The Mass continued:
“With the exception of the jacket, it has been homemade. Our story teller starts writing in it on the day of her wedding, it must have been a wedding present.” Holmes began to read the next page. “Oct. eighth, Father bought an estate I’ve affectionately dubbed ‘purgatory’; though I would never say that to his face. It would break his heart. It is near Caernarfon – Wales. I would have been happier in a room such as I had at university. If I would have had a true opinion in the matter, I would have loved to build near grandmothers home. I have such pleasant memories there. Hmm, do you remember the summer we first met? I have a sketch of that day drawn by your cousin. I remember him always wanting to pull my curls. I laugh at the memory of you hurling that pebble at him. Your father was so distraught. Though, honored at your shivery.” Holmes stopped reading and became lost deep in thought.
“Holmes,” I called. The look upon his face made my skin crawl. I thought for the faintest moment he would cry.
He continued reading, “I digress. Father thought buying a home would be best. A wedding present though it feels more like a joke. Shire is faring as well as I. He cares not for the place either. Nov. sixteenth, ill. Have no means of saying what is wrong with me. I am very tired and have no energy at all. Dec. third, ill again. Symptoms same as the last time, only much worse than before. Was asleep for three days. Or so I was informed.’ The writing on this date is very poor.” Holmes noted; “Though I have no doubt that it is the same person. ‘Jan. sixteenth, ill. Vision blurred. Sweating. Clothing soaked. Must have staggered to barn. Woke with Shire standing over me.” Holmes handed me the book as he lay back down on the floor. He was right. The hand writing on Jan. sixteenth was indeed poor. “Ring for breakfast Watson, you must be starving.” Holmes spoke.
“Only if you will join me.” He moaned as he shook his head no. “Very well,” I opened the book once more. “Feb. third. ill for days now. Woke with Shire at my back in a two room cabin at the back of the property. I have no idea how we got here. I perceive that Shire could have drug me; though my shoes nor legs show signs of being dragged. My hair is falling out.”
Holmes moaned, “no, no, no.” His eyes tightly clasped together.
“Holmes,” I asked. “Is our writer an American?”
“Hmmm,” He moaned. “Good Watson.”
“March fifth-teenth, father has been here many times to visit me during my times of illness. I think I should have gone mad if he had not. I needed someone to tell me that I dreamt this not. That it was really happening to me. Not one of the learn-ed English doctors can figure out my torment. Perhaps one day you shall befriend a doctor who shall be a true healer? A healer with a kind heart. Everyone that has seen me has been a total buffoon. I was starting to regain some of my strength from my last round when THE MAN informed me that Shire died during the night. I am devastated. For I have lost my greatest worldly possession and at this point in my life, my one friend. Tonight, the world is mine.” ‘The style of writing changes here,” I reported, then continued reading. ‘Through darkness falls and moonlight tears,
Fear, the force that steers
Weeping webs of pain and sorrow
Shall not bare the morrow.”
I read it again still more confused than before. “It continues not. Where is the rest of the thing? Nothing.” I shook the book to see if anything would knock loose. Nothing! “What the devil is this?”
“The end my friend,” Holmes said dryly.
“No, no. I will not accept that this is the end.” I was amazed and dumbfounded. What ending is this? “What do you make of it?
Holmes was silent for a while. “We have worked on less, if you will be so obliged to assist me?”
“Of course,” said I. “I am always at your service.”
“We must I fear, do this by the book. Nothing must be left to chance.” He sat up.
“Shall I ring for breakfast?” I asked.
Holmes wiggled a finger which I took as a yes; for I was starving.
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