Still on the Quest

This will make a great deal more sense if you have first read A Decided Genius, which sets up the reasons for everything in this AU. It also might help to have recently read "The Crooked Man."

Effusive beta thanks to janeturenne who has just gently reminded me that she's been watching this story evolve for the past two years now.

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n.b. In the "Decided" AU Holmes is no more than 25 in 1881 and possibly younger... which is my explanation for why he's still taking random courses at Barts when Watson meets him. It also excuses a good deal of the patronizing attitude he gets from the Yard.


Watson has written, now and again, about his diffidence in dealing with me, and yet it was I, not he, who stood at the disadvantage when we met. He was some years older – centuries older in experience – and had already accomplished himself in his chosen field, while I was still studying the final elements I needed to finally establish myself in mine. His travels had taken him to the far corners of the world, while mine had gone no farther than the nearby continent. I had the strength of an athlete, I knew, but had only tested myself in minor scuffles, or mock combat done in the safety of the ring or the piste, while Watson was a veteran of the most disastrous battleground in recent memory. Injury and illness had left him temporarily fragile, but had granted him the authority of the invalid, the indomitable strength born of pain borne without complaint. In short, my new acquaintance awed me, more than a little, and I was careful not to overstep the boundaries.

Three days after we moved to Baker Street I took myself off to the library and reread every account I could find of Maiwand, not willing to trust to memory for words I had only skimmed at the time. I wanted to know something more about the names he shouted in his sleep. What I learned instead was that the self-effacing doctor who shared my rooms was a genuine hero – he had rallied a number of the wounded into motion and had been leading a band of them towards safety when he took his own hurts. There was a medal awarded him, but he could have thrown it into the ocean for all the evidence of its existence that had come as far as Baker Street. Of his finer exploits Watson said not one word.

I have never held modesty to be among the virtues if for no other reason than because a modest man is the hardest of all to decipher. Much to my frustration I found myself rooming with a conundrum.

Here was a man who by my observation was both personable and kind, a man of instinctive generosity -- he'd paid for that lunch with Stamford, and he could ill-afford the gesture -- a man who had studied medicine in London for years and yet a man who had somehow come to be utterly alone in the city of his youth. Not all of his fellow students could have moved elsewhere, and Stamford seemed glad enough to have renewed the acquaintance, but Watson made no attempt to seek out any other old companions. He was a natural writer, but he had no correspondence. And I could deduce no reason for his isolation. It was not as if he were cursed by a temperament as unsociable as my own. His shortcomings, listed so readily in response to my own, were none of them intolerable, although I was glad to learn that the "bull pup" he mentioned was not a flesh-and-blood hound with a taste for ankles, but a metaphor from his Army days, meaning an uncertain temper. And even in that he had exaggerated the danger.

Mind you, he did have a temper, but I knew of it more by the flash of color into his face and a certain tension in his jaw than I did by his words or actions. On the rare occasions when it got the better of him he was quick to bite his tongue and quicker to beg pardon once the flames had cooled. He really couldn't stand rows, at least not at first. A shouted argument below our sitting room windows would leave him startled and shaken. Of all the faults he had claimed his estimate had been truest in that he seldom got to sleep till the wee hours of the morning and as a consequence seldom rose before eleven. I took to meeting as many of my clients as possible just after breakfast, so as to avoid rousting him out of our sitting room once he was settled with his books. It was not always possible, of course, and yet Watson never once chided me for failing to inform him that I had meant to make our sitting room be my place of business. He had a lively sense of curiosity, as I should know since I was bearing the brunt of its attention, but it was tempered by an uncertainty that seemed to me to have no basis, except perhaps in the sluggardly return of his health.

As the weeks passed and the better weather began to return, so too did some measure Watson's strength, and at length I decided to disclose my unique profession to him, knowing all too well that my clientele would likely be louder and rougher come summertime. Knowing too that my convalescent roommate might sensibly choose to move out and find some more peaceful abode. When the Brixton mystery followed hard on the heels of my revelation I was fair certain that I would soon be applying to Mycroft for a loan to make up Watson's share of the rent, for it was a far more bloody and nerve-wracking business than generally came my way. But I had underestimated the doctor – or he had underestimated himself. He came through the affair with banners flying, and gave no indication of wishing to change quarters.

Perhaps it was only that he was tired of being a valetudinarian; certainly from that time on he took a real interest in my nascent career. On my part, I had found that explaining matters to the doctor had a certain clarifying effect upon my thinking, pleasant, but not vital, and when the clients were not averse to the notion, I began to invite him to stay and listen. The next few problems which presented themselves were simple enough, and I settled them from the comfort of our rooms. The doctor, thankfully, was content to leave his questions for our private consultation after the clients had departed, and made no interference. I quickly discovered that he had a talent for precise notes, taken in a kind of shorthand he had developed during his medical training, and remarkable ability to recall both words and tones of any recent conversation with complete accuracy. He also had a knack for asking the wrong question about precisely the right thing. But still I found myself looking for any opportunity to call to his eyes the same shining admiration as I had seen when the first mystery came clear.

As March gave way reluctantly to April the first ventures of spring weather were beaten back by a series of thunderstorms the likes of which I had never seen. One of Mrs. Hudson's cronies, an elderly widower who traded small repairs for her good meals, claimed to have known worse in London, but not since he was a child. The poor doctor found himself acting as a reluctant barometer, for even Mrs. Hudson could tell when it was time to secure the windows by the way he held his arm.

On the seventh morning of that stormy week, I had Watson for company at breakfast. This did not happen often, and it was clear from the dark rings under his eyes and the tremulous pallor of his left hand that the reason he was awake was because he had not bothered to try to sleep. He would not have thanked me for mentioning my conclusions, however, and I kept them to myself. We had no sooner taken our places when Lestrade appeared on our doorstep, his hat in his hand. "Mr. Holmes, Doctor," he greeted us, trying not to look wistfully at the hot food which Mrs. Hudson had just sent up with the maid.

Watson took pity on him, and pulled out a chair. "Have a seat, Inspector. You can have my plate. I've no appetite for it."

"Slept poorly, did you?" Lestrade asked, accepting the offer and the plate with alacrity, but pointedly putting the toast and jam back into my fellow-lodger's hands. "Well, you can't go completely without, or you'll sleep all the worse for it tonight. But perhaps you might be able to help me. I could use a medical man's opinion on this matter." He turned to me. "I've a corpse in a warehouse down by the river, and I'd be obliged to the both of you if you were to come and take a look before it was moved."

"Corpses by the river are nothing mysterious," I said.

"Corpses in barrels are – especially when they look more like this here kipper than a human being."

The doctor made a faint noise and put down his toast, but Lestrade dug into the aforementioned kipper with every sign of enthusiasm, and after a moment or two Watson took up his toast again and began eating it doggedly. I sipped at my coffee until my imagination settled, and then took up my fork again. "I take it that you were not looking for corpses when you set out last night, Inspector."

"No indeed," he said. "Smugglers is what we were after, and smugglers is what we caught, except for three or four of them that made a run for it. One of 'em took a turn into this warehouse I'd like you to see and tipped over a barrel to block the constable that had been chasing him. Only the barrel broke open and there was a hand sticking out of the packing, and the constable thought as that was a bit more important than chasing a fellow who was likely to get away regardless. I thought the same, once I made sure it wasn't some kind of doll or joke, and decided that if I were going to have you take a look I'd have to do it as soon as might be."

I smiled, glad of the challenge. "A body in a barrel? That does sound unusual. What do you think, Doctor? Are you up for an early morning expedition?"

"I can't see why not," Watson said. "I'd prefer it over spending another day indoors. The fresh air will do me good." He got to his feet. "I might even walk back, once the squall line has gone through."

"Best take your revolver then," I reminded him absently, going to fetch my own. "The docks can be dangerous."


-----

The squall line that Watson had predicted reached London as our cab turned into the road where the warehouse stood, making the sky unnaturally dark and the streets unnaturally empty. Lestrade had spent the journey recounting examples of his past successes and expounding upon the virtues of experience in detective work, a point on which, in truth, we agreed, although I dared not admit as much to the little inspector. My credit as an expert was very thin in those days. Watson had his jaw set against the discomfort of his shoulder, but he smiled when my eyes met his. It was illuminating to realize that the doctor had appreciated the lecture for its less admirable qualities nearly as much as I had. I smiled back, the promise of a good mystery, and the still unexpected pleasure of a companion to share it with, sending my spirits soaring. Not even the looming thunderclouds could dampen them.

Just as we entered the warehouse, the storm broke with a flash of lightning and a crack that I assumed was thunder until I found myself pulled to the ground by Watson, with the right side of my face stinging in a dozen places and the rumble of true thunder in my ears. A second shot came from above, sending more splinters flying from the doorjamb. I made haste to follow the doctor, who had scrambled for the shelter of some crates nearby.

A third shot proved that our movements had been observed. Watson said something extraordinarily rude and rolled onto his back so that he could tug his revolver out of his pocket. Through a strange red haze I saw him flinch as his left shoulder hit the hard ground and knew that he had not managed to make his evasion without straining his wound, but in the heat of the moment he paid no mind to the pain. In less time than it takes to tell he had found a protected corner and was returning fire.

I fumbled for my own weapon, but something was trickling into my eye, and when I went to sweep it aside, I nearly drove the splinters that had hit me deeper into my flesh. One long dagger of wood was embedded at an oblique angle in my eyelid, threatening my cornea, and I found myself having to use all my concentration to keep from scraping at it in unthinking panic. The pain, which up until that moment had been a mere distraction, suddenly doubled, forcing my eyes closed. It seemed as if I could feel the drag of the splinter across the lens, and I cried out unwillingly, but managed to brace my shoulder against the crate beside me and keep myself from running in a blind panic.

Two more guns had taken up the battle; I heard a scream and the unmistakable thump of a falling body. A moment later Watson was beside me, the smell of his shaving soap strong in my nose, mingled with the even more powerful odor of gunpowder. "Easy, Holmes. Don't open your eyes. Keep them both closed and still. That splinter is in a dangerous location, and moving one eye moves the other."

He was a doctor. He could see what needed to be done. Why wasn't he doing it? "Can't you get it out?"

"Easily, had I had the sense to bring along the right tools on this sort of expedition. I shan't make that mistake twice. Inspector! Inspector, send round to the nearest chemist! I need splinter forceps, carbolic acid, silver iodide, and lint, as quickly as may be. Also clean towels, a basin for washing, plenty of fresh water and soap, if there's any to be found in this district!" Watson's hands took mine and pulled them down, away from my face. "If you keep them in fists in your pockets, you won't be tempted to do anything foolish," my fellow-lodger said, in a deep, resonant tone I had never yet heard from his lips, but would soon come to know well. It was not patronizing, but neither was it panicked: a soothing note, eliciting trust in the face of fear, the voice of confident authority.

"I've no intention of doing anything foolish," I said as I followed his advice, hearing the rise in octave in my own voice despite my best efforts to sound normal. Apparently I had overlooked the class at Bart's which taught the correct medical timbre. Although, to do him justice, Watson's baritone was and is eminently better suited to that sort of thing than my tenor. The man can read railroad timetables aloud and find an audience.

"I'm pleased to hear it." A hand rested on my shoulder, warm and solid, and I took such solace as my pride would allow from the touch. Through it I could sense Watson turning his attention to one side. "Is anyone else injured?"

"A few bruises and scrapes is all, except for the b-- who was trying to kill us. That was nice shooting, Dr. Watson." Lestrade's voice was higher than usual too.

"Are you certain he's dead?" Dependent on my ears as I had never been before, I detected the first tiny flutter in Watson's voice. "Should I check?"

"Dead as a doornail, as Mr. Dickens says, and if that hole in his heart hadn't done for him, he landed on his head when he came out of the rafters and his neck is all to pieces. Don't you worry about him, Doctor, just see to Mr. Holmes. He'll be all right, won't he?"

The hand on my shoulder took a better grip. "I can't tell yet," Watson said. "Not until I get a chance to look at the eye itself. But you would be in a great deal more pain if the damage were extensive. And minor damage to the eye generally heals well, so long as we can avoid infection or strain."

I appreciated the delicacy Watson displayed in giving me the answer to Lestrade's question, but it was becoming increasingly difficult not to open my undamaged eye to observe his expression. This was a side of my fellow-lodger which had not surfaced before, except perhaps in those few moments when he had examined Jefferson Hope. To add to my discomfort I was beginning to feel chilled, sitting on the hard-packed dirt floor. I said as much, and much to my embarrassment quickly found myself lying on a pallet made of Watson's and Lestrade's coats, with Watson's handkerchief bound over my uninjured eye to remove any temptation of opening it while we waited for Lestrade's man to make his errand through the downpour.

I do not often choose to dwell upon the next twenty minutes. Watson plucked the largest splinters from my flesh with his fingers, a process both painful and frustratingly incomplete, for his work was interrupted by each clap of thunder, and he did not venture to disturb the deepest of the splinters without some more sanitary means. Far too soon we were left with nothing to do but wait for his supplies to arrive and the squall to pass. He tells me I did well enough under the circumstances, although I remember being both querulous and impatient to the point where both he and Lestrade saw fit to try to distract me with descriptions of the corpse which we had come to investigate.

"The skin on that hand looks more like leather than anything else," Watson reported, though he must have been observing the barrel from a distance, because he was still close enough to keep a hand resting on my sleeve. "Dark reddish brown -- not natural, I'd say, for the palm is as dark as the back."

"It feels like leather too," Lestrade reported. "Like a wet saddle. Here, we'll get him out of the barrel for a better look. Constable Morris, lend a hand."

"Yes, sir." By the sound of it, the barrel gave up a quantity of liquid as well as the corpse.

"Here, move aside this stuff... let's get a proper look."

"Well I'll be... Look at that. It's a woman!"

"And she's got a cord tied around her neck," Lestrade said with a certain satisfaction. "So it is murder."

"Doctor..." I needed details, blast it.

"The body is a state of imperfect preservation," Watson said. "It's been curled into a fetal position, so as to fit into the barrel, but now that we have it clear I can see that while the upper torso, head, and arms are only a little withered, from about the tenth vertebrae down very little remains but skin and bone."

"Is she naked then?" I could not imagine how he could tell otherwise.

"No -- her clothing is the same colour as her skin, and consists of a simple shift and a leathern cloak that probably once came down below her knee. But the lower body has been flattened, as if some great pressure has been put upon it, and if she had shoes, they've been lost."

"Her hair?"

"Red-blonde, fine and straight. It's been pulled up into a kind of a knot on one side."

"She's got a gold hairpin holding it, Doctor," Lestrade said, from his position nearer the body. "And there's a gold brooch set with amber pinned to her dress. So robbery wasn't the motive, whoever killed her."

I felt the first tendril of an idea come to me, but before I could think upon it I heard the breathless arrival of Lestrade's messenger. "Here you go, Doctor," the constable said, "I've brung the things you asked for."

"Excellent." Watson instantly forgot about the corpse. "Now if we can just get Holmes up somewhere I can more easily work. Somewhere in the light..."

"How about those two boards? If we set them across these barrels, will that do for a table? We can set our lanterns here."

"It's a start," Watson said, and then took command as simply as if he were born to it. "We'll need bricks, wrapped in cloth as well. Something to brace his head, keep it from moving. And a surface for my instruments -- that barrel there..."

I listened to the preparations, cataloging the symptoms of fright which were increasingly absorbing all of my physical self. My heart rate had increased -- I could feel the quickening of my pulse in my hands and throat and hear it in my ears. My stomach felt unruly too. I tried to breathe more evenly, to calm myself, but as the moment approached when I would discover if fate had robbed me of a career where observation was essential, I found it difficult. The cold at least had the benefit of excusing my shivering to more external causes.

"Might I borrow your magnifier, Holmes?" Watson asked, as he knelt beside me once again.

"If it would help," I answered, drawing it out of my pocket. He could have anything he wanted if it meant having this operation done with sooner.

"Thank you," he said punctiliously, taking it from my grasp. "Inspector, I'll need you to hold this for me while I work -- I'll need both my hands."

"Gladly," Lestrade said. "Where do you want me to stand?"

"Just the other side of the boards, near the lantern." Watson said, putting one arm under my back and the other under my knees, as if I were an invalid. "Constable Morris, you take the other side. Don't try to help, Holmes. We're just going to get you up on the table where I can work."

"I'm not that badly hurt," I protested.

"No, you're not," Watson countered soothingly, "but I want your eyes to stay in a neutral position, and it's only natural to want to try to look ahead of yourself if you're the one doing the moving."

"Very well, then," I said, sullenly, since I had no argument to match that logic. I just hoped that Morris would have the grace not to take notice of my nervous state.

Between them, Watson and Morris lifted me to the makeshift operating table, and I had to fight a sudden compulsive fear of falling off of it into a dark pit. I knew the fear was irrational, but it must have shown on my face, because as Watson arranged me to his satisfaction, he paused to check the pulse in my throat.

"Inspector, have you any brandy?"

"Sorry, doctor, I haven't had a chance to refill my flask this morning."

"Constables?"

"Not more than a mouthful, I'm afraid, sir. It was cold last night and we were out for hours."

"We could send for some," Lestrade said.

"No!" I fumbled for Watson's arm and clutched at his coat once I found it. I didn't want to wait another twenty minutes. "I'll be all right. Just get the splinters out."

"It's all right, Holmes," the doctor said. "I have morphine with me. We can use that, once I sterilize the needle. Just a little, so that you will be less likely to try to pull away at an awkward moment."

I could hear the uncertainty in his voice, and did not know whether to ascribe it to his reluctance to share his morphine, or to admit to his addiction. "Can't we do without it?" I asked, as I smelled the match he struck and the thin metallic traces of the heated needle.

"It will be easier on both of us this way," Watson said. "Trust me, Holmes."

I waited impatiently as he ran some carbolic through the hypodermic and then rinsed it with water twice before filling it with morphine, describing in a low voice just what he was doing so that I didn't have to decipher the noises. At last he pushed up my sleeve, and I felt the prick of the needle, and the blessed spread of the drug.

It eased the pain, but more importantly, it eased the fear, and I was able to breathe again while my fellow lodger made his final preparations. Did I trust him? To the best of my knowledge he had not used his medical skills since he was wounded, nine months before. I was certain he'd done nothing this delicate, and there was no dismissing the observation I had made of the way his hands had been unsteady at the breakfast table. But he was taking extraordinary care to avoid disturbing my grip on a fold of his coat as he began to pull the splinters from the side of my face.

"We can't put the last brick in place until these are clear, you see," he told me, although I had not asked why. "It will only take a moment." His touch was deft, his voice calm. "I must say it is easier to have someone else holding the magnifying glass -- thank you, Inspector -- since it lets me use my free hand to steady the skin. There are fragments in your hair too, Holmes -- you will have to let me know if you feel any of them still in there when I position the brace." I don't know what compelled him to describe his actions so minutely, but I was grateful to him for the commentary, and the lassitude of the morphine made it easier to allow him the liberty of investigating my physiognomy with idle-soft hands.

His surgeons' calluses hadn't all faded away, I discovered, touch being more sensitive to them than sight. I could feel the dry rough patches on thumb and ring finger that marked where he held the loops of scissors or forceps. There were calluses too on his index fingers, along the outside of the nail -- nothing like anything I had ever acquired working in the anatomy laboratory, and on both hands too. I tried to think what might have caused those calluses while he found a few more tiny fragments of wood and removed them. I barely noticed when he finally got his brick placed to his satisfaction and told me that he was proceeding to the damage to the eyelid. But when he placed a fingertip to keep the eyelid from moving as he pulled out the largest piece I could feel the ghosts of tremors fighting against his control. My misgivings rose through the clouds of the morphine. Had it not been for the pressure of the bricks I would have flinched away.

"Just a little while more," he told me. "You're doing well. Ah..." I heard him take a deep breath, felt his hands steady again. A painful tug, and the blood begin to flow down into my eyelashes as the splinter came free. Watson held the eye closed, lest I try to open it. "Wait. Inspector, the glass..." A second tug, and the dab of lint to absorb the blood and the tears that were welling up in response to the irritation. "Just one more..."

"Is it done?" I asked after he'd pulled at the skin once more.

"No. I need to examine the underside of the eyelid and the eye itself, and I'm going to use silver iodide on these lacerations first. Constable, if you'll pour some on this... thank you." The antiseptic stung as Watson touched it to the injuries and I swore in lieu of reaching up to wipe it away.

Much to my consternation my fellow lodger began to laugh.

"It's not funny!" I protested.

"No, it isn't," Watson said, trying to bring himself under discipline again, "it's just that I've been wondering why this operation felt so odd and now I know. You haven't given me the benefit of the worst half of your vocabulary yet."

"I can if you like!"

"I'm always glad of a chance to add to my collection." Watson anointed my eyelid with more of the silver iodide, and his hands were steady even if his voice wasn't quite the same. "Do you think you can top 'cack-handed, sheep-witted, son of an albatross'?"

I could have, and would have, had it been wise to antagonize the man who held my sight under his hand. I swallowed hard and said instead, "Do you give higher marks for creativity or vituperation?"

"Creativity," Watson replied instantly, and again I felt the calming hand on my shoulder for a moment. "It's a better distraction that way. For both of us."

"I'll have to think of something," I admitted. Vituperation would have been simpler.

"What's the most memorable thing you've ever been called, Inspector?" Watson asked, instead of pressing me. That set off a round of discussion between the policemen which would not bear repeating, but was enlightening as to the curses favored in different districts of London.

I needed the distraction. Watson's attempt to look at the underside of the eyelid allowed light to reach me for the first time in what felt like hours, but between the antiseptic and the blood I saw nothing but blurs. He found something, but was able to remove it by rinsing it away instead of using the forceps, which seemed to satisfy him. Then he asked Lestrade to help me sit up so that he could see into my eye without the interference of the liquids.

"Both eyes open, looking straight ahead," he told me, and I did my best to obey. The damaged eyelid felt thick and unwieldy, and I could not tell how much of the lingering pain was from it or the eye itself. "There are some scratches on the cornea," Watson said, peering through the magnifier. I could not tell if the distortions I was seeing were due to the glass or the damage, not with Watson's face only inches from my own, and I wasn't about to ask. "I think all of the foreign material is out, but I'd need a jeweler's loupe to be certain."

"I have one at home," I told him. "Will I need to be blindfolded until you use it?"

"Longer than that I'm afraid," Watson said. "We can call in a specialist, if you like, but I'd recommend that you keep both eyes bandaged for at least three days and the damaged eye covered for another four. Give it a chance to heal on its own."

"A week!" A specialist was out of the question, unless I dunned Mycroft for the fiver he owed me. The rent would be due in three days.

"A week!" Lestrade echoed, equally dismayed. "You mean I'll have to wait a week for him to see this corpse we've got here?"

"Yes," Watson said, placing pads of lint over each of my eyes and beginning to wind a bandage around to hold them in place. "You've got some place cold to keep it, I trust?"

"Depending on the weather. We could bury it and dig it up again, I suppose."

"You may not need to," I said, as sudden inspiration came to me. The near absence of any odor of decay had been troubling me, but now I thought I might have an explanation. If I were right, the body had already been buried once before, but what was critical to understand was where, and what precautions the corpse smuggler might have taken with the body. "Get me a handful of the stuff it was packed in."

"Morris," Lestrade ordered, and in a moment a wad of soggy plant material was placed into my hand. I smelled it, and found my suspicions confirmed.

"Sphagnum moss," I said. "Like might be found in a bog. Have you ever read about Rendswuhren man, Dr. Watson?"

"Not that I can recall," The doctor did not have his mind on the mystery, that much was clear. He was busy making a neat job of the bandage. "No... wait. Perhaps. But I'd have to go to the library at Barts to find the reference."

"What is Rendswuhren?" Lestrade asked.

"A village in Germany. In 1871, the body of a man was found in a peat bog there, preserved amazingly well by the tannic acid released from the sphagnum moss into the waters of the bog. I've seen a photograph, but it was taken after the corpse had been smoked. Whoever found this corpse obviously hoped to recreate the conditions which had preserved it in the bog."

"They tried to pickle it?"

"To tan it, Constable." I said, riding the wave of confidence with some relief. I wasn't useless yet. This temporary blindness would be no worse then strolling through a dark night. "It's a natural kind of mummification. There have been several bodies found in bogs over the years. A number of them on the continent and no few in Ireland, as well as here in England."

"So the murder may be well out of my jurisdiction," Lestrade said sourly.

"Smuggling the body is not. And I doubt whether the barrel was labelled correctly. To whom was it being shipped?" I asked.

"John Smith, care of the post office in a village called Hooley, in Surrey. The manifest describes it as a barrel of truffles packed in oil."

"Two railroad lines pass through Hooley on the way to Brighton," I remembered. "I believe you may have to lay a trap, Lestrade. Although who, or what John Smith may be, I am not sure."

"A medical man," Watson surmised as he turned away to wash his hands again. "Or a bodysnatcher working for one."

"Or a carnival barker looking for a new attraction," I said. "The owner of the body in Rendswuhren has it on display for a small fee. Where was the barrel shipped from?"

"The continent ... from the port of Esbjerg, in Denmark, though I had thought that just as false as the description of the contents," Lestrade answered promptly. He must have examined the papers while we were waiting for Watson's medical instruments. "Still, speaking of fees..." I felt him press some coins into my hand.

"I haven't exactly solved the mystery," I said, feeling the color rise to my cheek.

"No, but you've given me a place to start my investigations, and I'll no doubt be back to you with what I find, whatever story this 'John Smith' might tell. But that barrel was meant to be shipped by train today, so if I intend to get to Hooley in time to question him I'd best be starting."

"And we should be starting for home," Watson said.

"No," I said, pocketing Lestrade's offering. "No, I think there's still more we can learn from the body."

"Bodies," one of the constables said.

Bodies? But then I recalled that there must be two, one from the barrel, and one from the rafters. How could I have forgotten about the man whose gunfire had nearly blinded me? But there was no mystery about him -- nothing to latch onto in the dark. He was just another one of the endless supply of criminals that plagued this district. The woman was much more interesting.

"The meat wagon... begging your pardon, sir, I mean the morgue wagon is waiting outside. And the owner of the warehouse and the dockhands too. They'd like to get in out of the rain." The new voice sounded very young to me and I was distracted for a moment by the thought that I must sound young to Lestrade.

"Do you need me to write out death certificates?" Watson didn't sound young. His voice had gone flat, all the warmth drained from it.

"The police surgeon will take care of that," Lestrade assured him.

"Wait... wait!" I reached out in the darkness. "Watson, please, I know you're tired. But I need to make some kind of examination of that woman's body before it is further disturbed."

"I can't see how..." My fellow lodger caught himself and sighed. "I'm sorry, Holmes. But neither adrenaline nor morphine lasts forever. You've had a shock and you need to rest. Surely an examination of the body can wait."

"No. No, in a week the jewelry might well be stolen. And by tomorrow the relationships will be destroyed in any case."

"The relationships?" He didn't understand the significance, but at least he took my hand and helped me find my feet.

"Between the jewelry and the hair and the clothing. The body will be stripped for the autopsy, and we may lose clues to the woman's origin." I held onto his arm, waiting impatiently for my sense of balance to come right. "And I'm going to require something to think about," I admitted. "I'd like to earn the Inspector's fee -- if I can earn anything in this wretched condition."

I heard my fellow lodger's breath go out of him as sharply as if he'd been struck in the stomach, and felt his arm begin to shiver under my hand. But he conceded my argument, entirely too readily. "Come this way then."

It took no more than two steps for me to come to the conclusion that walking in the dark is nothing like walking without the use of one's eyes in any capacity. In spite of the chill of the day I felt sweat begin to prickle out on my forehead and my back. I swallowed hard and locked my jaw to keep from betraying my uncertainty.

"Don't try to lift your feet normally," Watson murmured at me. "Slide them along the ground so you know that you'll encounter any obstacles with your toes instead of tripping suddenly."

I swallowed hard and did as he suggested. It did help, and fortunately we had not far to go. Within moments he had me kneeling by the dead woman's side, and was describing to me sotto voce the colors I could not perceive to go with the textures under my fingertips. Beyond Watson I could hear Lestrade leaving instructions for the removal of the bodies, hear the constables begin to make preparations. The police surgeon came in -- an unpleasant fellow by the name of Harkin whose path had crossed mine once before -- and began to make loud pronouncements about the inconvenience he had suffered because of the inclement weather.

It was no use. I could not concentrate. My eye was beginning to itch abominably, and the pain was returning. I brought my hand up to adjust the blindfold and Watson caught it before I could actually touch my own face. "Steady," he told me. "I know it's not easy to remember."

"It's impossible to forget!" I growled back. "Surely we can uncover the left eye, just for a few minutes!"

Watson's medical calm was beginning to fray. "We cannot take the chance."

"And I say we can," I countered.

"I'm not forbidding it, Holmes," my fellow-lodger protested patiently. "Just trying to make sure that you understand the risks involved. The game simply isn't worth the candle." He was trying to appease me, and I did not want to be appeased.

"You'll have to uncover my eyes sooner or later to check on the damage in any case," I snarled, frustrated by his lack of logic. "Why not now when it will do some good?"

"I mean to check in a dark, quiet room, without distractions to draw your eyes into sudden movements," Watson said.

"This is my choice!" I snapped, so loudly the rest of the room fell silent. "I need to see!"

"And if I missed any fragments -- any at all -- you'll aggravate the damage. Perhaps to the point where you'll never see clearly out of that eye again!" His words hung in the air, just as loud, and I knew that his face must be as dark with anger as my own.

"Do you think you did?" I asked accusingly.

"No! No, of course not." Watson's voice cracked suddenly, and the fury drained out of it. "But without the jeweler's loupe I cannot be absolutely certain."

Even then I had more faith in his surgical skills than in his second thoughts, but Watson's lack of confidence was matched by my own sudden conviction that he was rapidly reaching the ragged edge of exhaustion. I found the hand that was restraining me with my own and squeezed it. "One minute only, doctor. And I shall be careful to move my whole head, and not use the muscles of my eyes. You may time me, if you like."

"The eyelid has already begun to swell. If it should try to open in concert with the other eye, I cannot predict the consequences, so you must guard against that as well," Watson warned, but he let go of my arm and reached up for the blindfold.

"You're a damned fool if you take those bandages off, Holmes." Harkin inserted himself into our colloquy without ceremony or permission, startling me into turning my head. "And you -- Lestrade says you claim to be a doctor -- don't you know better than to let a patient override your judgment?"

"I know better than to treat a full grown man as if he were a child," Watson replied, but he hesitated, and I believe he had seen my reaction to the flash of pain that sudden movement had caused me. "Holmes?"

"Am I a damned fool, doctor?" I asked him.

"Yes," he answered promptly. "But our priorities are different." His touch found the fastening of the bandage near my ear. "One minute, Holmes. No more."

And everything I've tried to write lately has gone wandering into the dark recesses of my psyche in ways that I'm not ever likely to finish or share. But I managed something cheerful at last, so here it is.

(If you don't remember, in "A Decided Genius" I set it up that Watson had spent mid-1883 to late 1886 back in the Army, and had damaged his Achilles tendon at the end of that span, giving Holmes a reason to invite him back to Baker Street.)

( Homecoming... fluff warning flags flying )

I'd seen his ilk before -- the proud ones, too smart for their own good in some ways and damnfools in every other. They make poor officers and no wonder, since they can't respect a senior for the uniform, and they're too quick to see the men beneath them as figures on a ledger. But even the worst of 'em has a heart, much as it surprises them to learn it, and he wasn't the worst, no matter how much he might want to be. Hid his hurt with sharp-edged humor, and only took his turn watching over my charge when there was little chance of the patient waking and looking at him blank-eyed. He joked that being forgot was a cruel fate for a man who wanted fame, made light of his sorrow until he'd nearly convinced himself. But I know better.

It wasn't fame he missed but friendship.

It near stopped my heart to see Watson in that opium den, and I did not breathe again until I heard him say that he came only in search of a friend. Better a mission of mercy than a fresh descent into the coils of poppy! But I decided almost at once that it would be less than fair to send him back to his wife with the sickly-sweet smoke still in his hair and the temptation lying ready in his surgery. Accordingly, I let him know of my presence, and arranged that he should spend the night in my company. This he did, thank God, and I believe that the long drive to Kent cleared much of the taint from both our lungs. His nightmares were mild, and easily settled with a touch on the shoulder and a quiet word.

Would that mine would be so quick to fade!