![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saki101Title: Over Park, Over Pale
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
morelindo
Author:saki101
Characters/Pairings: Watson/Holmes
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
Summary: Not all mysteries are connected to cases.
(Also posted on AO3.)
Excerpt: Sometimes I think I have notes for more stories that I may not tell, than for those that I may. With new names for the protagonists and a setting far from London, perhaps I shall publish the story that follows as complete fiction. It is not that, however.
Over Park, Over Pale
Sometimes I think I have notes for more stories that I may not tell, than for those that I may. With new names for the protagonists and a setting far from London, perhaps I shall publish the story that follows as complete fiction. It is not that, however.
As I took leave of my former patient in St John’s Wood, I declined the offer of his carriage. Victorious afternoon sunlight streamed through the glass panels framing his front door and I decided to make my way back to Baker Street on foot.
The previous day, Holmes had concluded one of those cases that could never be put before the public, even in amended form. With the occasional sigh, because it had been both an intricate case, which had pleased Holmes, and a dramatic one, which had pleased me, I had spent the morning tidying my notes for my own reference and had had to leave it at that.
At mid-day, a welcome distraction from my inner grumbling had come in the form of a request from young Verner to take on a routine follow-up visit with Mr. Featherstone as Dr. Verner had been called to an accouchement. A quick note sent by the same rain-damp lad that had brought Verner’s message had affirmed my cooperation and conveyed my best wishes for the safe arrival of his newest patient. I thought the stock of fine brandy old Mr. Featherstone always insisted upon my sampling at the end of a consultation might serve as a small consolation for the tale I had lost the opportunity to tell. Mr. Featherstone had not disappointed, neither in the satisfactory healing of his broken ankle, which at his age was not to be taken for granted, nor in the contents of his wine cellar. Warmed by spirits within and sunshine without, I headed for home in a much improved frame of mind.
A shout went up from Lord’s as I passed and I smiled. The match had either run long or started late due to the morning’s showers, but from the volume of the cheers, the weather had not deterred many of the spectators. There would, no doubt, be an account in the next day’s papers.
I turned onto Park Road aiming for Hanover Gate with the intention of passing most of my journey amidst the flower-lined paths of the Regent’s Park. It was a few steps out of the way, but would make the stroll a far more agreeable one as long as the new battery of clouds I spied in the south did not advance too quickly. The chemical experiment with which Holmes had been engrossed for most of the day had had a distinctly floral component that had awakened in me a desire for the scents of the originals.
He had not looked up from his simmering retorts when I had announced my departure and I had drawn near to his work table to repeat myself. It is not unusual for Holmes to be so absorbed in an experiment that he hears not a word I say, so I had leaned into his view and summarised my plans, laying my hand upon the table to keep my balance, so far had I had to lean. Message delivered, I had pulled my hand away well-oiled by something upon the wood. Suddenly attentive, Holmes had drawn out his handkerchief to wipe the residue away, holding my hand between his for a moment after he had finished.
Since he has returned to me, as by some miracle, I find myself hesitant to leave him and sometimes I sense the same hesitation in him. He had nodded to me as though granting permission when he had finished his ministrations and bade me a pleasant excursion to the wilds of St John’s Wood. I had laughed at his turn of phrase and caught a whiff of an enticing fragrance as I pulled on my gloves. I noticed that the scent had lingered in one when I removed them at Mr. Featherstone’s house and again when I donned them to depart. I found myself lifting that glove to my nose periodically while I walked home to enjoy the aroma.
As I approached the Outer Circle, the air grew thick with the yellow pollen of the plane trees that arched over the road. Damp masses of it coloured the border of the pavement and freshly-falling fibres clung to my coat and tickled my nose. An impulse to laugh rose up at their assiduous efforts to pollinate me and everything else along the streets that they had blanketed with their downy emissions. I shook out my handkerchief in preparation for sneezes I thought sure to follow, but none came and soon I was through the gate and into the open spaces along the boating lake in the park. Several interested geese waddled towards me as the last golden eddies of fluff swirled about my feet and away.
“I have nothing for you, my fine fellows,” I said. A few ducks had joined the geese milling around me and a coot was bringing up the rear. “I have come unprepared,” I admitted, tucking my handkerchief away and glancing about for any lingering vendors. The birds appeared to consider this pronouncement and followed me at a slower pace towards Clarence Bridge. There were pigeons gathered there pecking at crumbs beneath the benches and they, too, cocked their heads towards me with anticipation. I felt like a guest at a family dinner arriving without sweets for the children. I patted my pockets. A lump in one yielded a crumpled paper cone of peanuts left from my last train journey with Holmes. Removing a glove for the task, I unfolded the paper and tossed the nuts out, a couple at a time, to appease the feathery crowd. Even the swans had deigned to glide close to the shore by then. I threw them a few and they bent their graceful necks to snap them up. My store was depleted in moments. The pigeons returned to their quest for dropped crumbs, the ducks and the coot slipped into the water and the geese paraded away. Only the swans remained, their heads disappearing beneath the water to crop the plants there and reappearing wet and elegant to cast their eye about before diving under again. Their movements reminded me of the way Holmes could make a ballet out of striking a match on the underside of our mantlepiece and then pause, perfectly posed, as though awaiting applause for the feat. I am often tempted to clap. I am sure he sees the appreciation in my eyes without an ovation. Perhaps he poses because he sees me always watching.
A young couple crossed the bridge arm in arm and turned towards Clarence Gate. I considered following their example because the grey clouds in the south had already drifted closer, but I did not. Instead, I gazed across the Tyburn’s waters at the bright, grassy slope dotted with daisies. Here and there were others soaking up the last of the sun, a family picnicking by the empty bandstand, a man reading his newspaper on a bench between two flower beds blazing with overblown red and yellow tulips. The entire scene was caught in that timeless feeling which comes with sunlit evenings. As a boy, I would resist going inside until the twilight was so dark sport was impractical and some remnant of that defiance kept me there by the feeding swans and the cast iron bridge. Eventually, the man folded his newspaper and stood, the family packed their wicker basket and gathered up their blanket and still I remained, watching the shade deepening among the leaves.
From the reeds, a faint breeze liberated wisps of down. A goose honked, flapping its wings, half rising out of the water, half running across it, to the shore of the islet and up onto its bank. The gander’s beak snapped in the air as it went, but I could not discern what it chased against the backdrop of shifting light and shimmering water. Several coots, already settling into their nests for the evening, slipped back into the water. The swans turned their heads and swam towards the island; mid-lake they changed course, the object of their interest as yet invisible to me. It was a small drama, but it piqued my curiosity and I altered my position in an attempt to get a clearer view. As the snowy birds glided under the bridge, in quick succession they extended their necks in one direction and then the opposite, bowed low and then stretched high and still I could not see what they hunted. It was not until I had stepped as close to the edge of the water as I could without spoiling my shoes and leaned out over it that I saw the light that appeared to dart about their heads against the shadows beneath the bridge. I turned round to search for a lantern on the opposite shore whose rays could be reflecting off some bolt or screw in the underpinnings of the bridge. I saw none. The boathouse was dark, its boats bobbing at their moorings to its side. No one walked along that path that I could spy.
The swans glided out from beneath the bridge, ruffling their wings and twitching their tails, turning one way and then the other, sailing back under the bridge and out once more. I could only distinguish the glow they chased when it and they were in the bridge’s shadow. Once out upon the water it was lost in the remaining sunlight. As the goose before them, the swans began to extend their wings to increase their upwards reach, but apparently to no avail as their manoeuvring continued. The sun was gilding the treetops, dusk gathering closer to the ground. I could see the glow above the water now, but not its origins. I glanced about the lake. No one else appeared to remain and I acknowledged that it was time to depart. I could lay my minor mystery before Holmes and he could explain what materials must have refracted what light sources to create the effect that had so bemused the waterfowl and me.
Once I had traversed the Outer Circle, a few strides brought Baker Street into view around the corner, two worlds within a few steps of one another. The contrast between the serenity of the one and the bustle of the other always struck me.
The rain clouds were crossing Marylebone as I gained our side of the road. I could see the lamps twinkling in the gloom by the station. A strong wind blew up Baker Street from the south, complicating the lamplighter’s job. I sped up, hoping to outpace the rain. From a couple houses away, I could hear Holmes’ violin. The curtains fluttered out the open window onto the balcony. Mrs Hudson would not be pleased if she found them streaked with sooty rain on the morrow. I gained our door and heard the splat of heavy drops against it before I reached the stairs. Above me, the music stopped, a window slammed, and the playing resumed.
***
Holmes looked up as I set aside my bag, his melody shifting from the yearning strains I had heard outside to something lively. I did not recognise the tune, which was often so, but I took note of its tone. Holmes’ music was like a barometer, so completely did it correlate with his moods. I felt the lilt of the piece indicated satisfaction with the progress of his experiments, not the excitement of a new case. All in all, it presaged an amiable evening.
Dinner was upon the table; the room agreeably filled with the aroma of roast, a trace of Holmes’ earlier experiments, which appeared to have been concluded as nothing more simmered upon the table, and a hint of rain. It had occurred to me that the open window might have heralded the need to release some noxious odours, but I was content to have been mistaken.
I promised to make haste to change that his dinner might not be delayed any longer. I hummed as I mounted the stairs and less than ten minutes later, I was beslippered and wrapped in my dressing gown, hands and face glowing from a brisk freshening with the cool water in my room. As I descended, I noticed Holmes’ song had returned to the melancholy strains I had heard out in the street. Holmes is mercurial and I hoped that his mood had not settled into a darker mode in the brief interval of my absence. No sooner had I stepped into the sitting room, than the bright air returned and I wondered if he was playing one of those old songs with lively verses and sad refrains. When I sat, Holmes lifted his bow and nestled his violin in its case.
I shook out the folded linen by my plate and looked up with a bit of a mischievous smile. “I came across something mysterious while I was out,” I said.
Holmes paused, wine bottle in hand and levelled his gaze at me. “Not the patient, no, all is well with him.” Holmes filled my glass. “And his household.”
I am well-versed in Holmes’ methods and can even follow them to a certain extent. I was sure my sanguine expression upon my return was all he had needed to deduce that.
“Neither did you witness nor fall victim to any accident or crime. No one drowning in the lake,” he said as he poured his wine and sat.
No doubt my shoes had announced the route I had taken and my fondness for detouring through the park is well-known to Holmes. It was one of the things that had delighted me about the prospect of living on upper Baker Street, but, of course, the main attraction at Baker Street sat across from me, probably reading my thoughts in my eyes as others read the headlines in their newspapers. I shook my head. “But you have hit upon the location,” I said.
“Hmm,” Holmes murmured with a wonderful warmth to the sound.
He was humouring me, but it was a fond game and I cast about for ways to present my meagre stock of clues in the most entertaining manner. I looked up to see the enigmatic smile I was certain he was smiling and was not disappointed. The prospect for the evening seemed better and better.
Over his shoulder, I saw the curtains waver and felt the draught by my feet. The window frames are warped; they never close perfectly. I got up to close the gap in the curtains, reaching over Holmes’ work table to do so and got my hand greasy in the process again. He had not cleaned up quite as thoroughly as it had appeared and this close I detected that the scent lingered as well. The fragrance was so sweet, I was tempted to lick my fingers, and had raised my hand to my lips without thinking.
Somehow, Holmes was at my side. He grasped my wrist. “I do not know yet whether it is safe to ingest,” he said. “The ingredients are unusual. The mixture is claimed to soothe rashes and sunburn as well as a few more fanciful boasts.” He sniffed my fingertips. “Interesting,” he murmured, “the alpha-ionone smells much sweeter on your skin than mine.”
Holmes altered his grip and sniffed above my palm. He loosened his fingers, cradling my hand more than holding it and inhaled above the pulse point at my wrist. His breath was warm on my skin and my skin warmed in return.
His attentions have a startling effect on me. I know I flush most obviously. It is no matter. If my reactions were much subtler, Holmes would still observe them. He considers them compliments and is pleased. He takes one tiny step after another and watches my reactions course through me. If we are somewhere where he may not pursue that first flush of mine, I watch for the infinitesimal signs of his restraint. His mask stays in place, but his eyes brighten with the knowledge of what he has done to me.
We were not somewhere where he needed to deny either of us. I sighed with satisfaction at that. He brushed his lips along the blue lines of my veins and listened to my breathing change. He traced them with the tip of his tongue. Dinner could wait, the chaise longue was near. He rubbed his cheek against my wrist and fixed me with his gaze.
“It tastes sweeter on you as well,” he said, “appreciably more alkaline.”
“I thought you didn’t know if it was safe,” I managed to say. I have not been able to dissuade Holmes from his habit of testing concoctions upon himself, including poisonous ones. I note when my supply of charcoal biscuits has been reduced and keep an eye upon him.
“This is how I shall know,” he replied. He turned his gaze back to my hand, pushed my sleeve away and drew the skin of my forearm up between his teeth. I was nudging him in the direction of the chaise longue when a glimmer at the gap I had failed to close between the curtains arrested my progress. The idea of someone upon our balcony with a lantern peering in at us sent a chill through me and Holmes glanced up, unmoving in any other regard. As he stared at the light, I had the presence of mind to notice that the glow was neither the colour of an oil- nor a candle-flame. It rose and fell in the narrow opening, disappearing for an instant to one side or the other as moths will do at a lighted window. Framed by the dark fabric of the curtains and backed by a sliver of night sky, I recognised the greenish-gold hue I had last seen flitting in the shadows beneath the bridge in the park.
Suddenly, Holmes dashed to the other window, slipped behind the curtains and flung up the sash. I was but a step behind him. As we peered out, something like an ember fell from the top of the other casement and caught on the top bar of the railing by our front steps. I squinted at it, but could discern no form within the glow. Holmes crouched then stretched out on the carpet, his head and shoulders out the window in the drizzle to which the earlier downpour had dwindled. He peered between the grillwork floor of the balcony. I eased back into the room and seized his magnifying glass, returning on my hands and knees to tap him on the shoulder with it as I resumed my place. The glow rose then, perhaps half the distance between the forecourt railing and the bottom of the balcony. Holmes, glass in place, was as still as a statue.
The idea that it was a variety of insect, perhaps escaped from the zoological gardens on the north side of the park, replaced my earlier notion that what I had observed had been some reflection of the setting sun. The small, radiant sphere, undampened by the rain, rose at a slant and hovered near the top of our front door nearly on a level with the bottom of the balcony. Opera glasses would have been most useful, but the nearest pair was in Holmes’ bed-room and I felt the odds were good that whatever it was would be gone before I could return from fetching them. I saw no motion of wings. English glow-worms have no wings, but I have read of ones in America that do, although I had gathered that they were not large bugs. Since the form of the creature was totally obscured by its light, I supposed it could be anything from a tiny insect capable of extreme brightness to one larger than a dragonfly. I wondered briefly whether there were any bioluminescent hummingbirds. The swish and splash of passing carriages would have drowned out any subtle sound the creature might be making even as close as it had now come. My leg sent up a protest at the position I was maintaining and I shifted ever so slightly. The light rose above us for an instant before it darted up the street, zigzagging from streetlamp to streetlamp across the road and back and finally around the corner towards the park and out of sight.
I was sorry to have scared it away and huffed in displeasure at myself.
Holmes drew himself in and lowered the window. “That was your mystery,” he said.
“The birds were chasing it at the lake,” I replied. “I thought the glimmering was a trick of the light.”
He wiped his magnifying glass dry with his serviette then switched to blotting his dripping hair with it. “I spilled one of the solutions I had prepared,” he said, standing. “The one you got on your hand. It dried to a viscous film rather quickly and I decided to add more and leave it on the table with the window open.”
“To what end?” I asked.
Holmes shrugged off his wet dressing gown. I reached for his shoulder and felt that his shirt was moist as well. “Perhaps a small fire,” he suggested and strode into his room.
I had kindling crackling around a few logs before he returned, nightshirt and dressing gown donned and a bath towel draped over his shoulder. He handed me the towel. I was barely damp, but it was best to not risk a chill. Obligingly, I rubbed at my hair when I was not poking at the fire.
Holmes took a book from beside his chair and opened it to the last few pages. “Have a look,” he said, leaving it on the cushion of my chair. I relinquished the poker and settled into my customary seat, accidentally closing the volume. It was an old tome of herbal remedies. As I paged through, I saw that these were interspersed with fortifying recipes for the feeding of the ill or convalescent. The chapters began with fine engravings that someone had coloured by hand; here and there a tiny stroke of colour had fallen outside the lines. The margins of the text were more often than not embellished with amendments and commentary in several hands and shades of ink. I went back to check the title page and raised my brows at the publication date early in the previous century. Finally, I reached the pages at the end of the book that had originally been blank. Time and former owners had filled them with further formulae, some in rhyme, and the occasional diagram or simple illustration. The script was not the easiest to decipher, but my eyes grew accustomed and I located the page with directions for the preparation of a salve to protect pale skin from the sun and to help it heal if thus burnt. A star by the title led to several notes at the bottom of the page. I learned that if the potato were replaced with an equal measure of honey, an aphrodisiac resulted, which was to be applied topically for immediate effect. I could not avoid a snort. I would have the most lucrative practice in London if that worked. Alternatively, the paste could be ingested in soup or sauce for a slower-acting effect. I chuckled. If rose and violet petals were added, a love potion resulted and if that mixture were added to a bowl of milk on the sill of an open window or by an unlatched door, one could summon the fair folk.
Holmes set a well-filled dinner plate and my glass of wine on the table at my elbow. “I warmed the vegetables in the gravy,” he said. Many are the uses to which Holmes puts his chemistry apparatus.
I inhaled and realised I was ravenous. I left the book on the carpet, away from the hearth, and balanced the plate on my lap.
Holmes placed similar provisions on his side table, settled into his chair and stretched his feet towards the fire. He took a sip of his wine and I set to work on the victuals.
“Those are quite the claims,” I said after taking the edge off my hunger.
Holmes smiled over the top of his wine.
“Which variations did you try?” I sniffed at my palm to see if I could detect any of the ingredients, but the aroma of my dinner was not aiding the process. “Rose?” I asked and lifted the last morsel of roast to my mouth.
Holmes nodded, emptied his glass and took up his plate. “The one you got on your hand had milk in it.”
My eyebrows rose in surprise, but there might have been other annotations I had overlooked. “Violets, too?” I asked and focussed on the vegetables. Although cooling, the gravy was still delicious. I made a note to compliment Mrs Hudson on the new recipe.
Holmes nodded and swallowed.
“Did the flower-seller still have violets?”
He dabbed at the corner of his mouth with the damp serviette.
I found myself fixated on the sheen of his lips in the firelight. They are very knowledgeable lips. I reached for my wine without looking and managed not to upturn it.
Holmes followed it all. “The Royal Botanic Society Gardens do.” He smiled at me again. “You see you weren’t the only one traversing the Regent’s Park today.”
Holmes has often been out and back before I come down for breakfast. “I’ve never been,” I replied. It is reserved for members of the society as far as I am aware.
“Would you like to go in the morning?” he asked. “Before dawn?”
The gardens would be locked at that hour, but locks are a minor impediment to Holmes. Still, I prefer not to break the law without a compelling reason.
“I have keys,” Holmes said. He tilted his head at the volume on the floor. “The book is from their library. They have an extensive selection on botanical poisons.”
“Are you a member or did you solve a mystery for them?”
“What do you think?” Holmes replied.
From what I knew of Holmes, he seemed to care little for formal associations or ritualised modes of recognition. I believe he viewed them as constraints and preferred to operate outside their limitations. Yet the more I learn of Holmes, the more complexity I find and I doubt my limited powers could reliably predict his actions or fathom his motivations. “I’ll guess the latter,” I finally said.
“And you would be right,” Holmes replied. He put his plate aside and fetched the bottle of wine. He gazed down at me as he refreshed my glass.
“Even odds,” I said, staring upwards. His hair had dried without benefit of pomade and fell about his face in a manner that called to mind some of the more intense moments we have shared. His eyelids lowered and my temperature rose.
“You didn’t guess. You reasoned through the information you have and realised that you don’t have all you might wish to possess,” he said, his eyes holding mine.
I grew warmer still.
***
I sat up. The room swarmed with shadows cast by the oil lamp’s flame.
“Stay,” Holmes said and his arm wound about my waist and tugged at me.
I leaned away. “I may sleep too soundly,” I countered, wanting to surrender to that force.
“I locked the door to your room and both the bathroom doors,” he said.
I looked over my shoulder. “When did you do that?”
“When I changed,” he said. “And you locked my door after yourself.”
I had. I had locked both doors to his room, unaware of the measures he had already taken. I had done it with a sense of possessiveness, as though I could hold him captive, which is a ridiculous thought. Holmes goes where he lists and each time he chooses my company it is something of a surprise. Except for tonight. Tonight he had left no doubt as to how much he wanted me. I fancied that even a case might not have drawn him away, although that might have been presuming too much.
“Stay,” he repeated. “I will wake you.”
I gave in and felt his pleasure at it. He has skilful hands.
“Do you think the potion is actually an aphrodisiac?” I murmured as he applied his mouth as well as his hands and my whole body hummed.
He rose above me on his elbows. “I think you are getting better at giving in to your impulses,” he said.
“That might be the wine,” I replied and gave in.
***
The rain had stopped. Thin clouds drifted past the moon. The streetlamps’ reflections gleamed from the puddles as we skirted the park. A single hansom passed us. Once we reached York Bridge, the breeze was at our backs.
I turned up my collar and caught a whiff of the lotion with which Holmes had instructed me to coat my hands. The scent brought a blush to my cheeks. I chided myself. He would come to doubt my claims of experience if I kept on in this manner.
A few minutes’ brisk walk brought us to the ornate gates of the Botanic Society’s Gardens. Holmes tapped a finger against his lips before removing a large iron key from his pocket. With a flourish he inserted it into the lock and raised an eyebrow at me as though I might have doubted the means by which he intended to gain access. I shook my head and slipped through the opening. Silently, Holmes relocked the gates behind us.
Before us stretched a broad avenue; a few steps along it and the lamplight of the Inner Circle disappeared. At its end, I could distinguish by the moon’s glow, the outlines of a large conservatory similar in shape to the Palm House at Kew. Holmes did not head towards it, however, but turned onto a narrow, shrub-lined path which followed the contours of a small lake. I could hear the plash of water and shortly we came to a rock garden which rose along part of the bank. It was surmounted by a cascade which filled a stone basin then overflowed into the lake. Holmes stopped at a nearby bench girding a willow and with gestures bid me remove my gloves and take the bowl he produced from an inside pocket of his coat. He filled it from his flask then indicated a smooth stone in the rockery upon which to place the bowl. I held it firmly and stepped carefully forward because the liquid came nearly to the brim. When I had set it down, Holmes tapped my elbow and tilted his head towards the bench. In the east, the sky was turning a lighter grey and above us the tree-dwelling birds were beginning to stir. Quietly, we resumed our seats. Holmes extended his arm behind me, grasping my shoulder with one hand and holding his opera glasses upon his lap with the other. I took out my pair and did the same. Thus, we kept our vigil.
There was a large splash. I peered between the willow’s branches. There were no birds on the water, just ripples fracturing the moonlight. To my right, shadows shifted. I did not turn my head towards the rockery, only my eyes. Holmes’ hand tightened on my shoulder. Over the edge of the stone upon which the bowl sat, a hemisphere of light appeared like a miniature sunrise, quickly joined by another, faintly green in hue. The bowl cast long, twin shadows as the lights continued to rise until there were full orbs visible above the rim of the bowl. One by one, they tumbled over the lip and drifted like bubbles towards the centre. They floated, half-submerged, around the bowl, occasionally bumping the rim or one another and changing course.
They were closer to us than the light we had seen outside our window had been and our view was not distorted by rain or obstructed by anything like the bars of our balcony, the willow having been pruned on that side. Even so, I could not discern a shape within the balls of light, although I noted that they varied in brightness, not as much as a candle flame in a draught, more like an oil lamp’s flame as the wick is adjusted. From the corner of my eye, I saw that Holmes had raised his opera glasses. With the gentlest of incremental movements, I followed suit.
Before my eyes had adjusted to the lenses, the birds above us began to call and twitter loudly and, with considerable flapping of wings, one burst forth from the leaves. I expected our opportunity to be lost as it had been hours before when I had startled whatever it was away from Baker Street, but that was not what happened. In fact, nothing happened except that the bright globes sunk further into the bowl so that I was observing little more through my glasses than the diffusion of their light as it shone out above the dish.
I felt Holmes’ arm withdraw from behind me. I glanced to the side. He put the glasses into one pocket and drew some sort of cloth from another. He stood and moved, slowly and soundlessly, towards the stone. I could not see what he did once there, but after a moment he beckoned and I joined him. The bowl was swathed in cloth and he was tying a string under the rim to hold it in place. He gestured for me to pick it up, which I did, and he set off down the path towards the gates.
The bowl was somewhat lighter than it had been and I no longer worried about spillage. Nevertheless, I trod so carefully after Holmes that I barely made the gravel crunch. The muslin lay smooth, lit from underneath. Whatever was below seemed to be lying still and I hoped to keep it that way. When I joined him, Holmes was already on the pavement, a bough of honeysuckle in his hand. He closed and locked the gate with the merest click. We retraced our steps as the sky lightened and were back in our sitting room before anyone else at Baker Street was stirring.
Holmes opened the curtains and I set the covered bowl on his work table without the slightest bump. My hands were cold from our walk, but I concluded that Holmes had wanted my hands bare so that the fragrance of the lotion would predominate. When it seemed safe to speak, I would ask him.
Holmes pulled my gloves from my pocket and arranged them and the honeysuckle in a horse-shoe shape on the table. He dropped his coat and cap upon the settee and approached the table with his hands raised as a magician might before the culmination of a trick. He had, after all, already seen what was in the bowl, whereas I remained unenlightened. He plucked the hat from my head, tossed it with perfect aim to join his then tugged at my coat until I unbuttoned it. He eased it off to add to the heap upon the settee. I scowled over my shoulder and he smiled, stepped around me, untied the string and lifted the cloth away.
My hand flew to my mouth. We had not slept much, had consumed a fair amount of wine and experienced some effects from the concoction Holmes had brewed and added to our dinner, but all of that together could not account for what I seemed to see before me. For in the bowl, snuggled up to Holmes’ handkerchief, which he had apparently used to absorb the remainder of the liquid in the dish, were two creatures the Zoological Society would surely pay handsomely to acquire. That thought did not sit well with me. I bent closer, breath held, and watched the backs of our captives rise and fall reassuringly. Holmes cupped his hands above part of the bowl and his palms reflected the creatures’ glow, which was no longer visible in the sunlit room. I raised my eyes to Holmes’, palms up and fingers outspread to silently express my amazement. He seemed quite delighted with our morning’s work, much as it seemed to challenge certain rational precepts.
The next couple hours were spent examining the creatures unobtrusively. I set down a rough draft of the narrative and Holmes stared through his magnifying glass and made quick sketches with labels and short descriptions. I waylaid Mrs. Hudson when we heard her upon the stairs and relieved her of our breakfast trays one after the other, explaining that Holmes was conducting an experiment which must not be disturbed by so much as the door being opened by anyone other than one of us. She was sufficiently familiar with Holmes’ idiosyncrasies to take this in stride and advised me to put the dishes out on the landing when we were done with a note as to when we would be wanting our dinner. She correctly assumed that we would be out to any visitors and I nodded my firm assent and thanked her. She just shook her head. On the stairs, I could hear her telling Martha that she would not need to tidy our rooms in the afternoon.
***
After a few trips between the bathing room and his bed-room, Holmes had arranged a nest composed of several flannels; my gloves; three Petri dishes, one empty, one with water, one with more of the milky concoction; and the branch of honeysuckle. He indicated that I should move the creatures from the bowl to these new quarters. With the utmost delicacy, I insinuated my hand beneath the sodden mass of the handkerchief and lifted it and the creatures, still sound asleep upon it, out of the bowl and lowered them altogether onto the flannels.
They shifted at that point and I was afraid I would be the cause of their flying away again for Holmes had opened one of the windows once the day had warmed sufficiently. It had surprised me that he had done so, thinking that he would wish to study them for as long as possible. Upon reflection, however, it seemed consistent with his nature. He has a dislike of barriers that he has not erected himself and I suppose that influenced his decision to allow the creatures a means of escape.
We had still not spoken lest we wake the creatures and we had not wished to both withdraw into one of the other rooms to confer. One of us always remained with our charges and when we were both present, we worked in silence, using gestures to convey our meanings or exchanging the occasional note when signs and signals did not suffice. Silent communication is a skill we have developed in the course of our case work and it serves us well at other times.
Now I know it may seem coy of me not to have already described what it was I beheld when Holmes lifted the covering from the bowl, but evidence of my senses notwithstanding, it took me a while to come to terms with what it appeared to be. I am familiar with delirium. I have witnessed the hallucinatory effects of drink and drugs and it took some time for me to feel sure I was not under the influence of any of those things. Indeed, it was not until after I had breakfasted and withdrawn to the bathing room to wash and shave, that I determined that I would attempt a description of what we had lured into our possession.
Returning to the sitting-room refreshed, I found Holmes peering through his microscope in such a familiar pose that I questioned whether I had imagined the whole night’s adventure. When I reached his side, however, the proof that that was not so was still stretched out upon the flannels, albeit arranged differently than when I had last seen them. Initially, the two creatures had been curled together, the position and their hair obscuring many of their features. Now one had rolled away, or perhaps Holmes had nudged her, onto her back. I use the feminine pronoun because in that position the features which identified the creature thus were obvious and no specialised knowledge was required to interpret them as is often the case for avian or insect species. This was because, as small as they were, approximately the size of some of the larger moths, the creatures were, with several variations of a relatively minor nature, formed like miniature humans.
I felt an impulse to cover them up and Holmes must have sensed something in my posture because he glanced up at me and shook his head. I acknowledged to myself that it was a very anthropomorphic impulse, because the creatures obviously went about their lives as they were. So I assumed a scientific point of view, seated myself and set to work on a description.
They were beautiful. I felt my cheeks heating as I wrote the word. I know it is not a scientific term, but Holmes’ notes will be replete with scientific detail, so I will allow myself to indulge in aesthetic terms. Their bodies were narrow and lean. I supposed this helped them to fly and hover on the type of wings they possessed, of which I could see only one folded example on the creature that was still curled about a bunched bit of Holmes’ handkerchief. They reminded me of dragonfly wings more than those of moths or butterflies. There was an upper and a lower wing. The latter grew low on the back. The upper wing extended somewhat above the shoulder blade and down to overlap the top of the other wing. The lower one extended mid-way up the back and down well past the feet of the curled creature. The wings folded quite compactly and I could see dark veins dividing sections of gold and several shades of orange. Possibly they were transparent when opened, certainly they would be translucent. That might explain why I could not see them at all when they flew, but then again, I had not been able to see their bodies either.
I tapped my pen against my lips. The creatures glowed faintly as they slept. In the sunshine, their aura was not visible, but its light glinted off the Petri dishes and faintly coloured the white cloths near them. The light of the curled one tinted the handkerchief a ruddy gold. The light of her partner coloured the white flannel beneath her a brassy shade. Perhaps they brightened so much when they were in flight that it blotted out all detail, like the centre of a flame.
I leaned closer. The brass-coloured specimen had dark green curls admixed with tendrils of gold and spring green. The ruddy one had flaming waves of red, orange and gold hair that half-covered her thighs. They each had long, sharp nails on their toes and fingers of an iridescent material like the shells of some beetles. I took up Holmes’ magnifying lens and observed that their bodies had a covering of translucent down that held a hint of green for Brass and red for Ruddy at the bends of their limbs and for Ruddy I could see the same darkening at the base of her wings.
Listing a few elements of their appearance does not do them justice, however. The total effect was enchanting. If I had encountered such a creature as a child, I would have been unable to restrain the urge to stroke a downy flank or that gleaming hair and would probably have been well-scratched for my impertinence. As it was, I moved the lens closer and found myself eye to eye with Brass. I drew in a breath and sensed Holmes move, but I didn’t look away. Possibly, I could not look away. Brass’s eyes were green-gold, like sunlight through spring leaves and evergreen needles. Their glimmer shifted like dappled sunlight as well. A clawed foot came into the frame of the glass and pushed it away. I sat back, sucking in a breath.
On the table, Brass sat up, eyed me warningly and tapped Ruddy on the shoulder. Ruddy did not move. Brass reached for the dish of water and pulled it closer. I could see the muscles in her arm flex. It was quite a feat considering their relative sizes and the angle of her reach. She dipped her hand into the water, licked her palm and dipped it again, scooping the liquid this time and splashing it across her legs and onto her sleeping companion. It mostly landed in Ruddy’s hair and she did not stir. Brass narrowed her eyes at me as though that might have been my fault and repeated the gesture vigorously until Ruddy was quite wet. The other creature sat up slowly and Brass took a deep breath, her eyes flicking to her comrade, but always returning to me.
Brass stood and pushed the water dish closer to Ruddy with her foot. Ruddy turned and dropped her face directly into the water. Brass nudged her with a foot and Ruddy sat up, shook droplets from her hair and stretched. Brass opened her wings. The sunlight streamed through them. She fluttered briefly, rising an inch or so above the flannels. Ruddy had not stood, but slid towards the dish of lotion and took a long drink from it. She tossed her head back, stretched again and ripped a honeysuckle bloom from its branch and ate it. I caught a glimpse of sharp, white teeth. Omnivore was my conclusion. Ruddy got to her feet. Brass took her hand, wings whirring and rose half a foot into the air. Ruddy pulled her hand away, shrugged her shoulders and rose as well. Together, they wafted towards the open window. Their auras were visible as they passed in front of the curtains on their upwards trajectory, but became almost indistinguishable from the sunlight around them when they moved into the sunbeams. It was the top of the sash that Holmes had opened. The creatures apparently followed the draught from it because a few minutes later when a cloud obscured the sun, they were no where to be seen.
Holmes leaned back in his chair.
“No one would ever believe us,” I said at last.
“We know,” he replied. “That is sufficient.”
“Surely, you would have liked to study them for longer.”
“I may have other opportunities,” he answered with a smile.
“A second visit to the Botanic Gardens?” I asked, absolutely ready to forfeit another half-night’s sleep.
“I think not,” Holmes said. “They know where we are.”
***
Lestrade visited us that afternoon with a case and hard on the heels of its successful conclusion, a private client called upon us with a matter that required a few days’ sojourn and some strenuous tracking in the Cotswolds. It was, therefore, more than a week before we were back in our rooms and at our leisure. It was a very welcome respite.
Our dinner had been cleared away and I had taken out the notes I had written in such haste to re-read and revise them. The prosaic events of the intervening days, as prosaic as days ever were with Holmes, served to make the contents of the notes appear quite fantastical. Their spelling errors and omitted words made them seem all the more so. Holmes was at his work table, studying something under his microscope. He had chemicals bubbling nearby. The weather was warm enough for us to have the windows open at the top with all the usual sounds of Baker Street drifting in over the lace curtains. I began my second draft.
“Their hairs have a marked similarity to those of a bumblebee,” Holmes commented.
It took me a moment to realise he had spoken, so deep had I been in recalling our adventure in the park. I looked up.
Holmes was regarding me. “The hair on their bodies, not the hair on the fairies’ heads,” he clarified. “I wonder if they also act as pollinators.”
I felt my eyes grow wide. I was astonished to hear him use such a word. Nowhere in my notes had I done so, employing somewhat cumbersome alternatives whether to appear more scientific or to simply avoid appearing mad to myself, I am not sure. And here was Holmes, calmly calling the creatures fairies while commenting on the microscopic morphology of their body hair.
“Have you concluded that that is what they were?” I asked.
“Are,” Holmes corrected me. “We have no reason to believe that they have ceased to exist since last week.” He poured a creamy liquid into a dish on the table.
The fragrance was familiar. I inhaled deeply and decided I should move my papers to Holmes work table, which suddenly seemed far too far away.
Holmes smiled at me as I drew up a chair and laid my papers out. He dipped his forefinger in the liquid cooling in the dish and rubbed it into the back of my hand. I let my pen drop. My hand had been feeling cramped and the gentle, circling motion of Holmes’ finger was relaxing the muscles.
“Are,” I agreed belatedly.
Holmes turned my hand over, massaging my palm and up between my fingers.
“You’re making me sleepy,” I murmured, my eyes drifting shut.
Holmes chuckled.
“What do you think made the...fairies...” There I had said it. “...so sleepy? None of the ingredients seemed like it would have that effect, but then their physiology must be completely different.”
“Most likely the brandy I added,” Holmes said.
My eyes opened. “How did you know what effect it would have on them? Mightn’t it have poisoned them?”
“It was only a few drops.”
I sighed. “I’m glad their metabolism is similar enough that it only made them sleep.”
“We don’t know that for certain, but they seemed to be functioning properly when they took their leave of us.”
“Should we check on them?” I asked.
Holmes moistened his fingertips and reached for my other hand. “Perhaps after a postprandial nap. I ran you rather ragged these last few days.”
He pulled at the joints of each of my fingers in turn. It was such a soothing sensation.
“Waiting up in that tree in the rain for me must have been hard on your leg and your shoulder,” he said. “But it did not mar your aim.”
“No, it didn’t,” I replied, muscles tensing at the memory. The rain had lessened visibility through the dripping leaves, but I had seen our culprit raise his knife clearly enough. He would not be assaulting anyone else with that hand for a good while.
Holmes’ fingers pressed more firmly into the muscle at the base of my thumb. “It was an exceptional shot.”
I hoped I would always be able to bring that to Holmes’ endeavours.
“A rest is not a bad idea,” I said.
Holmes stood, still grasping my hand. “Your shoulder could use a massage as well,” he said. He nodded towards the door to his room. “And my room is closest.”
It was to be that sort of nap, then. I was not slow to rise.
***
The room was grey when I first awoke. Holmes was warm by my side and I realised how tired he must have been as well. I listened to his breathing for a while then followed him back into sleep.
When consciousness returned the second time, I was comfortable and still fragrant with the lotion Holmes had rubbed into every bit of me. I was disinclined to open my eyes and stretched indolently, replaying images from my dream before they faded away. I had dreamt of a dusky garden lit by paper lanterns. Holmes and I had seen Sargent’s painting at the Tate and I had told him that it reminded me of a fete to which my father had taken my brother and me. I had not gone on to explain that I had been on the cusp between childhood and youth that summer and how the pretty girls in their white frocks hanging the last lanterns as I arrived had quite captivated me. I had spent the evening sipping ginger beer and following them with my eyes, in their dresses that reflected the colours of the lanterns. It had been a couple years more before I had understood what my fascination had signified. Now and then, the lanterns re-appear in my dreams.
I felt Holmes stir and the idea of his pale warmth beneath the covers stirred me. My sleep had clearly been restorative. The mattress dipped and I reached out to stop him leaving in case that was what his movement presaged.
He pressed against me, his interest firm against my hip, but at my ear he breathed a single word, “Look.”
I opened my eyes. His head was propped up on his hand, faint coloured lights playing over his face. He was gazing at the window above his door. It was from there the lights shone.
“Shall we go greet our guests?” Holmes said and bounded over me, taking the coverlet with him.
***
I could hear Holmes laughing as I entered the sitting-room, tying my dressing gown about me, slippers only half on my feet.
He was by his work table, coverlet wrapped about him like a cloak, while the...fairies...I had not yet come to terms with the word despite what was before me...well, one, Ruddy, hovered near the top of a stoppered flask, while Brass was standing on my notebook, leaning upon my pen, nib in the air, as though it were a staff, and looking for all the world as though she were reading what was written there. Nearby, the dish Holmes had filled earlier, sat empty.
Holmes reached across the table for the flask, tried the cork once and when it did not yield, held the container close to his chest and worked the stopper slowly out. Ruddy had flitted to Holmes’ shoulder during this proceeding. Once opened, Holmes tilted the flask in Ruddy’s direction. She hovered, face half in the neck of the bottle for a moment, and then settled by the empty dish.
“I think the second batch has met with approval,” Holmes said and filled the dish like a seasoned sommelier.
I joined Holmes, strongly considering the possibility that I was continuing to dream.
Brass reversed the pen she was holding like a soldier with a pike and tapped my notebook with the nib.
I had been so taken by Holmes’ earlier suggestion of a nap, I had apparently neglected to cap it or Brass had opened it. I looked at where she was tapping. As I watched, she drew a line through the name Brass. I stared at the line, then at Brass’ gold-flecked eyes.
She shouldered the pen and walked to the top of the page. Wielding it more like a rake now, she wrote: BRASSICA.
I read and was not sure whether to be more astonished at her writing or at my having come so close to her actual name, if indeed that was what she was writing. I felt Holmes lean over my shoulder.
“A genus in the mustard family,” he said.
Brassica nodded.
I decided to sit.
Brassica walked back to the paragraph she had already amended and crossed out Ruddy. Stepping across to the facing page, she wrote: RUBUS.
This one I happened to know because I am very fond of raspberries and my nan had had a hedge of them at the back of her garden. “The genus of raspberries,” I murmured. “Fairies speak Latin.”
“They do live in the Royal Botanic Gardens,” Holmes said. “Most plants have a label near them.”
“So the plants might be their names in whatever language,” I said, more or less thinking aloud.
Brassica tapped another word.
“You are a born diplomat, Watson, nay a courtier,” Holmes said.
The word she had tapped was beautiful. “They’re just notes, I wasn’t expecting anyone to read them, certainly not the subjects.”
“Your eye for pulchritude is wide-ranging,” Holmes responded.
I looked up at him, unsure whether he was teasing me or was actually jealous.
Rubus joined us. She had one of Holmes’ pipettes in her hand, filled with his concoction.
“I hope that was a clean one,” I said. “Holmes what do you intend to call your potion there?”
Rubus handed the pipette to Brassica, who upended it with both hands and drank. When it was half-empty, she held it out towards Holmes.
I wasn’t sure if the implication was that he should refill it or that he should partake of it. I could have used a whiskey at that point, but I did not think it a good idea to expose our guests to any more alcohol than we already had.
Holmes sucked it dry and fetched the dish to refill it. He handed the tube to Brassica and she held it out to me.
I followed Holmes’ example with some reservation due to the effect the mixture appeared to have on my carnal impulses, even in small doses. Holmes must have observed some outward sign of my doubt. He patted my shoulder and remarked that my response to it intrigued him.
Rubus turned a page in my notebook with her foot and began to write. QUERCUS was the result. She stepped off the page and pointed at me with the pen. I thought she was handing the pen back to me and reached for it. She pulled it away, used it to tap at the word and pointed at me again.
“Am I being named?” I asked. I thought it only fair considering the liberties I had taken. “I rather like oak. I wonder what yours shall be?”
Brassica shook her head and pointed again to the word then to me.
“Perhaps that is your name,” Holmes said.
Brassica and Rubus both nodded and showed us their many, pointed teeth.
Holmes refilled the pipette and handed it round, guests first.
“So you should have a name, too,” I reasoned.
“Not everyone’s forebears spent time away with the fae,” he replied and drained the pipette.
***
A brisk knock on the sitting-room door roused me. “Shall I send up breakfast?” Mrs. Hudson asked through the wood.
I looked about. Bright sunshine poured through the windows. Holmes was asleep on the settee, cocooned in his coverlet and I had apparently slept in my chair. I moved my neck from side to side and winced.
There was another sharp rap.
“Yes, please, Mrs. Hudson,” I replied, stretching and listening to all sorts of crackles from my ill-used bones. I limped over to Holmes’ work table and looked for sleeping fairies there. Finding none, I did a slow inspection of the room and returned to Holmes. His hair was awry. I smoothed it back from his pale brow and thought that if only one of us was part-fae, surely it would have had to have been him. It was hard to look at him and not think of magic and mystery. No matter how factual and logical he gloried in being, there was always that edge of otherness to him.
“Preconceptions, John,” he murmured.
I swatted his shoulder. “You might wish to at least put on a dressing gown before Mrs. Hudson comes back,” I said. “I’m going to soak the cricks out of my bones in a very hot bath.”
“I put the ottoman under your feet,” he mumbled back.
“Thank you,” I replied, shuffling away. “It would have been much worse if you had not.”
***
Between the bath and one of Mrs. Hudson’s truly splendid breakfasts, I was feeling quite well by mid-day. Holmes was standing by the hearth, lighting his pipe and I was reading the newspaper when Martha rapped on the open door.
“A letter, sir,” she said with a little bob when I looked around.
Holmes waved her in. “When did this arrive?” he asked, setting his pipe aside and taking the light green envelope she held out to him.
“I don’t know, sir,” Martha replied.
Holmes raised an eyebrow at her. “How did you come by it?”
“I saw it on the floor by the door just now when I came out to polish the brass,” she answered.
“And when were you in the hallway last?” Holmes asked.
“When I swept it less than a quarter hour ago.”
Holmes strode to the window and looked down at the front door. He shook his head and walked back. “No postmark,” he said, smoothing his hand over the stationery.
“Thank you, Martha,” I said. “You may go.”
She bobbed again and was gone.
Holmes broke the seal on the flap, pulled out the card inside and handed it to me. “Would you read it out,” he said, taking up his glass and scrutinising the stationery and the wax.
“Our carriage will call for you at twilight,” I read. “Prepare to travel.” It was subscribed with an ornate B and R underscored with several lines of flourishes.
Holmes tossed the envelope onto my lap and re-lit his pipe.
The envelope had both our names inscribed on it in a fine, spidery script. I turned it over and closed the flap to see the seal. The deep green wax was flecked with gold. The stamp was a hexagon with an oak leaf and an acorn inside. I looked up at Holmes.
He looked back at me, exhaled a long plume of smoke and smiled.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Recipient:
morelindoAuthor:
saki101 Characters/Pairings: Watson/Holmes
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
Summary: Not all mysteries are connected to cases.
(Also posted on AO3.)
Excerpt: Sometimes I think I have notes for more stories that I may not tell, than for those that I may. With new names for the protagonists and a setting far from London, perhaps I shall publish the story that follows as complete fiction. It is not that, however.
Sometimes I think I have notes for more stories that I may not tell, than for those that I may. With new names for the protagonists and a setting far from London, perhaps I shall publish the story that follows as complete fiction. It is not that, however.
As I took leave of my former patient in St John’s Wood, I declined the offer of his carriage. Victorious afternoon sunlight streamed through the glass panels framing his front door and I decided to make my way back to Baker Street on foot.
The previous day, Holmes had concluded one of those cases that could never be put before the public, even in amended form. With the occasional sigh, because it had been both an intricate case, which had pleased Holmes, and a dramatic one, which had pleased me, I had spent the morning tidying my notes for my own reference and had had to leave it at that.
At mid-day, a welcome distraction from my inner grumbling had come in the form of a request from young Verner to take on a routine follow-up visit with Mr. Featherstone as Dr. Verner had been called to an accouchement. A quick note sent by the same rain-damp lad that had brought Verner’s message had affirmed my cooperation and conveyed my best wishes for the safe arrival of his newest patient. I thought the stock of fine brandy old Mr. Featherstone always insisted upon my sampling at the end of a consultation might serve as a small consolation for the tale I had lost the opportunity to tell. Mr. Featherstone had not disappointed, neither in the satisfactory healing of his broken ankle, which at his age was not to be taken for granted, nor in the contents of his wine cellar. Warmed by spirits within and sunshine without, I headed for home in a much improved frame of mind.
A shout went up from Lord’s as I passed and I smiled. The match had either run long or started late due to the morning’s showers, but from the volume of the cheers, the weather had not deterred many of the spectators. There would, no doubt, be an account in the next day’s papers.
I turned onto Park Road aiming for Hanover Gate with the intention of passing most of my journey amidst the flower-lined paths of the Regent’s Park. It was a few steps out of the way, but would make the stroll a far more agreeable one as long as the new battery of clouds I spied in the south did not advance too quickly. The chemical experiment with which Holmes had been engrossed for most of the day had had a distinctly floral component that had awakened in me a desire for the scents of the originals.
He had not looked up from his simmering retorts when I had announced my departure and I had drawn near to his work table to repeat myself. It is not unusual for Holmes to be so absorbed in an experiment that he hears not a word I say, so I had leaned into his view and summarised my plans, laying my hand upon the table to keep my balance, so far had I had to lean. Message delivered, I had pulled my hand away well-oiled by something upon the wood. Suddenly attentive, Holmes had drawn out his handkerchief to wipe the residue away, holding my hand between his for a moment after he had finished.
Since he has returned to me, as by some miracle, I find myself hesitant to leave him and sometimes I sense the same hesitation in him. He had nodded to me as though granting permission when he had finished his ministrations and bade me a pleasant excursion to the wilds of St John’s Wood. I had laughed at his turn of phrase and caught a whiff of an enticing fragrance as I pulled on my gloves. I noticed that the scent had lingered in one when I removed them at Mr. Featherstone’s house and again when I donned them to depart. I found myself lifting that glove to my nose periodically while I walked home to enjoy the aroma.
As I approached the Outer Circle, the air grew thick with the yellow pollen of the plane trees that arched over the road. Damp masses of it coloured the border of the pavement and freshly-falling fibres clung to my coat and tickled my nose. An impulse to laugh rose up at their assiduous efforts to pollinate me and everything else along the streets that they had blanketed with their downy emissions. I shook out my handkerchief in preparation for sneezes I thought sure to follow, but none came and soon I was through the gate and into the open spaces along the boating lake in the park. Several interested geese waddled towards me as the last golden eddies of fluff swirled about my feet and away.
“I have nothing for you, my fine fellows,” I said. A few ducks had joined the geese milling around me and a coot was bringing up the rear. “I have come unprepared,” I admitted, tucking my handkerchief away and glancing about for any lingering vendors. The birds appeared to consider this pronouncement and followed me at a slower pace towards Clarence Bridge. There were pigeons gathered there pecking at crumbs beneath the benches and they, too, cocked their heads towards me with anticipation. I felt like a guest at a family dinner arriving without sweets for the children. I patted my pockets. A lump in one yielded a crumpled paper cone of peanuts left from my last train journey with Holmes. Removing a glove for the task, I unfolded the paper and tossed the nuts out, a couple at a time, to appease the feathery crowd. Even the swans had deigned to glide close to the shore by then. I threw them a few and they bent their graceful necks to snap them up. My store was depleted in moments. The pigeons returned to their quest for dropped crumbs, the ducks and the coot slipped into the water and the geese paraded away. Only the swans remained, their heads disappearing beneath the water to crop the plants there and reappearing wet and elegant to cast their eye about before diving under again. Their movements reminded me of the way Holmes could make a ballet out of striking a match on the underside of our mantlepiece and then pause, perfectly posed, as though awaiting applause for the feat. I am often tempted to clap. I am sure he sees the appreciation in my eyes without an ovation. Perhaps he poses because he sees me always watching.
A young couple crossed the bridge arm in arm and turned towards Clarence Gate. I considered following their example because the grey clouds in the south had already drifted closer, but I did not. Instead, I gazed across the Tyburn’s waters at the bright, grassy slope dotted with daisies. Here and there were others soaking up the last of the sun, a family picnicking by the empty bandstand, a man reading his newspaper on a bench between two flower beds blazing with overblown red and yellow tulips. The entire scene was caught in that timeless feeling which comes with sunlit evenings. As a boy, I would resist going inside until the twilight was so dark sport was impractical and some remnant of that defiance kept me there by the feeding swans and the cast iron bridge. Eventually, the man folded his newspaper and stood, the family packed their wicker basket and gathered up their blanket and still I remained, watching the shade deepening among the leaves.
From the reeds, a faint breeze liberated wisps of down. A goose honked, flapping its wings, half rising out of the water, half running across it, to the shore of the islet and up onto its bank. The gander’s beak snapped in the air as it went, but I could not discern what it chased against the backdrop of shifting light and shimmering water. Several coots, already settling into their nests for the evening, slipped back into the water. The swans turned their heads and swam towards the island; mid-lake they changed course, the object of their interest as yet invisible to me. It was a small drama, but it piqued my curiosity and I altered my position in an attempt to get a clearer view. As the snowy birds glided under the bridge, in quick succession they extended their necks in one direction and then the opposite, bowed low and then stretched high and still I could not see what they hunted. It was not until I had stepped as close to the edge of the water as I could without spoiling my shoes and leaned out over it that I saw the light that appeared to dart about their heads against the shadows beneath the bridge. I turned round to search for a lantern on the opposite shore whose rays could be reflecting off some bolt or screw in the underpinnings of the bridge. I saw none. The boathouse was dark, its boats bobbing at their moorings to its side. No one walked along that path that I could spy.
The swans glided out from beneath the bridge, ruffling their wings and twitching their tails, turning one way and then the other, sailing back under the bridge and out once more. I could only distinguish the glow they chased when it and they were in the bridge’s shadow. Once out upon the water it was lost in the remaining sunlight. As the goose before them, the swans began to extend their wings to increase their upwards reach, but apparently to no avail as their manoeuvring continued. The sun was gilding the treetops, dusk gathering closer to the ground. I could see the glow above the water now, but not its origins. I glanced about the lake. No one else appeared to remain and I acknowledged that it was time to depart. I could lay my minor mystery before Holmes and he could explain what materials must have refracted what light sources to create the effect that had so bemused the waterfowl and me.
Once I had traversed the Outer Circle, a few strides brought Baker Street into view around the corner, two worlds within a few steps of one another. The contrast between the serenity of the one and the bustle of the other always struck me.
The rain clouds were crossing Marylebone as I gained our side of the road. I could see the lamps twinkling in the gloom by the station. A strong wind blew up Baker Street from the south, complicating the lamplighter’s job. I sped up, hoping to outpace the rain. From a couple houses away, I could hear Holmes’ violin. The curtains fluttered out the open window onto the balcony. Mrs Hudson would not be pleased if she found them streaked with sooty rain on the morrow. I gained our door and heard the splat of heavy drops against it before I reached the stairs. Above me, the music stopped, a window slammed, and the playing resumed.
***
Holmes looked up as I set aside my bag, his melody shifting from the yearning strains I had heard outside to something lively. I did not recognise the tune, which was often so, but I took note of its tone. Holmes’ music was like a barometer, so completely did it correlate with his moods. I felt the lilt of the piece indicated satisfaction with the progress of his experiments, not the excitement of a new case. All in all, it presaged an amiable evening.
Dinner was upon the table; the room agreeably filled with the aroma of roast, a trace of Holmes’ earlier experiments, which appeared to have been concluded as nothing more simmered upon the table, and a hint of rain. It had occurred to me that the open window might have heralded the need to release some noxious odours, but I was content to have been mistaken.
I promised to make haste to change that his dinner might not be delayed any longer. I hummed as I mounted the stairs and less than ten minutes later, I was beslippered and wrapped in my dressing gown, hands and face glowing from a brisk freshening with the cool water in my room. As I descended, I noticed Holmes’ song had returned to the melancholy strains I had heard out in the street. Holmes is mercurial and I hoped that his mood had not settled into a darker mode in the brief interval of my absence. No sooner had I stepped into the sitting room, than the bright air returned and I wondered if he was playing one of those old songs with lively verses and sad refrains. When I sat, Holmes lifted his bow and nestled his violin in its case.
I shook out the folded linen by my plate and looked up with a bit of a mischievous smile. “I came across something mysterious while I was out,” I said.
Holmes paused, wine bottle in hand and levelled his gaze at me. “Not the patient, no, all is well with him.” Holmes filled my glass. “And his household.”
I am well-versed in Holmes’ methods and can even follow them to a certain extent. I was sure my sanguine expression upon my return was all he had needed to deduce that.
“Neither did you witness nor fall victim to any accident or crime. No one drowning in the lake,” he said as he poured his wine and sat.
No doubt my shoes had announced the route I had taken and my fondness for detouring through the park is well-known to Holmes. It was one of the things that had delighted me about the prospect of living on upper Baker Street, but, of course, the main attraction at Baker Street sat across from me, probably reading my thoughts in my eyes as others read the headlines in their newspapers. I shook my head. “But you have hit upon the location,” I said.
“Hmm,” Holmes murmured with a wonderful warmth to the sound.
He was humouring me, but it was a fond game and I cast about for ways to present my meagre stock of clues in the most entertaining manner. I looked up to see the enigmatic smile I was certain he was smiling and was not disappointed. The prospect for the evening seemed better and better.
Over his shoulder, I saw the curtains waver and felt the draught by my feet. The window frames are warped; they never close perfectly. I got up to close the gap in the curtains, reaching over Holmes’ work table to do so and got my hand greasy in the process again. He had not cleaned up quite as thoroughly as it had appeared and this close I detected that the scent lingered as well. The fragrance was so sweet, I was tempted to lick my fingers, and had raised my hand to my lips without thinking.
Somehow, Holmes was at my side. He grasped my wrist. “I do not know yet whether it is safe to ingest,” he said. “The ingredients are unusual. The mixture is claimed to soothe rashes and sunburn as well as a few more fanciful boasts.” He sniffed my fingertips. “Interesting,” he murmured, “the alpha-ionone smells much sweeter on your skin than mine.”
Holmes altered his grip and sniffed above my palm. He loosened his fingers, cradling my hand more than holding it and inhaled above the pulse point at my wrist. His breath was warm on my skin and my skin warmed in return.
His attentions have a startling effect on me. I know I flush most obviously. It is no matter. If my reactions were much subtler, Holmes would still observe them. He considers them compliments and is pleased. He takes one tiny step after another and watches my reactions course through me. If we are somewhere where he may not pursue that first flush of mine, I watch for the infinitesimal signs of his restraint. His mask stays in place, but his eyes brighten with the knowledge of what he has done to me.
We were not somewhere where he needed to deny either of us. I sighed with satisfaction at that. He brushed his lips along the blue lines of my veins and listened to my breathing change. He traced them with the tip of his tongue. Dinner could wait, the chaise longue was near. He rubbed his cheek against my wrist and fixed me with his gaze.
“It tastes sweeter on you as well,” he said, “appreciably more alkaline.”
“I thought you didn’t know if it was safe,” I managed to say. I have not been able to dissuade Holmes from his habit of testing concoctions upon himself, including poisonous ones. I note when my supply of charcoal biscuits has been reduced and keep an eye upon him.
“This is how I shall know,” he replied. He turned his gaze back to my hand, pushed my sleeve away and drew the skin of my forearm up between his teeth. I was nudging him in the direction of the chaise longue when a glimmer at the gap I had failed to close between the curtains arrested my progress. The idea of someone upon our balcony with a lantern peering in at us sent a chill through me and Holmes glanced up, unmoving in any other regard. As he stared at the light, I had the presence of mind to notice that the glow was neither the colour of an oil- nor a candle-flame. It rose and fell in the narrow opening, disappearing for an instant to one side or the other as moths will do at a lighted window. Framed by the dark fabric of the curtains and backed by a sliver of night sky, I recognised the greenish-gold hue I had last seen flitting in the shadows beneath the bridge in the park.
Suddenly, Holmes dashed to the other window, slipped behind the curtains and flung up the sash. I was but a step behind him. As we peered out, something like an ember fell from the top of the other casement and caught on the top bar of the railing by our front steps. I squinted at it, but could discern no form within the glow. Holmes crouched then stretched out on the carpet, his head and shoulders out the window in the drizzle to which the earlier downpour had dwindled. He peered between the grillwork floor of the balcony. I eased back into the room and seized his magnifying glass, returning on my hands and knees to tap him on the shoulder with it as I resumed my place. The glow rose then, perhaps half the distance between the forecourt railing and the bottom of the balcony. Holmes, glass in place, was as still as a statue.
The idea that it was a variety of insect, perhaps escaped from the zoological gardens on the north side of the park, replaced my earlier notion that what I had observed had been some reflection of the setting sun. The small, radiant sphere, undampened by the rain, rose at a slant and hovered near the top of our front door nearly on a level with the bottom of the balcony. Opera glasses would have been most useful, but the nearest pair was in Holmes’ bed-room and I felt the odds were good that whatever it was would be gone before I could return from fetching them. I saw no motion of wings. English glow-worms have no wings, but I have read of ones in America that do, although I had gathered that they were not large bugs. Since the form of the creature was totally obscured by its light, I supposed it could be anything from a tiny insect capable of extreme brightness to one larger than a dragonfly. I wondered briefly whether there were any bioluminescent hummingbirds. The swish and splash of passing carriages would have drowned out any subtle sound the creature might be making even as close as it had now come. My leg sent up a protest at the position I was maintaining and I shifted ever so slightly. The light rose above us for an instant before it darted up the street, zigzagging from streetlamp to streetlamp across the road and back and finally around the corner towards the park and out of sight.
I was sorry to have scared it away and huffed in displeasure at myself.
Holmes drew himself in and lowered the window. “That was your mystery,” he said.
“The birds were chasing it at the lake,” I replied. “I thought the glimmering was a trick of the light.”
He wiped his magnifying glass dry with his serviette then switched to blotting his dripping hair with it. “I spilled one of the solutions I had prepared,” he said, standing. “The one you got on your hand. It dried to a viscous film rather quickly and I decided to add more and leave it on the table with the window open.”
“To what end?” I asked.
Holmes shrugged off his wet dressing gown. I reached for his shoulder and felt that his shirt was moist as well. “Perhaps a small fire,” he suggested and strode into his room.
I had kindling crackling around a few logs before he returned, nightshirt and dressing gown donned and a bath towel draped over his shoulder. He handed me the towel. I was barely damp, but it was best to not risk a chill. Obligingly, I rubbed at my hair when I was not poking at the fire.
Holmes took a book from beside his chair and opened it to the last few pages. “Have a look,” he said, leaving it on the cushion of my chair. I relinquished the poker and settled into my customary seat, accidentally closing the volume. It was an old tome of herbal remedies. As I paged through, I saw that these were interspersed with fortifying recipes for the feeding of the ill or convalescent. The chapters began with fine engravings that someone had coloured by hand; here and there a tiny stroke of colour had fallen outside the lines. The margins of the text were more often than not embellished with amendments and commentary in several hands and shades of ink. I went back to check the title page and raised my brows at the publication date early in the previous century. Finally, I reached the pages at the end of the book that had originally been blank. Time and former owners had filled them with further formulae, some in rhyme, and the occasional diagram or simple illustration. The script was not the easiest to decipher, but my eyes grew accustomed and I located the page with directions for the preparation of a salve to protect pale skin from the sun and to help it heal if thus burnt. A star by the title led to several notes at the bottom of the page. I learned that if the potato were replaced with an equal measure of honey, an aphrodisiac resulted, which was to be applied topically for immediate effect. I could not avoid a snort. I would have the most lucrative practice in London if that worked. Alternatively, the paste could be ingested in soup or sauce for a slower-acting effect. I chuckled. If rose and violet petals were added, a love potion resulted and if that mixture were added to a bowl of milk on the sill of an open window or by an unlatched door, one could summon the fair folk.
Holmes set a well-filled dinner plate and my glass of wine on the table at my elbow. “I warmed the vegetables in the gravy,” he said. Many are the uses to which Holmes puts his chemistry apparatus.
I inhaled and realised I was ravenous. I left the book on the carpet, away from the hearth, and balanced the plate on my lap.
Holmes placed similar provisions on his side table, settled into his chair and stretched his feet towards the fire. He took a sip of his wine and I set to work on the victuals.
“Those are quite the claims,” I said after taking the edge off my hunger.
Holmes smiled over the top of his wine.
“Which variations did you try?” I sniffed at my palm to see if I could detect any of the ingredients, but the aroma of my dinner was not aiding the process. “Rose?” I asked and lifted the last morsel of roast to my mouth.
Holmes nodded, emptied his glass and took up his plate. “The one you got on your hand had milk in it.”
My eyebrows rose in surprise, but there might have been other annotations I had overlooked. “Violets, too?” I asked and focussed on the vegetables. Although cooling, the gravy was still delicious. I made a note to compliment Mrs Hudson on the new recipe.
Holmes nodded and swallowed.
“Did the flower-seller still have violets?”
He dabbed at the corner of his mouth with the damp serviette.
I found myself fixated on the sheen of his lips in the firelight. They are very knowledgeable lips. I reached for my wine without looking and managed not to upturn it.
Holmes followed it all. “The Royal Botanic Society Gardens do.” He smiled at me again. “You see you weren’t the only one traversing the Regent’s Park today.”
Holmes has often been out and back before I come down for breakfast. “I’ve never been,” I replied. It is reserved for members of the society as far as I am aware.
“Would you like to go in the morning?” he asked. “Before dawn?”
The gardens would be locked at that hour, but locks are a minor impediment to Holmes. Still, I prefer not to break the law without a compelling reason.
“I have keys,” Holmes said. He tilted his head at the volume on the floor. “The book is from their library. They have an extensive selection on botanical poisons.”
“Are you a member or did you solve a mystery for them?”
“What do you think?” Holmes replied.
From what I knew of Holmes, he seemed to care little for formal associations or ritualised modes of recognition. I believe he viewed them as constraints and preferred to operate outside their limitations. Yet the more I learn of Holmes, the more complexity I find and I doubt my limited powers could reliably predict his actions or fathom his motivations. “I’ll guess the latter,” I finally said.
“And you would be right,” Holmes replied. He put his plate aside and fetched the bottle of wine. He gazed down at me as he refreshed my glass.
“Even odds,” I said, staring upwards. His hair had dried without benefit of pomade and fell about his face in a manner that called to mind some of the more intense moments we have shared. His eyelids lowered and my temperature rose.
“You didn’t guess. You reasoned through the information you have and realised that you don’t have all you might wish to possess,” he said, his eyes holding mine.
I grew warmer still.
***
I sat up. The room swarmed with shadows cast by the oil lamp’s flame.
“Stay,” Holmes said and his arm wound about my waist and tugged at me.
I leaned away. “I may sleep too soundly,” I countered, wanting to surrender to that force.
“I locked the door to your room and both the bathroom doors,” he said.
I looked over my shoulder. “When did you do that?”
“When I changed,” he said. “And you locked my door after yourself.”
I had. I had locked both doors to his room, unaware of the measures he had already taken. I had done it with a sense of possessiveness, as though I could hold him captive, which is a ridiculous thought. Holmes goes where he lists and each time he chooses my company it is something of a surprise. Except for tonight. Tonight he had left no doubt as to how much he wanted me. I fancied that even a case might not have drawn him away, although that might have been presuming too much.
“Stay,” he repeated. “I will wake you.”
I gave in and felt his pleasure at it. He has skilful hands.
“Do you think the potion is actually an aphrodisiac?” I murmured as he applied his mouth as well as his hands and my whole body hummed.
He rose above me on his elbows. “I think you are getting better at giving in to your impulses,” he said.
“That might be the wine,” I replied and gave in.
***
The rain had stopped. Thin clouds drifted past the moon. The streetlamps’ reflections gleamed from the puddles as we skirted the park. A single hansom passed us. Once we reached York Bridge, the breeze was at our backs.
I turned up my collar and caught a whiff of the lotion with which Holmes had instructed me to coat my hands. The scent brought a blush to my cheeks. I chided myself. He would come to doubt my claims of experience if I kept on in this manner.
A few minutes’ brisk walk brought us to the ornate gates of the Botanic Society’s Gardens. Holmes tapped a finger against his lips before removing a large iron key from his pocket. With a flourish he inserted it into the lock and raised an eyebrow at me as though I might have doubted the means by which he intended to gain access. I shook my head and slipped through the opening. Silently, Holmes relocked the gates behind us.
Before us stretched a broad avenue; a few steps along it and the lamplight of the Inner Circle disappeared. At its end, I could distinguish by the moon’s glow, the outlines of a large conservatory similar in shape to the Palm House at Kew. Holmes did not head towards it, however, but turned onto a narrow, shrub-lined path which followed the contours of a small lake. I could hear the plash of water and shortly we came to a rock garden which rose along part of the bank. It was surmounted by a cascade which filled a stone basin then overflowed into the lake. Holmes stopped at a nearby bench girding a willow and with gestures bid me remove my gloves and take the bowl he produced from an inside pocket of his coat. He filled it from his flask then indicated a smooth stone in the rockery upon which to place the bowl. I held it firmly and stepped carefully forward because the liquid came nearly to the brim. When I had set it down, Holmes tapped my elbow and tilted his head towards the bench. In the east, the sky was turning a lighter grey and above us the tree-dwelling birds were beginning to stir. Quietly, we resumed our seats. Holmes extended his arm behind me, grasping my shoulder with one hand and holding his opera glasses upon his lap with the other. I took out my pair and did the same. Thus, we kept our vigil.
There was a large splash. I peered between the willow’s branches. There were no birds on the water, just ripples fracturing the moonlight. To my right, shadows shifted. I did not turn my head towards the rockery, only my eyes. Holmes’ hand tightened on my shoulder. Over the edge of the stone upon which the bowl sat, a hemisphere of light appeared like a miniature sunrise, quickly joined by another, faintly green in hue. The bowl cast long, twin shadows as the lights continued to rise until there were full orbs visible above the rim of the bowl. One by one, they tumbled over the lip and drifted like bubbles towards the centre. They floated, half-submerged, around the bowl, occasionally bumping the rim or one another and changing course.
They were closer to us than the light we had seen outside our window had been and our view was not distorted by rain or obstructed by anything like the bars of our balcony, the willow having been pruned on that side. Even so, I could not discern a shape within the balls of light, although I noted that they varied in brightness, not as much as a candle flame in a draught, more like an oil lamp’s flame as the wick is adjusted. From the corner of my eye, I saw that Holmes had raised his opera glasses. With the gentlest of incremental movements, I followed suit.
Before my eyes had adjusted to the lenses, the birds above us began to call and twitter loudly and, with considerable flapping of wings, one burst forth from the leaves. I expected our opportunity to be lost as it had been hours before when I had startled whatever it was away from Baker Street, but that was not what happened. In fact, nothing happened except that the bright globes sunk further into the bowl so that I was observing little more through my glasses than the diffusion of their light as it shone out above the dish.
I felt Holmes’ arm withdraw from behind me. I glanced to the side. He put the glasses into one pocket and drew some sort of cloth from another. He stood and moved, slowly and soundlessly, towards the stone. I could not see what he did once there, but after a moment he beckoned and I joined him. The bowl was swathed in cloth and he was tying a string under the rim to hold it in place. He gestured for me to pick it up, which I did, and he set off down the path towards the gates.
The bowl was somewhat lighter than it had been and I no longer worried about spillage. Nevertheless, I trod so carefully after Holmes that I barely made the gravel crunch. The muslin lay smooth, lit from underneath. Whatever was below seemed to be lying still and I hoped to keep it that way. When I joined him, Holmes was already on the pavement, a bough of honeysuckle in his hand. He closed and locked the gate with the merest click. We retraced our steps as the sky lightened and were back in our sitting room before anyone else at Baker Street was stirring.
Holmes opened the curtains and I set the covered bowl on his work table without the slightest bump. My hands were cold from our walk, but I concluded that Holmes had wanted my hands bare so that the fragrance of the lotion would predominate. When it seemed safe to speak, I would ask him.
Holmes pulled my gloves from my pocket and arranged them and the honeysuckle in a horse-shoe shape on the table. He dropped his coat and cap upon the settee and approached the table with his hands raised as a magician might before the culmination of a trick. He had, after all, already seen what was in the bowl, whereas I remained unenlightened. He plucked the hat from my head, tossed it with perfect aim to join his then tugged at my coat until I unbuttoned it. He eased it off to add to the heap upon the settee. I scowled over my shoulder and he smiled, stepped around me, untied the string and lifted the cloth away.
My hand flew to my mouth. We had not slept much, had consumed a fair amount of wine and experienced some effects from the concoction Holmes had brewed and added to our dinner, but all of that together could not account for what I seemed to see before me. For in the bowl, snuggled up to Holmes’ handkerchief, which he had apparently used to absorb the remainder of the liquid in the dish, were two creatures the Zoological Society would surely pay handsomely to acquire. That thought did not sit well with me. I bent closer, breath held, and watched the backs of our captives rise and fall reassuringly. Holmes cupped his hands above part of the bowl and his palms reflected the creatures’ glow, which was no longer visible in the sunlit room. I raised my eyes to Holmes’, palms up and fingers outspread to silently express my amazement. He seemed quite delighted with our morning’s work, much as it seemed to challenge certain rational precepts.
The next couple hours were spent examining the creatures unobtrusively. I set down a rough draft of the narrative and Holmes stared through his magnifying glass and made quick sketches with labels and short descriptions. I waylaid Mrs. Hudson when we heard her upon the stairs and relieved her of our breakfast trays one after the other, explaining that Holmes was conducting an experiment which must not be disturbed by so much as the door being opened by anyone other than one of us. She was sufficiently familiar with Holmes’ idiosyncrasies to take this in stride and advised me to put the dishes out on the landing when we were done with a note as to when we would be wanting our dinner. She correctly assumed that we would be out to any visitors and I nodded my firm assent and thanked her. She just shook her head. On the stairs, I could hear her telling Martha that she would not need to tidy our rooms in the afternoon.
***
After a few trips between the bathing room and his bed-room, Holmes had arranged a nest composed of several flannels; my gloves; three Petri dishes, one empty, one with water, one with more of the milky concoction; and the branch of honeysuckle. He indicated that I should move the creatures from the bowl to these new quarters. With the utmost delicacy, I insinuated my hand beneath the sodden mass of the handkerchief and lifted it and the creatures, still sound asleep upon it, out of the bowl and lowered them altogether onto the flannels.
They shifted at that point and I was afraid I would be the cause of their flying away again for Holmes had opened one of the windows once the day had warmed sufficiently. It had surprised me that he had done so, thinking that he would wish to study them for as long as possible. Upon reflection, however, it seemed consistent with his nature. He has a dislike of barriers that he has not erected himself and I suppose that influenced his decision to allow the creatures a means of escape.
We had still not spoken lest we wake the creatures and we had not wished to both withdraw into one of the other rooms to confer. One of us always remained with our charges and when we were both present, we worked in silence, using gestures to convey our meanings or exchanging the occasional note when signs and signals did not suffice. Silent communication is a skill we have developed in the course of our case work and it serves us well at other times.
Now I know it may seem coy of me not to have already described what it was I beheld when Holmes lifted the covering from the bowl, but evidence of my senses notwithstanding, it took me a while to come to terms with what it appeared to be. I am familiar with delirium. I have witnessed the hallucinatory effects of drink and drugs and it took some time for me to feel sure I was not under the influence of any of those things. Indeed, it was not until after I had breakfasted and withdrawn to the bathing room to wash and shave, that I determined that I would attempt a description of what we had lured into our possession.
Returning to the sitting-room refreshed, I found Holmes peering through his microscope in such a familiar pose that I questioned whether I had imagined the whole night’s adventure. When I reached his side, however, the proof that that was not so was still stretched out upon the flannels, albeit arranged differently than when I had last seen them. Initially, the two creatures had been curled together, the position and their hair obscuring many of their features. Now one had rolled away, or perhaps Holmes had nudged her, onto her back. I use the feminine pronoun because in that position the features which identified the creature thus were obvious and no specialised knowledge was required to interpret them as is often the case for avian or insect species. This was because, as small as they were, approximately the size of some of the larger moths, the creatures were, with several variations of a relatively minor nature, formed like miniature humans.
I felt an impulse to cover them up and Holmes must have sensed something in my posture because he glanced up at me and shook his head. I acknowledged to myself that it was a very anthropomorphic impulse, because the creatures obviously went about their lives as they were. So I assumed a scientific point of view, seated myself and set to work on a description.
They were beautiful. I felt my cheeks heating as I wrote the word. I know it is not a scientific term, but Holmes’ notes will be replete with scientific detail, so I will allow myself to indulge in aesthetic terms. Their bodies were narrow and lean. I supposed this helped them to fly and hover on the type of wings they possessed, of which I could see only one folded example on the creature that was still curled about a bunched bit of Holmes’ handkerchief. They reminded me of dragonfly wings more than those of moths or butterflies. There was an upper and a lower wing. The latter grew low on the back. The upper wing extended somewhat above the shoulder blade and down to overlap the top of the other wing. The lower one extended mid-way up the back and down well past the feet of the curled creature. The wings folded quite compactly and I could see dark veins dividing sections of gold and several shades of orange. Possibly they were transparent when opened, certainly they would be translucent. That might explain why I could not see them at all when they flew, but then again, I had not been able to see their bodies either.
I tapped my pen against my lips. The creatures glowed faintly as they slept. In the sunshine, their aura was not visible, but its light glinted off the Petri dishes and faintly coloured the white cloths near them. The light of the curled one tinted the handkerchief a ruddy gold. The light of her partner coloured the white flannel beneath her a brassy shade. Perhaps they brightened so much when they were in flight that it blotted out all detail, like the centre of a flame.
I leaned closer. The brass-coloured specimen had dark green curls admixed with tendrils of gold and spring green. The ruddy one had flaming waves of red, orange and gold hair that half-covered her thighs. They each had long, sharp nails on their toes and fingers of an iridescent material like the shells of some beetles. I took up Holmes’ magnifying lens and observed that their bodies had a covering of translucent down that held a hint of green for Brass and red for Ruddy at the bends of their limbs and for Ruddy I could see the same darkening at the base of her wings.
Listing a few elements of their appearance does not do them justice, however. The total effect was enchanting. If I had encountered such a creature as a child, I would have been unable to restrain the urge to stroke a downy flank or that gleaming hair and would probably have been well-scratched for my impertinence. As it was, I moved the lens closer and found myself eye to eye with Brass. I drew in a breath and sensed Holmes move, but I didn’t look away. Possibly, I could not look away. Brass’s eyes were green-gold, like sunlight through spring leaves and evergreen needles. Their glimmer shifted like dappled sunlight as well. A clawed foot came into the frame of the glass and pushed it away. I sat back, sucking in a breath.
On the table, Brass sat up, eyed me warningly and tapped Ruddy on the shoulder. Ruddy did not move. Brass reached for the dish of water and pulled it closer. I could see the muscles in her arm flex. It was quite a feat considering their relative sizes and the angle of her reach. She dipped her hand into the water, licked her palm and dipped it again, scooping the liquid this time and splashing it across her legs and onto her sleeping companion. It mostly landed in Ruddy’s hair and she did not stir. Brass narrowed her eyes at me as though that might have been my fault and repeated the gesture vigorously until Ruddy was quite wet. The other creature sat up slowly and Brass took a deep breath, her eyes flicking to her comrade, but always returning to me.
Brass stood and pushed the water dish closer to Ruddy with her foot. Ruddy turned and dropped her face directly into the water. Brass nudged her with a foot and Ruddy sat up, shook droplets from her hair and stretched. Brass opened her wings. The sunlight streamed through them. She fluttered briefly, rising an inch or so above the flannels. Ruddy had not stood, but slid towards the dish of lotion and took a long drink from it. She tossed her head back, stretched again and ripped a honeysuckle bloom from its branch and ate it. I caught a glimpse of sharp, white teeth. Omnivore was my conclusion. Ruddy got to her feet. Brass took her hand, wings whirring and rose half a foot into the air. Ruddy pulled her hand away, shrugged her shoulders and rose as well. Together, they wafted towards the open window. Their auras were visible as they passed in front of the curtains on their upwards trajectory, but became almost indistinguishable from the sunlight around them when they moved into the sunbeams. It was the top of the sash that Holmes had opened. The creatures apparently followed the draught from it because a few minutes later when a cloud obscured the sun, they were no where to be seen.
Holmes leaned back in his chair.
“No one would ever believe us,” I said at last.
“We know,” he replied. “That is sufficient.”
“Surely, you would have liked to study them for longer.”
“I may have other opportunities,” he answered with a smile.
“A second visit to the Botanic Gardens?” I asked, absolutely ready to forfeit another half-night’s sleep.
“I think not,” Holmes said. “They know where we are.”
***
Lestrade visited us that afternoon with a case and hard on the heels of its successful conclusion, a private client called upon us with a matter that required a few days’ sojourn and some strenuous tracking in the Cotswolds. It was, therefore, more than a week before we were back in our rooms and at our leisure. It was a very welcome respite.
Our dinner had been cleared away and I had taken out the notes I had written in such haste to re-read and revise them. The prosaic events of the intervening days, as prosaic as days ever were with Holmes, served to make the contents of the notes appear quite fantastical. Their spelling errors and omitted words made them seem all the more so. Holmes was at his work table, studying something under his microscope. He had chemicals bubbling nearby. The weather was warm enough for us to have the windows open at the top with all the usual sounds of Baker Street drifting in over the lace curtains. I began my second draft.
“Their hairs have a marked similarity to those of a bumblebee,” Holmes commented.
It took me a moment to realise he had spoken, so deep had I been in recalling our adventure in the park. I looked up.
Holmes was regarding me. “The hair on their bodies, not the hair on the fairies’ heads,” he clarified. “I wonder if they also act as pollinators.”
I felt my eyes grow wide. I was astonished to hear him use such a word. Nowhere in my notes had I done so, employing somewhat cumbersome alternatives whether to appear more scientific or to simply avoid appearing mad to myself, I am not sure. And here was Holmes, calmly calling the creatures fairies while commenting on the microscopic morphology of their body hair.
“Have you concluded that that is what they were?” I asked.
“Are,” Holmes corrected me. “We have no reason to believe that they have ceased to exist since last week.” He poured a creamy liquid into a dish on the table.
The fragrance was familiar. I inhaled deeply and decided I should move my papers to Holmes work table, which suddenly seemed far too far away.
Holmes smiled at me as I drew up a chair and laid my papers out. He dipped his forefinger in the liquid cooling in the dish and rubbed it into the back of my hand. I let my pen drop. My hand had been feeling cramped and the gentle, circling motion of Holmes’ finger was relaxing the muscles.
“Are,” I agreed belatedly.
Holmes turned my hand over, massaging my palm and up between my fingers.
“You’re making me sleepy,” I murmured, my eyes drifting shut.
Holmes chuckled.
“What do you think made the...fairies...” There I had said it. “...so sleepy? None of the ingredients seemed like it would have that effect, but then their physiology must be completely different.”
“Most likely the brandy I added,” Holmes said.
My eyes opened. “How did you know what effect it would have on them? Mightn’t it have poisoned them?”
“It was only a few drops.”
I sighed. “I’m glad their metabolism is similar enough that it only made them sleep.”
“We don’t know that for certain, but they seemed to be functioning properly when they took their leave of us.”
“Should we check on them?” I asked.
Holmes moistened his fingertips and reached for my other hand. “Perhaps after a postprandial nap. I ran you rather ragged these last few days.”
He pulled at the joints of each of my fingers in turn. It was such a soothing sensation.
“Waiting up in that tree in the rain for me must have been hard on your leg and your shoulder,” he said. “But it did not mar your aim.”
“No, it didn’t,” I replied, muscles tensing at the memory. The rain had lessened visibility through the dripping leaves, but I had seen our culprit raise his knife clearly enough. He would not be assaulting anyone else with that hand for a good while.
Holmes’ fingers pressed more firmly into the muscle at the base of my thumb. “It was an exceptional shot.”
I hoped I would always be able to bring that to Holmes’ endeavours.
“A rest is not a bad idea,” I said.
Holmes stood, still grasping my hand. “Your shoulder could use a massage as well,” he said. He nodded towards the door to his room. “And my room is closest.”
It was to be that sort of nap, then. I was not slow to rise.
***
The room was grey when I first awoke. Holmes was warm by my side and I realised how tired he must have been as well. I listened to his breathing for a while then followed him back into sleep.
When consciousness returned the second time, I was comfortable and still fragrant with the lotion Holmes had rubbed into every bit of me. I was disinclined to open my eyes and stretched indolently, replaying images from my dream before they faded away. I had dreamt of a dusky garden lit by paper lanterns. Holmes and I had seen Sargent’s painting at the Tate and I had told him that it reminded me of a fete to which my father had taken my brother and me. I had not gone on to explain that I had been on the cusp between childhood and youth that summer and how the pretty girls in their white frocks hanging the last lanterns as I arrived had quite captivated me. I had spent the evening sipping ginger beer and following them with my eyes, in their dresses that reflected the colours of the lanterns. It had been a couple years more before I had understood what my fascination had signified. Now and then, the lanterns re-appear in my dreams.
I felt Holmes stir and the idea of his pale warmth beneath the covers stirred me. My sleep had clearly been restorative. The mattress dipped and I reached out to stop him leaving in case that was what his movement presaged.
He pressed against me, his interest firm against my hip, but at my ear he breathed a single word, “Look.”
I opened my eyes. His head was propped up on his hand, faint coloured lights playing over his face. He was gazing at the window above his door. It was from there the lights shone.
“Shall we go greet our guests?” Holmes said and bounded over me, taking the coverlet with him.
***
I could hear Holmes laughing as I entered the sitting-room, tying my dressing gown about me, slippers only half on my feet.
He was by his work table, coverlet wrapped about him like a cloak, while the...fairies...I had not yet come to terms with the word despite what was before me...well, one, Ruddy, hovered near the top of a stoppered flask, while Brass was standing on my notebook, leaning upon my pen, nib in the air, as though it were a staff, and looking for all the world as though she were reading what was written there. Nearby, the dish Holmes had filled earlier, sat empty.
Holmes reached across the table for the flask, tried the cork once and when it did not yield, held the container close to his chest and worked the stopper slowly out. Ruddy had flitted to Holmes’ shoulder during this proceeding. Once opened, Holmes tilted the flask in Ruddy’s direction. She hovered, face half in the neck of the bottle for a moment, and then settled by the empty dish.
“I think the second batch has met with approval,” Holmes said and filled the dish like a seasoned sommelier.
I joined Holmes, strongly considering the possibility that I was continuing to dream.
Brass reversed the pen she was holding like a soldier with a pike and tapped my notebook with the nib.
I had been so taken by Holmes’ earlier suggestion of a nap, I had apparently neglected to cap it or Brass had opened it. I looked at where she was tapping. As I watched, she drew a line through the name Brass. I stared at the line, then at Brass’ gold-flecked eyes.
She shouldered the pen and walked to the top of the page. Wielding it more like a rake now, she wrote: BRASSICA.
I read and was not sure whether to be more astonished at her writing or at my having come so close to her actual name, if indeed that was what she was writing. I felt Holmes lean over my shoulder.
“A genus in the mustard family,” he said.
Brassica nodded.
I decided to sit.
Brassica walked back to the paragraph she had already amended and crossed out Ruddy. Stepping across to the facing page, she wrote: RUBUS.
This one I happened to know because I am very fond of raspberries and my nan had had a hedge of them at the back of her garden. “The genus of raspberries,” I murmured. “Fairies speak Latin.”
“They do live in the Royal Botanic Gardens,” Holmes said. “Most plants have a label near them.”
“So the plants might be their names in whatever language,” I said, more or less thinking aloud.
Brassica tapped another word.
“You are a born diplomat, Watson, nay a courtier,” Holmes said.
The word she had tapped was beautiful. “They’re just notes, I wasn’t expecting anyone to read them, certainly not the subjects.”
“Your eye for pulchritude is wide-ranging,” Holmes responded.
I looked up at him, unsure whether he was teasing me or was actually jealous.
Rubus joined us. She had one of Holmes’ pipettes in her hand, filled with his concoction.
“I hope that was a clean one,” I said. “Holmes what do you intend to call your potion there?”
Rubus handed the pipette to Brassica, who upended it with both hands and drank. When it was half-empty, she held it out towards Holmes.
I wasn’t sure if the implication was that he should refill it or that he should partake of it. I could have used a whiskey at that point, but I did not think it a good idea to expose our guests to any more alcohol than we already had.
Holmes sucked it dry and fetched the dish to refill it. He handed the tube to Brassica and she held it out to me.
I followed Holmes’ example with some reservation due to the effect the mixture appeared to have on my carnal impulses, even in small doses. Holmes must have observed some outward sign of my doubt. He patted my shoulder and remarked that my response to it intrigued him.
Rubus turned a page in my notebook with her foot and began to write. QUERCUS was the result. She stepped off the page and pointed at me with the pen. I thought she was handing the pen back to me and reached for it. She pulled it away, used it to tap at the word and pointed at me again.
“Am I being named?” I asked. I thought it only fair considering the liberties I had taken. “I rather like oak. I wonder what yours shall be?”
Brassica shook her head and pointed again to the word then to me.
“Perhaps that is your name,” Holmes said.
Brassica and Rubus both nodded and showed us their many, pointed teeth.
Holmes refilled the pipette and handed it round, guests first.
“So you should have a name, too,” I reasoned.
“Not everyone’s forebears spent time away with the fae,” he replied and drained the pipette.
***
A brisk knock on the sitting-room door roused me. “Shall I send up breakfast?” Mrs. Hudson asked through the wood.
I looked about. Bright sunshine poured through the windows. Holmes was asleep on the settee, cocooned in his coverlet and I had apparently slept in my chair. I moved my neck from side to side and winced.
There was another sharp rap.
“Yes, please, Mrs. Hudson,” I replied, stretching and listening to all sorts of crackles from my ill-used bones. I limped over to Holmes’ work table and looked for sleeping fairies there. Finding none, I did a slow inspection of the room and returned to Holmes. His hair was awry. I smoothed it back from his pale brow and thought that if only one of us was part-fae, surely it would have had to have been him. It was hard to look at him and not think of magic and mystery. No matter how factual and logical he gloried in being, there was always that edge of otherness to him.
“Preconceptions, John,” he murmured.
I swatted his shoulder. “You might wish to at least put on a dressing gown before Mrs. Hudson comes back,” I said. “I’m going to soak the cricks out of my bones in a very hot bath.”
“I put the ottoman under your feet,” he mumbled back.
“Thank you,” I replied, shuffling away. “It would have been much worse if you had not.”
***
Between the bath and one of Mrs. Hudson’s truly splendid breakfasts, I was feeling quite well by mid-day. Holmes was standing by the hearth, lighting his pipe and I was reading the newspaper when Martha rapped on the open door.
“A letter, sir,” she said with a little bob when I looked around.
Holmes waved her in. “When did this arrive?” he asked, setting his pipe aside and taking the light green envelope she held out to him.
“I don’t know, sir,” Martha replied.
Holmes raised an eyebrow at her. “How did you come by it?”
“I saw it on the floor by the door just now when I came out to polish the brass,” she answered.
“And when were you in the hallway last?” Holmes asked.
“When I swept it less than a quarter hour ago.”
Holmes strode to the window and looked down at the front door. He shook his head and walked back. “No postmark,” he said, smoothing his hand over the stationery.
“Thank you, Martha,” I said. “You may go.”
She bobbed again and was gone.
Holmes broke the seal on the flap, pulled out the card inside and handed it to me. “Would you read it out,” he said, taking up his glass and scrutinising the stationery and the wax.
“Our carriage will call for you at twilight,” I read. “Prepare to travel.” It was subscribed with an ornate B and R underscored with several lines of flourishes.
Holmes tossed the envelope onto my lap and re-lit his pipe.
The envelope had both our names inscribed on it in a fine, spidery script. I turned it over and closed the flap to see the seal. The deep green wax was flecked with gold. The stamp was a hexagon with an oak leaf and an acorn inside. I looked up at Holmes.
He looked back at me, exhaled a long plume of smoke and smiled.
