Karim's Way

by WatsonsDog

I got this impression of Holmes the loaner, the solitary man, dealing with a very real personal problem. I saw this as a recitation to Russell in the part of BeeKeeper while they are on their way back to London. I see it almost that this revelation by Holmes was a foretelling to Russell's finally telling him about the car accident. As cathartic for him as it would prove to be for Russell when she is finally able to reveal all to Holmes. And maybe too this is part of his motivation make known his feelings for her. I see this taking place on the pairs way back to England, prior to Russell telling her hidden secrets. Remember the sharing of secrets is akin to a sharing of hearts. It is also then (after O'Jerusalem) that Holmes begins little by little to show some emotion towards his apprentice. Please feel free to send comments to the author at watsonsdog@excite.com.

Sherlock Holmes sat under the covering moonlight shrouded in one of Mahmoud's blankets. It was an evening just after our adventure in Palestine had concluded and we were on our way home to England and the uncertainty that lay there and as I approached from behind, I could see he was gripped by some deep thought. And then something very odd happened. Holmes hadn't noticed my approach. And when I tapped his shoulder gently, he visibly jumped.

"Russell," he said shakily. I noticed there was the slick sheen of moisture to the side of his face. Oddly enough it was perspiration.

"Holmes, I'm sorry - I didn't mean to startle you," I said, embarrassed, starting to move away. His voice stopped my retreat.

"It is I who should apologize Russell. I thought you had long been asleep."

"I was," and did not add that I awoke suddenly because something had troubled me - a dream. My dream was rapt with images of Holmes tormented repeatedly by Karim Bey. In my dream I could not help Holmes because he kept pushing me away and telling me in the dream that he had to help himself. Reason told me Karim Bey was beyond doubt dead and I became aware that I was the victim of a bad dream. But when I woke I found my one overwhelming desire was to talk to and be by the side of my friend Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm sorry Holmes. I found I couldn't sleep," I said, turning away. And then another odd thing happened, something very out of character for the strong and proud man sitting below me. He looked up at me, and then, seeming to make some internal decision, reached out for my hand extending silent invitation to join him under the blanket. My feelings were already in a muddle of confusion about this man and each overture he made seemed to speak volumes to me. I could only wonder at his ultimate intentions.

"What is troubling you my friend," I asked, not expecting the quick glance of distress I received from him.

"I am sorry Russell," he said, shaking his head slightly. He could see that he had now completely startled me. Then slowly, quietly, he said, "that was how Karim Bey had referred to me when he spoke to me. Some kind of warped benediction."

"Oh god, Holmes," I said taking his proferred hand and sitting beside him. "That would be the last thing I would ever want to remind you of. I am sorry."

"Not your fault," he murmured so low I thought I detected the hint of lamentation in the timbre of his voice. Now I was certainly afraid. This strong, proud man, this very wonderful man for whom my own depth of feeling was surprising, was in obvious mental anguish. I was unsure how to proceed, but I knew this man, who was without doubt my closest friend, needed help. Of all people, for me to be the one he would tell this! If he knew the degree of my own uncertainties surely I would be the last one he might turn to for psychological help. But I was here and I felt certain that he was at a crucial point in resolving this issue. Putting as much of my own encumbrances aside as I could, I pushed on gently.

"Holmes," I said, taking his hand under the blanket, "let me help."

He turned quickly to me and a small smirk came and went to his lips. He coughed, sniffed squeezed my hand and said in a voice that I had never heard from him before, a voice on the verge of tears? Yes that was the sound of it, still no actual traces on the man's face, I saw as I stole secret glances.

"Yes, yes I suppose you are right. It is help I need but I have rarely asked for it, if ever. I depend on you more and more Russell." And here he paused for a moment "my regard for you grows by the second!"

And then he did smile, which thankfully was very reassuring and I finally saw more of my friend in those eyes that smiled at me than I had in a week. "I need to tell this to someone Russell. And there is no one to whom I feel I could bare this but you. I am sure that I could not even tell Mycroft. Perhaps Watson. But even he with all he has seen." For a moment he trailed off and then seemed to come back. "But for the very same reasons that I could tell you this, I do not want to because of the burden that it will put upon you. I assure you the dilemma is very real."

"As real as the horror of nightmares," I said knowing that he now realized I heard him moaning in terror the night before.

Quiet for a moment, his face a considered study in the debate of whether to proceed, then finally "Yes, Russell, as real as nightmares of torture." He would surrender to me that which he would tell no one else. All that was left was for me to ask to be told. All that was left was to let him know that I cared enough and more so to listen.

"Holmes, when I saw you in that cell," I began slowly, "I felt as if I had been mortally wounded. The pain was as real as the blood I saw covering your body. I think if you will tell me, I will understand how you feel and somehow I will try in my limited way to be helpful."

"I fear this will be unpleasant for both of us Russell. But I know you are a skilled listener." And then he gave a short humph of a laugh. "I just hope I can tell it."

"Please, Holmes, allow me to hear it?"

"Yes. Yes."

And then he was silent for a long moment.

"I will relate it to you as best as I can Russell. I have said in the past that there are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, although in this case it is not for want of trying, and which therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge. There is no possible revenge now. The man responsible is dead, but the pain of his torture remains."

We were both quiet for a few moments. Finally he set his shoulders and began.

"I have rarely been the victim or been the one to suffer the cruelties of the villain.

Seems to be happening quite a lot these days, eh Russell? Even in the past when I found myself in that role, it tended more towards murderous intent then inhuman treatment. It has been my conviction that my vocation has been in helping those who have found themselves to be the victim. But my capture enlightened me and caused me particular distress in that," and he glanced sideways at me and his next words held many things, not the least of which was respect, "when I realized I wouldn't be able to provide assistance should you need me." Quiet again he waited then continued on. "I have faced death's grim evidence before, and have survived to provide chilling testimony which Watson would then somehow turn into romantic piddle. This time was very different. In all honesty I supposed that I would be killed after he finished with me. In fact toward the end I found myself wishing desperately for the release of death."

The last sentence said so low that I wasn't sure I'd heard it, but then I knew I had.

"Russell, this is really no good." He shook his head. "I cannot seem to really tell you the details."

"Holmes, people subjected directly or indirectly to traumatic situations, especially degrading treatment, can be so intimidated by that experience that verbal communication about it is not an easy option. Even you are not above coping with a torture experience. Its impact on you is not as obvious as it might be on a weaker individual. Some of it was even washed away by later actions*," I said this last somewhat hesitantly. Not necessarily wanting to remind him of another situation, which might have made him uncomfortable. But he merely looked at me; his gray eyes sparkled with reflections of moonlight.

"Holmes you in some sense were lucky because you were allowed the opportunity to confront the tormenter. Most are not so fortunate."

"Yes. You are right. Before we came to this land intelligence reports had brief snippets about such a man. I had viewed those reports quite objectively. It never occurred to me that I might end up as..." He cleared his throat and continued. "The reports I had seen showed that this person was meticulous in the identification of his victims. He made sure he knew who his victims were. He made a sort of collection from them. The man kept records! Still, most were interrogated and then killed. It was what I expected to happen to me. But he wanted something more from me." Again Holmes paused and the stagnant silence permeated the surrounding desert. I could literally feel him struggling to go on.

"Holmes, I learned that there were many mechanisms of supportive therapy but none of those alleviated the problems so much as just talking about them. Most people recover on their own and can do their own spiritual healing, but sometimes telling someone... well, it works. If I can help you restore some peace of mind by listening, then it is the least I can do." To hear my own voice speaking so rationally on the matter of tormented minds was shocking. I was not able even to talk of my own problems. But somehow this was easier. I wanted so desperately to help him ease this burden.

He shook his head as if saying no. I thought I had missed the opportunity. I looked the question back at him once more. Seeing my face he just about laughed.

"Rational conversations about what happened to me might not be entirely possible. But the fact the man personally responsible for all of the harm is dead does however provide some relief."

"Tell me about it Holmes, trust me. It can do you no harm."

Again he sat considering. He seemed to come to terms somehow then and began again.

"Most people know what it's like to feel anxious, but don't learn how to harness that anxiety. In my profession I have learnt the way your heart pounds when danger is all about, is a signal, it is a call to action. I had trained myself to use the power of anxiety so that it roused me and allowed me to gear up to face a threatening situation. But this was a very different sort of fear. It was a dread so intense made even more impossible by my immobilization. I was also terrified of behaving irresponsibly and in some way leaking information."

I thought about all he said for a few moments and let him see I was doing so. My voice when I spoke seemed as if it came from a higher source. It was as though something were speaking through me. A wisdom that for some reason I could not yet credit to myself spoke.

"You Are Not to Blame for all of this. If you persist in this line of thought and carry the misperception that you are weak and have now seen signs of a character flaw, you are gravely mistaken. But, in the same vein, if you try to make yourself immune by telling yourself over and again that you just have a case of the nerves and have spent time wishing the symptoms would just away, you are deluding yourself. This I know to be true. I know you do not want sympathy but you do not deserve to be miserable! You are a good person who has done fine things for others. But suffering in silence and wishing what happened to you would go away does not work. This is a serious and intimate problem that will paralyze you, if you let it. I do know, from personal experience, that it needs to be talked about. When my parents died," I said slowly and with more quiet my voice, "I had a psychiatrist during my stay in hospital. She used to have a saying that she'd start all the sessions with:

"Empty your mind of all thoughts. Let your heart be at peace." I'll admit I thought it was a lot of empty talk at the time, but I have since been able to use it."

"You are quite good at this, Russell. You ought to go into practice someday."

"You are mocking me."

"No Russell, seriously I feel that you are right and that in telling you I would be better for it. But it is so hard to say these words, to reveal what happened."

Still he was not giving it up.

"Even the affair I had once had with cocaine was easier to solve. Deep inside you are aware there is nothing wrong with you that would prevent you from abstaining. It's just that you choose to indulge in chemically enhanced stupidity. I was able to resolve that, mostly by myself and threats from Watson. Given the choice, most people prefer independent problem-solving when it is this personal."

Again I prompted him with "tell me Holmes". Once again he set his shoulders and began. His voice was not rushed. It seemed now that he was able to take a step back from it.

"For some inexplicable reason I remember almost everything he said to me almost more so than what he did. And I keep... I keep hearing that voice. The men he had working with him were naught but simple thugs. They were, it seemed, slightly in awe of their master, and in fear. He gave them orders and they simply obeyed. They took me to that room in which you found me blindfolded. All the while a gun either at my head or in my ribs. The blindfold was still on when I detected the musty coolness of a room dug into the earth itself. The room was cool but smelt of both human sweat and some type of scent resembling a fragrance such as perfume. My arms were pulled out in front of me and my hands wrapped then in thick rope. Almost immediately those ropes cut into my skin they had been so tight. There were two men and one lifted my body while the other raised my arms. I was lifted bodily and felt a hook slide in between my hands. I felt my limbs stretching to an unusual tautness and almost immediately a burning sensation began in my shoulders, forearms and wrists. Eventually they became numb. The blindfold was removed, but all I could really see was the wall of the cell before me and my shadow reflected by a powerful light directly behind my field of vision." Here he sighed deeply took a small draught of air and continued. "I dared not speak at all for fear of exposure. Despite the pain I kept my wits about me. I heard a door from the top of the stairs open and someone came in. I became aware immediately of a scent of overdone cologne. But then I heard his voice, cultured almost effeminate sounding and a bit contrived but utterly satisfied with itself. He began speaking in what he might have at first considered my native tongue, but quickly switched to English.

"You have no idea," it spoke from directly behind my right ear, "how happy I am to be with you today my friend. And it is so nice we will spend the evening and perhaps the next day together too."

He must've given some order, then, for in the next moment I felt and saw hands disrobing me. It was not his hands then, although I was to learn exactly what his hands felt like."

"And Russell," he said, briefly looking at me, for he had been looking away from me all this time, "I have never been as outraged as I was becoming during this ritual of his. They took each stitch of clothing, as I now realize you know as well since I now know you were part of my rescue." I looked at him somehow shamed, but not in the least daunted. He answered my unasked question as soon as it appeared on my face. "It is not that the state of undress in which you found me that upsets me. It is the position of weakness that I was in. The total state of collapse and helplessness. It has never really happened before, not to that point. I have been captured and threatened before but not like that," he finished in a hoarse whisper. But it happened, Russell, and I feel... horribly that you saw me in such a state. I never wanted to..." he stopped. "I am blathering - no don't, Russell. Let me finish. If I do not do this, you are quite right that I will carry it with me to my death."

It was my turn to be absurdly abashed at seeing him that way. And this, too, I finally realized - that it had nothing to do with the fact that I had seen him disrobed, but that I had seen him in this completely helpless state.

"Please Holmes, you are, after all, not superhuman. Although I do tend to think of you as such sometimes, I can assure you that has not changed." My statement sounded just as stupid when it came out as when I formulated it in my head. But still it seemed to satisfy him enough to go on. I was taken in by this story of his. I, too, needed to hear its completion to have the memory of it go away in my mind. I wanted to hear its conclusion so I would never have to think about it again. And he saw somehow that I was ready to hear more and nodded and turned away from my eyes again.

"Still, I had not said so much as a word and it seemed to make him more active in his attentions. He inched up like some sort of serpent to the right side of my face and he came to rest just near my ear. He whispered to me then, and in the most perfect English. "So you have an idea that you are somehow higher on the evolution scale than myself. I can tell you my British friend you are not. Oh and how you have paid such attention to detail. Down to the naked soles of your feet you are evenly brown. But I knew you for what you were. I could smell you. And I will tell you now my friend that you will make for me a present of all the details of why you were in the General's convoy." He paused and began again, "And now you my dear friend you are wondering when it will start. Your silence will not help you. There is no reason to play the brave British soldier now. My friend if you reveal all to me I will make sure that your death is quick and painless."

I could not see him clearly. He stayed off to the side of my vision. All at once I felt his hands on my back, almost a caress, where the bomb blast still left its mark. "This is a lovely scar. Not a powerful enough explosion to cause death. They wanted like me to inflict pain. Why my friend are you so special that these creative people would choose to leave scars but not to kill? You feel your silence will keep you somehow safe? I fear not my special friend." And I heard first the strike of his match against the cell wall. I smelt the smoke of his cigarette. He had moved completely out of my field of vision. There was nothing. I knew he was there, I knew he would strike, I knew, but I could do nothing. My arms were trussed up like livestock ready to be slaughtered and so close to the side of my head that it had hurt my ears. Then I felt the first sear of pain, only for a few seconds. It was, I was to discover, his form of repartee. The instances of the burns began to last longer each time. I believe, or, I should say, I know, that he derived actual... physical pleasure in this. In all of it I think I was more repulsed by the fact that this man... who smelled of perfume, drew satisfaction from not only my torture but also my vulnerability. He asked questions and, when no answer came forth, he provided a stimulus for me in the form of a thrashing me repeatedly with some type of whip or burning me with the tip of his Turkish cigarette. For a long time I was just left to bleed while they apparently had walked off. I found that I had begun to drift in and out of consciousness. I suppose it was my body's own mechanism for shutting down. I always knew when he came back before he actually entered because I could smell him. They would wake me with cold water thrown on the wounds. The last time, it must have been hours because I had lapsed into a sort of stupor and woke rather abruptly and there he was again his sickening sweet smell and his pathetic affectations.

"You know my good friend," he began "that there are forms of caress that I haven't even favored you with yet. But my time grows short and so does my patience." I felt the tip of his cigarette again and again burning into me. Finally he just used the whip again and again. It even loosed my bowels. His object was utter humiliation, and he was close. I hoped merely that he would kill me and was I about to try and push him to do that, when the thought of your being alone hit me like a ton of bricks." Turning once more I saw the infinite regard for me reflected in his eyes. It was, I realized, the first time I understood what my role in this man's life was. He cared a great deal for me. He couldn't actually say it, though, but then, neither yet could I. As I swallowed this bit of reality he continued.

"What will make you stop," I heard myself asking him in Arabic. "I am nothing," I said continuing in Arabic.

"Talk in your native tongue my friend. To continue trying to hide who and what you are will only make matters worse. Tell me what you are doing in this country and at whose behest you are here." He waited and I said nothing and in what I can only think was fury at my continued silence he lashed out, hitting at my lower back to put stress on my already damaged body. I was grateful then to an interruption, which came in the form of a shout from one of his subordinates. I heard him say, "I will deal with them! You must keep a guard here at all times, even if he dies."

I thought they would take me down then, but they left me trussed up. I thought that it would end soon then with my death. I heard him stand back from them. And I knew one last shot was coming. I don't know how many times he hit me but he was screaming in anger by the time he stopped. I lost consciousness and the next thing I knew Mahmoud was in front of me, telling me I looked like hell."

I realized with a jolt that he had finished. He had gotten through it. I couldn't simply let it lay there between us. It was for me now to make this an acceptable memory that would fade with time.

"Please," I said, beckoning him to move towards my waiting embrace. It was all I knew how to do. He looked at me and waited, smiled thinly but then put is his body next to mine and let himself be held his head resting on my shoulder. Tactfully I moved myself so that I could hold him and his weight with more ease. It was the first time in our relationship that we had been so physically close on purpose. It was very startling to me, because I realized that it was something I had wanted. Suddenly embarrassed by this thought I shook it away and started to sit up. Because now I thought that neither one of us could sustain the embrace much longer without feeling its other implications. Moving slightly away from me, I heard him clear his throat.

"I think I might be able in time to put it away where it belongs Russell. You have my deepest gratitude for listening to me. Thank you."

It was my turn to look inward now. To feel my own pain and I knew what I said then had confused him, but I knew too that he would not ask me to reveal anything to him, unless it was time for me to do so.

"Perhaps, Holmes, someday you'll do as much for me."

End

* Thanks to my fine friend and editor the Oxford Punter and especially to her story Oasis on The Hive.