Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(10)

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” said Conan Doyle. “I’ll call a policeman.”

“We really do need to talk, Sir Arthur,” said Holmes—or “Holmes,” as Conan Doyle instinctively branded him in his mind. One had to nip these things in the bud. It was why quotation marks had been invented.

“We really do not,” said Conan Doyle. “Out of my way.”

He brandished his walking stick at his tormentor in a vaguely threatening manner.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes—” said “Holmes.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Conan Doyle.

“And this is Doctor Watson.”

“No, it’s not. Look, I’m warning you, you’ll feel my stick.”

“How is your left hand, Sir Arthur?”

Conan Doyle froze.

“What did you say?”

“I asked after your left hand. I see no traces of ink upon it. You have not found yourself writing with it again, then?”

“How could you know of that?” asked Conan Doyle, for he had told no one about that unfortunate experience in August 1893.

“Because I was at Benekey’s. You put me there, along with Moriarty.” “Holmes”—or now, perhaps, Holmes—stretched out a hand.

“I’m very pleased to meet you at last, Sir Arthur. Without you, I wouldn’t exist.”



The four men sat at a quiet table in Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese off Fleet Street, to which they had traveled together in a hansom cab. Mr. Headley had done his best to explain the situation to Conan Doyle along the way, but the great man was clearly still struggling with the revelations about the Caxton and his characters. Mr. Headley could hardly blame him. He himself had needed a long lie-down after old Torrans had first revealed the nature of the Caxton to him, and he could only imagine how much more traumatic it might be for Conan Doyle with the added complication of witnessing his two most famous creations lunching before him on pea soup. Conan Doyle had settled for a single malt Scotch, but it looked like another might be required before long.

At Conan Doyle’s request, Holmes had dispensed with the deerstalker hat, which now hung on a hook alongside his long coat. Without it, he might simply have been a regular client of Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, albeit one with a certain intensity to his regard.

“I must admit, gentlemen, that I’m struggling with these revelations,” said Conan Doyle. He looked from Holmes to Watson and back again. Almost involuntarily, his right hand moved, the index finger extended, as though he wished to poke them to confirm their corporeal reality, the sound of Watson slurping his soup notwithstanding.

“It’s hardly surprising,” said Mr. Headley. “In a way, they’re a testament to the power of your imagination, and the depth of your creations. Never before in the Caxton’s history has a writer lived to see his own characters come to life.”

Conan Doyle took another sip of his whisky.

“If more writers did,” he replied, “it might well be the death of them.”

Holmes set aside his soup.

“Sir Arthur,” he said, “Mr. Headley has explained the situation to you as best he can. It’s most difficult and delicate, and we can see only one solution to the problem. I appreciate that it might place you in an awkward position, but you must stop writing about Sherlock Holmes.”

Conan Doyle shook his head.

“I can’t,” he said. “I’ve reached an agreement with Collier’s Weekly. Not only that, but the public will see me hanged if I’ve raised their hopes of more adventures only to shatter them within a month. And then, gentlemen, there is the small matter of my finances. I have a sick wife, two young children, and houses to maintain. Would that my other literary endeavors had brought me greater success, but no one mentions Rodney Stone in the same breath as Holmes and Watson, and I cannot think of the reviews for A Duet without wanting to hide in my cellar.”

“But the more Holmes stories you write, the more likely it is that you’ll bring a second Holmes—oh, and Watson—”

“Thank you, Holmes.”

“—into being,” said Holmes. “Would you want a second Sir Arthur wandering the streets, or worse, moving into your home? Think of William Wilson. You might end up stabbing yourself with a sword!”

Mr. Headley leaned forward.

“Sir Arthur, you now know that the fabric of reality is far more delicate than you imagined,” he said. “It may be that the consequences of two versions of Holmes and Watson having a physical reality might not be so terrible, whatever the personal or professional difficulties for the characters involved, but there is also the possibility that the entire existence of the Caxton might be undermined. The more the reading public starts to believe in this new incarnation of Holmes, the greater the chance of trouble for all of us.”

Conan Doyle nodded. He suddenly looked tired, and older than his years.

“Then it seems that I have no choice,” he said. “Holmes must fall again, and this time he cannot return.”

Dr. Watson coughed meaningfully. The others looked at him. The good doctor had finished his soup, for it was a pea-based delicacy of the highest order, but all the while he had been listening to what was being said. Dr. Watson was much wiser than was often credited. His lesser light simply did not shine as brightly next to the fierce glow of Holmes.