The Classified Dossier: Sherlock Holmes and Count Dracula(82)
Holmes shook his head. “None whatsoever.”
“Well,” Lestrade said. “With her body in the Thames, and Morris to stand trial on multiple counts of murder, I guess it doesn’t matter that the woman’s guilt will likely be overlooked at the inquest.”
“Most likely,” Holmes said.
“Best be off,” Lestrade said. “I have more paperwork down at the station to do. Not like you unofficial persons that get to put your feet up at the end of a case.”
“In that,” Holmes said, “you might be in error. I suspect the good doctor’s paperwork is just beginning.”
“And they’ll probably get five shillings apiece for them down at The Strand,” Lestrade said morosely. “No such luck with my reports, I’m afraid.”
“Bad luck,” I agreed.
“No accolades back at the station, either,” Holmes said dryly, “for another job well done?”
“Holmes,” I said. “Really.”
“Well,” Lestrade said, draining off the rest of his brandy and giving me a broad wink. “At least I have no complaints about the way you share your spoils.”
“Any time,” I said. “The least we can do in our gratitude.”
He put on his coat, but lingered a moment at the door. “This portrait,” he said, pointing with the still-smouldering cigar tip. “Good to see you put this up. What was here before? Bridge or sunset or something?”
“Nothing important,” I said. Lestrade was pointing to a portrait that Mrs Forrester had had commissioned as a wedding gift. In it, Mary was standing in the Forresters’ sun room with a brilliant panorama of windows behind her and the sun on her face. She looked as sweet and compassionate as ever any woman could have been. In a word, beautiful. Death would have come for her in any circumstance, I told myself, my actions notwithstanding.
“You’ve got the right of it, Doctor,” Lestrade said seriously. “Nothing more important than family. I wonder why you did not put it up before?”
“I just…” I said, then paused, feeling yet another welling up of emotion. “I just wasn’t ready.”
“She was a lovely woman, Doctor, and no mistake,” Lestrade said. “My condolences again.” He gave me a curious look, and while I knew Lestrade would most likely never uncover the full truth, it was clear he knew that some irregularities were going on here at 221B Baker Street. He shrugged and stepped out, closing the door softly behind him, leaving Holmes and I to ponder the events of the past few days.
Suddenly, the full weight of loss fell on me again. Death would have come for her in any circumstance… only it had been my hand, my hand, that had ended her life. I had come through the transformation intact. Why couldn’t she have? Holmes, and even Dracula, had spoken of this feat of mine as if there had been something extraordinary that I had done, but I knew that statement couldn’t be further from the truth. If I had a blessing, it was the associations of my friends and loved ones. I went through that transformation, that great tunnel of darkness not unlike death, and came out the other side still John H. Watson because of the strength that my association with Mary and Holmes had given me. Even the implication of special moral character on my part left a bitter taste in my mouth, for I knew it for the kind-hearted lie that it was.
Because I had failed Mary. Failed her unutterably and completely. Her love had been enough to bring me through, but my love hadn’t been anywhere near enough to save her. She hadn’t forgotten her life as Mrs Watson after her transformation into a vampire, she simply hadn’t felt any compelling, burning moral need to adhere to it. She’d cast aside her life with me with no regrets. Then, when she’d threatened Holmes, I had ended her without a moment’s hesitation. My love had failed one test after another, had failed her, again and again. Now she was gone from me, twice damned by my own actions, while I was doomed to a cursed and immortal existence, wearing the same suits, the same hats, drinking blood out of china that had once been used for the commendable practice of drinking English tea while everyone around carried on as if I’d not done something horrible, as if I hadn’t done horrible things and failed everyone around me utterly.
“There there, old man,” Holmes said, standing next to me and laying his hand on my shoulder. I’d been so lost in grief, sitting with my head in my hands. My dear friend, usually so masterful in every situation, suddenly seemed awkward and uncertain standing next to me and the contrast forced an ironic smile onto my lips, for all the weight of my grief.
“Here,” Holmes said, plucking a handkerchief out of the pocket of his dressing gown and handing it down to me.
I nodded my thanks, taking the handkerchief while he made himself busy ringing for tea. After that, he seemed momentarily at a loss. Then he picked up his violin.
He began to play a mournful and melancholy tune. His face, so often stern, took on an expression of sublime sadness as the melody wrung itself into something infinitely beautiful and also infinitely sad. It was nothing less than a lament for Mary Watson, and for the loss that it inflicted on those of us that had known her best.
Mrs Hudson, when she came, displayed her uncanny intuition and slipped unobtrusively in and out so as not to interrupt. I closed my eyes as the music somehow conjured, within me, the lonely scent of a moor at night, then the near-silent sounds of clouds covering the moon just before the storm, and finally, Mary’s face and the image from my painting of the woman in darkness yearning for the sun, which were, of course, one and the same. The last note had faded for at least a minute before I took a deep, ragged breath, and opened my eyes.