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“The Strand Players. Fresh from their Stupendous European Tour, where they performed before several of the Crowned Heads of Europe— Crowned Heads of Europe? When did we perform for royalty?”
“Holland,” replied Vernet dismissively, with not so much as a shift of his eyes from the mirror. He was carefully examining each of his cheeks in turn, comparing the strength of different brands of spirit gum by tugging on both sides of his false beard.
“And when, exactly, did we perform for the royal family of Holland? I should think I would remember such a thing.”
“I was practicing a concerto in the street outside of Noordeinde Palace, which, as you may know, is located in the centre of The Hague. Queen Emma was sitting on the balcony when her daughter, Queen Wilhelmina, joined her, saw me, and frowned. Two members of the royal family makes it Crowned Heads, in the plural. Then the ladies disappeared and Prince Hendrik came out, along with a member of the guard, and shooed me away, bringing it from a pair to several.
“Setting aside the fact that it was hardly a performance—”
“I was performing.” He was petulant.
“— three would be a few, not several. A few is three or more. Several is greater than three.”
Vernet removed the whiskers and carefully wiped the residue away with some cold cream. Then, and only then, per our long-standing agreement, was I permitted to refer to him as Holmes (though I would not). He rose from the dressing table and extended a long, thin finger toward me as if to argue a point, only to sweep his hand gracefully aside with a flourish and seamlessly drop into a deep bow. “I defer to your literary prowess, my dear Watson,” said he.
I was, indeed, Watson. I was always Watson, had always been Watson. Occasionally, I could not shake the feeling that I had been Watson in more than one lifetime. If so, I am certain that Holmes was by my side, under whatever name was fitting, in each of our earthly reappearances.
“While many, if not most, would simply lie in their advertisements,” he continued, “I much prefer to bend the truth to suit my purpose.”
This is true for him, but not for me. While I do not lie, I also do not bend. I am exactly what I claim to be. I have no flair for the dramatic, for shifting identities as Holmes does (though I do wonder if his shifts are fully voluntary— for each of us has our own finely-honed method to protect our innermost selves during torture that seeks to rend our very soul to shreds, and my extreme distaste for deceit, manipulation, and disguises of any sort may be said to be no more than a different reaction to the very same stimulus). I am exactly as I seem. A former military surgeon from the __th regiment. A medical man. A professional. I know how to navigate human, demi-royal, and royal anatomy.
I am not merely a surgeon, but a military surgeon. While this should escape no one’s notice, it often does. For all the promises of peace Her Lowness spews from her gaping maw, you would not think there need for an army Ah, but there are the countless little squabbles over whether a patch of land belongs to the nephew of Ancient Goat and Parent of a Thousand or to the cousin of the Czar Unanswerable, and someone needs to be fodder for those canons.
It is illegal to speak in this manner, of course. Or on this subject matter. Which is why this journal is in code. It is one Holmes has devised, so I have the utmost confidence in it, for Holmes is the true strategist who protects all of the Strand Players, as well as the various divisions of his own self, from the harm of discovery. Regarding the solemn promise of the Old Ones— to keep the planet in a state of intergalactic harmony— it is an illusion. There are no other planets, save this one. There is no enemy lurking on the other side of the blood-red moon from which our leaders say they, and only they, are capable of shielding us. Holmes and I both feel this heresy is truth, despite the constant outpouring of works from the professors at Greater Albion University striving to prove our perpetual and imminent peril, forestalled by our Great Protectors. Holmes had attempted an argument with one such professor, but the man had refused to acknowledge the errors in his work.
“Fine,” I replied to Holmes, somewhat tersely, for as much as I enjoyed our banter it needed to end quickly. I had work to do.
“And I shall look it up later,” he said, in conclusion. For he had work to do as well.
I smiled.
“Do continue, Watson.”
“Where was I?” My eyes returned to skimming The Star of Albion. “Oh … garnering their plaudits and praise with magnificent dramatic performances— I suppose this is where you would remind me that it does not say the plaudits and praise arose from those self-same Crowned Heads of Europe?”
“It most assuredly does not.”
“—combining both Comedy and Tragedy, the Strand Players wish to make it known that they shall be appearing at the Royal Court Theatre, Drury Lane, for a limited engagement in April, at which they will present "My Look-Alike Brother Tom!" "The Littlest Violet-Seller" and "The Great Old Ones Come”, (this last an Historical Epic of Pageantry and Delight)—”
“And of shameless propaganda!”
“—each an entire play in one act! Tickets are available now from the Box Office.”
“Are we ready?”
“I am finishing up what I hope to be the final draft of The Littlest Violet-Seller at the end of this conversation.”
“Are we ready for… the other matter?”
I pulled my topcoat away from my suit jacket to reveal a collection of shimmering blades in various sizes. “I’m always ready for that,” I said.
~§~
Contrary to common prejudice against soldiers, I do not enjoy violence. I have, however, become somewhat impassive to it through frequent exposure. I have no thirst for blood, nor do I desire to exact revenge upon “men” such as Prince Franz Drago and make them suffer as I have. My goal is to remove his family from power. Were there a better way, a less violent path, I would follow it gladly. I have thought it through time and time again. I have thought it through in the darkened trenches, in the harsh or dim light of recovery wards, and in the warm glow of a pleasing fire at my breakfast table. There is no solution but to make the Royals choose to walk back into the sea from which they emerged 700 years prior. We outnumber them, and time is on our side, even if many Albions still prefer security over freedom. Some do not yet know, or refuse to believe, its terrible cost. Others, the truly wicked, are able to turn a blind eye, so long as the victims remain unknown. To be complacent requires no less loss of life. I choose, instead, to risk my own to rid the world of the likes of them. I choose bravery, to the extent that I can muster it, but it remains a difficult business. It demands that I do the work as quickly as possible. That is why there is always so much blood. It is not meant to be painful, but rather, to be expedient.
When my leg was destroyed, far beyond repair, my tormentors took great care to cause as little blood loss as possible, for their immediate goal was for me to remain conscious throughout, and, in the longer term, for me to live with never-ending pain—not for me to die. They had creatures who fed off captive prisoners, eating their fear and their flesh in equal measure. If they wished it, they could make you feel as if you were being flayed to the bone without laying a single one of their appendages upon your skin. They could reach those “fingers” into your very mind and twist it in all directions. Sometimes that mind would bend on its own in search of escape.
I do not know what Holmes had witnessed, and I know better than to ask. He has told me all that he wishes to, and I am honoured that he has shared so much. He never speaks of his family, save for an elder brother. I have seldom seen him, and when I have it was for a short time and at a great distance, though I know he has provided us with invaluable information on the whereabouts of the royal family. I bear my scars upon my body and Holmes his upon his mind, of this I am certain.
As we part company—he to the pub nearest the theatre to meet a drunken “man” and I to Shoreditch—I will find my way to the address given me and lie in wait. I know that when Prince Franz Drago enters the cheap rooming house, laughing and stumbling, ready to commit unspeakable acts upon a helpless young maiden who, fortunately, does not exist, the man accompanying him will not be Holmes. It will be Rache.
~§~
Where I am calm in the face of chaos, where I do what needs to be done and leave no trace, Rache is bold and careless. He tosses the ashes from his pipe into the fire, daring a constable to find them. He brazenly signs his name upon the wall in our victim’s own blood. Beneath it all, I can still easily see the artistic, bohemian soul I have known since the evening we first met.
It was in a recovery ward in Central London, made to hide those who had experienced “incidents” involving the Old Ones more than to heal them. Eventually, we would be deemed “recovered”— enough to be released into the city, armed with a small stipend and left to fend for ourselves. Like so many have done with their wounded time and time again, they would let the streets erase us; our existence proved a difficult reminder of their failures. I can not recall how we had found each other in that place, Holmes and myself, nor how we managed to stay together upon our release, but we were to share both our new lodgings and our lives. Our partnership is not a romantic one, yet is somehow stronger, deeper, and more solid than any I have ever known. My companion notes I am good with words, and yet I do not have one for what we are to each other.
As Holmes morphed from person to person, leaving me with only fleeting glimpses of the man he must have once been, I remained his friend. And he, in turn, helped me with the neverending task of bandaging my leg (it will never heal—just as they had intended). So, for all his mercurial temperament and bravado, I am never afraid of Rache. I am not afraid of any of them, for, in all his forms, he remains my dear friend. And yet, I was glad for the return of the charming and buoyant Vernet when we were at the theatre once more and the deed was done. I do not need to recount my actions of that night here, in this repository for my memories, for they will always remain with me. Would that I had Holmes’ ability to remove pieces at will from my own brain attic, though I am not unaware that this skill has its own detrimental consequences.
Was I yet glad for what I had done? Yes. For there was one less of those monsters, in every sense of the word, loose in our world.
~§~
It was a surprise to us both when a man claiming to be one Henry Camberley entered our green room. His perfect New World speech did not fool Vernet, who toyed with the stranger like a cat as I sat beside him on the threadworn sofa. I was glad to not have unsteady weight upon my leg—my identifying feature—and observed, careful not to show any reaction when my role in it all was discussed,
Had he tobacco? Why of course he had! It was of little consequence if Vernet (indeed, Rache) would be identified as the culprit, for Holmes and I would be gone by the morrow, the sweet sorrow of parting would be very sweet. Had he been to the New World? No, he had not yet had that honour, though it had always been his dearest wish! We shall have a contract drawn up, Sherry Vernet, for you and your professional friend… should you care to arrive, unsuspecting and unarmed, at a strange house? This is most exciting! I hope it will not have turned out to have been a pipe dream!
The man left… in a cab operated by our own Cartwright. Had he not taken the first one which presented itself, the second would have had Simpson at the reins. When Cartwright returned later that evening, we knew all there was to know of Mr James Moriarty’s pursuit of The Tall Man and The Limping Doctor and a great deal more than was necessary to know of Huston the Acid-Bath Man and Campbell, Bringer of the Procrustean Bed, for the man (who no longer sported a New World accent) did rattle on quite a bit on the subject of his prior achievements.
Rache would write a note and send it, via Wiggins, to the Baker Street address given us, for how could he not? Then Holmes and I would retreat to the safe bosom of the Rookery, with its thieve's camaraderie and myriad narrow passages where constables fear to tread. They may search our nation’s borders, but Moriarty and Moran will deduce where we are and will be back… after a time. Holmes is confident in this, for he says it is what he would do. For now, we will rest, for we are weary, and then Holmes will devise a plan for our next steps.
When we meet our adversaries again, I know we will be ready.