One Wish Chapter Two
Time has dragged on and still the cemetery remains closed. I feel as if I am about to go out of my mind! I feel trapped, confined within the walls of my own house!
Those that have read my Watson's accounts of my cases might believe me to dislike grass and trees. This could not be further from the truth; I enjoy a stroll through a park or garden just as much as the next man. I simply am all too conscious of the many possibilities that criminally-inclined individuals have in remote areas; it does not mean that I should prefer this concrete wilderness!
Even in the busy city of London, nature was everywhere in my day! There were gardens and parks full of grass, flowers and trees and where there were plants there were invertebrates, birds and animals. Of course, there were also the many animals that lived and worked within the streets. This wretched era is almost completely devoid of flora and fauna in comparison and that causes it to seem increasingly strange and uncomfortable to me, for it is just not what I am accustomed to.
The cemetery is not just my Watson's final resting place (and as a result the only place in which I feel less alone). It is also one of the few places in which birdsong can still be heard and bees and butterflies (if only one or two) can be seen. It makes me feel as if things have not changed quite as much as they might appear to have done.
I shiver slightly as I observe the view from my window. I have been feeling tired and chilly all day and now I am becoming miserable as well. For the first time since my return from death, I am suffering with insomnia and the depression that comes with it. My head aches with fatigue and my eyes are gritty and sore.
"You really should try to sleep Holmes," my robotic companion says for what must surely be the hundredth time, resting a hand upon my shoulder.
I turn a glare upon him and sniff quietly. I am growing rather tired of his constant nagging and it is not as if I am consciously refusing to sleep anyway. I know that I am feeling cold because I am so done up and I also know that continuing to go without rest is going to make me ill. It does not make it any easier for me to meet with Morpheus!
"What is it old boy?" he asks gently. "If you would only tell me what the matter is I might be able to help."
I moan and throw myself upon the settee. I very much doubt that I could explain because I barely understand what exactly is amiss myself! I feel as if everything is wrong!
"Please talk to me."
I cover my eyes with my arm. "I miss my home." That is it in its entirety. There is nothing that I like about this miserable century!
"But... you are home! You are on your sofa, in front of your hearth in your sitting room at 221B Baker Street."
I groan. Of course a robot would fail to understand!
"You are overtired Holmes. It is making your brain muddled."
How dare he! My brain does not become muddled! "I miss my own era. I miss the culture! The theatres..." I close my eyes tightly and tell myself to leave the rest unsaid. The culture is nothing! I could live with that, if it were not for the many other differences.
Watson takes my hand gently. "I am sure that there are still theatres in New London."
"One or two, perhaps..." I grimace. "But the productions are all wrong Watson! You have seen those dreadful 'movies' that Lestrade so loves!"
He sighs. "Is that what it is? You wish to go out to a production of the kind that you would enjoy in London?"
That is a very small part of it. "I wish to be able to do as I damn well please! In my day, I did not have to answer to Scotland Yard..."
"Lestrade gives you as much freedom as she can afford Holmes," he reminds me in a reasonable tone as he gently squeezes my hand. "You know that."
Yes, I do know that. She tries to listen to me and follow my lead, but that Yarder is happy following the directions of another as much as I am. It is little wonder that we clash so often! "It is not the same."
"No. Of course it is not the same," I hear him give a sigh. "At least she makes an effort for your sake! How many of her colleagues would do that, do you think?"
"You do have a point," I mumble with a cavernous yawn. I should be thankful of small blessings, I suppose.
He pats my hand gently. "Please try to sleep old chap."
I am tired of trying! I feel as if I have spent an eternity simply trying to sleep! "Please do not nag," I groan as I pull my arm closer to my face. "I know that I have to sleep. I know that my current mood is probably at least partly due to my fatigue. I am also well aware of the increasing probability of my becoming unwell if I do not sleep soon. Knowing all of this does not make a jot of difference!"
He sighs again. "Would you like some hot chocolate? That might help. Chocolate is supposed to improve a fellow's mood; it might make you feel a little better."
I probably require a gallon of it at least then. I sniff and nod; I shall try it. "Morphine is good for sleep..." I hint quietly.
"It is also an illegal substance Holmes," he snaps. "I am not giving you anything to make you sleep; the last thing that you want is to become reliant on sleep-inducing medication."
I have been before! Morphine was often my only method of switching my racing brain off and falling into a restful slumber.
"Close your eyes and relax. That is it. Just stay still and quiet," Watson gives my hand another squeeze as I attempt to settle. "Do not try to sleep then; just stay still and quiet. That should at least help."
I take his advice with a weary sigh. He is quite right; it is better than trying to force myself to sleep.
I am drifting when my companion returns with my drinking chocolate. He helps me to sit up and hands me my cup. "This should help Holmes."
I sniff and mumble my thanks with a violent shiver.
"You are cold!" he quickly snatches up my Inverness and drapes it about my shoulders. "I hope you are not catching a chill. The room is a pleasant enough temperature."
I sip at the drink gratefully. "Tiredness often causes me to feel the cold."
He crouches beside the settee. "That is overtiredness old chap. You are so desperate for rest that you cannot even find the energy to keep yourself warm."
If there ever is such a thing, the first prize for stating the damned obvious should be presented to Watson the compudroid! "I do know that," I retort with bad humour. "I have felt like this before."
He tends to the fire and then returns to my side. "Is the chocolate good?"
I nod and sniff. "Very. Thank you."
He takes my cup from me when it has been emptied and does his utmost to make me comfortable. "Do as I told you. Just rest with your eyes closed; it is better than trying to force yourself to sleep."
I give a slight nod and take his advice. Perhaps now I can find the rest that my body and mind have been demanding for so long!
"I am going to leave you alone to rest," he announces. "I shall check on you later."
I curl up beneath my Inverness and breathe upon my arms in a desperate attempt to warm myself enough to settle. I feel almost as bad as I did when I was ill with influenza! I have a chill in my very bones and my body feels like lead.
I drift between short periods of restless sleep. It is difficult for one to find rest when one is freezing from the inside out. I curl up tightly and draw my Inverness closer, but it does not help me in the slightest. I am not sure whether I go into a deep enough slumber or if I merely enter into 'waking dreams', but I have visions of Reichenbach and Moriarty. On more than one occasion I go over the falls and am swallowed up by the icy water, in which I am left feeling as if the cold is burning my skin.
Watson returns later and offers me food. I refuse it. I am too tired and miserable to feel even slightly hungry.
"You are becoming ill!" he all but shouts at me in an accusatory manner, as if I am putting him through all this deliberately.
Yes, I probably am. I sniff and shrug my shoulders. "I cannot help that old lad." If I am annoying him so very much, why does he not simply walk away and leave me be?
He groans and crouches in front of me. "I am not angry with you Holmes. I am frustrated with myself. I do not know what to do..."
I roll up my sleeve and present him with my bare arm. "Morphine?" I almost beg him. I want sleep. I care not how I obtain it!
"I am going to call Lestrade," he announces as he stands up.
I grimace and snort with impatience and frustration. "Why? She is not a physician!"
"No, she is a concerned friend. A good friend at that. Perhaps she can help; she probably knows more about sleep than I do."
I listen to him as he crosses the room to make the call. I close my eyes and return to drifting somewhere between wakefulness and dreamland, coming close to falling fully asleep but never quite succumbing. Morpheus is an illusive fiend when he so wishes!
"Lestrade, Holmes is becoming worse!" I hear Watson say in a concerned whisper. "He is refusing food, as well as finding sleep impossible. I believe that he is ailing."
"Aw Watson! I don't see what I can do about it," she responds quietly. "He's not ready for this yet. You know that."
I am not ready for what? What are they planning?
"He has been immunised now, has he not?" the robot responds softly.
What the deuce is he talking about? He was there when I was given my wretched tests and inoculations! He was the one that had the difficult task of making me comfortable in the aftermath, when the many substances that had been forced upon me left me feeling ill and uncomfortable. He of all people should know that my immune system is now as up to date as it can be!
"Well yes, but..." I hear Lestrade give a sigh. "I'll have a talk with Sir Evan, OK? I'll have to see what he has to say about it."
I have pricked up my ears and am giving their discussion my undivided attention, for they must be discussing a case! A case that comes with a health risk attached to it, by the sound of it. I hope that Lestrade has not been risking her own health too freely.
Their discussion moves on without a mention of any details concerning this latest case and I consequently lose interest. I get up from the settee and sit in the bay to gaze out into the street once more. I half-heartedly listen to their quiet conversation while I rest my head against the glass in front of me and close my eyes.
"Holmes!" Watson scolds suddenly as he approaches my side. "I do wish that you would at least lie down!"
I ignore him. I no longer have the patience to sprawl about all day, trying in vain to sleep! What is the point?
I know not how long I have been sitting here. On occasion I have dozed off, as my eyes have become too weary to remain open and focused, but I do not remain in slumber for very long. I seem to be spending more time attempting to keep my stinging, watering eyes open in order to watch the street. I jerk into full awareness suddenly at the sound of the living room door bursting open behind me.
"Holmes? You OK?" Lestrade asks gently as she steps into the room.
I raise a hand in a weary greeting but do not turn from the window. I very much doubt that she will permit me to join her on her case once she has seen my face. I know that I look dreadful!
"Will you at least talk to me Holmes?"
I sigh and turn to face her. Watson is quite right; the Yarder has been very good to me and I hardly want to hurt her feelings. Not again. She has been trying to keep me busy since the cemetery was closed for restoration and, as the robot has already pointed out, few people would have cared, much less bothered. "Hello my dear," I mumble tiredly.
"Zed! You do look sick!" she grimaces and approaches me slowly. "Are you really only beat?"
I nod and shiver violently. "I do not think I have slept for weeks. Not properly."
"Why not?"
I shrug and look away.
She sighs. "You miss Watson, don't you? Your Watson, from your era."
I close my eyes and nod. I hear the door open quietly behind her but pay it no heed. I had already noticed that the compudroid was not present when I turned from the window.
"Would you be able to rest if he was here, d'you think? Would his being here make all the difference to you?"
What is the point of this? I know only too well that he cannot be restored to me! Lestrade has already explained that his body would have to have been preserved in order for Sir Evan Hargreaves to have enough to work from and he has been buried for more than a century! "You know that it would!" I shout at her. "I need my Watson more than ever..." my voice cracks and I suppress a sob of anguish and torment. Watson was my beacon of light in a dark world; my fixed point in a rapidly changing environment. The words 'I need him' do not begin to express the way that I feel. The most extraordinarily well-versed of poets could not express it!
There is the sound of a throat being cleared rather nervously and a man steps into the room slowly, tentatively. He has a stance that indicates military training; a robust, athletic build; short hair; blue eyes and a tidy, short mustache.
I feel my mouth turn dry. It cannot possibly be... "Watson?" my voice is little more than a faint croak. My mind is racing. He cannot possibly be here! I must be ill and feverish! That, or I am seeing a ghost or going mad. Inspector G Lestrade always said that I would end up in Bedlam one day.
"Holmes!" Watson's face lights up in much the way that it did when I returned from my three years of hiatus. He continues to speak but I fail to understand his words. They sound rather like excited gibberish.
I suddenly feel somewhat unwell. My legs would appear to be unable to support my weight and my vision seems to be dimming. I attempt to speak, but I cannot say a word. Through the gloom and fog I see the room tilt as the floor rises to meet me.
Those that have read my Watson's accounts of my cases might believe me to dislike grass and trees. This could not be further from the truth; I enjoy a stroll through a park or garden just as much as the next man. I simply am all too conscious of the many possibilities that criminally-inclined individuals have in remote areas; it does not mean that I should prefer this concrete wilderness!
Even in the busy city of London, nature was everywhere in my day! There were gardens and parks full of grass, flowers and trees and where there were plants there were invertebrates, birds and animals. Of course, there were also the many animals that lived and worked within the streets. This wretched era is almost completely devoid of flora and fauna in comparison and that causes it to seem increasingly strange and uncomfortable to me, for it is just not what I am accustomed to.
The cemetery is not just my Watson's final resting place (and as a result the only place in which I feel less alone). It is also one of the few places in which birdsong can still be heard and bees and butterflies (if only one or two) can be seen. It makes me feel as if things have not changed quite as much as they might appear to have done.
I shiver slightly as I observe the view from my window. I have been feeling tired and chilly all day and now I am becoming miserable as well. For the first time since my return from death, I am suffering with insomnia and the depression that comes with it. My head aches with fatigue and my eyes are gritty and sore.
"You really should try to sleep Holmes," my robotic companion says for what must surely be the hundredth time, resting a hand upon my shoulder.
I turn a glare upon him and sniff quietly. I am growing rather tired of his constant nagging and it is not as if I am consciously refusing to sleep anyway. I know that I am feeling cold because I am so done up and I also know that continuing to go without rest is going to make me ill. It does not make it any easier for me to meet with Morpheus!
"What is it old boy?" he asks gently. "If you would only tell me what the matter is I might be able to help."
I moan and throw myself upon the settee. I very much doubt that I could explain because I barely understand what exactly is amiss myself! I feel as if everything is wrong!
"Please talk to me."
I cover my eyes with my arm. "I miss my home." That is it in its entirety. There is nothing that I like about this miserable century!
"But... you are home! You are on your sofa, in front of your hearth in your sitting room at 221B Baker Street."
I groan. Of course a robot would fail to understand!
"You are overtired Holmes. It is making your brain muddled."
How dare he! My brain does not become muddled! "I miss my own era. I miss the culture! The theatres..." I close my eyes tightly and tell myself to leave the rest unsaid. The culture is nothing! I could live with that, if it were not for the many other differences.
Watson takes my hand gently. "I am sure that there are still theatres in New London."
"One or two, perhaps..." I grimace. "But the productions are all wrong Watson! You have seen those dreadful 'movies' that Lestrade so loves!"
He sighs. "Is that what it is? You wish to go out to a production of the kind that you would enjoy in London?"
That is a very small part of it. "I wish to be able to do as I damn well please! In my day, I did not have to answer to Scotland Yard..."
"Lestrade gives you as much freedom as she can afford Holmes," he reminds me in a reasonable tone as he gently squeezes my hand. "You know that."
Yes, I do know that. She tries to listen to me and follow my lead, but that Yarder is happy following the directions of another as much as I am. It is little wonder that we clash so often! "It is not the same."
"No. Of course it is not the same," I hear him give a sigh. "At least she makes an effort for your sake! How many of her colleagues would do that, do you think?"
"You do have a point," I mumble with a cavernous yawn. I should be thankful of small blessings, I suppose.
He pats my hand gently. "Please try to sleep old chap."
I am tired of trying! I feel as if I have spent an eternity simply trying to sleep! "Please do not nag," I groan as I pull my arm closer to my face. "I know that I have to sleep. I know that my current mood is probably at least partly due to my fatigue. I am also well aware of the increasing probability of my becoming unwell if I do not sleep soon. Knowing all of this does not make a jot of difference!"
He sighs again. "Would you like some hot chocolate? That might help. Chocolate is supposed to improve a fellow's mood; it might make you feel a little better."
I probably require a gallon of it at least then. I sniff and nod; I shall try it. "Morphine is good for sleep..." I hint quietly.
"It is also an illegal substance Holmes," he snaps. "I am not giving you anything to make you sleep; the last thing that you want is to become reliant on sleep-inducing medication."
I have been before! Morphine was often my only method of switching my racing brain off and falling into a restful slumber.
"Close your eyes and relax. That is it. Just stay still and quiet," Watson gives my hand another squeeze as I attempt to settle. "Do not try to sleep then; just stay still and quiet. That should at least help."
I take his advice with a weary sigh. He is quite right; it is better than trying to force myself to sleep.
I am drifting when my companion returns with my drinking chocolate. He helps me to sit up and hands me my cup. "This should help Holmes."
I sniff and mumble my thanks with a violent shiver.
"You are cold!" he quickly snatches up my Inverness and drapes it about my shoulders. "I hope you are not catching a chill. The room is a pleasant enough temperature."
I sip at the drink gratefully. "Tiredness often causes me to feel the cold."
He crouches beside the settee. "That is overtiredness old chap. You are so desperate for rest that you cannot even find the energy to keep yourself warm."
If there ever is such a thing, the first prize for stating the damned obvious should be presented to Watson the compudroid! "I do know that," I retort with bad humour. "I have felt like this before."
He tends to the fire and then returns to my side. "Is the chocolate good?"
I nod and sniff. "Very. Thank you."
He takes my cup from me when it has been emptied and does his utmost to make me comfortable. "Do as I told you. Just rest with your eyes closed; it is better than trying to force yourself to sleep."
I give a slight nod and take his advice. Perhaps now I can find the rest that my body and mind have been demanding for so long!
"I am going to leave you alone to rest," he announces. "I shall check on you later."
I curl up beneath my Inverness and breathe upon my arms in a desperate attempt to warm myself enough to settle. I feel almost as bad as I did when I was ill with influenza! I have a chill in my very bones and my body feels like lead.
I drift between short periods of restless sleep. It is difficult for one to find rest when one is freezing from the inside out. I curl up tightly and draw my Inverness closer, but it does not help me in the slightest. I am not sure whether I go into a deep enough slumber or if I merely enter into 'waking dreams', but I have visions of Reichenbach and Moriarty. On more than one occasion I go over the falls and am swallowed up by the icy water, in which I am left feeling as if the cold is burning my skin.
Watson returns later and offers me food. I refuse it. I am too tired and miserable to feel even slightly hungry.
"You are becoming ill!" he all but shouts at me in an accusatory manner, as if I am putting him through all this deliberately.
Yes, I probably am. I sniff and shrug my shoulders. "I cannot help that old lad." If I am annoying him so very much, why does he not simply walk away and leave me be?
He groans and crouches in front of me. "I am not angry with you Holmes. I am frustrated with myself. I do not know what to do..."
I roll up my sleeve and present him with my bare arm. "Morphine?" I almost beg him. I want sleep. I care not how I obtain it!
"I am going to call Lestrade," he announces as he stands up.
I grimace and snort with impatience and frustration. "Why? She is not a physician!"
"No, she is a concerned friend. A good friend at that. Perhaps she can help; she probably knows more about sleep than I do."
I listen to him as he crosses the room to make the call. I close my eyes and return to drifting somewhere between wakefulness and dreamland, coming close to falling fully asleep but never quite succumbing. Morpheus is an illusive fiend when he so wishes!
"Lestrade, Holmes is becoming worse!" I hear Watson say in a concerned whisper. "He is refusing food, as well as finding sleep impossible. I believe that he is ailing."
"Aw Watson! I don't see what I can do about it," she responds quietly. "He's not ready for this yet. You know that."
I am not ready for what? What are they planning?
"He has been immunised now, has he not?" the robot responds softly.
What the deuce is he talking about? He was there when I was given my wretched tests and inoculations! He was the one that had the difficult task of making me comfortable in the aftermath, when the many substances that had been forced upon me left me feeling ill and uncomfortable. He of all people should know that my immune system is now as up to date as it can be!
"Well yes, but..." I hear Lestrade give a sigh. "I'll have a talk with Sir Evan, OK? I'll have to see what he has to say about it."
I have pricked up my ears and am giving their discussion my undivided attention, for they must be discussing a case! A case that comes with a health risk attached to it, by the sound of it. I hope that Lestrade has not been risking her own health too freely.
Their discussion moves on without a mention of any details concerning this latest case and I consequently lose interest. I get up from the settee and sit in the bay to gaze out into the street once more. I half-heartedly listen to their quiet conversation while I rest my head against the glass in front of me and close my eyes.
"Holmes!" Watson scolds suddenly as he approaches my side. "I do wish that you would at least lie down!"
I ignore him. I no longer have the patience to sprawl about all day, trying in vain to sleep! What is the point?
I know not how long I have been sitting here. On occasion I have dozed off, as my eyes have become too weary to remain open and focused, but I do not remain in slumber for very long. I seem to be spending more time attempting to keep my stinging, watering eyes open in order to watch the street. I jerk into full awareness suddenly at the sound of the living room door bursting open behind me.
"Holmes? You OK?" Lestrade asks gently as she steps into the room.
I raise a hand in a weary greeting but do not turn from the window. I very much doubt that she will permit me to join her on her case once she has seen my face. I know that I look dreadful!
"Will you at least talk to me Holmes?"
I sigh and turn to face her. Watson is quite right; the Yarder has been very good to me and I hardly want to hurt her feelings. Not again. She has been trying to keep me busy since the cemetery was closed for restoration and, as the robot has already pointed out, few people would have cared, much less bothered. "Hello my dear," I mumble tiredly.
"Zed! You do look sick!" she grimaces and approaches me slowly. "Are you really only beat?"
I nod and shiver violently. "I do not think I have slept for weeks. Not properly."
"Why not?"
I shrug and look away.
She sighs. "You miss Watson, don't you? Your Watson, from your era."
I close my eyes and nod. I hear the door open quietly behind her but pay it no heed. I had already noticed that the compudroid was not present when I turned from the window.
"Would you be able to rest if he was here, d'you think? Would his being here make all the difference to you?"
What is the point of this? I know only too well that he cannot be restored to me! Lestrade has already explained that his body would have to have been preserved in order for Sir Evan Hargreaves to have enough to work from and he has been buried for more than a century! "You know that it would!" I shout at her. "I need my Watson more than ever..." my voice cracks and I suppress a sob of anguish and torment. Watson was my beacon of light in a dark world; my fixed point in a rapidly changing environment. The words 'I need him' do not begin to express the way that I feel. The most extraordinarily well-versed of poets could not express it!
There is the sound of a throat being cleared rather nervously and a man steps into the room slowly, tentatively. He has a stance that indicates military training; a robust, athletic build; short hair; blue eyes and a tidy, short mustache.
I feel my mouth turn dry. It cannot possibly be... "Watson?" my voice is little more than a faint croak. My mind is racing. He cannot possibly be here! I must be ill and feverish! That, or I am seeing a ghost or going mad. Inspector G Lestrade always said that I would end up in Bedlam one day.
"Holmes!" Watson's face lights up in much the way that it did when I returned from my three years of hiatus. He continues to speak but I fail to understand his words. They sound rather like excited gibberish.
I suddenly feel somewhat unwell. My legs would appear to be unable to support my weight and my vision seems to be dimming. I attempt to speak, but I cannot say a word. Through the gloom and fog I see the room tilt as the floor rises to meet me.