The Classified Dossier: Sherlock Holmes and Count Dracula(11)

“Watson!”

I don’t remember standing up, but there I was, at the window, shaken out of some kind of torpor by Holmes’s sharp cry of admonition.

I turned to look back, feeling an expression of startled bewilderment on my own face that matched Holmes’s. Dracula looked mildly curious.

I looked down in the street, expecting to see Mary there as I had in my mind’s eye, but the street stood empty of pedestrians, only a solitary hansom clip-clopping slowly by.

Holmes appeared suddenly at my side, all solicitude, as he assisted me back to my chair. He sat me down and loomed over me, loosening my collar and then pouring me a large brandy.

“Here, good fellow,” he said. “This should chase away the cobwebs.” He shot an accusing glance at Dracula, clearly attributing my dizziness to some by-product of the vampire’s effect on me. Dracula remained impassive under my friend’s clear ire.

I took a long, careful sip of the brandy, accepting the warmth going down as a welcome tonic.

“Count,” Holmes said, “you shall have to return tomorrow evening to finish this statement. Watson needs some time to recover his senses and I wish him to hear the entire story as well, for I may need his opinion on the matter.”

Dracula did not answer, but when I looked up from my brandy, that side of the room was empty.

Holmes sniffed and closed the window and then he went out into the hall to look down the stairs. When he came back into the room, he closed the door quietly behind him.

“He is gone,” Holmes said. “It may be just as well. I have facts to verify so I must leave you, Watson. But I have entirely underestimated the shock that the Count must have had on your system. Will you be all right for a time alone here? I shall not truly need your assistance until tomorrow evening.”

“It’s nothing,” I said weakly. “Call the Count back now. I feel quite revived, thank you.”

“It is late,” Holmes replied. “I think you do us both a disservice to claim full recovery when your pulse and breathing indicate otherwise. Perhaps you had best retire for the night?”

“No,” I said. “I shall be up a while. I couldn’t possibly sleep now.” On the contrary, I felt the need for fresh air more than anything else, but I did not voice this out loud.

“It has always seemed to me,” Holmes said, “that the adage about doctors being the worst sort of patients is quite true, but still, I shall not object. Rest if you like, or stay up. I won’t be long.”

I couldn’t imagine what Holmes could verify that couldn’t wait until sunrise, but I was also aware that Holmes had many unorthodox sources of information. He had his top hat and coat on in an instant.

“It would be best for you to lock the door after me,” he said, and departed.

*

I could not shake the need to get out for a bit, despite Holmes’s warnings.

The night air was very cool when I left Baker Street, and the fog in the streets of London was as thick as I’d ever seen it. A hansom was immediately available, however, despite the extremely late hour, and I got into it at once thinking I might just ride around for a while. The driver, a man with a ratty top hat, bushy blond eyebrows and even bushier blond mutton chops, said nothing. What destination I gave him, I do not remember. I was too engrossed in consideration of the terrifying new information I’d been given this evening. The thought of a world with vampires in it boggled my very psyche and I did not notice at first when the hansom stopped.

Finally, the lack of movement caught my attention and I called to the driver, getting no answer. I stepped out onto the pavement and looked around, confused. This was no part of London I knew, but rather some narrow alleyway where the buildings stood thick and dark all around me. The driver’s box was completely empty. How the man could have gotten off the hansom and away without my feeling the motion in the carriage or hearing footsteps was quite beyond me. Not to mention the fact I hadn’t even paid the fellow.

Silence filled the air around me and even the normal noises of the city were muffled. I felt quite alone, stranded on an island in the fog. The alley ran for a great distance to either side. There were doorways to be seen, but they were all closed and unwelcoming. I wished, not for the first time, that my cunning friend were here to examine the evidence with me.

A weight of lassitude fell on me then. Yet a small voice inside also grew deeply suspicious. Luring me out at this time was no accident. It couldn’t possibly be my wife, not here in the city. Nor would she approach me in this manner. When I realized how neatly and easily I had been snared, I cursed myself for a fool. In my distracted state, I hadn’t even thought that a cab waiting for me at this late hour was curious and I’d paid no notice of the route we took to get here.

“John…”

Impossibly, I saw Mary standing in the street behind me – my Mary! – in no more than a wisp of clothing despite the chill night air. Knowing that things were horribly wrong, but unable to prevent myself, I rushed over to my wife’s side. I tore off my coat and flung it around her, but she seemed to have no interest in this, only clinging to me in a wanton manner I found most unlike the woman I had known these past years.

“What in the world are you doing in London?” I asked. “When did you come back and what are you doing here in the street, of all places? How did you even know I would be here?”