I could only offer my own mutterings of disbelief. Even though I had an inkling now—however unreal, however unbelievable, Holmes’s insistence that the improbable must follow the impossible stuck with me—I could not voice the details. The truth was too strange.
Luckily, Holmes told it for me. He stirred and stood suddenly, staring blankly at me for a time as if he had forgotten I was there.
“Mr. Holmes,” Jones said. “Your friend Dr. Watson here, after telling me that you were a murderer, is now protesting your innocence. His reasoning I find curious, to say the least, so it would benefit me greatly if I could hear your take on the matter. There were gunshots here, and I have no body, and across London there are many more grieving folks this evening.”
“And many more there will be yet,” Holmes said quietly. “But not, I think, for a while.” He relit his pipe and closed his eyes as he puffed. I could see that he was gathering his wits to expound his theories, but even then there was a paleness about him, a frown that did not belong on his face. It spoke of incomplete ideas, truths still hidden from his brilliant mind. It did not comfort me one bit.
“It was fortunate for London, and perhaps for mankind itself, that I bore witness to one of the first murders. I had taken an evening stroll after spending a day performing some minor biological experiments on dead rodents, when I heard something rustling in the bushes of a front garden. It sounded larger than a dog, and when I heard what can only have been a cry, I felt it prudent to investigate.
“What I saw . . . was impossible. I knew that it could not be. I pushed aside a heavy branch and witnessed an old man being operated on. He was dead by the time my gaze fell upon him, that was for sure, because the murderer had opened his guts and was busy extracting kidneys and liver. And the murderer, in my eyes, was the woman Irene Adler.”
“No!” I gasped. “Holmes, what are you saying?”
“If you would let me continue, Doctor, all will become clear. Clearer, at least, because there are many facets to this mystery still most clouded in my mind. It will come, gentlemen, I am sure, but . . . I shall tell you. I shall talk it through, tell you, and the truth will mold itself tonight.
“And so: Adler, the woman herself, working on this old man in the garden of an upscale London house. Plainly, patently impossible and unreal. And being the logically minded person I am, and believing that proof, rather than simply belief, defines truth, I totally denied the truth of what I was seeing. I knew it could not be because Adler was a woman unfamiliar with, and incapable of, murder. And indeed she has not been in the country for quite some years now. My total disregard for what I was seeing meant that I was not viewing the truth, that something abnormal was occurring. And strange as it seemed at the time—but how clear it is now!—the woman had been heavily on my mind as I had been strolling down that street.”
“Well, to hear you actually admit that, Holmes, means that it is a great part of this mystery.”
“Indeed,” Holmes said to me, somewhat shortly. “My readiness to believe that something, shall we say, out of this world was occurring enabled me to see it. I saw the truth behind the murderer, the scene of devastation. I saw . . . I saw . . .” He trailed off, staring from the window at the ghostly night. Both Jones and I remained silent, seeing the pain Holmes was going through as he tried to continue.
“Terrible,” he said at last. “Terrible.”
“And what I saw,” I said, trying to take up from where Holmes had left off, “was an impersonator, creating Holmes in his own image—”
“No,” Holmes said. “No, it created me in your image, Watson. What you saw was your version of me. This thing delved into your mind and cloaked itself in the strongest identity it found in there: namely, me. As it is with the other murders, Mr. Jones, whose witnesses no doubt saw brothers and wives and sons slaughtering complete strangers with neither rhyme nor reason.”
“But the murderer,” Jones said. “Who was it? Where is he? I need a corpse, Holmes. Watson tells me that he shot the murderer, and I need a corpse.”
“Don’t you have enough already?” Holmes asked quietly. I saw the stare he aimed at Jones. I had never been the subject of that look, never in our friendship, but I had seen it used more than a few times. Its intent was born of a simmering anger. Its effect, withering.
Jones faltered. He went to say something else, stammered, and then backed away toward the door. “Will you come to the Yard tomorrow?” he asked. “I need help. And—”
“I will come,” Holmes said. “For now, I imagine you have quite some work to do across London this evening. Five murders, you say? I guess at least that many yet to be discovered. And there must be something of a panic in the populace that needs calming.”
Jones left. I turned to Holmes. And what I saw shocked me almost as much as any event from the previous twenty-four hours.
My friend was crying.
“We can never know everything,” Holmes said, “but I fear that everything knows us.”
We were sitting on either side of the fire. Holmes was puffing on his fourth pipe since Jones had left. The tear tracks were still unashamedly glittering on his cheeks, and my own eyes were wet in sympathy.
“What did it want?” I asked. “What motive?”
“Motive? Something so unearthly, so alien to our way of thinking and understanding? Perhaps no motive is required. But I would suggest that examination was its prime concern. It was slaughtering and slicing and examining the victims just as casually as I have, these last few days, been poisoning and dissecting mice. The removed organs displayed that in the careful way that they had been dismantled.”
“But why? What reason can a thing like that have to know our makeup, our build?”
Holmes stared into the fire and the flames lit up his eyes. I was glad. I could still remember the utter vacancy of the eyes I had seen on his likeness as it hunkered over the bloody body.
“Invasion,” he muttered, and then he said it again. Or perhaps it was merely a sigh.
“Isn’t it a major fault of our condition that the more we wish to forget something, the less likely it is that we can,” I said. Holmes smiled and nodded, and I felt a childish sense of pride from saying something of which he seemed to approve.
“Outside,” said Holmes, “beyond what we know or strive to know, there is a whole different place. Somewhere which, perhaps, our minds can never know. Like fitting a square block into a round hole, we were not built to understand.”
“Even you?”
“Even me, my friend.” He tapped his pipe out and refilled it. He looked ill. I had never seen Holmes so pale, so melancholy, after a case, as if something vast had eluded him. And I think I realized what it was even then: understanding. Holmes had an idea of what had happened and it seemed to fit neatly around the event, but he did not understand. And that, more than anything, must have done much to depress him.
“You recall our time in Cornwall, our nightmare experience with the burning of the Devil’s Foot powder?”
I nodded. “How could I forget?”
“Not hallucinations,” he said quietly. “I believe we were offered a drug-induced glimpse beyond. Not hallucinations, Watson. Not hallucinations at all.”
We sat silently for a few minutes. As dawn started to dull the sharp edges of the darkness outside, Holmes suddenly stood and sent me away.
“I need to think on things,” he said urgently. “There’s much to consider. And I have to be more prepared for the next time. Have to be.”
I left the building tired, cold, and feeling smaller and more insignificant than I had ever thought possible. I walked the streets for a long time that morning. I smelled fear on the air, and one time I heard a bee buzzing from flower to flower on some honeysuckle. At that, I decided to return home.