The Mass: Part 1

With the movement of a man in great pain, he stumbled over to the table. He put his finger to his lips, “let us see what we observe.” He turned the parcel over. It made no sound other than the rattling of paper. “Thick heavy brown paper such as you could get at any shipping office. Dull.”

“Hmm,” I moaned. “Dull or intentional?”

“Intentional?” Homes raised an eyebrow.

“It is common knowledge that you have a great mental index of papers, watermarks, and stationary.”

“Watson,” he slapped the table. Though I was expecting the sound, I still jumped. “Sometimes you outdo yourself.” Holmes pulled at the folds of the paper. It gave a desperate scraping sound. “Glue Watson, this paper has been glued.” His voice was a bit livelier. Looking up he asked, “How does one make glue?”

“I have never really pondered the subject,” Said I.

“By boiling vegetable peels, stock, or bones these are the most common.”

“Why use glue? Why not a string?”

“Why not indeed?” Holmes wrinkled an eyebrow, continuing to carefully almost methodically open the parcel.

I snapped my fingers, “I have it. Holmes, the sender wanted to make sure the parcel had not been molested. Strings are easy enough cut and replaced.”

“Good, good Watson,” Holmes flickered a brief smile. It only made the fatigue in his face more obvious.

The first item to be unearthed was an envelope, plain, “no writing on the outside. Dull, dull, dull, indeed it can be purchased at any shop in London.” He handed the envelope to me. It had not been sealed.

I took a deep breath before I began to read then stopped, “how odd?”

“What?” Holmes’ eyes were closed ready to absorb the letter.

“There is no greeting or salutation of any kind; just a body.”

“To the point,” Holmes waved his hand, “read,” he said inhaling deeply.

So I did, “There is no need for me to ask you to overlook the state of my courier. I am sure you will not. And for the most part, should not. She has been instructed to deliver this package to you and no one else only after I have not been heard from in a months time. Today should make the thirty-first day I have been absent.

I no doubt know that when you find me, I will be dead. Or so close to death that life will be difficult to retain in me for long. I implore you to bring my killer or killers (as I fear) to justice. Do not let my death go unpunished.”

We stared at each other for a long moment. The direct forwardness of the letter made me sick. “A woman?” I handed the letter to Holmes. He quickly read it again.

“Watson, she was not in a hurry. It is neat and direct.”

“To direct,” I added.

Black Dog

He was standing in the sitting room gazing out the window, his left hand upon his forehead. I started to speak but before I could utter a sound he stopped me extending outward the same hand he had held over his forehead. Then he placed his forearm over his eyes. “Something is awry with the world Watson. I feel it in my bones. Bleakness is all around.” He abruptly sat down at the table. I casually sat next to him. He was the most ashen shade of pale imaginable with black circles beneath two hollowed out eyes. He let out a long sigh. “I am being haunted Watson.” He fluttered a smile. “Laugh,” Holmes waved his hand in the air as if trying to erase the remark.

“Why should I? You know how I feel upon the subject.”

“Why indeed?” He got up and started to pace. “We are given brains to think. To work out the gray matter of life; reason and logic, when you take away those elements you might as well run a-mess in chaos . Why are we tormented by things we have no control over? The brain is an orderly devise for storing important facts, data that matters to the problems at hand. Why should it be overridden with garble?” The longer he talked the faster he paced. I was sure the carpet should catch fire from the friction of his shoes upon it.

After a moment of silence and constant pacing, I took a leap of faith that this conversation might keep moving and I could ascertain the cause of my friends’ agitation. “How are you being haunted?”

Holmes refused to cease his feverish pacing not even for a moment. “You tell me. You know my methods.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Alright, sleep eludes you. Your head has not touched a pillow within a fortnight. Though your chair has produced a few much needed moments of rest. You will not accept medication from me; however, you have yet to medicate yourself, unless you have done it elsewhere. Which, I refuse to believe. Your mood is downright cruel. I have never known you to be as odious as I have witnessed in the past few days. From the lack of sleep, no less. And if I might add from a medical point of view, you look haggard and worn out. How can you be of service to your clients? Sleep is as important to the brain as work.” It is not my nature to be strong willed where Holmes is concerned. Though, I do stand upon my points.

He stopped in his tracks as if a wall had been placed in his way. I had no way of knowing if the weight of my words meant something to him or if he was too exhausted to continue the feverish pace. “Sleep!” He shouted. “That is where it all goes wrong. How much time do we waste sleeping? How much energy do we spend in that darken state where all manner of things are allowed to proceed without care or caution?”

“Are you dreaming?” I asked with caution.

His manner and tone changed, “one dream. Repeatedly.” He collapsed in his arm chair.

“Can I assist?”

He just shook his weary head. “It haunts my waking thoughts, this madness.” He snorted, “so much so that I went round to visit Mycroft.” Holmes jumped back up from his arm chair; “waisted time on that venture!” He shook his finger at me, “if I would have needed words filled with the softer emotions of life, I would have talked to you.”

“Then talk to me now,” I pleaded. Nothing.

I looked at the parcel upon the table. I thought it might be best to engage his great mind. “A book?” I asked holding the mass of brown paper in my hand.