The Case of the Haunted Hospital

 

 

Chapter 1   Of Hospitals and Haunts

 

3rd, November

 

A miserable and wet London fog swirled noisomely outside the lodgings, which I shared with my friend and colleague Sherlock Holmes. As the evening damp caused me considerable discomfort, I took great pains to arrange my easy chair with surgical exactitude- close enough to the hearth to generate an agreeable warmth, but distant enough to prevent setting the evening paper ablaze in my hands.

 

I had just reached for a comforting mug of punch when a clattering on the stairs announced the imminent arrival of a visitor.

 

"Who the deuce can that be?" I mumbled under my breath. Holmes had gone on some mysterious errand of his own immediately after dinner, and I did not expect him back for hours. Lestrade was at home himself, nursing an abominable head-cold and a rather foul temper. As Mrs. Hudson was aware that Holmes was not in, this led me to the disagreeable conclusion that my visitor must be either a messenger from the hospital or a patient seeking emergency care.

 

A vigorous knocking on the door brought my musings to a close, and forced me to tighten my dressing gown and abandon my cozy seat.

 

"Coming!" I called.

 

I leapt back in surprise as the door was thrown open and a red-faced, panting lad of about thirteen darted into the room.

 

"Doctor Watson, you 'af to come, Doctor Greyson says," the boy gasped. Despite his winded condition, I recognized him immediately as Josiah Collins, the hospital's boy of all work.

 

"Sit down Jo," I said, waving him toward my abruptly discarded seat. "I shan't be going anywhere in my gown." It took but a moment in my chamber to re-acquaint myself with my vestments, but I returned buttoning my coat to find the boy pacing frantically across the floor.

 

"Whatever is the matter Jo? Has Doctor Greyson taken ill?" I asked with growing alarm. Doctor William Greyson was a learned man of four-and-sixty, director of the hospital, and a seasoned veteran of the Afghan front. I considered it to be highly unlikely that he required my medical advice, even though we had become rather friendly over several years of shared toil.

 

Jo shook his head violently as we hurried out the door and down the stairs.

 

" 'E's not sick, 'e's done got 'imself a right scare," Jo said.

 

"Whatever do you mean?" I asked, flagging down a cab and driver.

 

It took but a moment to provide the cabman with sufficient instructions and we found ourselves whisking toward the hospital in relative comfort. I turned to the lad beside me and asked again.

 

"What do you mean, he's gotten a scare? Do you mean that someone has threatened him?" I found myself wondering if perhaps my hasty departure had indeed been in error, and though longingly of my pistol neatly at home in it's case.

 

"No, sir," the boy said. "A man come in, a toff like. 'e warn't breathing, but the doctor rolled up 'is cuffs and saw to 'im just like 'e was alive and prayin'. After a bit, though, Doctor Greyson said 'e was past all care and pulled the sheet right up. I took the deader down to the basement on the lift, just like always sir, when there ain't no family to claim 'im right away."

 

The boy paused reflectively, "I saw 'im before 'e was covered sir, and he warn't no pretty sight, bein' all grey with 'is tongue hangin' out like that."

 

"Yes, go on," I said, wild with curiosity despite the morbid image.

 

"There warn't no one else there sir, so I tagged him and left him on the gurney," the boy said with some small importance. "A few minutes later I was upstairs washin' the surgery, and Doctor Greyson came in fit to be tied. Seems 'e couldn't find 'is gold cuff links and figured 'e left 'em on the deader."

 

I nodded and motioned the boy onwards. My interest was suddenly dampened by the possibility that I had been summoned forth merely to address the theft of Greyson's favorite adornments.

 

"Did you go and get them?" I asked the boy.

 

"No sir," he said. "The doctor said 'e would get them himself, me preparin' the surgery and all. 'E went right downstairs, and a few minutes later we 'eard 'im come runnin' down the corridor. 'E went straight to 'is office, and sent the nursing sister to find me. When I got there, 'e told me to fetch you right quick, and give me a sovereign. 'is 'ands were shakin' somethin' fierce, an' 'e told me 'e'd 'ad a scare and no mistake. All 'e'd do then is shake 'is 'ead and mutter somethin' about knowin' death when 'e saw it."

 

We reached the hospital before I'd had time to digest this bit of information, and I sprang from the cab with my mind awhirl with possibilities.

 

Doctor Greyson met us at the door.

 

"Watson, thank God you've come!" he cried effusively, pumping my hand frantically. "I really don't know what to make of this."

 

Astounded by the depth of emotion shown by my normally taciturn co-worker, I could only shake my head and shrug.

 

"But Greyson, what has happened man? Tell me what you've seen."

 

Greyson opened his mouth as if to speak, and then closed it again, appearing for the first time to notice the still hovering Jo.

 

After digging another sovereign from his waistcoat pocket, he patted the boy on the shoulder and said brusquely, "Here my lad, you've done your duty, now be off with you."

 

Quick as a flash the boy pocketed the shining gold, and sped smiling away into the darkness of the London streets.

 

"Now Watson," said the man, leading my by my coat sleeve into the corridor, "Have I ever struck you as a man of limited sense or fantastical imaginings?"

 

"Of course not," I cried in astonishment, "Why you have always been the very model of good judgment and sound medical advice. Remember the case from Dover, when the gentleman..."

 

Greyson interrupted me in a manner which I should have thought quite rude at any other time. "Then what would you say if I told you that I have seen a ghost?"

 

I halted my steps and stood flabbergasted, my mouth hanging open in a very model of pathetic idiocy. Greyson took several steps past me in his haste, then returned to seize me once again and pull me forward.

 

"Come on Watson, you really must see." His voice sounded almost pleading as he continued, "So that I am quite sure I have not gone mad!"

 

My heart hammered as I followed my companion into the hospital's dark depths. Little light was spared to illuminate the lower halls, used as they were for only the laundry and the dead, and I must admit that my spirits sank in the presence of such echoing gloom. A chill breeze seemed to emanate from the walls themselves, and I found myself shivering as we raced onward toward our goal.

 

We reached the blistered and scared doors which marked the entrance to the morgue and autopsy room- the last resting place save Potter's Field for many of London's unclaimed and unloved dead. I myself had only entered this dark and neglected realm on three previous occasions; each time in the company of various orderlies and attendants, and during the hours of strong daylight.

 

Greyson threw open the doors and stepped into the room, fumbling immediately for the lowered gas jet as he did. The jet flared to more vigorous life, and I saw his head turn towards the huddled gurneys which I knew from experience stood in the center of the room. My view of the chamber was all but blocked by my colleague's broad shoulders, and so I was shocked when a high, womanish scream burst from his throat.

 

"There, oh there!" he cried, pointing with a shaking hand to something I could not see, "Whatever do you make of it Watson? Surely I am going mad!"

 

Terrified but resolute, I pushed aside my trembling friend and shouldered my way into the room of the dead.

 

I gasped as I saw what had so horrified my colleague; a body sat upright on the floor at the end of the nearest gurney, leaning back against the metal with arms and legs neatly crossed. The corpse was male, and dressed in clothing which made him unmistakably the "toff" of Jo's earlier tale.

 

"Oh Watson, I fear my senses are deceived," Greyson nearly moaned. "Is that man dead or is he not?"

 

I hurried to the side of the seated cadaver, ignoring the sheet draped gurneys and their contents, and knelt. My quivering fingers seized the cold wrist, and I felt in vain for the heart's sonorous beat.

 

"He is quite dead," I said in amazement, "but why ever is he seated in such an undignified fashion? Is this some sort of a ghoulish prank?" I stood and made my way back to the doctor's side as he shook his head in wonder and fear. "You do not know? Then, as my friend Holmes is wont to say, let us begin at the beginning. What happened when you came to retrieve your cuff links?"

 

"Let us leave his awful presence first," Greyson said pleadingly, "The autopsy room will serve just as well, and there are chairs there besides."

 

Willingly I led the way through the morgue to the autopsy room beyond, and seated myself on a convenient stool.

 

Apparently comforted by the thick wooden door of the autopsy room which now stood between himself and the recently departed, Greyson took a deep breath, then mastered his fear and plunged onward.

 

"When I realized that I had left my cuff links on the body of a patient I was quite dismayed," he began. "They were a gift from my wife, and she would be dreadfully hurt if I should lose them."

 

I nodded my understanding, remembering all too well how protective my Mary, God rest her soul, had been of her own small gifts to me.

 

"I went immediately to retrieve them, but when I reached the morgue, the doors opened and out stepped no other than the man who's unfortunate remains you have just examined!"

 

My shock and disbelief must have shown on my face, causing my companion to nod violently.

 

"It was him, I swear it was! He staggered at the door, and my cuff links fell to the floor at his feet. As I bent to scoop them up, I heard him say "Help me, as you are a doctor and a Christian, help me in the name of God!"

 

Greyson appeared quite ill, and I began to rise when he gestured me back.

 

"I am only shaken," he said, "Let me finish this cursed account."

 

I held out my hands placatingly and he began again.

 

"I could not help him Watson. His appearance had so unmanned me that I could only stare for a moment, as if in a dream. When I was able I ran, like the very devils in hell were chasing me. The rest you know."

 

"And you are sure that he was dead when you sent him with Jo?" I asked carefully.

 

"As sure as I have ever been," he replied. "He was cool and grey when he arrived. There was no heartbeat, no breath. He did not respond to the cut of a scalpel on his toe, nor to my efforts to force his lungs to inflate." The doctor thought carefully for a moment, "An orderly brought him in, said that the poor man was almost thrown from a carriage into his arms. The driver then whipped up the horses and sped away."

 

"And yet you then saw him alive, standing in the hallway?"

 

"It was him, alive as you say, or in spirit," Greyson asserted strongly, squaring his shoulders for a moment, then sagging again onto his own stool. "At least, I thought it was a spirit, until we returned to find him seated so queerly on the floor. Tell me man, did I see a ghost, or am I growing so feeble-minded that I send the living to the morgue, only so that they can die there?"

 

Awash in confusion, I felt I needed a moment alone to reflect on all that I had heard.

 

"Doctor," I said stoutly, "Won't you step up to your study and fetch us a spot of whisky? I fear the shock and this chill may do us both a mischief without a bit of warmth."

 

"A capital idea my dear fellow," Greyson said, obviously glad for any opportunity to momentarily escape such gloomy climes. Some small amount of color returned to his face. "I won't be a moment. Will you be quite all right here alone?"

 

I nodded. While I did not relish the idea of being left alone with so ghastly a companion, I did require stillness to absorb the facts and arrange them in a meaningful fashion. All too often Holmes had said that I saw, but did not observe; some small and niggardly part of my soul relished this opportunity to solve a mystery such as this without his intervention.

 

Greyson departed, the tread of his boots on the tiled floor muted by the oppressive and pervasive gloom. When the last echo of his passage had faded, I rose and began to pace about the room.

 

As I struggled to marshal my wandering thoughts into a workable hypothesis, I gradually became aware of a sound from the morgue, almost utterly muffled by my steps. I realized instantly that Greyson could not have returned so quickly, and froze where I stood.

 

The sound continued; a low, slithering which chilled me to the marrow of my bones. I shuddered as images of walking corpses and horrible African rituals filled my mind.

 

Before I could lose my nerve utterly, I sprang for the door. Unfortunately, the tumblers had stiffened with age and it took my slippery hands more than an instant to find purchase on the ancient relic of a doorknob.

 

Turning the clanking metal at last, I dashed into the room prepared to do battle, then stopped and gasped in horror at the sight which lay before me.

 

Sprawled on the floor some ten feet from where he had sat lay the body of the "toff".

 

My astonishment knew no bounds as I rushed to the side of the unfortunate gentlemen and scrambled frantically, feeling for the great vessels of his neck.

 

Below my fingers the jugular vein and carotid artery lay still and dormant, and the fleshy envelope which had contained a human being remained cold and devoid of life. It was then that my teeth began to chatter with fear, and I felt great rivers of cold sweat streaming down my tightly knotted back.

 

"What game is this?" I cried to the empty room. "Is anyone there?" There was no reply from the body at my feet, or from the covered shapes on the chamber's three gurneys

 

Despite my normally solid nature, I found myself recalling and re-examining every story of devil cults and wailing specters that I had ever had the misfortune of hearing. I found to my dismay that the veracity of these stories was not longer a laughing matter.

 

With a grunt of effort I forced myself to drag the body back to the side of the gurney, quickly re-establishing it in it's former seated position. It would not do to have Greyson return and see the corpse in fresh disarray; I feared that the sight atop his earlier fright might bring on a bout of brain-fever.

 

Having propped the corpse to my satisfaction, I again returned to the autopsy room, closing the door solidly behind me. To my shame, I must admit that my nerves quivered and my heart raced as I kept my lonely vigil, waiting silently for Greyson's return without further thought of solving any mystery to which I might be party.

 

It might have been an hour, or only a quarter of that time when I heard the outer door of the morgue open. There were several muffled thumps, and then I listened as the portal swung shut once more.

 

"Greyson, is that you man?" I cried tremulously when I could stand the silence no longer.

 

There was no answer, and I found myself casting frantically about the room for a large, heavy object which should serve as a cudgel should the need arise.

 

Another breathless and indeterminate block of time passed, and I listened as the door clanged open yet again.

 

I scarcely had time to rise from my stool when Greyson's voice rang from the outer room.

 

"Watson, are you there? Come quickly!"

 

Moving as rapidly as I could, I threw open the door to the autopsy room and dashed into the morgue.

 

Greyson stood at the doorway; his face white and drawn.

 

"Where is he, Watson? What have you done with him?" he asked in dismay. "Oh tell me you have him in the other room!"

 

I shook my head slowly as I stared in confusion at the empty patch of floor where the corpse had sat. The body was entirely gone.

 

I caught my companion as the strength fled from his legs, and assisted him to seat himself on the edge of an empty gurney, pushing the sheet to the floor.

 

As rapidly as possibly I conveyed to the shaking doctor the things I had heard since his departure, but even together we could make neither heads nor tails of such ghoulish carousing. Faced with our ignorance, and speculating wildly on body-snatchings and demonic possessions, we returned to the upper corridors and availed ourselves of a stiff drink.

 

Three-quarters of an hour passed, and my nerves had once again returned to their accustomed placidity before I roused myself to return to Baker Street.

 

"Perhaps Holmes can make something of this," I said in utter defeat as we stood again at the wide front door, "but I cannot. Shall I call his attention to..."

 

"Oh no, Watson, you cannot relay these events further," Greyson said in alarm. "Surely it was a prank of some sort, or a mistake of enormous proportion. Whatever the case, surely you can see how further investigation could only prove detrimental to my character and reputation. The man is quite dead, and unless a loved one has been deprived of a body, I cannot see how further harm can come to either him or his family. Let it alone my friend, please."

 

Unwillingly I nodded. "But if a loved one does come forth, searching for this poor man, you will speak of what we saw tonight?"

 

Greyson nodded frantic agreement. "Certainly my dear Watson, without a moments hesitation. But if no one comes forth, then this night becomes naught but a fading memory."

 

I nodded again, and the poor fellow shook my hand with such enthusiasm that I feared it might be pulled from my wrist.

 

"Call on me next week," Greyson said pleadingly, "And I shall treat you to a dinner at my club the likes of which you have never seen. Thank you Watson, oh thank you!"

 

Embarrassed now at such fulsomeness, I made my departure with almost unseemly haste. After a  moments frantic hailing, I found myself safely ensconced in a cab bound for Baker Street.

 

 

 

Chapter 2   Revelations

 

My shoulder ached abominably and my feet were leaden as I mounted the stairs to the rooms which Holmes and I shared. To my delight, Holmes had returned from his errand, and a cheerful fire blazed on the hearth.

 

"Ah, Watson," cried Holmes as I entered, "I see you have been to the hospital to resolve a crisis, but you did not visit a patient. I am sorry that your efforts with Doctor Greyson were in vain."

 

I stood in astonishment, my tired wits unable once again befuddled by Holmes' uncanny sight.

 

"By God, man" I stammered, "you are lucky they do not hang you for a witch! How in the deuce did you know that?" I sank heavily into my own chair, basking in the sudden warmth.

 

With a laugh, Holmes tossed me my slippers, chuckling still more as I fumbled my boots from my grateful feet.

 

"Deduction, Watson, simple deduction," he said, returning to his own seat. "Earlier today you told me in detail of your aching muscles and weary bones, assuring me that nothing could rouse you from this very fire. Yet when I returned a moment ago, you were gone, and your dressing gown had been tossed upon the floor. For a military man to neglect his dress and health in such a shameful fashion, he must be faced with a crisis indeed. You did not leave a note, nor did you take your bankbook from the drawer. Your family is in Scotland, so any unfortunate event could not have come from that direction, as it would have required you to obtain sufficient funds for travel. You are not in the habit of taking on my urgent cases in my absence, therefore, the crisis was one at the hospital."

 

"But you knew that I did not see a patient, and that Greyson called me?" I said.

 

"You did not take your medical bag; there it sits behind the door," Holmes said, languorously stretching. "And any physician other than Doctor Greyson would have summoned Greyson himself to the hospital to intervene in a crisis. He is the hospital director, after all."

 

I snorted softly. "And that our work was in vain?"

 

"Your tread on the stairs, my dear Watson, spoke volumes to my ear. Has you been successful, your steps would have been light and your pace rapid as you hurried back to share your tale."

 

"I fear you are right in every respect," I exclaimed, "and I've had a fine scare to boot." Without further prompting, I conveyed to Holmes the salient facts of my evening. His shoulders began to shake softly as I recalled my growing fear, and I finished my story only to find the wretched man engulfed with paroxysms of laughter!

 

"Oh Watson, you ass," he chortled, "As usual you have let your emotions deprive you of the truth."

 

"What truth is that?" I asked, growing quite heated.

 

"That the man, the "toff" as you describe him, was never dead at all."

 

"Come now, Holmes," I sputtered angrily, "I believe I do know death when I see it; I am a medical doctor you know."

 

Holmes sighed and steepled his chin on his fingers. "I'm sure that you are Watson. May I ask a question?"

 

"Go on," I said curtly. The cheek of the man!

 

"How was the "body" conveyed to the morgue?"

 

"By gurney, of course."

 

"Could you once again describe to me the condition of the gurneys you found when you first entered the chamber?"

 

"Really Holmes!" I snarled, "They had bodies on them; it is a morgue after all."

 

"Three bodies on three gurneys, in addition to the man seated on the floor?" Holmes smiled questioningly.

 

"Yes. Holmes, will you tell me what you are getting at?"

 

"You see but you do not observe Watson. Where did you assist Doctor Greyson to sit, when he discovered that the "corpse", if I may call him by so incorrect a name, was missing?"

 

Furious at his pedantic manner of speech, I turned my chair with a solid thump to face my inquisitor more directly.

 

"I helped him to sit on the edge of a gurney! I've already told you that!"

 

"On a body?"

 

"My God man, of course not! The gurney was empty...." The silence stretched out between us like a razor's edge.

 

"The gurney was empty," I whispered. "When Greyson came back, the gurney was empty! It was a body snatcher then!" I shouted, and stared at Holmes with confusion, "But how did you know?"

 

Holmes leaned back in his chair, shaking his head and smiling like a cat which has gotten into the cream. "I, of all people, should know, as it was I who hid under the sheet on the third gurney, and it was I who snatched, to use a vulgar term, the body in question."

 

 

 

Chapter 3   Revenge

 

"What?" I cried, "Holmes, body snatching? And causing me such a fright? I should hope you are prepared to explain yourself!"

 

"There is not quite so much to explain," Holmes said cheerfully. "Mister Otto Conrad, the "corpse" of your earlier acquaintance, is even now alive and well on board a fast ship bound for Australia."

 

"But how? What?" I managed to stammer angrily.

 

"Mister Conrad came to me earlier today; he was in fact the cause of my after-dinner errand. It seems that while in Haiti on business he had run afoul of some planters who claimed to use "zombies", or the living dead, to labor in their fields. Mister Conrad loudly doubted the existence of such creatures, and began to cause these planters quite some problems as he attempted to rouse and release their captive labor force."

 

"But whatever did they do to him?" I asked breathlessly, intrigued by the tale despite my fury at Holmes cavalier treatment of my terror.

 

Holmes brushed casually at an invisible spec on his dressing gown lapel. "They informed him that he should see, first hand, what it was to be a zombie. With that, he quickly packed his bags to return to London, but unfortunately, fell prey to a mysterious illness and died the next evening, or so it seemed."

 

"They had attacked him?" I asked.

 

"They had poisoned him, with the powder they use to send those unfortunates who labor in the fields into a deathless trance," said Holmes. "Fortunately for Mister Conrad, his belongings were packed and his faithful man-servant Jeremy, who knew something of his master's plight, immediately placed his "body" onto the next ship bound for England; remaining with him at all times."

 

Holmes chuckled ruefully, "Ah Watson, what I wouldn't have given to have seen poor Jeremy's expression when his hopes were realized and his dead master awoke!"

 

"But Holmes, how did he get to the hospital?"

 

"Unbeknownst to Jeremy, when the planters realized that their evil plans for Conrad had been thwarted, they sent a spy along on the boat. He was to poison the man again when the ship reached England, and bring him back to Haiti in yet another coffin. Conrad suspected they would try such a thing, however, and came to me in order to prevent it."

 

"The hospital, Holmes!" I cried, wild with impatience.

 

"Mister Conrad and I had secured a carriage, and we were heading to the waterfront, where I had  booked his passage on the Henrietta Brook, a schooner bound for Australia. I was driving when his would-be kidnapper galloped up on horseback, fired a small dart tipped with the dreadful zombie mixture through the window and struck the man on the arm. I pulled the villainous thing away, but I was too late; the effect was instantaneous."

 

Holmes shrugged, "I knew he would be safe at the hospital for a brief period, so I whipped up the horse before our astonished assailant could react, threw Mister Conrad's seemingly dead body into the arms of an unlucky orderly, and dashed away towards the docks. There, I gained a greater lead on my pursuer and threw myself from the carriage as the entire rig plunged into the river."

 

I stared at him in amazement as he smiled. "I'm afraid that by the time my Haitian friend reached the waterfront, he was faced with a crowd of onlookers and the terrible news that a runaway horse and carriage had taken their passengers to a watery grave."

 

"And then you called up another cab, and returned to the hospital," I said flatly.

 

"Indeed," Holmes said. "I reached the morgue after Mr. Conrad awakened, and he told me of the scare he had given Doctor Greyson. Unfortunately, a bit of the dart remained in his arm, and as we attempted to depart, he once again fell victim to its narcoleptic effects."

 

"Then it was you who seated him so queerly on the floor!" I cried.

 

"He had collapsed again, and I did not have time to carry him from the room before I heard Doctor Greyson returning, with you unexpectedly at his heels. As discovery by anyone could have put the Haitian back on our trail, I leaned my helpless friend as you found him, and draped myself in the sheet atop his abandoned gurney."

 

"And when Greyson departed, you took the body away to the waiting cab," I sighed.

 

"But of course, my dear Watson," Holmes chuckled. "Though it really was a shame to leave a grown man so frightened by ghosts!" With that, Holmes burst into peals of laughter.

 

"Really Holmes!" I snarled, "I do not find this at all amusing. Surely you could have revealed yourself to me after Greyson returned to his office?" I found to my dismay that my hands were trembling and my voice quavered from the strength of my emotion.

 

"And destroyed your belief in spirits?" Holmes said, struggling to contain himself. "I only wish I could have seen your face as you sprang into the room prepared to battle the living dead!" Tears of mirth poured down his narrow face as he succumbed once again to frivolity.

 

I sat in stunned and furious silence for a moment, contemplating the chance of smashing my fist into Holmes' hawklike nose. Blinded by rage, at last I could contain myself no longer and I leapt from my chair.

 

"Damn you Holmes," I cried, shoving him solidly back into the chair. "I shan't be made a figure of fun by you or anyone else!"

 

Holmes face assumed a look of benign puzzlement and he wiped away his tears of mirth. "Why Watson, I believe you're angry," he said in mild wonder. "You've shoved me."

 

I felt my blood heat still more at such a bland return, and for a moment feared that I was to have an attack of apoplexy.

 

"Angry?" I cried. "Angry? Holmes, I am not merely angry, I am murderous!"

 

With that, the last of his joviality drained away and he stood to face me.

 

"Surely Watson, you cannot mean..."

 

"I mean that I will tolerate no more of your sneering insults," I shouted, fists clenching. "For years I have smiled dimly while you belittled my writing, my common sense, and my intellect. Now, for you to laugh at me as if I were a child scared of goblins, I won't have it!"

 

Holmes attempted to say something, but in my rage I was beyond hearing. Had I been in cold blood I would not have allowed my next words to escape my lips.

 

"You may jeer at my cowardice, though I have stood with you many times when lesser men would have fled," I spat. "But I am comforted by the fact that while my fear of the walking dead is shared by most of Christendom, your fears are not likely to be found outside Bedlam!"

 

Holmes face went white, and the strength seemed to flow from his legs. He sat heavily on the edge of the chair.

 

"And what fears would those be Doctor?" he asked with deceptive calmness.

 

I blush now to recall my actions, but my anger had overwhelmed all bounds of friendship or decency. I leaned forward and drew my palm gently along the side of his face, sneering as he closed his eyes and shrank back into the chair.

 

"Your fear of simple human touch," I said coldly. "If I had been a woman and done that, you would even now be flying for the door. Your neurotic avoidance of women, and of the pleasures every red-blooded Englishman seeks in their company, has never been un-noticed."

 

Holmes winced at my harsh words, and covered his mouth with one pale hand.

 

"Watson, I..."

 

I interrupted him rudely. "Say what you like Holmes, it remains true." I laughed and straightened my coat, triumphant in my efforts to wound the man as he had wounded me. "You hide from the company of the fairer sex, and content yourself with noting my every flaw as if you were a long-suffering husband and I your dim-witted wife..."

 

My words trailed off at Holmes gasp of indrawn breath. His face had assumed a waxen pallor, and he struggled to loosen his collar.

 

"Holmes!" I cried with sinking heart, "are you all right?" I bent to take his wrist and he drew away violently.

 

"Do not touch me!" he gasped. With an effort he rose, knocking his chair over in his haste to be away. 

 

I stood gaping as he retreated to his bedchamber, slamming the door in his wake. My blood chilled at such a display from a man such as Holmes. Slowly I righted his toppled chair, moving as if in a fog.

 

Sinking back into my own chair, I groaned aloud. Had I really mentioned Bedlam? Burying my face in my hands, I tried desperately to recall what else I had said to cause such a ghastly effect. Surely he could not be so sensitive to mention of his avoidance of women? And even he must realize that at times our relationship was that of...

 

...of...

 

...oh my Lord, of...

 

... a husband and wife.

 

I swallowed heavily.

 

A flood of images washed over me, images which I had denied or downplayed even as they happened. Holmes taking my hand for comfort, seeking my touch though he avoided all others. Holmes playing the violin as I listened raptly. Holmes dismay at my marriage. With a sinking heart, I forced myself to acknowledge where my words had come from, and why they had struck true.

 

I groaned again, feeling as if I had been called to stitch a head wound, and had removed the head instead. I was lost, and drowning in a sea of remorse, disgust, and dismay. How could I have been so deliberately blind for so long? Had I truly believed that actual inversion was beyond even Holmes' appetite for queer mannerisms and deviant behavior?

 

I remembered with crystal clarity Holmes high color and stammering manner the first time we attended the Turkish baths together. Had I not teased him, pulling away his towel and literally leading him into the steaming water, over his feeble protestations? How many times had I sat before him in my dressing gown and slippers, or leaned against him on a train, seeking a comfortable position in which to sleep? I scrubbed my face with my palms, suddenly all too aware that the majority of my actions would have given Holmes no reason to doubt that his affections were tolerated, if not returned. My cheeks reddened as I realized I had, in the depths of my soul, enjoyed his awkward flirtations, as if they had been a schoolboy crush.

 

I was denied further time for reflection by the sound of Holmes' door striking the wall with a crash. He stood for a moment, framed in the doorway, then strode to my cherished. If I live to be 100, I shall never forget the absolute whiteness of his face, relieved only by two hectic spots of color which flamed on his cheeks. I stood as he reached me.

 

"Go ahead Holmes," I muttered in shame, "Hit me old man. I more than deserve it." I squared my chin manfully, prepared for the blow.

 

His grey eyes were cold as coffin nails as he stared into my face. He stood shivering, as if controlling his anger only with some effort, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. "I shan't strike you, Doctor Watson," Holmes said at last, "That would involve touching you, which I choose not to do." With a grimace, he turned and stalked to his own chair.

 

"Holmes, for God's sake!" I burst out, "I did not mean to..."

 

"I do not think it matters at this point what you meant," Holmes said coldly. "I shall expect you to be packed and out of my house within two days." He crossed his legs and steepled his fingers, peering at me over their tips.

 

I sat down as if my bones had turned to lead. "Holmes, surely you don't mean to say..."

 

"I mean exactly what I have said Doctor," Holmes thundered. "Your disgust at my nature has become quite evident, and I cannot believe that you would wish to continue sharing rooms with a potential Bedlamite!" His fist smashed into the small chairside table, shattering it, as he rose from his seat and began to pace about the room.

 

I gasped in dismay as the wildness of his steps increased.

 

"Holmes, for the love of God, can we not discuss this like reasonable men?" I cried, standing to interrupt his frenzied stride.

 

"Stand aside Doctor, there is nothing to discuss," Holmes snapped. He stood before me vibrating with fury, and he seized my shoulders in his strong, thin hands. "Unless you need further proof that, for once, your reasoning has been accurate. Shall I kiss you and confirm your one moment of brilliant deduction Doctor?"

 

I writhed as his fingers clenched the nerves of my injured shoulder; the pain making my knees feel weak and great drops stand out on my forehead.

 

"Your anger is proof enough," I whispered in agony. "Why did you never discuss your feelings with me?"

 

"What should I have said Doctor?" Holmes roared, "That I wished to be your Catamite?" He squeezed more tightly with each word, and I felt the world began to dissolve in shades of grey.

 

"...Holmes," I heard myself mutter as I fell.

 

There was darkness, and then nothing.