Work Text:
Since we received the first reports of a new wave of genuine reverence for the Old Ones, Holmes had been troubled. I thought nothing of his mood at first, for I was troubled as well.
While his role as Rache and mine with my knives provide the most dramatic form of challenging our oppressors, the bulk of the work of the Restorationists is bent towards winning humanity to our cause, of convincing them that we do not need inhuman creatures from beyond the Pit to “protect” us or steer our destiny. It has been centuries since we ruled ourselves, and many have forgotten that such a thing is even possible. We aim to change that, and not only by killing the monsters currently in rule.
Thus, any rise in genuine devotion rather than reasonable fear or mere habit was a troubling one. Even some of our own northern agents had been seen swaying with the crowds of worshippers, pouring seawater across themselves in homage, and laying themselves in the path of Royals while offering up their sanity.
Still, I was startled when Holmes woke me before dawn to announce that we must immediately leave our current hideout in Kent. We had been here for some little time after rescuing one of our well-disguised agents from the police after he had been arrested on suspicion of having murdered himself. Any brush with the police was a brush with Moriarty, who had nearly identified Mr. Neville St. Clair before we had rescued him.
Mr. St. Clair had been forced to flee the area with his family (and certainly would no longer be twisting his lip to disguise himself as a beggar quoting Shakespeare now, for that guise was known), but we had remained at the Cedars, his house. Holmes often preferred hiding places that seemed obvious, for that was nearly a guarantee that the police would overlook them.
Thus, I was startled by his sudden announcement that we must depart. “To where, Sherry?” I asked sleepily, rubbing my eyes. “Have you chosen our next target?”
“In a sense,” he said, pulling off my blanket so that I could not go back to sleep. “We shall be robbing a train.”
He said it in a quite casual tone, as one would announce that one’s intention to go for a walk after breakfast, and I gaped at him. “My dear Holmes!”
He would explain nothing until we were underway, only gave me his somewhat sinister smile, his grey eyes far away and dreamy with utmost concentration. I knew that look well, for it always accompanied the start of our most exciting hunts, and so asked no further questions.
Holmes often kept his own counsel even from me, although I was his closest confidant, and yet I trusted that he would reveal all to me when he was ready. He very, very much enjoyed showing me his deductive process, and revealing all to me in time, but his mastery was such that he would not be budged from his own plans. He was an actor, after all, and naturally enjoyed performing, and I delighted in watching him.
Once we had gathered our meager possessions, which mainly consisted of disguises, knives, and my notebooks, we set off at a walk for the nearest railway station. The St. Clairs had of course needed their horses to flee, and so we had little choice.
“It’s a bad business, Watson,” Holmes said at last, and I looked at the grim set of his jaw with concern. “Yes, yes, this little wave of worship could easily undo the work of centuries if permitted to continue. True, mindless devotion to the Royals, sweeping away all the little seeds of doubt, all idea of self-governance or indeed self gone.”
“But how can we possibly stop worship by robbing a train?”
“Well, well, I fear that I am operating a little more on guesswork than I prefer. I strongly suspect that this is not a natural wave of reverence, nor some devilry of our rulers, but the effect of a particular artifact. We are on our way to a rendezvous to confirm my theory.” Holmes took a wig from his bag as he spoke. “Do you remove your hat, Watson.”
I did so, and we briefly paused under a tree beside the road while Holmes disguised us. Side whiskers for me, and a mustache for himself, and wigs for us both. “What sort of artifact?”
“An archeological party has been excavating old barrows in Aberdeenshire. I had a contact or two who have passed information to me, for it was my hope that the traces of some long-dead god might give us a little advantage in our fight.” He gave me a resigned, cynical smile as he dabbed stage makeup across a scar on my cheek. “Alas, I fear they have found the opposite. Rather than a weapon from one of the gods of this world, who our enemies slew so long ago, I fear it is a relic of their own wars, and one that is to us as a cannonball would be to an anthill.”
“Something from before the dawn of the world?”
“No, no. Rather, something that is not even of this world, something that comes from beyond the stars, just as Victoria’s kind once did, and perhaps even she herself.”
A thrill of cold horror ran through me, and even the early morning shadow of this sheltering tree suddenly seemed as if it might blot out all light. “What can we, two mere humans, possibly do against such a force?”
Holmes gave me another thin smile. “What could we, two mere humans, do against a god? Yet we have slain many.”
“I am uncertain whether my knives shall be effective against a weapon from beyond the stars.”
“Well, well, we shall see. One would not think that your trusty scalpel and Liston knife would be effective against the hide of a creature not of this world, particularly one that can bend the mind of those who oppose it. Yet it is our very success on the hunt that gives me hope.” Taking my arm, Holmes helped me back up to the road, steadying me as my bad leg wobbled on the uneven ground. “You and I have faced those creatures many times, and although our sanity has at times been bent, it has never snapped. I have hopes that we shall be able to resist the effects of this artifact for long enough to bury it again, at the very least.”
We took the train to London, and briefly met with a constable who had long been a member of the Restorationists. He had, in an act of bravery that I hoped would not be his end, stolen papers directly from Inspector Lestrade’s office and brought them to us.
Once Holmes and I had changed trains and disguises again, and were headed north, he sat and read the stolen papers with an increasingly grave expression. Finally, he shook his head. “Dear me! Dear me! It is just as I feared. Indeed, I cannot say any of this comes as a surprise to me, for the trail of reverence directly follows the route south from Aberdeenshire, lingering for a little in any large town and converting a part of the population along the way. Surely you see the ultimate conclusion of this plan?”
“They will bring it to London,” I said slowly, for between the path of worship and the recent resistance spreading through that great city, the conclusion was inescapable. “They intend to render the entire population mindless.”
“Just so, and no doubt this is intended as a protective measure. But they cannot possibly deprive all the population of their free will, or else they would lose Moriarty, and he is an asset to them, along with his associate, Moran. Perhaps those who have been touched by the Queen may resist, or it only sweeps away those who are more susceptible and lack the will to stand against it. I do not have enough data!”
With a bitter look of frustration, he threw down the papers and gazed out the window of the train. His brows were drawn low over his eyes, his expression taut. Even with the addition of a false beard and the aging of makeup, I could easily read his expression, and the light in his eyes. He was uncertain of himself, uncertain in a way that I had rarely ever seen, for he has always been a man of immense confidence and mastery.
It is this, in part, which has allowed us to have such success in our fight. I do not have such a great mind, but I have great faith in my friend and companion, and that faith and trust has often sustained me when my sanity might otherwise have crumbled. Even now, when he doubted himself, I did not doubt him.
At last, Holmes stirred, let out a long sigh, and rubbed his long, nervous hands together. “Well, well, we shall simply have to make do,” he said, although I could see how much the idea irked him. “One thing has been clear from the start, and remains clear now. We certainly cannot permit this artifact to reach London, and we shall have a much nastier time eradicating our foes if they are able to convert many more. We shall intercept the train near Newcastle upon Tyne, for they shall surely wish to stop at a city which is so vital to industry. Indeed, I should much prefer to obtain the artifact before it reaches Newcastle, and before our many agents at work there are overcome.”
I looked at his grim face, and I nodded. He had performed at a number of the city’s theatres, and I knew he was fond of the place. “We shall, my dear Holmes. We shall.”
---
We had a long train ride ahead, for we must travel to the north of Albion. On the way, we discussed our plans, which largely consisted of Holmes promptly annihilating any suggestion I made with a barrage of impeccable logic. I did not mind this, for Holmes shone the brightest when he was able to hone his own ideas and chains of reasoning by tearing apart someone else’s conclusions. He was the hunter, the one who collected information, made deductions, and devised our schemes. My primary skill lay in my abilities with my knives.
On occasion, I wondered whether he would have done better to choose a more brilliant companion in this fight, but he never gave me any cause to doubt his affection and respect for me. My role in our partnership was sometimes humble, but of use nonetheless.
I slept at last, and when I awoke, Holmes was still perched in his seat, puffing away on his pipe with determination. “We must board the train at night,” he said at last. “I have the description of it here in the papers from Lestrade’s office, as well as the itinerary, and the location of the artifact. The train will pause at a small station north of Hadrian’s Wall in order to pick up another one of those half-blood Royals, as well as its retinue. It been touring the North of late, subduing pockets of resistance and devouring the sanity of those who would oppose their rule.”
“So there will be three of those creatures on the train?” I asked, turning my face towards the window of our private carriage. The sun slouched towards the horizon, and long shadows oozed from the hills and trees. Not far ahead, Hadrian’s Wall sliced through the landscape. “We have never faced more than two at once.”
Holmes moved to sit beside me, and his hand stole into mine and gave it a reassuring shake. “Have courage, my good Watson. If all goes according to plan, we shall not need to face them at all. I intend that we should slip onto the train in disguise, and simply take the artifact without being seen. It will be in a lead-lined lockbox in its own compartment, only meant to be taken out once they are in a city and the creatures are ready to actively sway minds.”
We disembarked our train as darkness fell, and rented two fast horses at a village some little distance from our destination. The canter across the rolling hills taxed my bad leg, and I gratefully took my foot out of the stirrup and simply let it dangle once we slowed to a walk. Riding had not been an easy matter for me since I was wounded a decade ago, but it was sometimes necessary.
Holmes gave a low, suppressed whistle of excitement at the sight of the train, a matte black that seemed to devour the light of the gaslamps. Within the cars, shadows moved, and not all of them were human.
“I really have some reservations in taking you with me tonight, Watson,” he said as we slipped off our horses, and secured them to a post nearby. “You are exceptionally courageous in the face of danger, and I am only too keenly aware of your skill with your knives. Yet I am the actor, and it is an actor’s skill that is most needed tonight.”
“You cannot go on that train alone,” I said, “and we do not have time to argue. Should the plan go amiss, you will need my knives.”
Holmes sighed, but he did not argue. He beckoned to me, and together we reached the train station without the alarm being raised. We very nearly bumped into a pair of archeologists, who were on the platform seeing to the unloading of their tools, but Holmes touched my wrist, and we melted back into the shadows.
The platform was quiet, but not deserted, with a smattering of soldiers, policemen, and businessmen getting on and off. The population of this small village milled about on the street, some looking oddly vacant. Two men and a woman spilled out of the public house, mumbling chants and carrying jugs. They prostrated themselves on the train tracks, pouring water over their heads, and cried out words of praise.
Holmes pressed a hand to his brow, wincing, and I realized that I was developing a strange headache myself. The effects of the artifact, perhaps, even though it was not in active use?
Leaning close, Holmes put his very lips to my ear and whispered to me. “I have no doubt that you can feel it too, and I confess that I am glad to have you at my side, particularly as the effect will be greater once we remove it from its lead-lined box. We must hold fast to the thought of our purpose, and to each other. It is only such a bond that can challenge the powers that would gladly devour our minds.”
I nodded my understanding, and together we moved into action.
We could not possibly carry every necessary disguise with us, but as a doctor I always have chloroform, and so it was a simple matter to incapacitate two unsuspecting constables. Once we had secured and hidden their unconscious forms, we put on their uniforms. After Holmes swiftly touched up our makeup, we slipped onto the train along with the others.
My heart pounded, and a wave of shivering ran through me. I was not an actor in the least, and Holmes was always the one who lured these monsters to my knives. I had my knives, as I always did, and yet I could not possibly be of use with them. Nor could I hide my limp, especially with the pain in my leg, and every moment I dreaded discovery.
But the artifact seemed to be giving everyone near it a headache, and each of the humans boarding or leaving the train was thoroughly absorbed in their own misery. Holmes and I shuffled along, and as ever I marveled at the degree to which Holmes could change every aspect of himself when in a role. He muttered to himself, chewed at a hangnail, and wore a look of absolute boredom and sullenness at being placed on guard here.
I suspected that I primarily looked ill, which was how I felt. However, as the vast majority of the humans in the area looked ill due to the influence of this artifact from beyond the stars, I did not precisely stand out.
We passed through a dining car in which one of the Royals held sway, and a chill ran through me at the sound of its buzzing laughter as it swept out a green tentacled limb to collects the pile of gold sovereigns piled in the middle of the table whilst the other gamblers sighed their defeat. These were humans like Prince Albert who spent a great deal of time with the Royals, serving them directly, and as such they did not shiver in fear as the average citizen would when in the presence of a monster.
Holmes and I kept our eyes down as we shuffled past, although my hands itched for my knives out of habit, and soon found ourselves in the darkened car that lay between the dining car and the locomotive. Holmes gave a soft, barely audible cry of triumph at the sight of the lockbox, and at once drew out his lockpicks.
Heart racing, I took up my position on watch, as I had done many times under other circumstances. Holmes had made a hobby of safecracking since he was a boy, at least according to his brother, and I had watched him at his skill many times.
My leg ached, and I was glad of the chance to stop, yet apprehension choked my breaths. We had only seen one of the three Royals who were supposed to be here. Where were the others? Holmes had no doubt noted the absence, but had not mentioned it, for he would not be swayed from our task. The cause came before all else, even our lives.
Yet I could not help worrying, and wondering. Many of the Royals loved drinking and gambling, as well as the pleasure houses. The others could easily be somewhere in the town, and their absence fortunate for us. Or perhaps, they were nearby, and we would find them when we emerged.
There was a soft click, and Holmes opened the lockbox. At once, my headache worsened, and yet I found myself captivated by the green soapstone artifact he lifted from the box. The tablet was the size of a half-sheet of foolscap, perhaps an inch thick, covered in a delicate carved relief of battling figures. We had seen similar, more primitive efforts.
“Well, well. This is ancient indeed, for the skills of these creatures from beyond the stars have lessened in time,” Holmes said softly, tracing his fingers across the detailed scenes depicted, scenes of worship and awe. “This was not made by Victoria’s ilk, but other beings who were said to have made their home in high mountains now lost to the vastness of snowy realms. This is a treasure, Watson.”
“It is a danger,” I said softly, taking Holmes by the arm.
He startled at my touch, then gave me a wry smile and wrapped the tablet reverently in cloth before slipping it inside his borrowed uniform. “Dear me, dear me, it is a little intoxicating, but we must go. We shall exit via the locomotive.”
I followed him, but our exist was not so simple. My blood ran cold at the sight of Inspector Lestrade himself in the locomotive, his expression sullen.
He looked up at once, and the sullen expression became a stormy one. “You local police should be guarding the train, not poking around wanting to sightsee. You were given strict orders.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Holmes said in a remarkably subservient, yet somehow rebellious tone, the sort of tone that one would expect from local constables who are displeased at Scotland Yard interfering in their area. “Followin’ orders is what I do, see, but my inspector said we’re to patrol, and keep an eye out for trouble all around. I canna keep an eye out for trouble all around if I’m stuck in one spot.”
“Your inspector is not in charge here,” Inspector Lestrade said with some heat. I kept my eyes down, for I am a terrible actor, and Holmes had the conversation well in hand. “I must have a word with him.”
“He’ll say the same thing I’m tellin’ ye.”
“We shall see about that.” Lestrade wagged a finger at us. “I warn you, if those enemies of the State have gotten aboard due to your negligence, there will be consequences.”
He stomped off towards the dining car, shoulders squared, and the way off the locomotive was left open.
Before I could move forward, Holmes seized me by the wrist and held me in place. He was quivering, his grey eyes keener than ever, his lips pressed thin. Then, carefully, he took off his hat and poked it through the door off the train.
There was a sharp crack, and the hat flapped in his hand as a hole punched through it. A window shattered just behind us, and glass tinkled to the floor of the train. I jumped, and Holmes swore softly.
“I thought as much. It’s a trap, all a trap,” Holmes said as he pulled me around and wrenched open a door that led to the tracks rather than the platform. “Jump, man, jump! We must reach the horses.”
I jumped, and nearly fell as my bad leg gave out. But Holmes had me by the arm, raising me up and half carrying me towards the horses until I regained my footing.
As we ran, I glanced back, and saw the “archeologists” we had encountered earlier. One stood beside the train, watching us keenly. The other lay atop the dining car, aiming a rifle at us.
Another crack split the air. Holmes grunted, stumbling against me, and I became suddenly, terribly aware of his blood pouring down, soaking into my coat. He gave a sharp shake of the head when I turned to him, his face ashen with pain, and shoved me towards the horses.
We dragged ourselves into the saddle, but our horses were snorting, eyes wild with terror. A hulking shape came out of the shadows towards us, one with too many limbs and a face in the wrong spot and countless gleaming eyes. It blocked our planned escape route, exuding malice.
Holmes kicked his horse, and it sprang forward with a squeal of protest, narrowly evading the tentacles that lashed out. He wrenched on the reins, dug his heels into his horse’s side again, and galloped down the main street.
I had my Liston knife in one hand now, and the reins in the other. When the creature struck at me, I slashed its limb open with the six-inch blade, twisting it to slice outward through muscle as I would if performing an amputation. The creature shrieked, green blood spattering the ground, and I urged my horse after Holmes.
We hurtled through the village, and there was the third of the Royals, blocking us at the bridge that led to the road north. Holmes turned his horse, squeezing between buildings, and I followed him again. Another rifle shot took my hat off as I turned, and pain seared across the top of my ear, but I did not slow.
The moon had not yet risen, and the hills were dark with shadow as we galloped west. I could feel the presence of our enemy behind us, could hear the buzzing voices echoing through the sky as the creatures called to each other.
And yet, they did not pursue us, or at least not with any organization. Their voices faded, even the unearthly resonance drowned out by the thunder of hoofbeats, and I wondered at it. Then I realized my headache had gone, and a chill ran through me. Had Holmes lost the artifact in our flight? Was that why none pursued us?
I tried to assess his condition as we cut north and reached Hadrian’s Wall. There, we slowed to a walk, and I could see the steady dripping of blood to the grass even in the dim light of the stars and distant towns.
“My dear Holmes.” I steered my horse beside his as we followed the shadow of the wall to the west. We had planned to travel directly north from the train and rendezvous with a resistance group near Edinburgh, if they had not been lost to this wave of worship. Now, however, Holmes continued west. “You are seriously injured. We must stop so that I can attend to your bleeding.”
“Pah! It is but a scratch, Watson.” Despite his steady bleeding, Holmes’ voice was strong, stronger than it ought to be under our current circumstances. I wondered at it. “No, no, we shall continue on until we have reached somewhere that we might seek shelter. There is a ruined fort up ahead, built by the Romans long ago when they invaded and subjugated these lands, as the Old Ones have done to us. Perhaps it is fitting that we shelter in the wrecks of a former empire while I consider how best to consign this one to oblivion.”
The odd note in his tone sent a thrill through me, and I found myself breathless with something like reverence. This was not a wholly unusual reaction for me, for I have always been astonished by his skill and brilliance, whether onstage or in his bloodier work. “You have a plan, Sherry?”
“Well, well, a little one.” Holmes smiled, and the light in his grey eyes was cold and glittering as he turned to look at me. “One that will see our lands free of creatures from beyond the Pit by morning, should my will prove strong enough.”
“I know of no man with a stronger will,” I said honestly, and yet I found myself unsettled, my stomach twisting with a strange foreboding. I had never seen that look in my friend’s eyes before, although we had spent nearly every waking moment together for the past decade. I had often seen fire there, and passion, but not that cold, hard look.
The moon was rising behind us by the time we reached the ruined fort, low remnants of walls jutting out of the landscape. Crimson light splashed across the blocks of stone, turning the grey rock blood red.
Holmes paused on his horse atop the hill’s rise, his chin high and face stern, posture erect despite his injury. For a moment, all I could think, as I gazed at his silhouette against the reddened remains of the fort, was that he might have been one of those conquering Roman generals. His mastery was over all was absolute, and I could see his mind marching onward with all the force of those past legions.
Then he slumped slightly in the saddle, a soft exhale of pain escaping him as he pressed a hand to his shoulder. “Dear me,” he said. “Watson, help me down. I cannot do any good if I am unconscious. That is certainly not the oblivion I seek.”
I slid off my own horse, stumbled as my leg nearly failed me, and helped Holmes to slide out of the saddle. He leaned against me, accepting my help, yet the look of mastery on his face remained as powerful as before.
His mastery had often helped me to hold onto myself when I had gazed for too long into innumerable eyes while severing vital ligaments, veins, and arteries, when my mind began to crumble from the exposure to the world those creatures saw, a world far more complex that what the human mind could comprehend. Now, for the first time, that mastery sent a chill through me.
Perhaps I was simply shaken by all that had happened, by the fact that our plan had led us into a trap. It was not something which had happened often. And besides, even if Holmes was acting a little odd, he was also still bleeding heavily, and that was a matter for which I was of use. The tear in the top of my ear had clotted well, at least, and so I need not worry about it for the present.
I retrieved my medical gear from the saddlebags and joined Holmes in the ruin. He had chosen a spot against the highest remaining section of walls, one where he might gaze out across Albion to the south. He sighed at the sight of my equipment and bandages, but nonetheless he allowed me to remove his jacket. The soapstone tablet, he laid in the grass right beside himself, the long, nervous fingers of his right hand trailing across the relief.
“I take it that was Moran who shot you?” I asked, grim as I peeled fabric away from the wound. The bullet had punched through Holmes’ left shoulder, damaging muscle and blood vessels, but thankfully not shattering bone. My own left shoulder, which had not been so fortunate a decade ago, throbbed in sympathy. “You said he was once a crack shot.”
“Hmm?” Holmes asked vaguely, looking at me. The distant look in his grey eyes was so very distant that it was as if he was not regarding this plane at all, but some deeper layer of reality, as if he could see the very atoms that made up not only us, but the walls and grass around us. “Ah. Yes, I fear so. I have made an ass of myself, Watson. This was clearly a trap, and if I had any brains whatsoever, I would not have stumbled into it. Perhaps you are right that my occasional little indulgences are damaging my mind.”
The usual anger at himself for even the slightest mistakes was present in his voice, yet that was distant as well. He was distracted, and his gaze kept returning to the tablet.
“I do not believe that your mind has been damaged, my dear fellow,” I said, trying to call his attention back to me. The sooner we could be rid of that tablet, the better. Perhaps he knew of an abandoned mine or something near here where we could be rid of it, and that was why he had chosen this path. “You recognized that it was a trap before it was too late.”
“No, no. I should have recognized it the moment we received that intelligence from Lestrade’s office,” Holmes said, shaking his head sadly. “It was clearly left where it might fall into our hands. No doubt Moriarty knew that I could not resist such a lure, that I would risk everything in order to save humanity from such a dangerous artifact. In the wrong hands, it could have subjugated all the peoples of the Earth.”
“There are no right hands. The sooner we are rid of it, the better,” I said fervently as I bandaged his shoulder. I did not have enough light to do any more, although I would likely need to suture the torn muscle when we reached somewhere with safety. “Where shall we bury it?”
Slowly, Holmes turned to look at me, and his expression was inscrutable. He tilted his head, and another chill ran through me. “Bury it? My dear Watson, we shall not bury it.”
“Do you know of a way to destroy it, then?” I asked desperately, straightening his shirt. I clasped his right hand, stopping him from again caressing the tablet, and found his skin cold. “Holmes?”
“I shall not destroy it.” He pulled his hand free of mine and picked up the tablet. And then, as if he was not wounded at all, he sprang to his feet. He prowled around the ruined fort, his keen eyes darting from side to side. “It is far too valuable to destroy, Watson. Don’t you see? Don’t you understand? Don’t you have the slightest idea what such an object might mean to our cause, if wielded properly?”
He climbed up on a section of the wall and stood in the crimson moonlight, titling his head back as he cradled the tablet to his heart. Blood still dripped from his sodden sleeve, and yet now he did not merely possess the mastery of a general stepped from the past, bent on conquering these lands. Now, he had the bearing of a king, or an emperor, one meant to rule.
Or, perhaps a god, one meant to be worshipped.
“Holmes,” I said urgently, stopping before him. Again I felt the reverence rise up within me, and yet this time I fought it, for it was not the customary awe I felt for my brilliant companion. This was something else, something dangerous. “You cannot use that artifact, not even you. It is far too dangerous. It is changing you already. This is not you.”
“My dear Watson, please. Did you not say some little time ago that I have the strongest will you know?”
“And did you not say that the effect of the artifact would be greater once removed from its box, and that we must hold fast to our purpose and to each other?” I challenged. “You cannot control it. It will destroy you.”
Holmes laughed, and sprang down. Again he paced, and I realized with horror that he was pacing with purpose, mapping out symbols that corresponded with those on the back of the tablet, which I could now see carved into the soapstone. “Now, now, my boy. No doubt you have noticed that your little headache has receded? That is my will, bent towards shielding you from this artifact. I have seized control of it already, and that is the power that halted any pursuit, although I fear I could only temporarily weaken those minds, not reshape them.”
I stepped in front of him, blocking his pacing. “The Sherlock Holmes that I know would not wish to reshape other people’s minds.”
“Come now, Watson, is that not what you are attempting to do with your seditious little stories, with the subtle manipulation in your plays? Hearts and minds, that is what we must win, and I can do it all at once.” A sinister smile flickered onto his face again, and his eyes gleamed as he held up the tablet. “I can easily reach all of Albion and perhaps beyond with this power, this weapon left by long-dead gods. Tonight, if my will is strong enough, I shall indeed topple this entire evil regime into oblivion.”
“It will be you who topples into oblivion, Sherry,” I said with increasing desperation as I gazed into his eyes, which were going cold and hard again. “I will lose you. You are—”
“I am Rache,” he said, and the resounding power in his voice knocked me to my knees before him. “Until the hunt is done and the world restored, I am Rache, and my purpose is clear. You and I have long been companions in this hunt, and you believe as I do. See, John. You must see.”
A cold gust of wind swept through the ruins, and our horses snorted and stamped. The crimson moon above glowed brighter, and on the green soapstone, the carved reliefs seemed to move, creatures of ages past once again warring. Holmes caressed the tablet, gazing down at me.
“See,” he whispered. “See what I can accomplish.”
I knelt in the grass before Holmes, tears streaming down my cheeks. In his eyes, I saw his vision reflected, saw empires crumbling to dust, saw all the Royals’ places of power reduced to nothing more substantial than this ruined, scattered Roman fort.
And through those desolate lands, Holmes and I walked, side by side forever, triumphant, gods in our own right among the mindless droves of humanity, people whose free will had been stripped away so that they would no longer worship the Royals.
“This is not you,” I said, although it was difficult. Pain throbbed through my head again, sharp and piercing, but I ignored it. I must have faith in him, even now, faith that he would come back to me. “Holmes, we have fought all this time for freedom, self-determination. I will not help you strip that away from humanity.”
Holmes gave a small, regretful sigh. “You will, my dear Watson,” he said, and caressed the tablet again. “You will help me.”
I sobbed, my heart breaking as I gazed at my companion, as I watched him slipping further and further away, as the shadows seeped from the nearby walls and threatened to swallow him. “You would use that artifact even on me? You wish to control me?”
I had expected him to say yes, for it was clear that I had failed, that not even our bond had been strong enough to call him back from the abyss. But at my anguished question, he flinched as if struck, and looked at me once more with the eyes of my beloved friend.
“No! Watson!” A wordless cry tore from him, and he flung the tablet down as if it was as hot and burning as the heart of a star. “I have not hurt you, Watson? For God’s sake, say that I have not hurt you!”
I could not provide him with that reassurance now, for it was all that I could do to hold to my own task and purpose as I turned towards the tablet lying on the grass beside me. I drew my Liston knife, raised it high, and drove it into the green soapstone from beyond the stars with such force that both blade and tablet snapped.
Holmes gave a sudden, sharp scream, clutching at his head with both hands, and then wilted against the nearby wall. I surged upright, catching him as his eyes closed, and sank to the ground with him cradled across my lap.
For a moment, I thought I would faint, for sudden terror threatened to utterly destroy me. I had no idea what destroying that artifact while he was bound to it might have done, what harm it could have caused. If I had killed him…
But Holmes was still breathing, and I found his pulse thready and rapid but present. His eyes remained closed, however, and I could do nothing other than hold him while I waited to see if he would return to consciousness, or if he had slipped away quietly into a different oblivion than I had first feared.
The moon was high in the sky when he at last stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He shuddered violently, and his long, nervous fingers clutched at my jacket. “Watson? My dearest Watson, are you…”
“I’m all right,” I said at once, tears welling again. “You have not hurt me, and your sanity still has not snapped. You overcame that monstrous weapon before you could do me any harm, for you have the strongest will of any man I know.”
“Nevertheless, I owe you a thousand apologies,” he said, still stricken. His voice was weak, his face ashen, and he shivered in my arms. “Oh, John, forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Sherry.” Bending, I kissed his brow, then clasped his cold hand again. “You and I have fought many, many dangers together, and we fought this one as well. You were right.”
Holmes gave a low, humorless laugh, a haze of tears in his eyes. “Tut! Tut! You need not patronize me. I have not been right about anything in all this.”
“You were right,” I said again, stubbornly, “for it was indeed our bond that brought you back to me. Such a bond, forged by the things we have experienced together, cannot be shattered even by a weapon from beyond the stars.”
Tears slipped down Holmes’ cheeks, and he pressed closer to me with another shiver as he studied the remains of the artifact, and of my knife. “You have destroyed it, then? It cannot be used to control anyone?”
“I have destroyed it. I do not know enough about such things to know whether it can be remade, but…”
“No, no,” Holmes said, shaking his head. “I felt it die. That power is passed from this world now, and we need not fear. So our little mission, at least, has been a success.”
There was little triumph in his voice, however, and I knew that he was badly shaken. Not another word about our mission or the artifact would he speak that night, and indeed he hardly spoke at all. He merely stayed close beside me, his grey eyes distant, and rested.
---
Just after dawn, Holmes jolted awake from a nightmare with a sharp gasp. I had hardly been dozing myself, and held him to my warmth as he shook. His teeth chattered, and the look on his face reminded me immensely of soldiers who had been left with their nerves in shreds after service in India and Afghanistan. I had been one of those soldiers once, and it was Holmes’ steadiness and faith in me that had brought me back from the haunted darkness. I was determined to do the same for him.
Holmes seemed more himself as the sun rose, and as we prepared to travel. I cleaned and bandaged his shoulder wound again, and he insisted on cleaning the injury to my ear although he could hardly move his left arm. Still, while I pulled a tin of biscuits from our bags, Holmes sat beside me with a damp cloth, his brow furrowed as he meticulously cleaned away the dried blood on my head and neck. It seemed to be soothing him, and so I did not insist that he rest.
I ate, and even convinced Holmes to have a few biscuits. He was still hardly speaking, his expression often sliding back into one of melancholy and sorrow. His ordinary crash into black moods, which followed each hunt, would be far worse this time.
As for myself, I was exceptionally sore. The throbbing in my injured ear worsened when I moved, yet that paled in comparison to my shoulder and leg. My leg especially was agony, crushing agony, and I did not eagerly anticipate riding still more today.
My care for my own wounds, however, were dwarfed by my concern for Holmes. Finally, I stretched and turned to him. “Shall we leave soon?”
Wordless, Holmes rose, and collected the pieces of my knife, slipping them into his bag. I tensed to see him near the remains of the artifact, but he looked at it with such disgust that my fear eased. He placed the soapstone fragments on the low wall, took a large rock in one hand, and proceeded to crush them as one might use stones to grind grain into flour.
He had not yet finished when the pain in his shoulder clearly overwhelmed him, and he gave a soft whimper. I went to his side, but he held up a hand with his old mastery. “It’s all right, Watson. I shall simply finish this, and then we may scatter the dust of these long-dead gods to the winds. They can no longer harm anyone, and although I wish we had indeed been able to rid the world of these other creatures, the cost was far too great.”
Once the soft stone had been reduced to tiny, fractured fragments that showed no sign of ancient craft and power, I helped Holmes into his own clothes, and aided him in disguising himself. I am not nearly as talented with stage makeup and disguises as he is, yet I have spent enough time with him to understand at least the basics. We would not be immediately recognizable.
We rode to a nearby town, a quiet village that seemed as if it had no idea whatsoever of all the events that had stricken much of the country this week. Children played in the sun, and bees buzzed along the flowering hedges. I looked at Holmes as we rode down the street, and found him watching the bees, the tension in his face finally easing.
We took a room at the local inn and settled in a small, double-bedded room. Now that we were out of sight and need not worry about concealing our injuries, I put Holmes’ injured arm in a sling. He gave me a faint smile, then went to the window and gazed out at the flowering, sunny garden below.
“I believe I may have been attempting to turn everyone into bees,” he said thoughtfully.
I stared at him in confusion. “Bees?”
“Well, well, a hive, in which people need only fulfill their purpose, following instinct. I believe it is what I planned to do with them once I had stolen their free will in order to prevent them from worshipping the Old Ones.” Holmes gave a heavy sigh. “The precise nature of my plans is a little hazy, for I have not often thought about what comes after. I was so consumed with being Rache, with toppling Victoria, that I cared little for anything else.”
I joined him at the window, giving him a warm smile. “You cared for me, Holmes.”
He blinked a few times and swallowed hard. A tear slipped down his cheek, and another sigh escaped his lips. “I was mere seconds from bending you to my will. That I would even consider doing such a thing to my Watson…”
“But you did not do it,” I said, more firmly. “You were not in control of yourself.”
“I felt as if I was, as if I was in control for each moment of it, as if I was in control of everything. I believed myself to be entirely rational, and that all actions I took were for the best.” A shiver rippled through him, and he shook his head. “Dear me, dear me. I have failed all the world with my weakness. It is unforgivable.”
For a moment, I simply stared at him, my mind a blank. Weakness? How could he possibly see this as weakness, when he had fought against such powers and won?
And yet, I knew him and his crushingly high standards for himself, and my intimate knowledge of him was part of my role in our partnership as well. I am not merely the one who is skilled with knives, or with putting us back together on the rare occasions when things go wrong. I am his companion in this fight against evil, the one who can bring him back to the light when all seems dark, and that is an honorable role in our alliance.
“You saved countless minds from falling under the sway of the Old Ones, and then successfully resisted the tempting lure of a weapon from beyond the stars, a weapon that may be older than our very world and certainly older than humanity.” I took his hand, and held it tight. “We have accomplished our mission, despite all the dangers we did not anticipate, and we have survived. We shall heal from this, and continue to fight.”
“Good old Watson!” he cried, and although the shadow on his face remained, his eyes brightened. “I should be entirely lost without your help and your steadfast heart. I am immensely grateful and proud to have you by my side.”
“You know,” I said with some feeling, for it was rare that he shared so much of his heart, “that it is my greatest joy and privilege to help you.”
“You excel at it.” The old cynical smile tugged at his lips, and in an instant he was his old, masterful self again, but the sort of mastery that reassured me. “Were you not so competent, my dear Watson, all humanity might be bees in my hive right now! And I think we can safely agree that as much as we intend to change this world, it is not all bad.”
I gazed out the window at the bustling village life below. At children playing, men and women going about their lives, and the sunlight shining down on us all.
Smiling, I gave Holmes’ hand a steady squeeze, and he squeezed back. “It is not all bad,” I said, leaning against him, “and we shall make it still better and free, in time.”