It too settled on a form eventually: tall and black, wearing what looked like robes but not from any material known to man; rather fashioned from the same miasma as the rest of it. Its hands, when it reached out, were in contrast white and thin, almost bone-like but lacking substance. A finger shot out from the robe, pointing at my companion’s shade.
And its voice, when it spoke, sounded like thousands of voices speaking at once in my mind. “Sherlock Holmes,” it stated simply. “I have come for you.”
All the times he had cheated Death, in particular that celebrated occasion at the Reichenbach Falls, and now I feared that it had sought Holmes out — all because I had ended his life. And Holmes was right, there was a distinctive smell; it was one I recognized all too readily from my time serving abroad, and my career as a doctor on these shores.
“No,” I heard my friend say then, in a voice that was his, but not his. “I have come for you.”
There was silence then, as if the creature in front of Holmes did not quite know how to reply. That silence was filled eventually by an explanation of sorts.
“It wasn’t quite enough for you, was it?” Holmes continued abruptly. “Taking lives like this. It wasn’t … satisfying.” He uttered the last word with all the contempt it deserved. “You have watched for so long as we have found new ways to kill one another. Watched and come for us when needed. All the while wondering what it might be like to actually kill, to tighten a cord until the last gasp of air emerged from a mouth, to plunge a knife through someone’s heart until it beat no longer, to hack a child to…” Holmes paused. “I saw your pattern, you see. This isn’t the first time you have slipped inside; you’ve worked your way through battlefields, have you not, choosing those who would not readily be missed. The poor, the destitute. I have seen them all… They told me what you have done. Yet that was not enough for you. The sweetest sensation, the longest and strongest high of all, comes from the murder of a loved one. To feel the connection severed at your hands. Your very hands!”
Listening to Holmes’ explanation, something I have done on many occasions at the conclusion of a case, everything fell into place. The reason why Miss Cartwright’s cousin, Simon, had done what he did — the reason those others did the same. It was a disturbing revelation to say the least.
“You dare to pass judgment on me?” came the voice that was a thousand voices, almost screeching the reply. It was filled with indignation that Holmes was even talking to it.
“When your actions result in…” Holmes’ spirit looked over again at where the family from the train had their plot. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
There was a snarl from the black mist-like shape, and it flung itself forward, just as Holmes had done back in Baker Street after wallowing in depression and indulging too much in his seven percent solution. The intent was different here, however, and we could both see it.
The shape raised both hands, in an effort to grab Holmes, to take him back with it, to drag him away and undo his very existence. I wished there was something I could do… But there was! I could bring Holmes back as he had instructed. We knew the identity of the killer, we just could not do anything about it — and never would be able to, I suspected.
It was time to administer the antidote and restart Holmes’ heart.
He looked sideways and could see what I was about to do. “Not yet, Watson,” he cried, then those hands grabbed him and Holmes was grappling with Death.
“You… have been … with me … every step of the way…” Holmes grunted as he struggled with his fearsome foe. “But even … you should know … there are consequences … to one’s actions…”
Something was happening behind me. I took my eyes off the spectral pair, to glance around. More shapes in the mist, breaking through in fact: one after the other. It did not take them as long as Holmes or Death to form; they had been waiting for this moment and they were eager to strike. Here were there the victims of Death’s atrocious crimes, Judith Hatten, Mr. Thorndyke, the husband and child murdered on the Waterloo Train, but also there were those who had been so tormented by their involuntary actions that they had taken their own lives — and, I had to wonder, given a helpful push by Death? So there followed Simon, Mrs. Thorndyke, the mother who’d turned that fire axe on her beloved husband and child, and more besides. I watched as those Holmes had spoken about, the earlier victims, both the murderers and the suicides gone unnoticed, unreported — the ones who had told Holmes their tales — all came marching through the mist. These were also joined by those who’d been lost during the last few weeks, while Holmes had been attempting to get to the bottom of the mystery: the ones Lestrade had not been able to keep from the morning editions. They marched through that graveyard as one, a spectral army converging on Death, all craving revenge.
The black figure — whose face was still unclear to me, and I would imagine to Holmes — turned towards them, letting go of my friend. The horde encircled Death, crowding in and raining down blows that I did not think would have any effect, but evidently did. They were backed by the power of those trapped between life and … and whatever was on the other side. It suddenly dawned on me then exactly why Holmes had wanted to wait a day. It was October 31st, All Hallows’ Eve — the time of year when these spirits would be at their most powerful.
“Now, Watson!” shouted Holmes, limping away from the scene. “Bring me back now!”
I snapped out of my daze, not wanting to let go of Holmes’ hand because I wished to witness the last of this, wanted to see Death’s end. But, of course, I should have known that Death is never, ever truly gone. How could it be? It is the other side to the coin of life. I saw the dark figure being smothered by the ghosts, then let go and watched as the vision faded. As I worked — injecting Holmes with the antidote, then pounding on his chest to get his heart beating again, I heard a faint voice. A voice made up of so many more. “We will meet again,” Death promised Holmes, “and not even your friend will be able to save you then.” The words filled me with dread.
I couldn’t see the ‘spirit Holmes’ any more, couldn’t see any evidence of the battle that had taken place, but that did not matter to me at that time. I beat on Holmes’ chest one final time, and he sat bolt upright, taking in a lungful of night air. He began to cough, though whether it was the result of coming back or the fog still surrounding us, I had no clue. I held on to him anyway, until he was strong enough to sit up on his own. “Rest a little, Holmes,” I warned him.
“I’m… I’m fine,” he told me. “Thank you, Watson.” And he clasped my arm.
I nevertheless had to half carry my friend through the graveyard and through the fog, into a more public place where we could hail a cab to return us to the relative safety, and sanity, of Baker Street.
Holmes spent the next few days recuperating, enjoying the ministrations of both myself and Mrs. Hudson. When Lestrade called on us once more, I was able to inform him of the conclusion of the case. “You should not see any more deaths like those,” I assured him. I could not promise him the madness of the population would not continue, as indeed it did in the final days of the 19th century until everyone was certain the world would not end. Of the murders committed by loved ones and subsequent suicides, there were no more. Due note had obviously been taken of the repercussions. As I already mentioned, the matter was put down to the singular time of the year and our calendar. I would not be pressed further on what had been amiss with those people, in spite of Lestrade demanding answers from both myself and later from Holmes. For one thing, I did not know where to start; for another I was positive he would have us both committed if we spoke of what we’d uncovered. Nor did Holmes and I talk about what had happened and what we had seen that day. To do so seemed somehow to invite the premature return of the culprit.