“I will get them, it, the thing on the floor,” Holmes said, “and you shoot it in the head. Empty your revolver, one shot may not be enough. Do not balk, my friend. This thing here, tonight, is far bigger than just the two of us. It is London we’re fighting for. Maybe more.”
I could not speak. I wished Jones were there with us, someone else to make decisions and take blame. Faith, I told myself, faith in Holmes.
I had seen him kill a man.
Don’t trust your eyes.
He was bloodied and dirtied from the chase, hiding from the crimes he had committed.
I am not a murderer.
And then the door burst open and Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway lit by the lamp—tall, imposing, his clothes tattered and muddied, his face scratched, hands cut and bloodied—and I had no more time.
The room suddenly smelled of sweet honey, and turning my head slightly to look at the Holmes standing with me at the window, I caught sight of something from the corner of my eye. The Holmes in the doorway seemed to have some things buzzing about his head.
I looked straight at him and they were no more. Then he gave me the same smile I had seen as he murdered that man.
“Watson!” Holmes said, reaching across the window to grasp my arms. “Faith!”
And then the new visitor smashed the lamp with a kick, and leaped at us.
I backed away. The room was dark now, lit only by pale moonlight and the paler starlight filtering through London’s constant atmosphere. I heard a grunt, a growl, the smashing of furniture, and something cracking as the two Holmes tumbled into the center of the room. I quickly became confused as to which was which.
“Away!” I heard one of them shout. “Get away! Get away!” He sounded utterly terrified. “Oh God, oh sanity, why us!”
I aimed my revolver but the shapes rolled and twisted, hands at each other’s neck, eyes bulging as first one and then the other Holmes presented his face for me to shoot. I stepped forward nonetheless, still smelling that peculiar honey stench, and something stung my ankle, a tickling shape struggling inside my trousers. I slapped at it and felt the offender crushed against my leg.
Bees.
“Watson!” Holmes shouted. I pulled down the curtains to let in as much moonlight as I could. One Holmes had the other pinned to the floor, hands about his neck. “Watson, shoot it!” the uppermost Holmes commanded. His face was twisted with fear, the scratches on his cheek opened again and leaking blood. The Holmes on the floor thrashed and gurgled, choking, and as I looked down he caught my eye. Something there commanded me to watch, held my attention even as the Holmes on top exhorted me to shoot, shoot, shoot it in the face!
The vanquished Holmes calmed suddenly and brought up a hand holding a handkerchief. He wiped at the scratches on his face. They disappeared. The blood smudged a little, but with a second wipe it, too, had gone. The scratches were false, the blood fake.
The Holmes on top stared for a couple of seconds, and then looked back at me. A bee crawled out of his ear and up over his forehead. And then the scratches on his own cheek faded and disappeared before my eyes.
He shimmered. I saw something beneath the flesh-toned veneer, something crawling and writhing and separate, yet combined in a whole to present an image of solidness . . .
Bees left this whole and buzzed around the impostor’s head. Holmes was still struggling on the floor, trying to prize away hands that were surely not hands.
The image pulsed and flickered in my vision, and I remembered Holmes’s words: You cannot trust your eyes . . . instinct and faith, that is what you can believe in . . .
I stepped forward, pressed the revolver against the uppermost Holmes’s head, and pulled the trigger. Something splashed out across the floor and walls, but it was not blood. Blood does not try to crawl away, take flight, buzz at the light.
My pulling the trigger—that act bridging doubt and faith—changed everything.
The thing that had been trying to kill Holmes shimmered in the moonlight. It was as if I were seeing two images being quickly flickered back and forth, so fast that my eyes almost merged them into one, Morphean picture. Holmes . . . the thing . . . Holmes . . . the thing. And the thing, whatever it is, was monstrous.
“Again!” Holmes shouted. “Again, and again!”
I knelt so that my aim did not stray toward my friend and fired again at that horrible shape. Each impact twisted it, slowing down the alternating of images as if the bullets were blasting free truth itself. What I did not know then, but would realize later, was that the bullets were defining the truth. Each squeeze of the trigger dealt that thing another blow, not only physically but also in the nature of my beliefs. I knew it to be a false Holmes now, and that made it weak.
The sixth bullet hit only air.
It is difficult to describe what I saw in that room. I had only a few seconds to view its ambiguous self before it came apart, but even now I cannot find words to convey the very unreality of what I saw, heard, and smelled. There was a honey tang on the air, but it was almost alien, like someone else’s memory. The noise that briefly filled the room could have been a voice. If so it was speaking in an alien tongue, and I had no wish to understand what it was saying. A noise like that could only be mad.
All I know is that a few seconds after I fired the last bullet, Holmes and I were alone. I was hurriedly reloading and Holmes was already up, righting the oil lamp and giving us light. I need not have panicked so, because we were truly alone.
Save for the bees. Dead or dying, there were maybe a hundred bees spotting the fine carpet, huddled on the windowsill, or crawling behind chairs or objects on the mantelpiece to die. I had been stung only once, Holmes seemed to have escaped entirely, but the bees were expiring even as we watched.
“Dear God,” I gasped. I went to my knees on the floor, shaking, my shooting hand no longer able to bear the revolver’s weight.
“Do you feel faint, my friend?” Holmes asked.
“Faint, no,” I said. “I feel . . . belittled. Does that make sense, Holmes? I feel like a child who has been made aware of everything he will ever learn, all at once.”
“There are indeed more things in heaven and earth, Watson,” Holmes said. “And I believe we have just had a brush with one of them.” He, too, had to sit, nursing his bruised throat with one hand while the other wiped his face with the handkerchief, removing any remaining makeup. He then cleaned the blood from both hands and washed away the false cuts there as well. He seemed distracted as he cleansed, his eyes distant, and more than once I wondered just where they were looking, what they were truly seeing.
“Can you tell me, Holmes?” I asked. I looked about the room, still trying to imagine where that other being had gone, but knowing, in my heart of hearts, that its nature was too obscure for my meager understanding. “Holmes? Holmes?”
But he was gone, his mind away, as was its wont, searching the byways of his imagination, his intellect steering him along routes I could barely imagine as he tried to fathom the truth in what we had seen. I stood and fetched his pipe, loaded it with tobacco, lit it, and placed it in his hand. He held on to it but did not take a draw.
He remained like that until Jones of Scotland Yard thundered through the door.
“And you have been with him for how long?” Jones asked again.
“Hours. Maybe three.”
“And the murderer? You shot him, yet where is he?”
“Yes, I shot him. It. I shot it.”
I had told Jones the outline of the story three times, and his disbelief seemed to be growing with each telling. Holmes’s silence was not helping his case.
Another five murders, Jones had told me. Three witnessed, and each of the witnesses identified a close friend or family member as the murderer.