I reached the door a second later and yanked it open. Sure enough, there was Mr. Arthur Pinner, dangling from the neck by his own suspenders, with his face turning purple. Watson always tells me I should call them “braces”. He says I sound disgustingly American when I use the word “suspenders”. Yet, as Mr. Pinner was currently being suspended by some, I stand by my decision.
“Melfrizoth!” I cried, and my trusty soul-blade materialized in my hand. A simple flick of the wrist sent its black blade slicing through the offending, suspending suspenders like a hot knife through butter.
Or, no…
That’s not quite right…
Like a razor-prowed battleship through a slice of wet bread. More like that.
Mr. Pinner fell heavily to the floor, as I screamed out, “Help him, Watson!”
“Me?”
“Yes, you! You’re the doctor!”
“No, I’m the… Oh! Wait! I am! Help me get him over to the window, Holmes.”
Which I did. Watson told me to stand back, then threw the window open, crossed both of Mr. Pinner’s arms over his chest, and began pumping them up and down as if the man were a bellows. I had rather an uncomfortable moment where I’ll confess I began to worry about any potential damage my spell may have done to Watson’s cognitive facilities.
He must have seen the look I gave him, for he explained, “The two fundamental pillars of Victorian medicine, Holmes, are ‘By God! Get this man a brandy!’ and ‘By God! Get this man some air!’ Now tell me: do you happen to have any brandy on you?”
“Well… no.”
“Air it is, then!”
I watched Watson pumping furiously for a few minutes, though it was clear he had passed the point of exhaustion. After a time, he panted, “Come on! Breathe, you fool! I’ve got to save you!”
“Hmm,” I reflected, “and I’ve got to save you.”
“No, you bloody well don’t, Holmes.”
“You’ll die if I don’t.”
“So what? I’m a goddamn soldier!”
“All right, but maybe you’re a stockbroker’s clerk instead. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Don’t you see?” Watson shouted, his brow slicked with sweat. “I was a soldier who nearly lost his life in a country he didn’t care about, in a war he didn’t understand. That is how tenuous my hold on life is: I should be gone already. Now, I did not choose that war. And I would not choose that war. It was pointless. But your war isn’t! It’s right! And it’s noble! And I do care! That’s why I choose to fight by your side! If it happens to cost me my life… well… what of it? That is the soldier’s price, Holmes, and I’m not above paying it! I never have been!”
Who knows how long he might have gone on yelling like that? But at that moment, Arthur Pinner began to wheeze and cough.
“Oh…” said Watson, teetering deliriously. “That’s good. Yes… Good…” Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out over Mr. Pinner’s legs and began producing another grand puddle of nose blood. I was the last man standing, at the end of a very strange case indeed.
So, I lammed it down the stairs, out into the street, all the way to the station, onto the nearest train, and straight back to London.
Well… not straight back to London. It turns out the train I’d run onto had been going to Edinburgh. So… eventually back to London. As soon as I got there, I rushed to 221B, went upstairs, yanked the shades down over all the windows, threw myself in bed, pulled the covers up over my nose, and stayed there for days.
Because John Watson was back.
Despite all my best efforts to keep him safe, he was back.
And he had every reason to be cross with me.
THE FINALITY PROBLEM
DEAR READERS, HAVE ANY OF YOU DECIDED TO RUIN YOUR professional standing, your interpersonal relationships, and any credibility you might have with anyone who’s ever met you, but found it difficult?
Then why not try:
It’s really very simple. First: announce you are no longer yourself. Make sure to have no idea you ever were yourself. Fail to respond to your name. Pick a new, patently ridiculous name. Live with no memory of the events of your past life.
Now, without warning, abandon your new persona! Go back to your old one. Make sure to have no idea what transpired in the five months you were changed. Give no clear reason either for your initial transformation or for your sudden return to normalcy.
And there you have it, dear reader. Trust me, your life will be in tatters.
How do I know? I learned it the instant I told my servants that I wished to be addressed as John Watson once more. Clearly, they had thought never to see my return. And now that they did, they could only wonder how long it would last. Would I be asking to be called Hall Pycroft again the next morning? Or someone else entirely? They treated me like a dangerous maniac—one whose madness they did not want to catch.
Still, it was better than how Mary treated me. Upon hearing the news that I was back she gave a single, bitter curse, retreated to the confines of our bedroom, and locked the door. This, I deemed, was a futile measure. I knew Warlock’s curse would soon create, in both of us, a yearning so severe she would have no choice but to throw that door wide and beg me to attend her. I decided that, until she did, I would not disturb her. After all, Mary had been as much a victim of my recent transformations as I had—perhaps even more so. Though, I did have to wonder
