. “They are the ones who come to me when they find themselves in the dark, unable to tell their left from their right. I listen to the details, they listen to my comments, and I pocket my fee.”
“You mean to say that without leaving your flat you are able to solve those cases that the police themselves, despite having examined the scene with their own eyes, and collected all kinds of evidence with their own hands, cannot?”
“There’s nothing new under the sun. In most cases, a crime can be solved using the knowledge of another crime that came before it. As long as one is well-versed in the art of deduction, many threads of a man’s life and habits can be unravelled with a single glance. Although there are times, such as this one, when a more thorough examination is required. That is why I am here today.”
Watson chuckled. The dangerous spark in his eyes had disappeared now that his pocket watch was safely tucked away, replaced instead with genuine amusement. “You cannot possibly learn anything about a person through a single glance. I would lay a thousand to one against a man who promised such a thing.”
“You would lose your money,” Holmes replied with a smirk. “As a matter of fact, I have learnt enough about you today to tell your own life story, despite the fact this is our first meeting.”
Watson shook his head. “That would be an easy feat for anyone who’s read the papers, my friend. And I know you’ve done your research; such a scorn for my person can only be justified if you’ve read extensively about me.”
“Very well, then. Should I tell you about your brother?”
“What?”
“Your older brother, the one whose pocket watch you all but ripped away from my hands merely moments ago.”
Watson grinned, wonder and recognition lighting up his eyes. “You—You’ve felt it, too?”
Holmes’ eyebrows tightened together in confusion. “Feel what?”
Watson stared silently at him for a moment, as if he was trying to find something on his expression. At last, his initial wonder faded, melting into disappointment. “Nothing,” he replied, before changing the subject. “How could you know I had a brother? I’ve never spoken of him in public.”
“It’s simple. All I had to do was take a careful look at your pocket watch. The “W.” suggests your own name. The date of the watch is nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch: so it was made for the last generation. Jewellery usually descents to the eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same name as the father. Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years. It has, therefore, been in the hands of your eldest brother.”
Before their exchange could continue, Mrs Bellamy cleared her throat, startling them both. “I apologise for interrupting your conversation, gentlemen, but I believe Mr Watson has a duty to perform today, does he not?”
A dust of colour appeared on his face at her words, and he sprung into action. First, he lit three candles, placing them one by one in each of the branches of the candelabrum. Then, he took the incense pot. He opened it, revealing a round tray pierced with multiple holes, and put in it several pieces of red-burning charcoal, along with some of the frankincense pellets, which began smoking even before he had put the lid back on. Once all that was done, holding the candelabrum in one hand and the incense pot by its chain in the other, he began moving towards Mr Stamford’s bedroom. Before entering, however, with Holmes and Mrs Bellamy at his heels, he stopped.
“How silly of me, I almost forgot my notebook. Mr Holmes, would you be so kind as to grab it for me, please?”
He did so, after a moment of hesitation, but not before adding: “I must admit I do not understand your methods. Surely you must have an assistant—
“To aid me in my deceptions?” Watson smiled good-naturedly, taking the words out of the detective’s mouth. “What I do requires no assistant, only the occasional helping hand.”
Together, all three stepped inside the bedroom. After Watson had placed the candelabrum and the smoking incense pot upon the dresser, Mrs Bellamy moved to close the door, but Watson stopped her. “I wouldn’t advise that you do that, madam. I’m afraid that the fumes of the incense pellets can be quite dangerous inside a locked room.”
Holmes raised a sardonic eyebrow in his direction. “Why, I would imagine you take great advantage of its hallucinogenics prop—”
“Really, Mr Holmes,” Watson cut him off again, now slightly irritated. “You may say what you want about my ability to speak to the dead, but I am still a doctor, as you well know, and I won’t allow people to come to harm if I can prevent it. Now, please,” his expression grew serious. “Be quiet.”
Although the sconces on the wall, coupled with the flame from the candles, offered a great amount of light, and the door had been left partially open, it didn’t take long until the room became dim. The smell of blood and death from the corpse mingled with the spicy wooden fragrance from the smoke that in a few moments took hold of every little nook and cranny, and the space, already small, seemed to shrink even more with each passing second.
Without another word, Watson took the notebook from Holmes and approached the body that lay on the bed. Holmes’ gaze fixed on him, intent on picking up on any sign of deceit, but the doctor did not react to the state of undress of the man, nor to the peculiar position in which he had died, although his eyebrows rose with surprise when he looked at his face. He examined his wound carefully, muttering to himself, wrote something in his notebook, and then turned towards his small audience. “Very well”, he said, moving towards the dagger. “We may begin.” He closed his eyes and curled his fingers around the handle. At that moment, the light from the candles transformed. The warm orange flame grew brighter and bigger, and the hue changed completely, enveloping everything in a purple glow.
Watson released the dagger, his eyes still closed. “My dear friend,” he said, his lips curving into a smile. “You remember me?” Without opening his eyes, he took a pen from his pocket and scribbled something down on his notebook. “Yes,” he replied, although no one else had spoken. He scribbled something again. “I will help you, Stamford. Just show me. Show me—.” Suddenly, Watson let out a cry of pain and fell on his knees, dropping the notebook and the pen on the floor with a thud. He tried to cover his head with his arms, as if he feared that he was about to be struck, but they were violently pried away. His back arched backwards, pulling his head back with it until his neck was completely stretched, and his eyes shot open. The deep blue from his irises had disappeared, replaced with the same purple glow of the candles. The light on his eyes grew stronger and stronger, until everything except for his face had been swallowed by the shadows.
“Why… Why did you do it?”, Watson gasped, sounding like every word was being ripped out from him. His gaze was fixed somewhere in front of him, although there was nothing there. “You are… so… full… of hatred…”
A foreign cackle burst from his chest as a black cloud of smoke gathered on the ceiling, and slowly moved downwards, stopping in front of Watson. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?” The words had come out of the doctor’s mouth, but the voice hadn’t been his.
Holmes blanched. “No…”, he whispered, the word all but falling from his lips. Something moved out of the corner of his eye, and he turned towards the mirror with a gasp.
Reflected in the mirror was the image of a man that was not in the room.
He was around Holmes’ own age, with hair that fell shabbily over his forehead in dark tight curls. His figure had not been touched by the purple glow that had enveloped the room, yet his image remained clear, free of shadows. His features, although delicate and handsome, had been twisted into something ugly and wretched by the rage that shone in his eyes and the disgust that curled his lips. “You may deny it, but you can’t escape me,” he said, his lips moving silently as his voice came out of Watson’s mouth. “I will kill you, too.” He stretched his arms in front of him, and even though his hands were out of frame, it was clear that he was making a great effort to hold onto something, for his muscles were taut, and his veins drew dark lines all along his skin.
Watson let out a choked moan, his hands grabbing at something near his neck, and with dawning fright Mrs Bellamy realised he was being strangled.
“It’s the devil, Mr Holmes! It’s the devil!” she cried. “What in God’s name shall we do?!”
But Holmes did not hear her. His eyes were still fixed on the mirror. Every one of his limbs seemed to have turned into stone, and he stood frozen in place, face drawn with horror, unable to do more than stare in disbelief at the reflection of the man.
“Mr Holmes!” Mrs Bellamy yelled again, desperately grabbing his arm. “Please, sir! You must do something or Mr Watson will die!” She slapped him. “Mr Holmes!”
Holmes startled back to life with a wince. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to do,” he replied weakly.
They stood in silence, hopelessly watching Watson struggle against an invisible force. Little by little, with every groan and every moan, the purple light in his eyes dimmed. No matter how hard he fought, it seemed that he would die by the same hand that had taken Stephen Stamford’s life. At last, with one final desperate cry, his eyes closed and his body went limp, falling on the floor with a thud. At the same moment, the flame of the candles died out, and the room was once again bathed in the warm orange glow of the sconces. The incense pot no longer burnt, and soon all traces of the smoke disappeared as well.
A sombre silence descended over the room, broken only by the gentle sobs of Mrs Bellamy, who had buried her face in her hands. Time seemed to have stood still. With heavy steps, Holmes approached Watson’s body and knelt beside it. Unlike Stamford, the expression on his face was peaceful, his lips curved in an almost imperceptible smile. He could have very well been asleep, weren’t for the dark bruises around his neck shining brightly against his pale, sickly skin.
Holmes placed a finger on his neck and let out a sharp gasp. Against his touch, he felt the soft vibrations of a heartbeat. It was weak, very weak, but it was most certainly there.
“Ha! ha!” he cried, startling Mrs Bellamy as a delighted chuckle escaped his lips. “He’s alive, madam! He’s alive!” In a swift movement he wrapped an arm around Watson’s back, holding him close towards his chest, and unbuttoned his collar. “Mrs Bellamy,” he said in a low voice, suddenly aware of the state of the man between his arms. “Would you be so kind as to fetch a glass of brandy?”
She needn’t be told twice. With a nod she was gone, and a moment later, Holmes was pressing the glass gently against Watson’s lips. Soon, his eyelids began fluttering, and a few slow seconds later, his eyes opened, bright blue once more.
“Hello,” he said in a hoarse whisper, a small smile curving on his lips.
They stared at each other for a moment, and Holmes couldn’t help but offer him another one in return. “Welcome back, Watson,” he replied, his voice unexpectedly gentle.
Mrs Bellamy, who had only managed to stop crying when she had gone to fetch the brandy, broke into heavy sobs again, this time out of pure happiness. “He saved you!” She exclaimed, pure delight in her words. “The Lord has saved you from the Devil, Mr Watson!”
Watson let out a dry chuckle, pulling out the silver watch from his breast pocket. “It was not God, Mrs Bellamy,” he replied, although his eyes were still fixed on Holmes. “It was my brother.”
A/N: We finally met Watson! I was worried he had come off as too bitchy and perhaps overconfident, but my reasoning for his behaviour was that Holmes wasn’t the first person to doubt his abilities, so it’s natural that he’s learnt to stand up for himself. I’m still interested in some feedback though, ‘cause it’s been a while since I’ve written H/W and I might be a little be off. Also you guys might be surprised by the fact that Watson can actually talk to the dead, but I honestly find the supernatural to be too good to resist, so of course he can. Doyle would be over the moon, wouldn’t he? Next up comes a bit more investigation… and maybe we’ll meet Edmund James? Eyes emoji. Who knows.