Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(27)

Nearing the rear of the house, past a flanking hedge, I could make out several tea-chest-sized structures staggered inside a stone wall enclosing the yard behind the house. Only prudence born of long experience kept me from racing to it, and it was well I did not: as I approached the hedge, I was surprised by several men. Their shouts were in the same guttural language spoken by the brigands who attacked us in the alley. A flock of my bullets drove them away, but, returning fire, they forced me to take cover on the ground behind the hedge.

As the echo of shots died away, I realized that an angry droning noise had risen up all around me. A rich scent, redolent of alfalfa, burned molasses, and thyme, filled my nose. I saw ranks of beehives in the space between an ancient ruin of a moss-covered wall and a much newer construction. Thousands of dark little bodies flitted through the air, disturbed by our gunplay. There seemed to be no end of them. I’d never been stung by a bee, and never thought about it, but now the sheer number of them, the huge noise they made as they rose up to defend their homes, became a phantasm, a terror that robbed me of my will. I had no idea what to do. . . .

The darkening sky closed down around me and my vision narrowed. I felt as if I was being pressed into the earth. The noise was . . . everywhere. Inside my head, down to the hollow cores of my bones. There was no relief, no cessation. I could feel every vibration of the swarm in the dirt beneath me. The enraged hum screamed “danger,” thrilling my every nerve. If I moved, I’d be shot. If I stayed, I would surely die. My heart pounded fit to shatter my ribs.

Only half aware of my surroundings, through the stems of the hedge, I saw Holmes approach the rear of the house, toward the hives. Heard the arrival of other men.

Shouts, then. Followed by gunfire.

Holmes hit and fallen. No noise from him but a muffled groan. He never made noise when he fought. Almost never made a noise when he was hit.

Sewall had come from the right, following Holmes. Somewhere in the distance, more confusion; perhaps Sewall’s men engaging with Chercover’s.

Holmes down.

A hail of bullets drowned out the horrible buzzing. I found it oddly comforting. That noise was a continual part of my existence. The reason I could only be happy in the tumult and confusion of London was knowing that something terrible would eventually happen.

I found myself laughing at this carnage in the tranquil Sussex countryside.

And that laughter brought me back to myself. I had conquered fear many times. Bloodlust, always so close to me, and its attendant emotionless calm, were my friends now.

One, two, three deep breaths. I pushed myself up and onto my feet. The thought of action, of volition, was a sweet, raging song in my blood. I drew my pistol—my companion in many a battle—and ran, crouching, along the hedge to where it stopped, just three feet from the corner of the house. I was now directly across from where I had seen Holmes go down. A clear path seemed to spread before me, but some blessed instinct told me to hold. If it was in fact so clear, Holmes himself would have fled.

There. One of Sewall’s men was positioned behind the low stone wall that stretched to my left, his rifle seeking potential enemies. In the melee beyond the walls, the shrieks of wounded and dying men were terrible.

I stepped back into the shadows, then glanced at my friend. He was tying a handkerchief around his left forearm, his pistol cast aside, bullets spent. I could see blood, glistening black in the fading light, on his sleeve. Holmes’s long legs were tucked up to his chest, and while he had made himself almost invisible, I could not understand why Sewall didn’t simply shoot Holmes. He knew his location—

Ah. Sewall was also out of ammunition, his last bullet having found its mark in my friend’s arm. He did not dare go find more, for fear of me. And he didn’t dare approach Holmes for fear of the bees swarming around the hives between them.

Sewall did not know I only had one bullet left. There had been no time to arm ourselves properly before we left London.

I had to choose between shooting Sewall—and giving away my position to the man with the rifle—or shooting the rifleman and leaving Holmes to Sewall’s nonexistent mercies.

There was no choice at all.

I stood up, stepped from behind the wall to find my angle, and raised my pistol. Gunshots filled the air, but they were a secondary concern, now. Once you have a plan in mind, and are fully dedicated to its achievement, it is really no matter at all to disregard your surroundings and get to work. I have found this to be true not only in soldiering and medicine, but in all things in life, except for writing.

Before I could take the shot, Sewall went down, with a blood-curdling screech. A cloaked figure ran toward him from the right, scrambling over the wall. Even more upheaval outside the little farmhouse yard, a skirmish growing into a pitched battle.

I turned and fired on the sharpshooter. I hit him, just as his bullet found my left shoulder.

I felt a sharp blow, biting pain, and the cold rush of air into an open wound in the muscle of my right shoulder; warm blood spilled down my arm. More gunshots, and I ran, keeping as low a profile as I could. An unfortunate familiarity with being shot told me that this, unlike my wound in Afghanistan, did not threaten to be a mortal one. What I’d do when I reached Holmes, I did not know; perhaps I could move him to safety.

Cries from around me, and more gunshots—too many of both. Holmes yelled, “Mycroft, for the love of God almighty, stop firing!”

“This matter is beyond you, Sherlock!”