Death and Resurrection: From Canon to Kanon

By Lesley Johnson

a.k.a. 'the politician, the lighthouse and the trained cormorant'

PART I

I would have to say that it was one of the happiest moments of my life when I received a telegram, in July of 1914, from my old friend Sherlock Holmes. I had neither seen nor heard from him for more than two years when it arrived, yet it was precisely in the form of his usual communications to me, that is, terse and to the point:

'W.

BRING CAR STOP

2ND AUGUST STOP HARWICH STOP

H.'

When I read it I laughed aloud. Good old Holmes! Still up to his old tricks. Except that in this case, as I had learned through a cryptic message from his brother eighteen months ago, he was acting as an agent of His Majesty's government, rather than in his capacity as a private consulting detective. I have chronicled some details of this assignment under the title His Last Bow. However, here I will set down what followed after our reunion, which is perhaps also of interest, if not as pure adventure, then as a study into that 'long, dark night of the soul' which strong natures are sometimes heir to.

After we had delivered the quarry of this case, Von Bork, to the official bodies, and Holmes was released, I invited him to come to me in London and was surprised when he accepted readily. Over the next few days I began to understand why.

Holmes had been living completely immersed in the rôle of this Irish-American character for two years, beginning in Chicago, then New York, in Ireland and finally in England. At first he fairly floated on the exhilaration of the successful conclusion of the business, but I could detect, or I should say sense, an undercurrent of something, perhaps doubt, perhaps even apprehension, in his mood. I believed I knew its cause. One day during our regular walk along the Embankment, an exercise to dissipate the nervous energy that still consumed him, we stopped to watch the river traffic and I broached the topic.

"Holmes, may I ask why you brought me in to assist you at the end of this case?"

He became quiet and frowned in concentration as he stared out over the water. But then he tried to make light of it.

"Oh, Watson, I merely thought you'd enjoy it. There was no great danger involved, and I thought it might lend a little interest to your day."

"Holmes..." I warned.

He glanced at me, then turned his eyes to the river again, considering.

"Very well. The truth is, Watson, in these many long months of living as Altamont, I had almost forgotten who I was. I found I was having difficulty imagining what would follow the end of the case. I... I didn't quite know how I would get out of the rôle." He turned towards me somewhat tentatively.

"So, I thought of you, Watson."

I smiled warmly at him.

"That was a wise decision, Holmes." I saw a brief flash of relief cross his features, and I changed the subject. I knew he would resume the topic when he was ready.

He stayed with me in London for seven weeks, tying up the ends of the business and finding his footing again in private life. Now that he was no longer Altamont he could pursue interests according to his real inclinations. In our rambles through London we dined where he chose, attended performances of opera and symphony, and met with old acquaintances. Sadly, these were few, as so many had by now offered themselves in His Majesty's service according to their capacities. Little did they know how much Holmes had done to smooth the way for them.

We also visited, to the extent permitted under military security, the new airbases that were springing up in the countryside around London. Holmes, having become an expert engine mechanic during his assignment, was fascinated by the rapid developments in aeroplane performance and design. However, the curiosity of a couple of amateurs was not readily welcomed by those former amateurs who had now become the vanguards in a deadly serious business.

In late September I accompanied him to his farm in Sussex. He appeared pleased to be back, pleased with his hives and very happy to see Old Will, his farm manager. Will Thompson had worked with him in a professional capacity in the past. Mrs. Hudson had returned to the farm in late August, having concluded her small but vital part in the Von Bork case earlier. I stayed for a week, and then he bid me adieu with heartfelt thanks, and insisted on a promise from me to return in a month.

It is my understanding that, in modern military practice, an operative placed behind enemy lines or within hostile groups for any length of time, when returned home, now is put through a process of psychological rehabilitation, a 'de-briefing.' No such advanced practice was in place during the Great War. Had it been, I have no doubt that Holmes would have benefited from such a process. As it was, I gathered together for him what resources I could find, and what he would accept.

During October I received regular news on his activities from him, and additionally secured reports from his housekeeper and farm manager. However, perhaps we were more subtle in this than we ought to have been. In hindsight I believe an open and frank defiance of his predicted objections to being monitored would have been more considerate, and I sincerely regret this attempt of mine at subterfuge. Holmes' state of mind, always naturally suspicious, soon gave way to a kind of paranoia. Late in the month Mrs. Hudson, via the call box in the village on her half-day, reported that he was becoming secretive, that he ate less and slept little.

At my earliest opportunity I returned to the South Downs, and found Holmes in that state of reaction to which he used to fall prey after the conclusion of one of his cases. Yet this was far worse. He was not merely lethargic, not merely bored: he was suffering from a profound depression. With no active contribution to make I knew that he despaired at the progress of the War. He dwelt on the details of the military's failure to stop the Zeppelin raids, and he remarked how the eager young soldiers' fears that it would 'all be over by Christmas' had given way to a question as to when it might end. I suspected that Holmes was rapidly becoming addicted to the cocaine in which, in earlier years, he had sometimes indulged. He refused to discuss it.

Reason and offers of assistance were rebuffed. However I had brought down with me some newly published research on beekeeping and that alone seemed to spark some interest. I stayed with him another week and returned home when he seemed more himself. However I fear his expertise in dissembling was as successful in disguising illness as I had known it to be in counterfeiting it.

When I made an excuse to pay a return visit I was alarmed at his state of deterioration. He looked far older than his fifty-four years - excessively thin, grey of complexion and withdrawn. In February there had been an unusual cold spell that killed off most of his bees. It seemed he had taken the loss of his hives as a personal sign that he no longer had anything useful to offer the world, and that the world had given him up.

In April, in an effort to provide some stimulation to his interests I sought the assistance of an eminent apiculturist and persuaded him to accompany me to Sussex. The man offered advice and encouragement on the best way to re-establish the hives, and Holmes showed a genuine appreciation of the man's experience and interest. He rallied somewhat and I believed the sincerity of his effort because he went so far as to apologize to me for being a nuisance.

I followed up on these attempts of mine to 'jolly him along' by telephoning him one early April morning. He told me he was just going to venture out onto the downs to try to determine the location and source of wild bees in the area. I wished him success and had his promise to let me know how he fared.

PART II

The tall, grey figure rose from his crouch among the buzzing clover, and swung his rucksack onto his shoulder. He had been observing the active little hordes for half an hour, and had so far determined that only one-third of the bees were arriving from and departing to a northeasterly direction. The majority were using a northwesterly route. He needed to locate a swarm where the majority followed the northeasterly route: these would be the wild bees. He had established yesterday, after marking them with daubs of red paint, that the northwestern travellers belonged to the hives of his distant neighbour Tom Warner.

He tramped on across the downs gazing around as he walked. It still felt unreal, he reflected, to be back here after such a long absence, to be himself again - or at least, he thought grimly, this ersatz version of what now passed for himself.

Heading in a generally northeast direction he soon found a likely spot - there were hundreds of bees moving about over the low growing flowers - and settled himself down on the north-facing hillside to observe their comings and goings.

As he watched the activities of the bees he drew in his mind a fanciful comparison with the movements of the newly formed Royal Flying Corps, whose aeroplanes flew high over his roof almost daily. The miniature flights came in from the north-west and north-east to carry out their missions: scouting the best pollen sources, filling their leg sacks and then racing back to their airbases. The north-westerners (Tom Warner's bees) he dubbed the Number Ten Reserve Squadron, after the group at the new Joyce Green airfield at Dartford. The wild north-easterners he called the Northolts, based at the site taken over from Harrow Aerodrome. When the tiny DeHavillands, Vickers and Bristols landed on the flower heads he carefully extended his paintbrush and daubed the Number Ten Reservists with red, and to the Northolt squadrons he added a blue spot. From his vantage he could see that there was a predominance of Northolt flights. He would track the wild bees to their source tomorrow.

Today's investigation complete, he sat back on the hillside and allowed his thoughts to wander. As usual these days, they turned to Watson, the one person who was his firm connection to humanity.

Watson was the one fixed point of goodness, selfless concern and loyalty; and the one who could break through the hard shell of his personality to reach the inner man, the living soul who held himself apart, both because of the profession he had created for himself and because of the forces that had shaped him into what he was.

He had often wondered at the man's persistence - certainly at first Holmes had made only perfunctory efforts towards friendship in return. Yet in the early days of his career only Watson had brought him to make allowances for the otherwise irritating foibles of closeness with another person.

Perhaps it had been because of the place each was at in their lives when they met. The smart young surgeon, inspired and anticipating a career of doing good works in the world. To have found himself thrust into a distant nightmarish war where his precise skills were used only to patch together shattered bodies of young men fighting against strange hidden warriors in an inscrutably different land. Then to be felled by a sniper's bullet himself, and to contract a prolonged disease nearly unheard of in his own country. No wonder Watson arrived in London cynical, ill and purposeless.

And himself? Holmes smiled at the recollection of their first meeting. He had been a mere boy, full of himself (hence the little parlour trick that had so astonished the young medic) and full of ambition, but still retaining a small trace of the self-doubt of the inexperienced youth. A doubt that had made him seek reassurance in a connection with one so apparently different from himself. Why else would he have asked Watson to accompany him on those early cases, if not for the companionship of an interested and encouraging presence? Certainly it had not been for any professional advantage, he thought wryly. But he soon learned the man's strength: Watson could perceive and deduce with his heart. A skill and talent Holmes had never pursued or developed; perhaps did not understand. Their friendship grew, matured and became a permanent thing that neither man wished to do without.

Holmes smiled again, recalling Watson's later efforts to ensure that he would retain Mrs. Hudson as his housekeeper when he first settled in Sussex.

"I can predict with a certainty, Holmes, if you take yourself off to the countryside without connection to anyone who knows you, that in three months you will forget to have your hair cut, in six you will forget to shave and in eight months you will forget to trim your fingernails. When I visit I will find the sorriest, wildest, most unkempt hermit that this Island has ever produced."

Holmes had responded with outraged protests, provoked partly because he feared there was truth in what his friend said. They had argued and nearly come to blows, until the absurdity of the image reduced them both to helpless laughter.

Watson had even gone so far as to draw up a contract, all of the terms of which had to do with Holmes' responsibilities as employer and Mrs. Hudson's rights as employee. Holmes had accused Watson of being a Socialist, and Watson had threatened to nail the contract to the kitchen door. But he had taken Watson's pen and signed the paper, which from then on they had referred to as 'the Sussex Manifesto.' It had been one of the few occasions when Mrs. Hudson had forgot herself so far as to laugh at the two of them, though only after retreating to the safety of her pantry.

And now, some twelve years later, when whole continents were bent on senseless destruction and terror, when Holmes felt his own life's work pale to insignificance next to this world-encompassing crime of war, only Watson reached out to him, to connect him to humanity again. It was Watson who had convinced him, more than two years before, that his singular skills would be a vital resource for the impending war effort, who had overcome his doubts and persuaded him to offer his services in Intelligence training and support. This had led to the request, from the highest Office, that he accept an active assignment: the Von Bork case. The work he had done had been useful, and it had offered him a challenge he badly needed.

He admitted to himself that it had been the severe reaction to the end of this case that had nearly destroyed him. That and his relapse into the cocaine.

'Ah Oblivia!' he thought to himself somewhat lyrically, 'the sweet siren call of the Void, with its strangely compelling, but ultimately meaningless, images and thoughts.' He had fallen into her trap, and now, like some damaged aeroplane, his stabilizer shot out, he was in a steep dive toward disaster.

Perhaps he could pull himself out of it. He owed that to Watson. He would have to cast about for something useful, purposeful and engaging to occupy his mind.

Having come to this decision, he raised his eyes from the busy microcosm of endeavour before him, and saw a figure approaching. A tall, well-formed youth, his face hidden in a book, was walking apace across the downs. The clothes and cap were American cut, though of a far better quality than he himself had worn as Altamont. As the boy came on, Holmes noted automatically the stiff gait of one favouring an injured leg, the shortened stride of feet forced into too small shoes, the slightly off angle of the right shoulder and the looseness of the jacket. An adolescent; and he had suffered some accident, requiring a long convalescence. Holmes arched one eyebrow as the boy continued on, clouds of disgruntled bees rising up and dispersing before the heedless onslaught of his boots. Oblivious to his whereabouts, Holmes thought irritably, it was no wonder he had been injured - he'd probably walked off the edge of a precipice.

He did not at the present moment wish to be trod on, and so when the boy was a mere four feet away Holmes cleared his throat loudly.

PART III

It was only a little more than a fortnight after our telephone conversation when I was surprised and delighted to receive a telegram from Holmes asking me to meet him at Simpson's for lunch. When I arrived at our table I found him already there and examining several items in a parcel. His mood was, for Holmes, positively effusive: he thanked me for meeting him and enquired after my health and my activities since we last met. I was greatly encouraged to note that, though still too thin in body, his eyes were clear and his complexion showed a natural, ruddy colour that it had lacked for some months.

"Holmes, you seem a new man since our last meeting. Have you a case?"

"A case? No Watson, nothing of the sort. However, I have made a new acquaintance - a rather extraordinary new acquaintance, I might say. In fact, that is what has brought me to town, other than the pleasure of meeting with you again, of course, my dear Watson - I wished to purchase a few essential works on Chemistry and one or two other items to assist our studies."

"What are you engaged in with this new acquaintance, Holmes?"

"Oh, general studies to begin with - chemistry, forensics, investigative methods. But Watson, I believe this young person is possessed of great potential to excel in this arcane profession of mine." He paused and seemed momentarily to be arrested in some inward reflection. "Truly Watson, I have never met anyone with such exceptional and innate perceptual abilities."

"This sounds quite wonderful, Holmes. How did you come to meet?"

"On the face of it, I would have to concede that it was purely by chance. It was on the very day we last spoke by telephone, Watson. You recall I was going out on the downs to locate the source of the wild bees. I was sitting on a hillside observing, when Russell came along, head in a book, and nearly trod on me. We exchanged pleasantries, struck up a conversation, and ended by spending the remainder of the afternoon together. Russell intends to go up to Oxford, though perhaps not for another year. Until then, we shall pursue various avenues of study that I think will be useful for an apprentice to the trade."

"Holmes, I am delighted to hear of this. I should very much like to meet her." I said as we began our luncheon. Holmes' hand froze above his wineglass and he eyed me sharply.

"I never said Russell was female."

"Er... yes, I'm sure you did, Holmes. Am I mistaken?"

"Yes. No. I did not say that Russell was female."

"How extraordinary, I was sure you had." I felt my face go rather hot.

Holmes narrowed his eyes at me.

"If I were not quite as clear-headed as I presently am, Watson, I might suspect that you, Mrs. Hudson and Will were all in active duty at the War Office. At least you should offer your services, as they are certainly in need of veteran spies at the moment."

I was about to apologize to him and offer an explanation, but I saw the corner of his mouth turn up in wry amusement.

"However, I admit that your concern was justified. Please allow me to apologize again for my behaviour over the past several months, Watson, and... to thank you."

At that he stood and offered me his hand. With some emotion I rose from my chair and grasped his hand and arm firmly. It was a rare occasion for Holmes to reveal so much of his heart to me, and I took it as a sign of his having passed safely through a great personal crisis.

We resumed our luncheon on very good terms, and I ventured to ask him more about his new protégée.

"Yes, Watson, I will confirm what your agents have reported: Russell is female. If you require a prosopography, her name is Mary Russell, she is fifteen years of age - though mature beyond her years and considerably taller than average. Half-American on her father's side, orphaned by a tragic accident, destined to inherit what appears to be an inordinate fortune, and living with, or I should say sharing, her own house with a disagreeable maternal aunt who acts as guardian. I have no doubt that she will have a brilliant career at Oxford, however, I am dismayed at her choice of study."

"Which is?" Here he raised his eyes heavenward.

"Theology. I have at least influenced her so far as to add Chemistry to her subjects."

"And what is she like, Holmes? Her personality, her appearance...?"

He frowned as though the question were unexpected.

"Oh. Well... she is, of course, very young and so still of a malleable nature..."

For a moment I thought he was at a loss to provide an analysis, but what followed revealed that he had given the matter long consideration.

"For one so young she has suffered terrible sudden loss, of parents, family, friends, home and security. That she has survived these losses at all is remarkable; that she has survived them with the fortitude, composure and self-assurance that I have seen in her is... well, it is beyond admirable. What else? She possesses a dry humour - a suitable distillation of the usual cynicism of adolescence. And yet, her nature is to be respectful and well-mannered, though one would never call her demure. She has a remarkably resilient curiosity about the world. Her intelligence is, as I have said, exceptional. I would go so far as to say that I find it inspiring."

Here he stopped and fixed me with a significant look.

"But I know what you want, Watson. Your feeling heart demands an icon, an image on which to meditate rapturously. Well, I won't have it; I refuse to consider it; and because of her youth it is verboten. Besides, it is immaterial to our studies."

Nonetheless, he failed to suppress the smile that played at the corners of his mouth, and the flash of interest in his eye.

"You must come down to Sussex and meet her and make your own assessment, Watson. However... I think she is lovely."

With that astonishing admission he threw back the remaining wine in his glass, and in a gesture that seemed either the acceptance or the issue of a challenge, banged the glass down on the table with rather more force than he had perhaps intended.

Judiciously, I chose to ignore it.