A DOGGED MEMORY
by elfin

Part Five - The Festivities


Of all the strange events at Baskerville Hall, the festivities on the
night of Christmas Eve were the most disturbing.

Henry had planned a magnificent party for that night.  He'd employed
the services of a small band of actors and musicians to provide the
entertainment, a generous sum of money for a sumptuous spread of food,
and had stocked the cellar with expensive wine and brandy.

Holmes remained elusive for most of the morning, finding me in the
kitchen around lunchtime.  He'd been about to inform me of his next
move when Henry returned from gathering holly branches from the Hall's
extensive grounds.

"Which do you prefer for Christmas dinner, Mr Holmes?" he asked with
great cheer.  "Turkey or goose?"

"Alas, my preference is of no consequence."  I glanced at him,
confused.  But Henry got there first.

"And why would that be?"  His tone was playful, but Holmes' next
sentence wiped the smile from his face, and from mine.

"Because Watson and I must return to London."

Over the years, a great many of his sudden plans had come as surprises
to me, and I had gone along with them as if I'd known exactly what was
in his complex mind.  But this was more of a shock, and it was
exceedingly difficult to keep my ignorance from showing, especially
given the intimate friendship I enjoyed with Henry.

Our client was not yet out of danger, no matter what Holmes would have
him believe, and my concern for his safety was great.  But there was
always motive behind these plans, even if at times it was as illusive
as Holmes himself.

Our host turned to us.  "When must you leave?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Christmas Day?  There are no trains, surely?"

There was one, apparently; the milk train which left early.  Henry was
obviously upset, and Holmes tried to placate him by promising that I
would leave my things by way of a pledge that I would return to him.

His words 'he will return to you' had an odd quality about them.  Long
ago I'd sworn myself to Holmes' side, and it was he I was eventually
looking to return to, and our rooms in Baker Street.  Whatever Henry
meant to me and I to him, it would always pale in comparison with what
Holmes and I were to one another.  I firmly believed that.

For a brief moment, I felt as one sold into companionship against my will.

But I shook the notion from my head immediately.  It was ridiculous,
and Holmes was only trying to cheer Henry up.  He assured our host
that we wouldn't miss the night's festivities for the world, and that
at least served to put a smile on the handsome face.

~~~

Dr Mortimer kindly arranged suitable dress for Holmes and myself.

When I joined the party to find Holmes already surveying the early
arrivals, I couldn't help but stare for several long moments.  His
golden waistcoat and matching bow tie set off the blond of his hair
and the result was breathtaking.

I'd always considered him to be an attractive man, but there was
something in his countenance that night that bordered on the sensual.

Gathering my wits about me, I put on a smile and strode over to him.

"Watson!"  He clapped my arm warmly, the contact doing very little for
my composure.  "An excellent party for sure."

I could only agree.

Looking around for Henry, I saw him at the door, welcoming his guests
like the perfect host.  He'd hung a sprig of mistletoe over the
entrance to the ballroom, and was stealing kisses from all the women
who happened, by design, to pass under it.

It made me smile to realise that he used the same public courtesies to
hide his true nature, in the way that I did.  It made life so much
easier, although I admit that there were times I envied Holmes his
carefree attitude regarding society's opinions of him.

Turning to Holmes, I was about to question him on the reasons for our
impromptu trip to London, when I heard Stapleton's unmistakable voice
project into the festivities.  Before now, he had simply been another
figure in this drama.  But Holmes had named him as our man, and my
view of him was very much changed.

"So kind of you to invite us into your home, Sir Henry," he was
saying, while all the time hanging back and letting his sister be the
focus of Henry's attention.  I was drawn to watch him when our host
kissed Miss Stapleton's cheek with the same chastity as he had Mrs
Mortimer's.  And what I saw on his face amazed me.  He was annoyed.
But not, I thought, at Henry taking advantage, more the opposite.
That he wasn't.

Was the devil was Stapleton up to?

Glancing up, I meant to ask Holmes that very question.

That was when I saw my friend's dark expression, and realised that I'd
seen that very same look before.  The afternoon I'd departed from
Baker Street, and noted the darkness in Holmes' eyes.  I recognised it
now.  He was afraid.

It was so incredibly unlike him to fear anything, let alone the one
man he'd already unmasked as our adversary, that I couldn't help
myself.  I laid my hand on his arm and asked him if he was all right.

But he didn't answer me.

I let my hand drop as Stapleton approached, and was relieved to see at
least a partial mask fall into place over Holmes' initial expression.

"Mr Holmes," Stapleton reached out, took my friend's hand and shook it
without any aid from Holmes himself.  "I have a confession to make.
You positively fascinate me.  For such a man as yourself to rise to
the lofty heights from which you look down upon us all is indeed rare."

His words baffled me.  For scarcely has an insult ever been so thinly
disguised as a complement.  Holmes said nothing, only withdrew his
hand as soon as he was able without seeming to be rude.

Stapleton went on to admire my friend's skull, of all things, and to
ask if he may touch it!  Of course, Holmes denied him, in the
strongest possible terms and, thank the Lord, Henry's introduction of
the entertainment saved us from further intercourse.

I noticed, as a man dressed as a knight welcomed in to the room
possibly the ugliest Santa Claus I'd ever laid eyes on, that Holmes
had moved to stand quite close to me, putting a small distance between
himself and Stapleton.

He kept dark grey eyes trained on the performance, and a smile set on
his lips.  I, in turn, watched his unwanted admirer, who turned his
head periodically to gaze for a moment upon Holmes' face.  I did
nothing to hide my distrust of him, or of his intentions toward my
friend, and later on Henry would inform me that my stance was highly
proprietary.

It had indeed been my intention to allow Stapleton no closer to
Holmes, for something was disturbing the usual balance and focus of
that great mind and I did not care to see it.

As the performance reached a climax, Holmes turned, caught my eye and
smiled, before vanishing out of room.  He would be gone for some time,
I knew of old, doing whatever it was he needed to do to gather the
evidence he required.

I made it my duty to keep a close watch on Stapleton for the rest of
the evening.  Whatever Holmes was up to, it was this man he was trying
to catch.  I will admit that it amused me greatly when Stapleton next
turned to find the object of his attentions gone from sight.

He looked at me questioningly, but I simply smiled at him.  'You will
not lay a finger on him,' I thought to myself, 'I will make sure of that.'

Never have I been so wrong.

~~~

(This next section I write with Holmes' consent, although I will omit
some details.  He lies with me, his hand in my left as I scrawl the
words with my right.)

Stapleton vanished from my sight only moments after the performance
ended.  The room formed itself into lines of merry dancers, and I
couldn't spot him anywhere.

There is a side entrance to the Hall, off a narrow corridor next to
the kitchen that leads out to the dark walk.  As I passed the end of
this corridor, I felt a sudden chill of cold upon me and I heard
Stapleton's voice raised in threat.

I turned, meaning to rush to the rescue of whomever was baring the
abuse.  But when I saw the two of them, I stopped dead in my tracks.

Stapleton was looming over a man whose back was pressed to the wall of
the house.  He was standing closer than was acceptable, one arm bent
against the stone, the other free.  Standing, trapped beneath the
taller man, was my own Sherlock Holmes.

I was well hidden, for there was no light in the corridor, and they
were under the lamp burning just outside.  I did not call out, for the
situation didn't warrant it and besides, my voice was caught in my
throat.  Instead, rightly or wrongly, I turned voyeur.

Stapleton's other hand was roaming over Holmes' shoulder, down his arm
and back up, to touch his cheek in the same manner that Henry had
touched mine that first night.  But Stapleton's expression wasn't one
of affection.  He was sneering, his words dripping from his twisted
mouth.  And although I couldn't hear them now, I knew that the
exchange wasn't a friendly one.

I must have remained there for several minutes, watching them, all
sorts of notions going through my mind at what connection could
possibly be between them.

Suddenly, whatever was happening escalated.  Stapleton leaned in and
without warning, forced himself upon Holmes.  He gripped my friend's
jaw in one strong hand, tilted his head upwards and pressed their lips
together in an obscene parody of a kiss.

I was about to call out - enough was enough - when Holmes pushed
Stapleton away with all his strength.

The man stumbled back, and Holmes ducked under his arm and walked
hurriedly back inside.  I quickly moved into the kitchen, and so
distracted was he that he didn't spot me.

I waited, my mind whirling, until Stapleton too came inside.  The urge
to hit him was so overwhelming that I remained in my hiding place for
some time, until I had myself under control.

When I rejoined the party I was relieved, if sickened, to see
Stapleton dancing with Mrs Mortimer as if nothing had happened.
Holmes was nowhere to be found.

~~~

It was late when Stapleton found me in the games room, setting up the
pool table.  Truth be told, I wanted to take the cue to him and stick
it somewhere highly private and inevitably painful, but I resisted and
simply adopted a blithe attitude to his agitated state.

"Where's Holmes?"

Just that beloved name on those foul lips brought forth murderous
thoughts.

"Probably in his room," I replied casually.  "Parties aren't really
his thing.  How about a game?"

He stared at me for a moment, incredulous as if I'd asked him to
perform some monumental act of kindness.  "I don't play."

"I could teach you."

"I don't want to play."

I was annoying him, and I took a perverse joy in it.  "Let me show you
some trick shots."

"I'm not interested in trick shots!  I wanted to speak to Holmes."  He
turned, and almost walked into the man in question.

There was a marked change now in the balance between them.  Holmes had
indeed been absent for a good hour or two, and although I knew nothing
of where he'd been, I was able to make a shrewd guess to at least one
of his actions.

The cocaine had allowed him to recover his self-possession, and for
that alone I was grateful.  I watched him, and couldn't help the
shiver of arousal as he lit a cigarette between his dry lips.

"A word of advice," he murmured, (and if this wasn't proof of his
drug-taking, nothing was) sidling up to Stapleton although not looking
at him, "never play Watson, especially for money."  He glanced at me
momentarily and smiled conspiratorially.  "He's an absolute demon."

Tossing away the match, he crossed the room.  "What did you want with
me?" he asked, his back to the other man.  He was already taking a
coin from his pocket, his interest in Stapleton gone.

The invitation to Merripit House for drinks the following day
obviously came as no surprise to Holmes, and he answered with only
slight sarcasm that our services were required in France and we would
be leaving for London early in the morning.

He won the toss, and taking up his cue he pocketed a ball with his
breaking shot.  Stapleton must have left us, but I admit to having no
recollection of his leaving.  For my senses were filled with Holmes,
and it was all I could do not to stare when he bent over the table to
line up his shot.

~~~

fin part five