A DOGGED MEMORY
by elfin

Part Three - Mr Sherlock Holmes


I spent Saturday perusing maps of Dartmoor, and of the immediate
area surrounding Baskerville Hall.  Mrs Barrymore, whom I was
beginning to treasure as much as our own Mrs Hudson, brought me a
light afternoon tea of home-made scones and jam and a pot of Assam.

Henry was otherwise engaged, elsewhere in the house.  He had
discovered that a great deal of his time had to be devoted to
understanding the costs of maintaining the Hall.

It rained mercilessly for most of the day, but lightened to a drizzle
just after three, and an hour later I took it upon myself to
investigate the silhouette I'd seen up on the Tor the previous night.

It was a fair climb against the moderate wind, and I was panting for
breath when I eventually reached the top.

There were a couple of standing stones, some ruins of what looked like
it might once have been a simple dwelling, and an outhouse of sorts.
A brick structure with a tin roof that might have been placed there to
make a crude shelter.  Revolver drawn, imagining this to be the
hideout of the convict Seldon, I waited with my back against the outer
wall, listening for telltale sounds that would mean my quarry was inside.

But all I could hear was the wind on the moor.  Trapped in the mines -
Stapleton had said - where it howled like a pained animal.

I wasn't sure if I believed him or not.

Cautiously, I stepped around the wall and into the shelter.  There
were bottles, pans and signs of an extinguished fire.  I picked up a
green glass bottle and sniffed the contents.  Brandy.  To give myself
a little Dutch courage, I took a swig.

There was a crack of twigs somewhere away to my right, and immediately
I put the bottle down and readied myself for confrontation.  I waited.
  And so did he.

"Watson, it's exceedingly cold out here.  May I come inside without
you shooting me?"

That beloved voice, its ironic bass and slight timbre of humour, was
more familiar to me than my own.

"Holmes!"  Sheathing my revolver, I stared at him as he stepped wryly
around the stone wall and grinned at me.  He was unshaven, his dark
blond hair windswept and oddly free from its usual strict styling.  He
wore a long, black winter coat over thick trousers, woollen waistcoat
and white cotton shirt.  "Holmes... how long have you been out here?"

His expression turned to that which he used when he knew I was going
to be angry with him.  I could never keep up the pretence of vexation
for too long, but at the moment, I realised that I had been but a pawn
in a game I knew nothing about.

He did his best to explain, tried to flatter me regarding the fine,
clinical detailing of the reports I had been sending, which he'd had
sent on to Grimpen from Baker Street.  But I was furious with him, and
I told him so.

Still, it was so good to see him, to have him close by once again.
And then, in a flash, I saw Henry and I in bed together.  All the
time, Holmes had been out here, cold and wet, with only our client's
safety in his mind.

Guilt fired my anger to a new level, and I was about to turn on my
best friend when we heard a blood-curdling scream.

(Holmes is reading over my shoulder yet again.  'I do wish you
wouldn't embellish so, Watson.  What could possibly be blood-curdling
about a mere human sound?'  I brush him off, sending him out for the
evening papers so that I may be left along to continue.)

We ran down the steep hill, following the sounds of the cries that
were, I swear, terrible to hear.  They were the cries of a desperate man.

To find Henry's top hat was bad enough.  When I saw what we believed
at first to be his body, lying face down in the mud at the base of a
shallow valley, my heart sank.  Henry may not have been the man to
whom my heart and soul belonged, but still I loved him, and what we
had shared meant a great deal to me.

He had been ripped to shreds and I knew that it had been the hound,
the myth we'd all dismissed as nonsense.

I obviously blamed myself, but Holmes shook his head.  "It's my fault.
  In order to solve a case I've thrown away the life of my client."
There was a sadness in his voice that I'd not heard before, and it
puzzled me.  As much as his expression did when he looked at me with
so much sympathy in his eyes.  "I am so sorry...."

He trailed off, looking back at the body and slowly, awfully, starting
to laugh.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.  The fury returned, fuelled by
grief, and when I spoke it was with the barest hint of hatred.
"Holmes, are you mad?"

He glanced at me, relief surely flooding him.  "Look at his hands,
Watson!"  I didn't understand.  "It's Seldon!  The convict!"

"But... these are Henry's clothes...."  I closed in on the body,
turning the blood-soaked hand in my fingers.  There, clear through the
sticky scarlet liquid, was the tattoo of a prisoner.  Still, I
couldn't believe it, and placing my hand on his shoulder I pushed him
on to his back.

It was Seldon, without a doubt.

Only once before had I felt such relief, so my heart fairing sang with
it.  I looked up at Holmes and got the sudden, ridiculous urge to hug him.

And so I did.

I threw myself at him like a child, wrapping my arms around him in a
tight hug.  I was amazed to feel him return the embrace with the same
fervour as it was given.

He held me, and he murmured, "It's all right, Watson.  I'm sure Sir
Henry would not have wandered out here were you not at his side."

I can't remember him ever embracing me before.

To be so very close to him, to feel his heart pounding so near to
mine, was intoxicating.  I forced myself to release him lest I make a
complete fool of myself and frighten him from ever taking me into his
arms again.

"I should return to the hall," I told him.  "Must you remain out here?"

"No!"  He patted my shoulder heartily.  "I will return with you,
Watson.  It is time to push the issue with our adversary."

~~~

fin part three