 
### My Dear Watson

by Rick Bramhall

Copyright 2019 by Rick Bramhall

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead (other than historical figures) is purely coincidental and completely unintended by the author. Historical figures include Dr. Sigmund Freud, Melanie Klein, Dr. Joan Rivierre, Dr. Karen Horney and Dr. Ernest Jones. I have tried to describe these figures in an accurate manner, although specific actions and words are entirely imaginary, hopefully in keeping with their characters. Dr. Nenad Sestan is a real person and has successfully kept a pig's brain alive in 2019. I'm sure we can all expect great things from him in the future.

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### Table of Contents

Chapter One: _The Meeting_

Chapter Two: The Crime

Chapter Three: The Doctors

Chapter Four: Observations

Chapter Five: The Observer Observed

Chapter Six: Goodbyes

Chapter Seven: My Brief Life of Crime

Chapter Eight: A Death and a Cocktail

Chapter Nine: Into the "We"

Chapter Ten: To the Sun

Chapter Eleven: Coda

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About the Author

### Chapter One

### The Meeting

Although Holmes and I had kept up a steady correspondence since he'd retired and moved to Sussex, I had not seen him in several years. As a result it was purely logical that I should be a little nervous. My daughter, who was accompanying me on the trip, tried her best to assure me that my anxiety was anything but logical.

"It doesn't matter that your limp has gotten much worse," said she, "and he certainly won't care that you've put on a bit more flesh."

"It's not that, My Dear," I answered. "It's more that since we have gone our separate ways, we have naturally become something more like strangers to each other. He has his bees and I have my opthalmology practice, and neither of us has the slightest interest in the other's business."

"Nonsense, Father," she replied in that prim manner of hers that brooked no opposition, "you two have a lifetime of shared experiences to reminisce upon. Besides," she added, "you have me to talk about."

She had a point there. Although I of course had kept Holmes apprised of the birth of my daughter and the basic facts of her growth in the ten years since then, I had not been as completely honest with my friend as I had routinely done when we were roommates. I had persuaded myself that what I had left out was merely trivialities, small details of her young life that I was sure Sherlock Holmes would have no interest in.

For example, I saw no reason to tell him that by the time she was one year old she insisted that the only bedtime stories she cared to hear about were my stories of him. And while I faithfully reported that she was top of her form ever since she started school, I did not mention that several times her teachers had recommended that she skip ahead into forms beyond her chronological years. After all, she and I had agreed that it would not be a good idea.

"Dear Papa," she would remind me each time, "I remember your stories of that one year you were advanced ahead and how much you were picked on for being smaller and more innocent than your new classmates."

I still internally wince at that memory. As usual, my daughter had a good point. Although she was mature beyond her years and had a lack of innocence that continually flabbergasted both my wife and me, she was only of average height for her age. Perhaps we spoiled our only child a bit but I would do anything to protect her.

Also, in my letters and in his replies, we referred to my daughter by her given, Christian name: Samantha. However, approximately two years ago, Samantha decided that she preferred to be addressed as My Dear. My wife and I humor her, as did her teachers since they respected her as a top-notch student. Her peers however, were often persuaded only after a very unladylike-like display of fisticuffs.

How could I explain this to my old friend? I haven't been able to even begin an explanation by paper and pen. So I brought my daughter, My Dear Watson nee Samantha Watson, along so she could give her own explanation in person.

I was also worried that we wouldn't catch Holmes at home. But my daughter has Holmes' fondness for train schedules and we arrived at the nearest station just about 11:30 in the morning, which would leave us a half hour to catch my friend at home during dinner, which he now religiously ate at noon, exactly. My Dear was also rather excessively attuned to the daily weather throughout England and assured me that the dirt lane to our destination would be completely dry, as it hadn't rained in this part of the country in the past two weeks.

We were shown into the modest kitchen where Holmes daily dined just as he was sitting down to eat. A hearty bowl of soup made fresh from his own vegetable garden, bread and a mild cheese were offered to us and we accepted. My daughter, though, was rather tardy in making it through her meal, as she somewhat stared at my old friend through the repast.

I knew he was just as keenly studying her. However, he was able to pull it off much more surreptitiously than she. I could tell that her open staring didn't bother him, although I thought it quite impolite and shot her several disapproving glances. There was a twinkle in his eyes and the slightest curve to his lips that told me he found the incident amusing.

As the remains of the meal were removed by a neighbor woman who cooked and cleaned for him, apples from his small orchard were offered us. I tried to observe my own daughter in the manner in which Holmes had daily drilled me on for all the years we had lived together. Before me I saw a rather average-looking lass who looked her age. She had medium brown eyes and medium brown hair. She had on one of the frocks she normally wore to school. She had freckles, probably the result of spending as much time out of doors as possible. Other than that, I could not reconcile her appearance with what I knew about her personality and daily habits. There was the wooden box, but she had tactfully left that in the hallway and I was sure Holmes had not seen it.

"I gather," began Holmes, "that your father has told you of my methods and habit of drawing conclusions about newly introduced people based on nothing more than their appearance."

"Yes," My Dear replied, "and I'm dying to hear your appraisal of me."

"Ah, but ladies and welcome guests first, my dear."

I reflexively jumped at hearing him calling her that. It took a moment's reflection for me to realize that he had not somehow guessed her name. My Dear didn't bat an eyelash.

She nodded. "That seems fair," she decided. "But please keep in mind that I am at a disadvantage here. While you saw me walk into the room and then be seated, I have only seen you in your chair."

The audacity of the girl, I thought. Of course she was at a disadvantage. Holmes had many years of experience meeting a wide range of individuals.

"I can see that you have gained an inch about the waist," My Dear began, "although you still look in remarkably good shape for your years. You must have gotten up quite early this morning. You have walked quite a distance, over a variety of terrain. I hope you don't mind me worrying about you taking the risk of climbing down a steep cliff side. After all, you are not as young as you used to be and I'd be a lot less worried if you wore your spectacles while undertaking such a jaunt."

Holmes' eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "Is that all?" he asked. "Nothing else?"

"Just one thing," My Dear admitted. "I can see you spent part of your morning scouting a nearby wild beehive, hoping to use its inhabitants as a replacement for the colony that so recently lost their queen." She then paused and squinted in the manner I knew so well. She then laughed and pulled her own glasses out of her dress pocket. "I should talk," she smiled. "But then I've only been wearing these two months, three days, and sometimes I forget I have them."

I was impressed that she could see as much as she had without them on, although she was only slightly myopic at her age. "I believe the wild hive in question is in an oak tree. Quercus...pet, pet... I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but my Greek is not as it should be. I have just recently begun studying the subject."

"No need to apologize, young lady," Holmes assured her. "That was quite impressive. That I have walked a fair bit this morning, and over different types of terrain, can I'm sure be ascertained by the various soils and muds on my boots. But the cliff, that could not be a guess, could it?"

"No sir," My Dear answered politely. "You are probably unaware that a chalky white material scraped the back on one of your trouser legs."

"Remarkable," Holmes conceded. "I assume you noticed the changed notch in my belt to tell about my weight gain. But how did you know it's only been within the past year?"

"My father has told me often of how constant you are in certain of your habits. One of those is that you only buy new items of clothing once a year." I was surprised how much my daughter actually listened to me.

"It is true that I have taken to wearing glasses the last several years, but like you I tend to forget to put them on at times. Was this something I mentioned in one of my letters to your father? I don't remember doing so. Forgive me, friend," Holmes addressed me. "I should have, I know, given your interest in the subject, but I thought it a small matter and didn't want to distress you."

"Your memory remains impeccable, Mr. Holmes," my daughter ceded. "I just happened to notice the slight redness and indentations on either side of the bridge of your nose."

"Of course," Sherlock smiled, "how could I overlook such an obvious clue? But I confess you have me completely puzzled as to how you know about the business with the bees. You are right about the tree species, it is a sissle oak, Quercus patraea."

My Dear repeated the Greek species name, mimicking him correctly on her first try. I felt I had to justify myself at this point. "I was able to help her with her Latin," I injected, "but I'm afraid Greek was always a weak point in my studies."

"As to needing a new colony," my daughter continued, "I'm afraid I cheated on that point. That was not something I inferred from your appearance. I've been following your occasional observations on bees in Nature magazine."

Holmes gave out one of his short, barking laughs. "So you figured out my pen name, did you?"

"That wasn't very hard," she smiled. "Arty Moore? Either it was you or Dr. Moriarty has risen from the dead and taken up beekeeping. I don't know which would be more unlikely, him coming back to life or him being interested in bees."

My old friend laughed again, this time quite heartily. I found it odd, in that we never considered our daughter all that humorous and here she had made Holmes laugh about as many times as I usually witnessed in a year of our time together. And here I'd been worried that he wouldn't like her.

The time seemed most propitious. I turned to her and began, "My Dear..."

"Yes, Father," she replied, "but first I think it is only fair that Mr. Holmes say what he's deduced solely from my appearance." She turned to him. "I wonder if there's anything new to learn about me, my father has written so much about me in his letters."

"You are right," Holmes admitted. "I have gleaned little new about you from your appearance on my doorstep, so to speak. However, I do want to state for the record that I feel honored that you have worn your favorite dress to see me.

"I was a little surprised to see that you favor your left hand when eating. Upon your first appearance, I jumped to the conclusion that you were right-handed. Still, it is unusual for someone to be left-handed and right footed. I suppose that fools the boys when you play football among them."

My Dear's mouth popped open, in the manner I had so often witnessed in the past when some new client presented him or herself in our parlor on Baker Street. I was glad to see that Holmes had not lost his touch. Made me feel a little better about getting older, myself.

"Now," Holmes proclaimed in that dramatic fashion of his, bring the tips of his fingers together right in front of his nose, "to the serious matter at hand. I surmise that you have brought with you today the remains of your recently departed cat. I would not be surprised if you called him 'Smokey,' or something to that effect, given the color of his hair." I noticed the slightest pout upon My Dear's face at this, but Holmes continued.

"It seems a natural conclusion to arrive at that you have brought your deceased cat here because he died under mysterious circumstances. Am I right in surmising that you are requesting my assistance in solving this crime?"

My Dear nodded emphatically, although somberly. "As always, Mr. Holmes, you are correct. He is in a metal-lined container in the next room. Although he is well-preserved in ice, it didn't seem proper to bring him in here. I am a little upset at myself though, as I'd thought I'd thoroughly brushed myself after lowering Mr. Smoke into the box."

"Think nothing of it, my dear," Holmes reassured her. "It is simply one hair that you missed and I'm sure I'm the only one who noticed it. Shall we adjourned into the examination room?" On our way out of the kitchen, his cook asked if there was anything else he'd be needing that day. He replied in the negative and sent her home to her husband.

As we approached the box in question, my daughter hesitated and out of politeness, Holmes paused too. "There is some other grave issue, other than the untimely demise of your cat?" he asked.

My daughter laughed, delighted. "You are right, Father. There is absolutely nothing that gets past the eye of Sherlock Holmes."She proceeded to give a thorough explanation, such as she'd never given her mother or I.

"From my earliest memories," she began, "which are around the age of two, my parents have either called me 'Sam' or 'my dear.' Since I immediately and in no uncertain terms objected to being called by a boy's name, the later came to be my common appellation. As soon as I was able to read my father's stories about you and him, at about eight years of age, I quickly noticed that you were fond of calling him 'my dear Watson.' It was not long after that discovery that I began requesting my parents call me by the name 'My Dear.' I have grown fonder of it since then and my parents have adapted nicely to it."

I could feel the heat rising in my face and hoped that my old colleague would not laugh in our faces. Afraid to look him directly in the eye, I checked his reaction out of my lateral vision. "It seems perfectly logical to me," he responded. I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath until his pronouncement let all the air out of my lungs at once. I was thankful and relieved and gave him a grateful glance.

That delicate subject neatly taken care of, our focus shifted to Mr. Smoke's little coffin. As we approached it, Holmes' nostrils flared enough to tell me that he'd notice the slight odor arising from the box. He kindly suggested that we take the container to his garden shed, out back.

It was My Dear's turn to appear relieved. She eagerly scooped up the box and followed Sherlock as he led the way. The out building was less than ten feet from the back porch.

From the outside, the small shed struck me as remarkably well-built for something simply meant to shelter one's gardening tools. As we entered, I saw that Holmes was in the habit of making a far wider use of the hut. The few gardening implements were hung in a far corner and amounted to relatively few pieces.

The section of the room alongside the only window was dominated by a long counter that ran the length of the place. In the middle of the counter, immediately under the window, was a sink and hand water pump. Various glass containers of a wide variety of sizes and shapes, along with a certain amount of rubber tubing, suggested that Holmes was still indulging in his old hobby of chemistry.

My Dear was instructed to place Mr. Smoke's container in the sink, while Holmes cleared off a section of counter space and carefully cleaned it. From somewhere out of all this clutter he rather miraculously produced an exceptionally clean towel. With all due respect to both the cat and my daughter, Holmes gently lifted the former from his crate and placed him on the white cloth.

By this point I was not surprised when he opened a drawer full of surgical tools and selected a small scalpel. He sterilized the instrument by turning on one of several Bunsen burners and passing it repeatedly through the flames. While I was temporarily paralyzed by this quick progression of unanticipated events, My Dear showed every sign of quickly catching on.

By the time the small scalpel was ready, my daughter had turned the deceased feline on his back and delicately shaved the sparse hair from his underbelly. "You have anticipated me!" Holmes cried out in appreciation and gave her a quick smile. The look on her young face was not unlike that she displayed when she received an asked-for doll last Christmas. She was in heaven.

Then the retired detective became all business. "There may be some buildup of gases inside," he muttered. "I suggest you both take a step back." Holmes had put on an apron just case of such an event. We followed his suggestion but My Dear looked around for another apron to don.

There was a slight hissing noise as he sliced the thoracic and abdominal cavities open. There was no untoward splatter thankfully but there was an immediate, sharp odor. The reek immediately brought a rush of memories back to me from the days when I'd occasionally served as a impromptu coroner.

Oddly enough, the stench seemed to draw my little girl toward it. As soon as Holmes felt her at his elbow, he began explaining as he went along.

Chapter Two:

### The Crime

"Had you noticed the jaundice around his eyes?" Holmes asked casually.

"No," my daughter answered honestly, "I didn't know cats had any white part to their eyes."

"Here, let me show you." Sherlock moved to the cat's head. "It is hard to see the white part of the cornea because their irises are so big. But if you pull back the skin a bit...Here let me help things along by making a small slit through the eyelid."

"Oh, I see now. But can a cat get cirrhosis of the liver?" My Dear asked. "It's not like they drink alcohol."

"Jaundice is just a symptom of an internal toxicity that has over-taxed the liver. There are many causes of it. Let us now return to the chest."

A cracking sound told me that he'd broken the sternum. There was now the old but still familiar sound of the rib cage being opened. Since I was several steps behind the two, all I could tell was that my daughter leaned in even closer.

"Perhaps we should put our spectacles on," she suggested. Both the octogenarian and ten year-old did so.

"I'm now cutting open the pericardium, the sack around the heart," Holmes announced. To which my daughter replied, "Interesting..."

"There, now you see it. The heart muscles are unnaturally enlarged."

"My cat died of heart disease?" My Dear asked skeptically.

"Highly unlikely," Holmes admitted. "You see down here...the liver is indeed inflamed. I trust an analysis of the stomach contents will be of help here."

"Oh goody!" My Dear exclaimed, although it seemed an odd thing for a young lady to be enthused about.

We were in luck. The stomach had a good deal still in it, including a partly digested bird feather and a fair amount of liquid. The liquid was easily drained into a vial.

Since a cat's stomach is much smaller than that of a human, Holmes was very careful in using as little of the substance in each test as possible. On the other side of the room I found a chair and gratefully sank down into it. I knew from experience how many chemical tests that fluid could be subjected to.

My Dear proved to be quite adept with a pipette and the necessary drop was added to an array of test tubes with greater dispatch than usual. This undoubtedly sped up the process, but -- it turned out -- to no avail. The majority of the liquid stumped Holmes' batter of chemical tests.

"There are the normal digestive juices present, to be sure," he practically muttered to himself. "But the majority of the fluid is beyond what few tests I can perform here. I'm afraid the necessary regent is missing from my meager collection."

"But if you were in London," my daughter suggested, "you would have easy access to a much wider array, wouldn't you?"

As so often with my friend, all it took was a sound suggestion and he was off and running with it. We had time before our return trip to London to wire Clara (my second wife, not to be confused with Mary, who died while Holmes was still in business). Both My Dear and I agreed that the surprise of a house guest was not something to spring on her mother. By the time we reached our home door, a smiling and gracious Clara was there to greet us.

After dinner, Holmes retired to an extra easy chair in our parlor. There he quickly lost himself in thought and the fumes of his favorite calabash pipe, an odd-shaped piece that he'd only taken to after retiring to the countryside. All three Watson family members knew enough of his ways not to disturb him.

I spent the evening in the kitchen with Clara, going over my list of patients who had appointments for the following morning. My Dear read in a large tome of a book by some man with an outlandish name, Ford Maddox Ford. Apparently it was about the Great War.

This is My Dear Watson, formerly Samantha Watson, now writing. Since my father has patients scheduled for this morning, he is unable to directly report on this investigation. So it is up to me to write the story from hereon in.

Mr. Holmes and I proceeded this morning to the nearest large hospital, where he was sure the laboratory would have the necessary means. In the cab on the way there, he warned me that he may have to tell a lie or two to keep the matter from being reported to Scotland Yard. "We don't want to raise the possibility of homicide until we are absolutely sure of our facts," he explained.

Fortunately, it was a long enough trip for me to turn the matter over in my mind to where I could agree with him. I have been rather strictly raised by my parents to always tell the truth and so this was not something I could immediately agree to. But having thought it over, I had to agree with my new friend.

I was introduced to Dr. Lawrence O'Shay, head of the hospital's pathology section. His blunt manner and lack of social skill made it obvious to me why he had chosen to work in a field of medicine that required little or no contact with patients. He tried to be nice to me but it came off as being condescending.

Dr. O'Shay apologized to Mr. Holmes but insisted that we both wash our hands thoroughly, "Although I'm sure your hands are perfectly clean, Sherlock. It is departmental policy and I can't expect those below me to enforce it if I don't myself." So we washed our hands with some perfectly awful-smelling soap.

Then we were given white coats to put on, which was fun even though mine was too long. Then we proceeded into a room not unlike Holmes' gardening shed, except a whole lot less cluttered and, frankly, cleaner. But then, the hospital's room didn't have to do double-duty as a place for rakes and such.

"I'm glad you brought the animal in, Sherlock," he said. "If you'd just brought in the gastric juices, I'm afraid we wouldn't be able to do as much. Especially in regard to your hypothesis."

Mr. Holmes had confided in the Watson family that morning over breakfast that last night's ponderings suggested that a chemical called "digitoxin" might be involved. I asked the detective about this, but my father answered instead.

"Digitoxin is a naturally occurring compound in the nightshade family," he began. Usually, I don't like it when my dad lectures, as he tends to fall into a monotone. But this was different.

"Relatively recently, modern medicine has derived a pharmaceutical substance from this, called 'digitalis.' It is used mainly in the treatment of certain heart conditions, including one that I happen to have."

"Oh no, Father!" I cried out. "I had no idea you had a heart problem!"

He smiled weakly. "Nothing to get alarmed over, My Dear. It is a relatively mild irregularity of my heartbeat that is well-controlled by this digitalis."

"And it is becoming a rather commonplace drug," injected Mr. Holmes. "It has been shown to be quite effective in a more serious heart condition called 'congestive heart failure.' It is also being used to treat a few other, non-cardiac conditions, such as epilepsy and other seizures."

"You continue to astound me, Holmes," said my father. "Imagine keeping up with the latest in pharmaceuticals after all these years."

"Actually," explained Mr. Holmes, "I looked it up in one of the books in your library last night."

Then, I'm afraid, the subject was dropped as my mother dropped the teapot right about then. Luckily no one was burned.

So that was the main thing we were to look for here in the hospital's lab. It turns out that the necessary test is done on the blood. That's why the doctor was glad we'd brought in poor old Mr. Smoke.

It wasn't long before we had our results. "As you can see," said Dr. O'Shay, "the potassium is significantly elevated. That is our first clue that your suspicion is correct. The final test will be whether the substance can be isolated by bonding it to a special polymer."

"I am indeed indebted to you, Doctor," said Holmes. "These polymers are very advanced things, certainly nothing I could have been able to get my hands on."

This took quite a bit more time, but Mr. Holmes and I had a perfectly satisfactory tea in the hospital canteen while we waited. Needless to say, Sherlock Holmes was again proved right. "Are you back in the detective business?" the pathologist asked. "Shall I contact Scotland Yard?"

"No, no," Holmes lied smoothly, "just a neighboring lady who is too fond of flower arrangements using foxgloves."

"Ah, Digitalis purpurea. Yes, the flower and cats should not be kept in the same room."

"Exactly."

"But what does this all mean?" I pressed Holmes, back in the taxi cab. "We haven't any foxgloves."

"Did you let your cat out at night?" he asked.

"Yes, he'd meow at the front door every morning to be let back in. But why would one of our neighbors poison Mr. Smoke?"

Mr. Holmes took out his peculiarly-shaped pipe and thoughtfully filled it. "Suppose someone wanted to kill their spouse without getting caught. An overdose of a medication would usually be written off as an accident. Tell me," he asked as he light his pipe and rolled down his window, "do you know if any of your neighbors has a heart condition?"

"I have been told by Mr. Crabben that he has, as he put it, 'a bad ticker.' I can't think of anyone else. But why kill my pussy cat if Mrs. Crabben wanted to murder her husband?"

"It's a matter of getting the dosage right. A person could, for example, weigh a neighborhood cat and then experiment with the dosage. Knowing a cat's weight and one's spouse's weight, one could calculate the correct amount to give the human based on how much it took to kill the cat."

I couldn't help but shiver. "That's so cold-blooded."

"And that," he concluded as we reached our flat, "is why first-degree murder is considered worse than second."

Father was done with his patients by dinner and so during the meal the Watson family played "Who's Got Heart Disease?" We went around the table, each of us racking our brains, trying to think of a neighbor who fit in this category. Father won, naturally, since most of our neighbors are also his patients and of course he takes a detailed medical history on each one of them. I was given credit for Mr. Crabben, mother knew of one by way of gossip and Father added two by way of his practice.

Under questioning by our guest, we admitted that if any of these had died or suffered any kind of medical emergency, we would have heard of it. We are fortunate to live in a relatively friendly community who look out for each other. I could tell Mother had another thought and I badgered her until she finally bit her lip and came out with it.

"Perhaps," she slowly suggested, "the would-be murderer had a change of heart."

Mr. Holmes agreed that was a possibility. Another was that the murderer of my cat was simply biding his or her time, waiting for just the right moment. That was a sobering thought that brought the table to complete silence.

Apparently our detective-guest didn't feel a need to ponder the case further this evening, since instead of retreating to an easy chair, he offered to help Mother with the dishes. I had algebra homework and Father went into his library and closed the door. Thankfully the algebra presented no problem because I soon heard my mother raise her voice in the kitchen.

I couldn't imagine what Holmes could have possibly said to upset her and I was out the door of my bedroom at the same time as Dad left his library. Holmes hurried from the kitchen, my mother not far behind. They rushed past me and into the library so quickly, I didn't have time to observe much.

Holmes had a handkerchief in one hand and my mother had both hands up to her face, as though she was starting to cry. A quick word in my father's ear from his old friend and my father turned to block my way into the room. "I'm sorry, My Dear," was all I could get from him.

I'm not sure what they thought they were accomplishing by keeping me out of the room. The panels of the door were quite thin. I couldn't see through the keyhole, as someone had left the key in it.

I quickly went to the kitchen and returned with a glass, which served as an adequate amplifier. Unfortunately, in the time that took, the conversation had already started. Holmes was finishing a sentence with, "as you can see."

"It's...it's my fault, John," my mother sobbed. "I didn't do a good enough job on my makeup. Sherlock saw right through it."

"Nonsense, Clara," replied my dad. "Holmes can see through any disguise. But dash it, Holmes, this is a private matter. Couldn't you have left it alone?"

"Not when it involves attempted murder," Mr. Holmes replied. I didn't have to see his face to know how calm he was, or how contrasting it was with how my parents must have looked. "Besides..." he began then pulled up abruptly.

As I heard the key turn in the lock, I had just enough time to dash towards the kitchen. As I reached to put the glass back in its cupboard, I could hear their voices clearly now through the open door. This even though I could hear my mother crying loudly now.

"Clara...!" cried my father. "Can this be true?"

"It's alright, My Dear," Sherlock called out. "You can come in now."

"What?" shouted my dad. "Can't we keep this from her?"

"If my calculations are correct, she's known it all along." Mr. Holmes appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Haven't you, My Dear?" It was the softest I'd ever heard him speak. I was so touched by his gentleness, I wasn't sure I could look him in the eye. And if not him, how could I ever face my parents again?

As I walked into the library, I looked at my dad's midsection, then quickly hugged him around the waist. Mother was sitting in an overstuffed chair. I awkwardly hugged her around the shoulders. I chose to look at the face of Mr. Holmes, who in turn was looking at me with an expression that I couldn't quite discern.

"You knew what was going on when you brought me your dead cat, didn't you?" he asked.

I could only nod mutely. How could I not know what was going on? I'd known my parents all my life. And while my mother was actually quite skillful with makeup, nothing could get by the keen eye of the great detective.

I looked now at the deep discoloration around my mother's left eye. I knew that other bruises were hidden by her clothing.

"You have to understand, Mr. Holmes. My father has only resorted to such brutality over the last year or so. Actually, 13 months and four days, to be exact. I am in no position to intercede, physically. And I could not report him to the authorities, the public shame would be worse than any pain he could inflict."

"That's not what I'm talking about, My Dear, and you know it. You came to me hoping that I'd be able to intercede in your mother's plot to kill your father."

I didn't realize I was crying until I felt the heated liquid running down my cheek. "What else was I to do, Mr. Holmes? I wasn't about to report my own mother to Scotland Yard."

"Clara!" My father tumbled down at my mother's feet. "That my inexcuseable treatment of you led you to such a terrible resort!"

My mother looked at me with watery eyes. "I wouldn't have done it, you know. I don't think I could have ever actually given your father such a fatal dose..."

"You killed my cat, Mother," I reminded her. "It was one thing to weigh him, but quite another to be startled when I came upon you doing so. And I wasn't about to believe your story that you accidentally dropped Father's bottle of pills in the street, thereby forcing you to get a second bottle. That would have been totally uncharacteristic of you."

My mother began to nod vigorously. "Yes, yes!" she exclaimed. "It's all my fault! If I'd been a better wife and mother, he would have never hit me!"

"Nonsense!" Holmes barked out. We were all three startled. I would never have believe that the man could have spoken so loudly or so sharply. "Clara, there is never an excuse for a man to strike an unarmed woman!" Holmes wheeled to stare at his old friend. "Watson, it is beyond my scope of understanding how you could have done such a thing! You are not naturally a man of violence, not in all the years that I knew you! I think back to all the times you stood at my side, revolver drawn, as we came upon some villain. Not once did you fire your pistol in anger! What, what could have so fundamentally changed inside you, Doctor?"

Now it was my dad's turn to do something I'd never seen him do before. He buried his face in his hands and began to shudder. At first I thought he might be having a seizure, but then I realized this was his own way of crying.

I very much wanted to cry out loud, too, but found that I could not. I suddenly felt hopeless, as though lost at sea on a raft. Looking around me, I saw nothing but endless sea with no land or saving vessel in sight.

Returning to sanity, I looked frantically around the room for Mr. Holmes. He was nowhere in sight. I ran from the library into the parlor. There I found Holmes. In a veritable sea of uncertainty, there he was, ensconced in an easy chair, tamping tobacco down into his pipe.

I had made such a mad dash into the room, there was no way he couldn't have heard me. He looked up at me gravely but calmly. "My Dear Watson," he said. "I'm afraid this case has gone beyond the limits of my specialty."

Chapter Three:

### The Doctors

Psychoanalysis was still a controversial subject at the time. My teachers had advised me, some more strongly than others, not to pursue any studies in that direct. My parents were much more to the point: they forbade me to read any book or article on the subject.

So I was extremely surprised and somewhat vexed at my parents' reaction to Holmes' suggestion. He, of course, had met Sigmund Freud years ago. Through that great man, he'd managed to make a number of connections into this relatively new field of medicine.

"I've been friends for a number of years now with a brilliant man, a Welshman, who is trained in neurology and psychoanalyst. He has studied the work of Freud deeply, and has even managed to stake out some independent lines of thought separate from him. Watson, I would like you to met Dr. Ernest Jones. If you two hit it off, I'd like to recommend that you undergo analysis."

My father agreed and my mother raised no objection. Perhaps she felt in no position to do so. Besides being completely nonplussed by this 180 degree change in direction, I am chagrined that the meeting and any follow ups will be held entirely without my presence.

All three adults were in complete accord on this. Apparently there is a lot of psychoanalysis that has to do with sex. Maybe even all of it might have to do with sex, the exact extent, like everything to do with sex, was left entirely hazy by all the adults in my life.

I tried to apply to Mr. Holmes' sense of reason. "I have read all about mammalian sexual reproduction, especially as it applies to Homo sapiens," I told him. "I have even read some fictionalized versions of the subject, such as a number of Gothic novels and a few 'romance' novels that I have sneaked into the house. I feel like I'm totally conversant on the subject."

"You are certainly the most unusual ten year-old I've ever known," Holmes admitted. "However, reading about these events is most definitely not the same thing as experiencing romantic feelings yourself. It is a subject that is very hard to put into words."

"And yet," I retorted, "it is my understanding that psychoanalysis is known as the "talking cure." If the subject cannot be put into words, how does the analyst talk about it? How does the patient talk about it?"

Mr. Holmes puffed on his pipe a full minute before giving me his answer. "An excellent point. Since I have not gone under analysis myself, I do not know the answer. I will ask Dr. Jones that very question when your father and I meet with him. I hope that will suffice?"

I had to admit that his suggestion sounded quite reasonable and I concurred. It was a few days before the meeting could be arranged. In the meantime, my parents agreed that I didn't have to go to school. More than ever, school subjects seemed irrelevant to the life I was living.

The only book our local library had on the subject was Freud's book on dreams. I was able to read the opening chapter, where he talks about the history of dreams and their interpretations, but then I got completely lost. Not only was there quite a bit of specialized terminology, but I'm afraid I couldn't get a handle on the ideas he was suggesting.

I knew that sex was not meant for someone my age. Although there was a reported case of a ten year-old girl in South America who had become pregnant and delivered a baby, the general consensus was that girls my age were not yet physically developed enough to reproduce. Oddly enough, this seemed less to do with such obvious changes as the development of breasts and pubic hair and more to do with unseen changes that were to take place deep inside me.

I had one brilliant idea, or so I thought. I cross-referenced rape and looked up what cases I could find of pre-pubescent sexual encounters. The results seemed to all be death, horrible maiming or living the rest of their lives stark raving mad. All my research left me even more disinclined to want "the experience" (as Mr. Holmes put it) than ever. Were, then, perpetual virgins and spinsters never to understand the niceties of psychoanalysis?

My parents were officially "separated" at this time, which seemed to mainly mean that my father lived elsewhere. So I couldn't ask him any of these questions. That meant, of course, that Mr. Holmes couldn't stay with us any more. It wouldn't have seemed proper, which when my mother said it seemed to imply that that, too, had something to do with sex.

I did come up with one very good conclusion that has withstood the test of time. Adults are really embarrassed about talking about sex in front of children. Although Mr. Holmes is apparently unable to blush, he was quite visibly upset when I brought the matter up with him. He made a lame answer about the subject being something for my parents to discuss with me, although he knew very well that wasn't going to happen.

A couple of days later, we received word that my father had met Dr. Jones and had agreed to enter the program at the Institute of Psychoanalysis here in London. Mother's and my request to see our husband and father was turned down. We were told he was too ill to receive visitors at this time.

In the meantime, I was experiencing "cabin fever." It didn't help that Mother and I had moved into smaller quarters. I managed to talk her into going out on one occasion, but it was not satisfactory.

Although Mother's bruising was almost gone by now and was completely covered up by makeup, she still insisted on wearing a veil when we stepped outside. We undertook just a brief walk through our same familiar neighborhood (we had moved into a smaller flat in the same building) but it was still too much for her. I ended up hailing a cab and we took the unnecessary expense of a drive back to the front door of our building.

It was after that that my mother agree to let me go back to school. I could only hope that not having me around the place gave her time to collect her thoughts. On my part, I was looking forward to again socializing with people my own age.

I was especially looking forward to a good game of football. I felt like I needed a physical outlet for all the feelings bottled up inside me. The classroom time before it flew by, to the point where I couldn't really tell you what we did.

As you might imagine, in that time and place, I stood out from all the other girls in my desire for physical exertion. The rest of them, including the faculty, thought it unfeminine. Since there was no girls' locker room, I was allowed to change into my culottes in the dean's office.

The predetermination against female players included not only most of the boys' team but our coach as well. Fortunately for me, the captain of the team was my closest friend at the school. Samuel Moises Meyer knew what it was like being discriminated against. He went by the nickname "Reggie" in order to downplay his Jewish ethnicity.

I always felt that I had to work twice as hard as the boys in order to be respected by them. One other boy, a lad from India, was the only one who kept up with me. He, too, had something to prove.

Reggie, on the other hand, was a natural athlete. He was also a natural leader. If his father wasn't a dry goods wholesaler, he probably would have risen high within our government. As you might imagine, he idolized Disraeli.

I thoroughly enjoyed that day on the pitch. I could feel the blood pumping through me and there were moments when my heart felt as if it had been born anew. Then came the whistle.

Everyone stopped, myself perhaps a second later than everyone else. I looked around and was surprised to find everyone looking at me. I didn't understand why, I hadn't been fouled and my header had just gone over the top of the goal.

Then I heard Kris groan. His real first name was Krishna, but like Reggie, he Anglicized his name in order to fit in. I looked down and found him face-down, practically embedded in the mud.

I immediately knelt down beside him. "Are you alright, Kris?"

Reggie and several of the other lads slowly rolled him over on this back. Kris was tall for his age and so was regularly picked as a defenseman. We'd both gone up against each other for that last ball.

"He'll be alright. He's just had the air knocked out of him." This was from Coach, who was also kneeling down beside him.

He then turned to me. "That was a particularly nasty bit, Watson. I'm afraid I'm going to have to red card you."

The shock I saw on the faces of my playmates around me couldn't have matched that on my own face. "What? What did I do?" I protested.

A fine mist had been falling, which was perfect weather for a game. It helped keep one from overheating. In this case, it also keep the mud fresh. Kris was still catching his breath as the others helped peel mud off him.

"Don't give me that, Missy!" Coach Hammon exclaimed. "You know exactly what you did!"

"Ease off, Coach," interjected Reggie. He was giving me a most queer look. In fact, so were the others. "I think she honestly doesn't know what she did. I know I've had it happen to me, where I was so caught up in the moment that I didn't know I'd fouled someone. I'm sure I'm not the only one."

Coach slowly nodded his head in agreement. He'd played semi-pro ball himself. "I wouldn't believe it, Watson, except that you've always been an honest student. I have to say, though, I haven't seen such a blatant foul in quite some time."

Finally the story came out. As Kris and I had both jumped skyward for the ball, I had rather violently pushed off Kris' left shoulder. My shove had been hard enough to drive him into the ground, face-first.

Once he was breathing normally again, I apologized to him and helped pull him to his feet. A red card, of course, meant that I was immediately expelled from the game. My team would have to play the rest of the game a man down.

Feeling extraordinary odd, as though someone else had committed the foul, I decided not to stick around to watch the rest of the game. I could have waited for the coach to let me into a classroom to change back into my dress, but that struck me as unimportant at the time. I wended my way home.

We now lived on the third floor and I trotted up the stairs the way I usually did. Mother usually met me on the landing but, then, I was early. I let myself in with the latchkey.

Mother sailed out of the bedroom, making some remark about me being home early, then caught herself up short. She had a look on her face like a wild animal suddenly caught in torchlight. "My Dear, we are to meet Mr. Holmes out for dinner, but you can't go out like that!"

I reacted defensively, reflexively. "Why not?" That was my usual reply to my parents telling me I couldn't do something.

But this time, I caught my mother at a loss for words, not a common occurrence. Finally it dawned on me to look down at myself. Usually when I change after football, I wipe my legs and arms down with my soiled jersey and culotte, but of course today it was all still on: the mud, the sweat, the grass stains, everything.

I burst out laughing! What a ridiculous reaction that had been on my part! My laughter was contagious and my mother joined in. We both had to seek seats in the parlor before we could contain ourselves.

I made a quick, slap-dash wash of it in the wash basin, then slipped into a presentable dress. We were half an hour late, which Mr. Holmes was kind each not to mention. The address he met us at was not a restaurant, as we had expected, but a dressmaker.

"I hope you don't mind me giving you your birthday present a week early," he said to me. I'd totally forgotten that my birthday was almost here. I wasn't that big on birthday celebrations, since the date always struck me as somewhat arbitrary. I certainly wasn't going to feel that much different a week from now than I did today. In the past, I usually went along with the celebration just to please my parents.

As we waited to be served, Mr. Holmes explained the reason for the earliness of the gift. "We three have been invited to a small dinner in Dr. Ernest Jones compartment at the Institute," he explained. "Although your father still is in no condition to attend, the doctor will be able to address some of your concerns and questions. Other members of the staff will also be present."

Given the choice between seeing my father and having my questions answered, I would have gladly chosen the former, but apparently that was out of the question. My disappointment was quickly set aside, frivolous girl that I am, when presented with a number of choices of gowns. This, it turned out, was to be my first grown-up looking gown, my first dress where the hem was almost floor-length!

My mother is an expert at clothing and Mr. Holmes was able to add some timely observations as to details. Measurements were taken and the finished production arrived the day before the dinner. We were to dine in the Continental style, which meant that the meal wouldn't start until 9 o'clock the next night.

We arrived right on time and were escorted into a large parlor. I was surprised that everyone was milling around with drinks in hand. Apparently the reported time of dinner was nothing more than a vague approximation.

Mr. Holmes was already there and took us immediately to our host. Dr. Ernest Jones was a middle-aged gentleman with sandy hair, a twinkle in his eye and a ready smile. I could immediately see why people would feel comfortable confiding in him.

He introduced me to his wife, Katherine, who had an interesting accent that I later found out was Moravian. I also met Frau Klein, "Please, call me Melanie," Dr. James Strachey and his wife Alix, and Dr. Joan Rivierre. I was used to being around doctors, as it was not unusual for my father to bring a few home for dinner occasionally, but never in such a formal setting. It was also a little unnerving being around so many psychoanalysts.

I'm afraid I became a little hesitant in my speech, something that had rarely happened before. "You'll have to excuse me," I blurted out, "but around so many analysts I feel that I must watch my every word."

My remark, although directed at Dr. Rivierre, came at a sudden lull in the conversation and everyone in the room heard me. All the doctors laughed easily. "We hear that all the time," Dr. Jones replied. "But please, put yourself at ease. No one is on the analyst's couch tonight. Let us simply have a pleasant evening. I hope you get to know us as much as we get to know you."

I found myself seated at dinner between Melanie Klein and Dr. Rivierre. I found Melanie the much less intimidating of the two. Dr. Rivierre, although older than Melanie or Dr. Jones, appeared very elegant, almost like a model. However, her mask of feminine grace couldn't hide her sour mood.

Judging just by the look on Dr. Rivierre's face, you'd have thought we were being served nasty-tasting medicine. However, in fact the meal was amazingly delicious. They even served lobster, one of my favorites!

Father would always tease me, saying that my tastes were so expensive, I'd have to marry a rich man. I thought of him often during this meal, and how much he would have enjoyed it. Each thought of him hurt me like a needle into my chest.

As unresponsive as Dr. Rivierre was to my attempts at a conversation, Melanie was just the opposite. I think I like her smile even more than Dr. Jones'. And she has these dark brown eyes that seemed to welcome me into them.

Mother had carefully reared me not to raise my voice at dinners like these. So, since Dr. Jones was too far away from me, I brought up my questions to Melanie Klein. She seemed positively delighted at each point I raised.

"Your question delves right to the root of what psychoanalysis is about about," she nodded. "How do we uncover issues that a patient can't even find words for? We are talking about subconscious thoughts, which by definition don't have words."

"I'm afraid I don't understand this concept of the subconscious mind," I admitted.

"None of us do," she replied, "not completely. "That's what makes analysis so exciting. Every trip into the subconscious mind is an exploration!"

"You say there is no language for it, and yet the treatment plan calls for talking to the patient," I pointed out.

"While the words for what is going on are hidden, there is a language there, yes," she said. "Dreams are one way the subconscious mind communicates with the conscious mind. And much of what the subconscious mind consists of is repressed memories, at least among adults. That is where hypnosis comes in. When the mind is properly relaxed, these imprisoned memories can be free to rise to the surface."

"But this only applies to adults?" I asked. "So the repressed memories must be from childhood."

"What a delightfully precocious child you are!" Melanie exclaimed. "Unlike most children, I suspect you have the language skills to be analyzed like an adult!"

"Thank you...I think."

Frau Klein chuckled. "Yes, you are right. But even children can be unintentionally hiding things, things from their more recent past that they have either tucked away out of fear or because they don't realize their importance. My breakthrough, if I may be allowed to set false modesty aside, is to explore children's minds through observing them at play."

"So..." I tried to comprehend all that she was telling me, "you're saying that you can tell what's going on in peoples' minds by observing their actions?"

"Yes, you've got!" she seemed honestly delighted. "We do it all the time, don't we? If we are astute, we judge people more by their actions than their words. And in children, the form of action that is most comfortable and natural for them is play."

"I suspect I'm just beginning to understand," I admitted. "Is there any way I can watch what you do with children, or would an observer interfere with the analysis?"

"There are ways you can observe without interfering," she replied. "Yes, I would like it very much if you could see my theories applied to actual patient care. Then I could say to Herr Freud, 'Look, even a child understands what I'm talking about!'"

"Then Dr. Freud disagrees with your theses? What an honor it must have been to talk with him. I wish I could meet him!" I exclaimed.

Melanie shook her head and a deep melancholy came over her face. "You would not want to meet him now. It is too sad. He has had cancer of the mouth for many years now -- his own oral fixation with cigars, you know." She smiled slightly. "The surgeries has left his face disfigured.

"But I never really talked with him. When I was developing my theories in Germany, he came and visited, observed my work. But we did not talk. He talked and I listened.

"To get back to what we were talking about, I would love for you to come and visit me at work. As someone still in childhood, you may be able to offer some insights that adults cannot see. With your permission, I would like to talk with your Mother about making such an arrangement."

And so it was to be that I'd enter the exciting world of psychoanalysis. Nowadays, when I tell people about it, they say things like, "You must have been there at the very beginning, then! How thrilling!" But as Herr Einstein reminded us, time is relative. To me, it all seemed to have been going on already for such a long time, decades before I was born.

Chapter Four:

### Observations

I had a hard time believing what I was seeing. A perfectly nice-looking, normal boy of about five years-old was exhibiting the most extraordinary behavior in the playroom. And he was doing it without any expression at all on his face.

The room was small, but then so was he. Toys littered the carpeted floor, A few sat on low shelves, easily reached by kids even shorter than him. The walls were painted sky blue and mint green. It looked like a perfect little Eden for a child.

Fortunately, this boy was playing alone. I hate to think what he might have done had others his size or smaller been present. He calmly stood up and went over to the last shelve with toys on it. With one dramatic sweep of his arm, all were on the ground.

For the last 15 minutes I'd been observing him literally trying to take the head off of every doll and human figure in the room. All of the dolls were female, with the possible except of those portraying infants, when the gender was not apparent. These were the most susceptible, in that most of them had heads designed to turn.

I was surprised that a lad so young could have such strength. If you've ever tried to pull a head off of a doll, you know what I mean. In some cases it took some time to accomplish his act of violence, but he showed remarkable patience for one so young.

Dolls whose heads were molded in one piece with their torso faced damage of a different kind. Some, whose necks were particularly thin, he was able to behead by banging their head repeatedly against a sharp edge of a shelf. Those who withstood this ended up simply tossed aside, their faces either bashed in or cracked.

The boy figures were technically not dolls. Most of these were soldiers, although I had noticed a few cowboys and Indians. Some of the soldiers were made of what appeared to be lead and the little boy found that he could do nothing to them.

Two newer soldiers looked to be made of tin and were hollow on the inside. These were easily bent or otherwise deformed by the boy. To me, the most alarming events were what he did to the toy cowboys and Indians.

These figures from the American "Wild West" were made of either rubber or some kind of plasticine or plastic substance. The child found out early on that these could not be beheaded or deformed by any of his other methods. His rather vicious solution was to simply bite their heads off.

Once he'd run through all the human-like toys, he seemed at a loss for what to do. Toy vehicles, building blocks and such apparently held no interest to him. He ended up just sitting down in the middle of the room, calmly looking around him.

I should explain at this point that I had been watching all this behavior from an observation room immediately adjacent to the playroom. I was sitting in the dark, looking into the playroom through a one-way looking-glass. To anyone looking at the glass from the playroom side, all they'd see was a largish mirror. If the lights on my side had been on, the mirror effect would have been lost and anyone in the playroom would have been able to see me.

Melanie Klein was in the room with me, but she asked that we not talk while the boy was in the playroom. Not only was she not fully confident in the sound-proofing of the room but she didn't want anything to break my concentration of the scene. Now she quietly left the room and seconds later entered the playroom.

She smiled and called out to him by name (for confidentiality reasons, I will only refer to him as 'M.'). He looked genuinely glad to see her and returned her greeting. Melanie sat in a low seat and Michael got up and walked over to her, taking a similar chair beside her. I wasn't told how often the two had interacted before this, but obviously it had been enough for him to feel comfortable around her.

"Are you having a good day?" she asked. M. nodded vigorously in assent. This startled me. I had assumed by his behavior that something today had upset him and that his actions regarding the toys had been in reaction to this.

"Are you feeling well enough to go home today?"

M's reaction was immediate and loud. "NO!" he shouted. However, he did not retreat from her. Instead he looked up at her as though pleading. "Will you play with me?" he asked.

"I'd love to play with you, M." She crossed the room and knelt down in front of a toy chest whose lid was already open. I thought M. had already pulled all of its contents out onto the floor.

But Frau Klein rummaged through whatever was left in there until she pulled out two furry, tan-colored bears. She slipped the smaller of the two on her right hand and I could see that it was a puppet. With a playful smile, she handed the larger one to M.

As soon as he slipped the puppet onto his hand, his face changed dramatically. He now showed an intense anger that he had not shown during the worst of his actions against the toys. His large bear advanced aggressively towards the smaller one.

Melanie made her puppet look cowering and as though it was about to run away. M. growled in a bear-like approximation and rushed towards her hand. She flipped her puppet front-side up.

The boy used both of his hands to flip hers over, so that the little bear's tummy was now face-down. Then he took his puppet and repeated slapped the top of her puppet hand. He kept this on long enough and hard enough that I feared Melanie's hand must be starting to hurt.

Suddenly, without warning, he stopped. She calmly took the puppets off his hand and hers and gently tossed them into the toy box. She didn't look down but kept her eyes on his face as she asked, "Would you like to use the water closet now?"

M. silently nodded and it was only then that I noticed the wet spot of the front of his short pants. Frau Klein called out for a nurse and one came in and, taking him by the hand, left the room. It was only then that she let her guard down, only for a minute, as though she'd temporarily forgotten I was in the next room.

Then she recovered, straightened her posture and brushed back a loose strand of hair from her forehead. She smiled at me through the mirror, her usual air of confidence fully restored. I rushed out of my room and into hers to make sure she was alright.

Melanie laughed at my concern. "Here I was, worried about how you would react to all of this, and instead you're worried about me." Then suddenly she turn serious. "Tell me, aren't you at all upset about what you just witnessed?"

I shook my head. "I've recently had my mother kill my cat and threaten to poison my father. I've stood by helplessly the past year as my father physically abused my mother. A five year-old throwing a fit and wetting himself pales in comparison."

She nodded thoughtfully then stared silently at the floor. I could tell she was looking for a way to explain things to me. "I used this boy as a first example because I thought his case was the most obvious. But now I wonder why I thought so. Your reaction is not unusual compared to others who have not studied in this field. Even the great Sigmund Freud doesn't understand what we do here."

I laughed gaily, still having no clue as to the serious nature of the little boy's problem. "Well, at least I'm in good company, with Dr. Freud!"

But Melanie was still grim-faced. "Do you know what the word 'pedophile' means?" she asked. "Or pederasty?'"

"I've never heard of the latter word," I admitted. "But I imagine 'pedophile' would mean someone who loves feet."

Frau Klein smiled now. "Of course. You've had lessons in Latin but haven't advanced to Greek yet. In scientific circles, our specialized lexicon sometimes uses word rooted in one ancient language, sometimes in the other. I can see how it would be confusing."

"I wish I could study here with you," I said. "I suspect I'd learn a lot more than at my school."

Now she positively beamed at me. "What an excellent idea!" she exclaimed. "With your permission, I will ask your mother to give her consent to such an arrangement. I'm sure we can work something out with your school!"

All I could do in the moment was stare at her dumbfounded. What a dream come true!

Chapter Five:

### The Observer Observed

This account has now passed on to me, Dr. Joan Rivierre While the subject, Samantha "My Dear" Watson, thinks she is residing at the Institute of Psychoanalysis here in London as a student and observer of our methods, she is actually a patient of mine and Frau Melanie Klein. With her usual brilliant insight, Melanie (I feel I can address her so familiarly) has arranged things so that My Dear can be observed without realizing it. She is such a sharp little girl that she would have seen through anything less.

The subject, who the staff has agreed to humor by calling her My Dear, was quickly settled into her room here at the Institute with a minimum of fuss. Her mother readily agreed to this, as the situation at home between the two of them was becoming more and more awkward. Clara Watson needs more quiet time to herself and this also relieves her of any responsibility to explain things to her daughter. Arrangements with the school were also relatively easy, as My Dear is completely self-motivated in her studies and is quite capable of taking caring of them on on her own.

Yesterday, Director of Children's Studies Melanie Klein exposed the subject to fellow patient M. My Dear was so innocent as to the underlying causes at play in M's case that she completely failed to understand what was going on. I suspect that this is not unusual in us academic types, as our "ivory towers" protect us from being aware of certain unsavory aspects of human behavior.

Today, Director Klein had an informal meeting in her office with My Dear, who we'll call S from here on in. Normally, discussions about sex, the so-called "birds and bees" talk, is between mother and daughter and is done at or near the time of first menstruation. However, to clear up misconceptions about S's observations of M, it has been necessary to have this now.

Because of the aberrant behavior of M's father, this discussion had much more to do with sexual perversions than the normal mother-daughter talk. However, the fact that S has taken to Frau Klein so fondly and so quickly made this easier than it might otherwise have been. When S finally realized the full impact of what was being done to M, S broke down and cried.

Klein and I fully agree that this emotional outburst was very much needed and well over-due. I think S's ability to full show her feelings in front of the Director speaks well of their relation. Like many English children, S has come to us from a home where the display of emotion was discouraged.

The plan going forward with S is to observe her as she observes other child patients in our program. She will be asked to 1) observe other juvenile patients from inside a mirrored room and report her observations in writing, 2) interact with other patients by playing with them and holding conversations with them, again reporting on her observations and conclusions and 3) interact with other patients around her age at meals, "hiding" her "real mission" by "pretending" to also being a patient.

S's reports will be read by either me or Director Klein but will also be sent to her school, to serve as her writing assignments. She will be released from the Institute in the afternoons, Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays so she may play on her school's football team. This rather male behavior is being tolerated at this point because we realize it will keep her healthy and fit.

There are those on staff who are rather alarmed at this somewhat "homosexual" behavior on S's behalf, that is, playing a boy's game. Some are advocating that she instead be involved in the female staff's exercise programs of weekend hikes in the country and weekday cycling trips around the city. All are in concordance that she should not interact with Institution children in their exercise programs, as this patient is too overly-mature to interact with her own age-group on an equal basis. S is only condescending to interact with other children because she thinks she is helping us.

Because we have made S aware of one-way mirrors, we cannot use this device with her. But Melanie doesn't think this is important in her case, since she is so good at keeping a "stiff upper lip," as the English like to say. So sometimes the Director employs a recording machine, while other times she prefers to have me listen in from a room next door. We both expect recording technology to improve in the near future.

After S leaves one of these sessions, the Director and I usually discuss what went on immediately after. Today, we again discussed S's exercise regime. Melanie, as director, is more concerned about appearances than I am.

"You know my feelings on the subject," said I. "I say to hell with what others think. In fact, I'd venture to go so far as to say that all girls should play soccer. If they all played, then we could have all-girl teams and your concerns for her safety will lessen."

Melanie sighed one of her famous sighs. "I wish more parents were so flexible on the subject. but as it stands, most are uneasy as it is that we force their daughters to exercise at all. Tell me," she immediately changed tenors, "what would you say to hypnotizing S?"

This caught me completely off-guard, which I'm sure was the idea. The Director likes to use this tactic a lot, as our immediate reactions can then be recorded by her. I like to oblige her by responding as quickly as possible, since what she's looking for in such instances is an intuitive, subconscious reply.

"I don't see why not," I said. I'd been thinking the same thing, but wasn't sure if I should bring it up. "I'm not sure what our goal would be, but I don't see any harm in it. If nothing else, I think it would help to relax her."

"Yes, yes," she mused, as though talking out loud to herself. I prided myself on the fact that Melanie only felt comfortable enough around me to do this. With others, she always collected her thoughts before speaking. "Yes, that would be a great pretense under which to encourage her to participate. You see, I wouldn't want to put her under without her full consent."

"Naturally. Should I go tell her you want to see her?"

"No, I rather do it at our regularly scheduled time. I wouldn't want to alert her that this is something out of the ordinary."

I was not present, either in the room or the next one, when this session took place, but of course I had access to the tape. Even though she is precocious for her age, S's powers of observation are impressive. Our working hypothesis is that her early reading of her father's detective stories, along with his first-hand interactions, has made her want to be as much like Sherlock Holmes as possible.

"I've never seen you wear that necklace before, Melanie."

"I don't wear it often," the Director replied. "I had an especially difficult case of hypnosis to perform this morning."

"That reminds me. You haven't let me witness you performing hypnotism yet," said S.

"It is an extremely personal procedure," Klein explained. "And it is full of hidden dangers. It is one time the psychoanalyst is not in full control of the situation. You see, we have no idea what a patient might reveal when fully under."

"I find the subject very interesting. What more can you tell me about it?"

"Actually, My Dear, I'd like to discuss your continued involvement in soccer. It has been suggested by some that in lieu of joining in a boy's sport, that you join us in our little bicycling expeditions. But I'm worried that your legs aren't yet long enough, that you'd have trouble keeping up with us."

"I'm quite capable of pedaling twice as fast, if that's what it takes," replied S. "Tell me, how is your necklace used in hypnosis?"

Melanie sighed exaggeratedly. "You are a most persistent child." S can be heard laughing. "Alright, I'll try to explain. The crystal in this catches the light, even more so when the only light source in the room is focused on it. It has the power to control and focus patients' attention."

"That makes it sound very mysterious," objected S, "not like science at all. I expect it is like most things I'm learning here, that it's much easier to catch on when I experience it myself."

"Of course," the Director agreed, "but this is a highly advanced technique. "If you decide you want to go into this field, you can certainly major in it when you go to university."

"How about if you hypnotize me? I know I'm not a patient, but who would know?"

"You may have a point," said Melanie. "After all, I could justify it as a method to ease your stress and tension."

"Me? Tense?"

"You are, My Dear. You are more aware of your surroundings and others than of yourself at times. I can see in the way you sit, your carriage when you walk. Right now, for example, your shoulders are hunched and your brow is wrinkled."

"Well, I won't argue with you. If that's what it takes for you to rationalize hypnotizing me, then so be it."

The Director described the non-verbal sections of the attempt to me later. The overhead light in the room was extinguished so that her desk lamp was the only source of light. Her heavy window curtains were pulled tight.

While many believe that hypnotism works best when the patient is reclined, thereby easing muscle tension, Klein disagrees. We are aware of Freud's warnings that this form of therapy can be counter-productive, but our decision is driven in part by the Director's success in putting S.'s father "under." The question of whether suggestibility is a trait that can be passed from one generation to the next is far from being answered.

Melanie uses the crystal not only as a focal point but also believes it helps tire the eye muscles. She also prefers asking the patient to raise one arm at a right angle to their torso, using the "sinking" of it as a measure of success. Once the patient's eyes are closed, she then uses the power of suggestion to slowly lower the arm.

S. is a dutiful student, used to following directions, and has made it clear that she wants to please Melanie. In this peculiar case, the patient not only didn't fall into a "waking sleep" but began to cry. No one on staff could recollect ever seeing this reaction before.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed, "I really, really want to help, but I'm afraid I'm not at all sleepy. And try as I might, I can't find my arm to be any heavier than before."

The Director quickly calmed her and told her it was alright, that some people are simply incapable of being hypnotized. They moved to the couch, with S. resting her head on an armrest, but the result was the same. Klein was inclined to let it go at that, but could only get S. to leave her office by promising to look into other means.

Dr. Jones agreed to consider the matter, in spite of his already heavy workload. He warned, though, that success was highly unlikely. "I tried hypnotizing her hero, Sherlock Holmes, and couldn't even get him to close his eyes."

In the meantime, S.'s mother has decided to travel to America to be treated by Dr. Karen Horney. Melanie and I have been instrumental in this decision. We hold Dr. Horney in the highest regard and feel that at this time there is no one better in the field of women's psychoanalysis.

At the same time, Mr. Holmes left London to return to his Sussex retreat. The experience with his dearest and closest friend seems to have shaken him considerably. Dr. Jones, telling us about his farewell to the detective, related that "the man (Holmes) is finally beginning to look his age."

Both of these loses will undoubtedly upset S. For this reason, Dr. Jones has agreed to a single session with the child. He fit her in at the end of a very busy day, hoping the late hour would somehow be conducive.

Melanie was the only other person present and took notes on the session. The doctor began the interview by asking S. whether she'd ever had any imaginary friends. The answer was a firm and immediate "no."

He next asked whether she ever daydreamed. The patient was much more hesitant this time. "I supposed it depends on what you mean," she hedged. "Adults like my parents and my teachers have often accused me of daydreaming, but I don't think that's accurate. While it is true that my attention sometimes wanders, it is never into a flight of fancy. Please don't tell them, but when I'm bored my mind simply drifts off into other matters."

The two adults laughed and Klein reassured her that no one would be told. Dr. Jones admitted that he sometimes has the very same problem. Melanie noted that this shared confidence from the doctor visibly relaxed S.

The end result, though, was the same. We will simply have to "chalk up" S. as part of that 10% of the population who cannot be hypnotized.

As an impartial observer looking at the matter from the outside, though, Dr. Jones has made some valuable suggestions. We are ending the subterfuge that S. is "helping" us in our work. In the doctor's opinion, S. is spending too much time with adults, emulating our behavior, and not enough time with people her own age. The idea that she would bond with child patients here is not working out.

She will go back to her regular school. However, since her mother will be leaving for the United States any day now, we will be acting as legal guardian in her stead. S. has readily agreed to report to us, "in a manner similar to that in which she formerly reported to her mother." She will spend the remaining time with her mother, then return to residing here.

S. has also negotiated a brief leave of absence in which she will visit Sherlock Holmes at his place of residence. For the record, I am noting here my objections to this. I am not objecting to the visit so much as I'm concerned that this child, our patient, is "negotiating" with us.

"This is not the correct dynamic for a doctor-patient relationship," I insisted in private with our Director.

"Well," mused Melanie Klein in that way she has, "but then I'm not a doctor, am I? I am not a doctor in the normal sense of the word. Perhaps it is time to admit that S. is not a patient in the normal sense of the word."

Chapter Six:

### Goodbyes

I didn't realize how much I disliked living in the Institute until I left. I have been allowed to leave in order to spend the last few days with my mother before she leaves for America. It was nice to be back in a place that seems more normal, even if it was all topsy-turvy, emotion-wise.

This is not to say that I don't love Melanie Klein to death, for indeed I do. But I can do without her closest friend and confidante, Dr. Joan Rivierre. Unfortunately, it is Dr. Rivierre's attitude that seems to pervade the Institute.

The antiseptic feel of the place goes far beyond the rubbing-alcohol smell of the place. I don't think it's the scientific rigor of the place. I understand, at least in theory, the mental straits one must be willing to put oneself in to conduct scientific research. I guess I would sum it up by saying there's a difference between rigor and being dead.

I saw Melanie fight against this "death march" every day, it seemed like. Some of her ideas are rather charmingly radical and it may be that some or even most of them will prove wrong. However, it is beyond me how she manages to put up with all that resistance to new ideas.

Being back home with Mother was different this time. The whole idea of going to America and being treated by the great Karen Horney has energized her to the point where I hardly recognize her anymore. She kept telling me about all these books the doctor has written.

Mother hardly read anything other than the society pages of the newspaper when there were the three of us. I did get the impression, though, that she used to read books. I suspect having me to look after greatly cut into her free time.

I think what excited her the most was that there was this woman who was looking at things specifically from a woman's point of view. She tried explaining some of the things to me but grew flustered and embarrassed when the subject of sex came up. Basically, Horney seems to be saying that while some of Freud's theories worked for men, that didn't mean they also worked for women.

For example, Horney claimed that women could also enjoy sex but might do so in different ways and for different reasons than men. For one thing, men are unlikely to get as aroused about the idea of creating a baby, since they don't actually create it, biologically speaking. "When your father and I used to do it," and here she blushed charmingly, "I could picture in my mind what a baby would look like if he took after his father."

I asked her if she had been disappointed that I'd been a girl. "Not at all!" she replied indignantly. "In some ways, you're very like your father, you know." Then she went on to describe this new branch of science called genetics, the theory being that all babies have half the traits of one parent and the other half from the other parent.

I didn't pretend to understand it, I just enjoyed watching her be happy. This was the happiest I'd seen her in years. In some ways, I wish I could have gone with her.

"That's not possible, My Dear," she said, "stroking my hair. "No more than it's possible for either of us to be with your father while he receives treatment. If I didn't know I was leaving you in the best of hands, I wouldn't be going off like this. When I come back, I'll be a much better mom, you'll see."

The two of us went down to the docks together and there was enough time for me to board the ship and see the room my mother had. It was rather cramped, but serviceable. We both ended up shedding tears, but on such an occasion, it seemed the least we could do.

We hugged tightly and I concentrated on remembering everything about this last embrace. I took in the heat from her body, the pressure of her hands against my back. More than anything else, I wanted to remember her smell.

I stood on the pier and waved as the ship pulled away. A crowd of people surrounded me, all doing the same thing to their loved ones. I felt like I was a character in a play, or a novel. It did not feel at all real.

I could have gone back to the Institute for the night, but I decided not to. I was hoping Mr. Sherlock Holmes would be able to help me sort through this sudden jumble of emotions I was experiencing. For the first time in my life I felt I was too young.

At the station I had time to wire ahead. I was concerned that I may not be able to rent a cart out to Mr. Holmes' place. I was fully aware of how many adults refuse to take me seriously. I also knew that I would be arriving rather late in the day and wasn't sure how reliable regular transportation would be.

On the way out to the countryside, a new thought occurred to me and that kept my mind fully occupied the whole trip. The porter helped me lift my trunk off the train. I suspect I tipped him too generously, for he smiled extraordinarily broad as he thanked me.

I was kind of half-hoping that Holmes would meet me at the station himself. When he didn't, I reminded myself that, even in retirement, he had a lot to keep him busy. Instead a young man who looked not much older than me came up and pulled his forelock as he awkwardly pronounced my name.

When I agreed that I was indeed that person, he looked mightily relieved. "The governor described you down to a tee, Miss," he declared happily. "I knew he would. A great man, Mr. Holmes."

This teen easily slung my trunk over his long, narrow back and trod toward the waiting cart. I recognized the horse immediately. "It must have been your father who picked my father and I up at the station last time," I guessed.

"Indeed it was, Miss," he agreed. "I hope you don't mind me taking his place. He's a little hungover right now, if'n you know what I mean."

I had no idea what he meant but was quite content to let him talk on. This boy, with his protruding front teeth and hair that looked like it hadn't been brushed in a week, struck me as a typical country "bumpkin." Knowing little of his type, I suspected our ride together would be both informational and entertaining.

Indeed he was the opposite of his morose and taciturn father and the trip out to Holmes' cottage went by much faster than the previous one. As we approached, he let out a hearty "hallo" that carried remarkably well. Holmes' part-time housekeeper met us at the front door. My concern was a little piqued that Mr. Holmes himself did not come out, and even more so as the old woman and I carried my trunk into the guest bedroom.

After depositing my chest, the housekeeper turned without a further word and left the room. I followed in her steps and halted when she stopped in front of the closed door of the only other bedroom in the house. She knocked on the door and only entered when Holmes' voice bade us enter.

I was surprised to find Holmes in bed at such an early hour. But it was nothing compared to my shock and surprise at his appearance. It could not have been more than a month since he'd left London but he looked as though he'd aged years.

"Mr. Holmes!" I cried out and rushed to his side. He smiled his usual old smile and his eyes still contained that amazing spark within them, but otherwise he'd changed radically. His hair, brown with streaks of gray the last I'd seen him, was now almost completely white. Perhaps most remarkable, though, was the way his face seemed to have shrunk into itself and his body into the bed.

I sat down cautiously on the side of the bed. "My dear Holmes," I began but then found I didn't know what to say next.

"My Dear Watson," he answered with his usual crispness of tone. "I'm so delighted you could come. I take it your mother just shipped out for America this morning?"

I laughed, although rather self-consciously. "You still retain your remarkable abilities! Do I still smell that much of the sea?"

"No, not that much," he reassured me. "I am glad to see that you were able to cry at your leave-taking."

"But," I decided that the direct approach would be most appreciated by him, "what has happened to you?"

"The doctors in London have diagnosed me with cancer of the lungs," he replied as evenly as though announcing that it was a pleasant evening. "Probably due to a lifetime of pipe-smoking. All in all, it's rather remarkable that I've lived as long as I have, given the nasty habit."

"You talk as though you are going to die," I quietly admonished him.

"But I am," he replied. "And rather sooner than later. That is why I've retreated to my cottage. Otherwise, I would have stayed in London in support of both you and your father."

This seems to have used up all his air and he began to cough violently. He quickly covered his mouth with a handkerchief, probably to spare me the sight of blood-stained spittle. Holmes closed his eyes and seemed to calm himself down. I can't imagine the strength of character that must have taken.

When he again opened his eyes they were watery and lined in red. He asked that the overhead light be turned off and I got up to do so. As I was returning to his bedside, there was a knock on the front door. Mr. Holmes asked me to answer, as he was sure his part-time housekeeper had already gone home for the evening.

"I'm sure that it's my night nurse," he called out after me.

I opened the door to a woman of indeterminable age who was, indeed, dressed in a nurse's uniform. "You must be Miss Watson," she asserted as she quickly darted past me. "I am the night nurse," she called back over her shoulder.

By the time I was back in Holmes' bedroom, she was already taking his vitals. Then she took a notebook out of her bag and wrote several items down. After that, she opened the nightstand drawer next to the bed and took out a stoppered bottle.

Sensing her next need, I hurried to the kitchen to get a clean spoon. She nodded silently as I showed back up at her side. In the remaining table light, the nurse measured out a dose of ruby-red medicine. I was not surprised that Holmes was able to take the dose without the inevitable pulling of a face that follows the swallowing of what's-good-for-you.

Holmes again closed his eyes and I could not help but think of that line from Hamlet, "perchance to dream." The mysterious night nurse still did not speak as she turned off the remaining light and left the room. She didn't even look back to make sure that I followed her out.

By the time I caught up with her in the kitchen, she was already putting the kettle on. Apparently, she'd been coming here long enough to have settled into a routine. My presence wasn't about to change that schedule. I slipped into a chair at the kitchen table and observed this new person.

She had jet-black hair that she wore in ringlets beneath a brightly-colored print headscarf. Her complexion was darker than most Englanders', and I made a tentative conclusion that she or her ancestors were from a Mediterranean country. She wore a nurse's dark-blue cape over her starched whites.

This cape she now draped over another chair and sat down rather heavily, as though she'd already had a long day. Finally she looked me in the eye. The light in the kitchen didn't seem to be as strong as in the other rooms and I was unable to say for sure the color of her eyes. At different points that evening they tended to look brown, green or sometimes (although rarely) gray.

I thought I should begin by apologizing for taking the only other bedroom in the house. She waved it away as though completely inconsequential. "I must stay up all night," she explained, "in case the patient cries out in pain or needs assistance."

I was a little alarmed at this, as the deep rings under her eyes suggested she had not rested during the day. But her gaze and her hands were steady. She seemed to being waiting for me to ask more questions.

"I know you're not a doctor," I said, "but I'd appreciate any information you can give me."

She nodded solemnly. "What do you want to know?"

"Mr. Holmes left London about a month ago. At that time he seemed a fit man. Yet now, he...he looks like he's dying."

Although I wanted to look away, her stare held me. "He is dying. He has remarkable willpower but even with that he has no more than a month left."

"How can that be?" I gasped. "Has the cancer spread that quickly?"

The kettle whistled and she answered the question with her back turned to me. "He's been dying for some time now. He has managed to hide the symptoms as long as he has because of his natural physical and mental strength. But death catches up to us all...in the end."

She returned to the table with the kettle and two mugs. "No thanks," I said, "if I have caffeine this late at night, I'll be unable to fall asleep for hours."

"You are sensible." Her intense stare again kept me from tearing my eyes away. I was realizing just how little I'd thought about death before. Mine or anyone else's.

"You are very young to be thinking so much about death." Had she read my mind? That was my instant reaction, but then I realized the direction of my thoughts was quite obvious and logical.

I decided to sit still for a moment and just think. A jumble of words tumbled over in my mind, all seeming to vie for attention. But then all of a sudden one thought stood out from the rest.

I was trying to think how to carefully formulate it in the form of a question when the nurse interrupted my thoughts.

"I do not pretend to know Mr. Holmes as well as you do, and certainly not as well as your father," she said. "But I do know that he has a great mind and it would be a shame to lose it."

That was exactly what I wanted to say! Now I had an extra set of worries! How did she know? Did she read my mind or did Sherlock Holmes impress her that much, even on his death bed, even during the few days she could have known him?

I forced myself to slow down and think things through thoroughly, as I knew Holmes would want me to do. "That sounds like something out of that novel, Frankenstein," I blurted out.

This strange woman whom I'd just met shrugged the problem away, as though it were nothing. "It might be a thing of fiction at this time, but in the future? Who knows? Maybe within the next 100 years someone will come up with a combination of liquid chemicals that will allow a brain to survive."

"Yet you say he only has maybe a month to live..." I could contain my tears no longer. I wept silent, the tears running unabashedly down my cheeks. I felt more like family to Sherlock than she and I saw no reason to apologize for my display of emotion.

"You are tired," she remarked. "Please, go to bed. Mr. Holmes is at his best in the morning. You two can talk things over then."

That, I had to admit, was a very good idea and solid advice. I excused myself and went to my room. I didn't realize how much events of the day had exhausted me until I started to undress. I slipped into sleep almost as soon as I slipped between the bedsheets.

The nurse's prediction came true. Not only did I feel better the following morning, but I was delighted to see Sherlock sitting at his usual spot at the kitchen table. He still looked rather shockingly old, but he was as erect as ever, with eyes wide open and giving the appearance of being as alert as ever.

The night nurse had gone and in her place was the housekeeper, busy bustling around, fixing our breakfast. Both Holmes and I are enough in accord that we both kept morning salutations and pleasantries to a minimum. As the housekeeper slid our pewter plates in front of us, I started in on the conversation that really needed to be said.

"What are we going to do with you, Mr. Holmes?" I asked straightforwardly.

"Gita, before she left this morning, told me of your conversation last night," he replied. "Her idea of a sort of chemical bath in which to suspend my brain does not seem as far-fetched as you may think."

"Is it all just that simple?" I asked. "Is the brain to be treated as nothing more than a container of chemical interactions?"

Holmes chuckled between bites of toast. "Chemical interactions are not as simple as you seem to make them out to be. Come out with me to my shed after breakfast and I'll give you some introductory lessons in chemistry."

Against my best intentions and the housekeeper's protestations, we did indeed walk out to the shed, although not as Holmes' old speed. In place of his usual, fashionable walking stick, he now walked with the aid of a sturdy cane. His hand shook so that I had to put the key in the shed's lock for him.

His work table had had its legs sawed so that it was now chest-high when he sat down. Bottles and jars that were now out of reach, I retrieved for him. We worked steadily for the next few hours until Holmes pushed back his chair and informed me that he would need to rest before tea.

I helped him to his bed and he reclined upon a couple of pillows. I went back out into the kitchen, where the part-time housekeeper explained that the sandwiches were all made and that after an hour I was to rouse our patient and then put the kettle on. I found an interesting book on fingerprinting among his collection and settled down to read for an hour.

After tea, we sat and talked for a while before he felt strong enough to go back out to the shed. We spent another couple of hours out there until it was time for him to lie down again. Then came dinner and then to bed for the evening. I sat in a chair next to his bed and we talked until the night nurse, Gita, arrived again.

We fell into a soft kind of schedule of roughly the same sort for the next few days. Even though his steps were slow, his mind still raced ahead so fast that it was all I could do to keep up. More and more my thoughts ran to what a shame it would be to lose such a mind.

"It's often referred to as a chemical cocktail," he started in one day after our usual tea. "But I don't suppose you know yet what a cocktail is."

"It's something adults drink before going into dinner," I told him. But beyond that I had no idea where he was going with this.

"It's a mixed drink," Holmes explained, "involving more than one alcoholic beverage. So what we're in the market for is a chemical cocktail that would keep the electrical pulses of my brain going."

"But Gita says it could take as much as a century before someone invents the right combination!" I exclaimed.

"Ah, well," he smiled slightly, "you never know what the future may hold. It's such an ambiguous phrase, 'the future.'"

Then one morning we ceased working on chemicals. Instead, he reached for an old canvas bag in the far reaches of the shed. The bag was so heavy, it took both of us to pull it out from its corner.

"What have you got in here?" I wondered. "Rocks?"

Holmes raised his eyebrows and smiled mischievously. "Not rocks," he corrected me, "locks."

Sure enough, I opened the bag and found an unending assortment of locks. Some took keys while others were combination locks. I immediately noticed something was missing.

"Holmes," said I, "none of these locks have keys!"

"We are about to see, My Dear Watson,"just how nimble and coordinated your fingers and fine motor skills are."

Out of an inner pocket in his jacket, Mr. Holmes pulled a small leather case. Inside were a series of small metal tools of various sizes and shapes. They were so thin I wasn't sure I could confidently hold one without dropping it.

"I apologize," he began, "I was hoping the tremor in my hands might lessen, so that I could show you how to pick these locks. I suspect it would have been much more instructive if you could see me open a few before you try yourself."

"Maybe we should start off with the combination locks," I suggested. "Or do those require an equally steady hand?"

"They do not," he agreed. "But they do require a finer touch and feel. You will develop those more readily by starting with the keyed locks."

Holmes pointed out a tool that looked like a miniature spatula. He showed me how to insert it. "It does take some strength in the fingers," he admitted, "but I'm sure you'll quickly get the hang of it."

We then tried various other tools that looked vaguely like something my dentist might use. So engrossing was the process that we didn't hear the housekeeper until she stood in the doorway. She explained that she'd been calling for us to come into tea for several minutes!

Tea was more leisurely than usual and Sherlock asked for a few additional sandwiches. While we ate, the conversation turned in a natural way to my father. I allowed that I missed him terribly.

"As do I," conceded Holmes. "When matters got complicated, I could often rely on Dr. Watson to make some ordinary comment that would cut to the heart of the matter."

I had to admit that I doubted my father could be of much help to anyone now. Instead, it was he who was in a complicated situation.

"And yet," Holmes mused, "I have my doubts as to the origination of his problem. I've known him a good many years more than you have, My Dear, and I would have certainly noticed any violent tendencies in his personality."

"But he did serve in the military," I pointed out.

"As a surgeon," he added. "While he was required to received basic instruction in firearms and had to always have one nearby, he never had to resort to one. In fact, he once admitted that he was glad the action had never gotten so close to him that he'd had to fire back."

"I asked him about his leg wound, more than once," I complained. "He refused to discuss it."

Holmes chuckled. "That was because his injury was caused by a wildly errant shot from our own side," he explained. "It was embarrassing, not only to him but to his whole company."

"And rightly so!" I cried out. "I hope the bad shot was properly disciplined!"

"In some ways he has," Holmes admitted. "He now has to put up with the prime minister as a member of his cabinet."

I shared a laugh with Sherlock over that and soon we were back out in the shed. He was such an excellent and patient teacher that I was springing locks by the end of the day. While simply from reading my father's stories it was easy to see why he respected Holmes, I now began to understand why they so successfully lived together for years as best friends.

While waiting to fall asleep at night, I realized none of this would make saying goodbye to Sherlock Holmes any easier in the end.

Chapter Seven:

### My Brief Life of Crime

Like most large buildings in London, the Institute of Psychoanalysis was serviced by a back alley. I took one last, worried look at Mr. Holmes before I exited the private vehicle that we'd rented for the evening. He was bundled up as well as could be expected against the usual late-night cold and damp.

"Don't worry," Gita answered from behind the wheel. "He'll be alright."

I'd gotten used to the night nurse's ability to read my thoughts and didn't think twice as I softly closed the automobile's door. My attention now was focused on the detailed instructions that Holmes had given me. The first step was to stop and listen.

Once I was sure there was no one else in the alley I turned on my torch and swung it towards the rear of the building. The back wall was largely obstructed by piles of rubbish but I eventually found the rear entrance. I briefly examined the lock and then took out my little leather case.

Holmes, as usual, had been right. While the security of the front of the Institute was undoubtedly tight, the back door was the simply kind of key lock that I'd learned best to unlock. I was tempted to hurry in the chill of the air, but I remembered my teacher's advise and worked slowly and steadily.

When the last tumbler slid into place I let out a small sigh of relief. Slowly I twisted the knob, hoping that it was well-oiled enough not to let out too loud a squeak. With the handle turned, I shifted a small part of my weight forward, hoping to just inch the door open.

There was a definite creak of the hinges as the back door swung slowly inward. I froze and held my breath. I waited what seemed like an infinity before opening the door further.

I swung the torch inward before squeezing myself through the narrowest of openings. The path ahead looked well clear of anything I might accidentally trip over. Once in, I turned and quietly closed the door behind me.

A simple swing of my torch revealed that I was indeed in the kitchen, just as we'd surmised. As far as I could tell, there were two doors leading out of the room. The one closest to me was most likely the pantry. It was the other one that I now focused one.

It was so quiet and still that I could almost feel the house sleeping. It was probably my imagination that everything in the place seemed to be in a slow, regular pace of breathing in and out. The door out of the kitchen had no light showing either above or below it. So far, so good.

I knew from my stay there what lay just beyond. There was a short, narrow hallway that opened into the dinning room. Covering every inch of the floor between my frozen feet and that doorway with my torch, I made sure that there was nothing I might accidentally kick or trip over.

The door from the kitchen out into the brief hallway swung free, needing only a push to send it open. Thankfully, this door didn't creak at all. However, the slow pace I felt forced to take was driving me mad.

Part of me wanted to just rush ahead, forsaking all caution in the desire to get it all over with. But at the same time, I was frightened silly. I felt I would die right on the spot if someone were to discover me.

I could feel the slightest sink of a floorboard at the same time it let out a protesting crack. In my heightened sense, it sounded like a gunshot. I held my breath, sure someone would come bursting through the door the other side of the dining room any second now.

Amazingly, no one did. Was that a voice I heard in the near distance? Or was it just the gurgle of a radiator pipe?

I tried to ease my weight onto every floorboard as I advanced. I pressed my ear against the door. All our plans depended on no one being on the other side of this door.

I forced myself to take my time. I caught my now-ragged breath and slowed it down to where it didn't interfere with my listening. I distinctly heard a voice now, but it didn't seem to be coming from the next room.

Seeing no light and hearing no near noise, I cautiously turned the doorknob out of the dining room and held my breath. The door gave just the smallest squawk of protest as I pulled it toward me.

I knew I was at the foot of the stairway now, even before the survey with my torch confirmed it. Whoever was talking was definitely up this staircase. Unfortunately, this was the direction I needed to travel.

Men, women and children were held in three different regions of the Institute. This one nearest to the dining room led up to the men's section. However, before I headed up there, I needed to know what room my father was in.

I turned on the spot to look behind me, knowing I'd find the door to Dr. Jones' office there. The sign next to the door simply confirmed it. Again I took out my little leather case and set to work.

I don't know if the lock was easier or if I was just getting warmed up to the task, but it seemed like I was inside the office within seconds. Once inside and the door softly closed behind me, I was greatly tempted to turn on a light. But I couldn't take the chance.

Right in front of me was the doctor's desk and behind that was his files, locked securely away with a combination lock. Fortunately, I would not need to look in the files. There was an erasable chart on the wall, with each room mapped out and the name of the current inhabitant written in each one.

There it was: Room 301, J. Watson. Drat! I cursed to myself. I would have to go up two flights of stairs!

If there is anything containing more creaks and groans than the risers of a staircase, I hope to never encounter it. Holmes had instructed me to walk as close to the wall as possible, as it was usually in the middle that steps sagged. Still, I can't remember the number of times I froze to the spot as I slowly made my way to the first landing.

The voices I'd heard earlier now seemed to be coming from down this hallway. The voices sounded drowsy and I wondered if it was someone talking in their sleep. Then I spotted him, down at the far end of the hallway! An orderly, distinguishable from the patients by his white uniform, sat in a wooden chair, the front two legs off the ground as it was tilted back.

Every bone in my body seemed to melt. I pressed myself back into the wall, hoping he wouldn't see me in the maze of shadows. His head was back against the wall and his mouth gaped wide. A loud snore finally convinced me that he was asleep.

Since each patient's door was locked at night, I imagine they didn't think anything more in the way of a precaution was necessary. The orderly was probably there just in case some patient made too much of a racket. I moved much faster up the second set of steps, afraid the man might awaken at any moment.

This time, when I reached the landing of the third floor, I made sure to immediately locate the orderly for that floor. This time my luck ran out. This orderly, while equally asleep, was posted at the end of the hallway my father's room was at!

But I had no choice but to continue. Sherlock had made it clear that the only way we were going to help my father was by getting him out of here. As much respect as I had for Dr. Jones and the rest of the staff, I had more trust in Mr. Holmes.

Besides, my father had been here for months and he not only wasn't cured but hadn't even progressed enough for me to see him. Things could not stay the same. I steeled myself as best I could and started down the hall toward room 301.

Finally it occurred to me to get down on my hands and knees. If the orderly did wake up, he wouldn't first look down at the floor. And he certainly wouldn't be looking for the small frame of a child.

Fortunately, most of the overhead lighting was turned off. There were vast gaps where I could feel the cold shadows swallowing me up. I scrambled from one patch of darkness to another, only pausing once I'd reached the relative safety of the next one. I noticed that, like the numbering on the children's floor, one side of the hallway was the even-numbered rooms, the odd numbers on the other.

It occurred to me that the rooms here were also probably like the ones on my floor in another way. I had had to shared a washroom and loo with a girl in the room next to mine. It might be safer, I reasoned, to enter my father's room through that shared loo. Room 303 would be a little less distance to travel and would also be that much farther from the sleeping orderly.

The thought energized me and I hurried forward a little too fast. The case that held my lock-picking tools slid out of my pocket and hit the floor with a dull thud. I immediately flattened myself against the floor, trying desperately to become one with the worn carpet.

Sometimes I can be just as irrational as the next person. I instinctively closed my eyes, apparently thinking that if I couldn't see the orderly, he couldn't see me. I slowly opened one eye and squinted in his direction.

He stopped snoring and I thought for sure I'd wakened him up. But in the small circle of light that surrounded him, I could see that his eyes were still closed. Yet I didn't even think of moving until I heard him snore again.

I looked up and saw that I was across the hall from room 302. That meant I must be at my destination. Slowly, slowly, I picked up the small tool kit and undid the fastening.

It was harder to pick the lock without the benefit of my torchlight, but not as much as I'd feared. After all, it was much more a matter of feel. Luckily the lock was well-lubricated and I pressed home each notch without the slightest of noise.

I slipped into the room on all fours, figuring that I'd be lower that the patient's bed. There would be no use of the torch from here on in, so I waited until my eyes were adjusted to the deep darkness inside the room. There was no reassuring snoring here, in fact quite the opposite.

I could see the bedsheets constantly tossing to and fro. The bedsprings squeaked and complained under the constantly-shifting weight. I slid as best I could to my left, taking at least one layer of skin off my knees.

The door to the washroom creaked, as I knew it would. I timed it as best I could so that the sound would be covered by the creaking of the bed. I slipped through and rested by back against the closed door. I was exhausted by the continuous tension, but there was no turning back now.

I didn't worry about the amount of noise I made entering my father's room. I'd have to wake him anyhow and the orderly would just assume any noise from inside was coming from him. It was time to turn back on the torch.

I was so startled when I saw his face! I hardly recognized him! For one thing, it looked like he hadn't shaved in weeks. But mainly I was struck by how much older he looked. Did he have all those lines on his face the last time I saw him?

My feet hardly touched the ground as I flew across the room. Then I was on top of him, crying into his shoulder. I don't know how long I lay there until he responded.

He opened his eyes just slightly. A puzzled expression came over his face, then he smiled and closed his eyes, as though going back to sleep. A smile slowly spread over his face as he mumbled my name. I felt like I, too, was just dreaming.

But reality came back to me, prodding me in the ribs, so to speak. We still had a long and dangerous way to go before we had him safely out of there. I'd always known had to wake my dad. I smiled impishly at the thought.

I only had to pinch his nostrils tightly for a moment before his eyes popped open. This time they were not slits, but wide-eyed! At the last second I remembered to slide my hand down to cover his mouth as he looked up at me in surprise.

"I have a message for you from Sherlock Holmes, Dad," I whispered in his ear. "He said to tell you, 'The game is afoot!'"

I straightened up and put my finger to my lips. I was so happy to see how quickly he came fully awake and nodded silently in response. Holmes and I had been worried that they might have sedated him too heavily at bedtime, but apparently the effects had worn completely off.

He pointed to where his clothes were carefully draped over a chair. I stood by as he pulled on his trousers over his nightshirt and bundled into his jacket. Then...then something happened, it was like there was a jump in time.

The light in the room was now on and the orderly lay at my feet. My dad towered over us both, my torch in his hand. I knelt down beside the body and felt my father do so right next to me.

I tentatively reached for the man's wrist but calmly, softly my dad said, "No." He guided my hand up to the orderly's neck. Together we found the man's carotid artery, together we sighed in relief as we found his pulse. My father must have knocked him unconscious. Why didn't I have an immediate memory of that?

But there was no time to think this over. We had to get out of there and we had to do it fast. My father in his stocking feet, his shoes in his hand, now led the way.

It was only at the second floor landing that we paused. The orderly on this floor was still fast asleep. Could the two of us now sneak down the final set of steps without awaking this man?

My father hesitated for just a moment before deciding not. He descended the final flight so quickly that I had to take the stairs two steps at a time to keep up with him. We both knew there was no point in looking back.

At the bottom of the stairs, my father waited for me, unsure of which way to go. Of course, he had no idea which exit Sherlock Holmes was waiting for us at. I took his hand and led him into the dining room and through it into the kitchen.

I thought I heard someone behind us call out but by then we were at the kitchen door to the alley. We burst out into the night air and I felt like I was hit in the face by a bucket of cold water. Then Sherlock Holmes' voice called to us through the darkness.

The car door opened and I pushed my dad in, in front of me. Holmes briefly illuminated his face with a torch, his thinned, cancer-ridden face smiled welcomely at his old friend. "Holmes!" my dad cried, but then he was overcome with emotion and he could say no more. I closed the car door behind me as Gita hit the gas, deftly backing us out of the alley.

I looked out the rear window. There was no square of light denoting the back door of the Institute was alight and open. Apparently we had made a clean getaway.

Chapter Eight:

### A Death and a Cocktail

We left the rented car at a prearranged spot at the train terminal. Our tickets were already purchased and we got on the train without saying a word. It wasn't until we were behind the closed door of our reserved cabin that we felt safe enough to speak.

My father still looked bewildered. "Holmes!" he gasped. "What have you done?"

Holmes grinned grimly at him. "I'm afraid that was the easy part, my friend. It is nothing compared to what lays before us."

This sobered my father up and he looked at Holmes anew. "My dear Holmes," he said, "you don't look at all well."

Sherlock explained his terminal illness and formally introduced Gita, his nurse. My father looked at her askance. I'm afraid my father has always felt uneasy around those who look like foreigners.

At our destination, both father and son cart drivers greeted us. This was a good thing, as Mr. Holmes needed a lot of help getting up into the cart. When we arrived at his house, he had to literally be carried inside.

The door had been opened not by his housekeeper, but a stranger I'd never seen before. It was at this stranger's direction that we carried Holmes into his bedroom and lay him on the bed.

Holmes was in no shape to make introductions, so the man introduced himself. "Hi," he said with a slight accent, "my name is Dr. Nenad Sestan. I'm a professor of neuroscience at Yale University."

My father shook his hand and introduced himself, explaining that he too was a doctor, of opthalmology, in London. Dad immediately looked more comfortable. He always felt more at ease in the company of other doctors. I could tell the two would get along famously.

It soon became obvious that Dr. Sestan was not as sure as I. He kept looking around in a worried sort of way, his brow knit, his lips pursed. Gita had been out of the room. It was apparent that she had been in the kitchen making tea, as she brought in a large tray with a teapot and cups for all.

Dr. Sestan waited until she had carefully set the tray down, then pounced toward her. "This is not what I'd been led to expect, not at all!" he hissed. "I know you said 'rustic' but this is beyond that! This is nowhere near the sanitary conditions I require!"

Badly in need of a cup of tea, my father ignored this little spat. With great aplomb he poured a cup then brought it over to Holmes, who was now resting comfortably, sitting up in bed with the aid of several pillows packed behind him. Gita also appeared undisturbed by the doctor's outburst.

"This is not the operating room," she replied evenly. "Please, come with me."

As curious as I was about the impending conversation between my dad and Holmes, I was much more intrigued by Gita's statement and I followed her and the doctor out of the room. Gita turned toward the bedroom I'd been using, but the sight of its exterior brought me up short. Impossible changes seemed to have been made in an impossibly short period of time. Blue robes were hung on hooks that had not been there before and the simple wooden door had been replaced by a pair of shiny, swinging doors.

Neither Gita or the doctor proved to be in the least upset about this incongruent change and they entered the room rapidly through the doors, which swung shut tightly behind them. I hesitated to enter behind them and instead chose to stand with my ear to the crack between the door halves. However, this proved to be highly unsatisfactory, as I couldn't make out a word of what they were saying.

I jumped back as a sudden increase in the volume of their voices suggested they were re-approaching the doors. They were both so intent on their conversation that I'm not sure they even noticed me. "Okay, okay," the doctor was saying, "a little on the minimalist side, but it will do."

"I'm glad you agree, Doctor," Gita mumbled in reply. They disappeared back into Holmes' room and I was left free to investigate. I pushed into the room before anyone could notice I was missing.

I quite literally stopped in my tracks just inside the doorway. To start with, the room was considerably larger than when I had slept in it. All the furnishings, such as bed and chest of drawers, were gone.

The center of the well-lit room was dominated by a metal cylindrical pedestal, upon which was laid either an alter or bed. Around it were arrayed a variety of machines which had a number of wires and tubes emanating from them. The overhead lights were not the usual bulbs but a series of long, thin tubes that I'm guessing where neon.

As I stepped forward, I noticed something odd about the sound of my shoes striking the floor. As an experiment, I tapped the toe of one shoe against the tiles that the floor was now made of. They sounded neither ceramic nor stone. I bent down and felt the floor. The best I could guess was that they were made of some kind of plastic.

Putting all the clues together and drawing upon my readings, I could only conclude that this was some sort of operating theater. I hurried back out of the room, afraid that I was missing vital conversation in the next room. I rather rushed into Holmes' bedroom, not bothering to knock. I found my father alone with Holmes. The doctor and nurse must and retreated to the kitchen.

"Ah, there you are, My Dear," Holmes treated me cheerfully. I approached cautiously, observing all the while. The great detective's whole manner and visage seemed to have changed.

"My nurse has just pumped me up with a massive dose of painkiller," Holmes explained. "Morphine, I'm guessing."

"I'm glad she did it, old boy," my father admitted. "But I am rather surprised. It goes solidly against all established medical practice."

Holmes chuckled. "The current practice is to make sure that a dying man does not become a morphine addict. An incongruent and illogical conclusion given that the patient will not live long enough for that to be a problem."

"Don't say that, Holmes!" I immediately recognized my father's superstition coming to the fore. Although he'd never admit it, on a subconscious level he believed that saying something was so was enough grounds to make it happen.

Sherlock turned back to me. "I was just telling your father that I don't hold him at all accountable for his actions toward your mother. Such behavior is entirely outside his normal behavior."

My father looked at the floor, thoroughly embarrassed. "Obviously, I've gone crazy. I must be suffering from some kind of psychosis."

"That remains to be seen," answered Holmes. "But first, I must explain to the both of you why Dr. Sestan is here and why, My Dear, your room has been so drastically rearranged."

"I'm guessing Dr. Sestan is here to perform some kind of neurological surgery on you," I said. "But you talk like there is nothing he can do to save your life."

"I suppose that depends on how you define 'life,'" Holmes replied cheerfully. "My body will most certainly die and, if my calculations are correct, most likely this evening. Gita is in concurrence, although the doctor hesitates to be so definitive."

"Gita and I have had conversations about this," I admitted. "We both agree that what must be saved is your mind."

"So the question remains," Holmes remarked, "if my mind is alive, am I alive? Although, to address your concern, dear friend," he added, turning to my dad, "since my body will be gone, I'll have no more pain and therefore no further need for painkillers."

My dad could do nothing at this point beyond sputtering. Finally he came out with single objection, "Preposterous!"

I tried to stay calm in the midst of this unsettling turn of events. "So Dr. Sestan has invented the necessary cocktail?" I asked.

"Indeed he has," Holmes replied calmly. "Dr. Watson, I am counting on your to assist in the operation. I'm sure your assistance will prove invaluable."

I have to admit Sherlock knew how to play my dad like a fiddle. He suddenly sat up with a military rigidness. "You can count on me, Holmes."

Sherlock patted him on the back of the hand. He closed his eyes. "I knew I could, Doctor."

Something about that set off a spark in me and I lept to my feet. I practically bounded to the bedroom door and opened it. "Doctor! Nurse!" I called out.

In an instant they were at the doorway to the kitchen. One look at me and they hurried forward. For some reason, I closed the door behind them as they entered the bedroom.

Gita and Sestan rushed to either side of Holmes' bed then stood there, simply waiting. My father remained seated near Holmes' right side. I stood at the foot of the bed.

Then Holmes opened his eyes wide. I don't know about the others, but that startled me. I had already resigned myself to never seeing them open again.

"Dr. Watson," he intoned, "is not a man of violence. Over the course of our long career together, many was the time he had his pistol trained on a despicable villain. Never once did he feel the need to fire."

That proved too much for my father. He broke down in tears. In the meantime, his friend again closed his eyes.

Not knowing what else to do in the circumstances, I studied the face of the reposed Mr. Holmes. His famous Romanesque nose now stood out even more prominently, his other features seeming to shrink into the pillow.

Slowly he face relaxed. Then his jaw muscles gave way and his mouth gaped open. The great man gave the impression of holding his breath and I suspect all in the room joined him. Then came the death rattle, a sound that is like no other but is mostly closely matched by the beating of a woodpecker's beak against a tree trunk.

Gita gently picked up a wrist, at the same time looking at her watch. My dad's sobs were the only sound in the room now. A small eternity passed before she looked across the bed at Dr. Sestan and solemnly nodded her head.

Sestan noted the time on his own wristwatch. Then he sprang into action. "Dr. Watson!" he cried out. "We need your help!"

As the three adults gathered the empty body of Sherlock Holmes in their arms and lifted him from the bed, I ran to the door. I could do little but watch as the fresh corpse was carried by me. Resolved to do what little I could, I hurried forward to open the swinging doors of the surgical room.

After the three passed through with their burden, I hesitated whether to step inside myself. Gita must have understood my dilemma. She came to the door and softly told me, "You must stay out here. We will not be long."

I took her at her word and stayed just outside the door. How long could Holmes' brain live, I wondered, after the rest of his body had died? How long did the team have to transfer that organ into the special mix of chemicals before it would be too late?

At this point, I had the same experience I'd had back in the Institute when there seemed to have been a little jump, or jolt, in time. One moment I was watching my father dress, then the next the orderly lay unconscious at my feet. This time, there seemed to be a bit of a fast-forward again, like a movie where a few frames had been cut out in the middle of a scene.

I looked up, surprised to see my father at the door, smiling now, clear signs of relief spread all over his face. I tiptoed into the chamber, as though afraid to disturb something. I was in time to see Gita and Sestan hastily remove blood-soaked gowns.

A fully covered mound lay on the operating room table. The odd machines around it were glowing with lights, while others beeped or displayed irregular jagged lines that constantly changed. On a stainless steel tray on wheels at the doctor's side stood a glass case, not unlike an aquarium.

It was on this glass container that all our eyes now centered. The turquoise liquid inside fizzed and bubbled, something like a glass of soda pop, only much more intense. It was hard to see through the thick clouds of rising carbonation, but as I grew closer I could make out what was inside.

"Why," I blurted out, "it looks just like the pictures and drawings I've seen!"Indeed, it was a brain, looking very much like any other brain displayed in scientific articles.

Gita had lowered her mask and now grinned at me. "What?" she kidded, "Did you really expect it to look exceptional on the outside?"

We all three laughed, relieving the tension of the last breathing moments of the late Sherlock Holmes. My father rushed forward in the aftermath and grabbed the neurosurgeon's hand. He shook it for all it was worth.

"Thank you, Doctor," he said simply.

"You are most welcome," Sestan answered, looking down at his watch. "Unfortunately, my schedule is rather tight. I'm afraid I must leave." He turned to Gita. "Nurse, I leave this all in your hands."

"Of course, Doctor," she nodded seriously, strictly the professional. No one who hadn't been there would have guessed that only hours before she'd been the driver of a getaway car. "I have your instructions."

Chapter Nine:

### Into the "We"

I apologize from the start for the inaccuracies of this chapter. The truth is that there is no way to describe in words what happened next. Comparisons to things in our macro-world can only be approximations and should not be taken literally.

To give you a concrete example, this is similar to drawings and three-dimensional models of molecules and the subatomic world. Atoms are not little balls or spheres, and subatomic particles like electrons and neutrons even less so. The little lines or sticks holding these items together are, of course, even less real.

I am talking about a world that is so small that its parts cannot be seen. Like gravity, subatomic particles can only have their presence verified by the effects they cause. We see a moon in orbit around a planet, for example, and infer the gravitational pull.

But to start where I left off. Gita began wheeling the cart with Mr. Holmes' brain on it out of the room. "If you would," she called out to me, "please open the front door."

"Are we going somewhere?" I asked.

Gita paused only a moment before answering. "Yes...and no. But to answer your more immediate concern, no, you will not need your coat."

Dutifully, I went ahead of her and opened the door. I looked back to make sure my dad was right behind her. He was.

Then I turned and went through the doorway. That is the last thing I can describe that is of this world, of this reality. From there I stepped out, or into, something else entirely.

You will be tempted to picture us in this "world." The naturally tendency is to imagine a place that is either all white or all black. I'm afraid it is neither.

Not only was there no light, but there was no darkness, either. It was much as it is if you close your eyes in a darkened room. Unless you squeeze your eyes shut too hard, you should not see anything.

When Gita and my father spoke, I "saw" them only in the sense that I was able to picture them in my mind. When I reached out my hands, I touched nothing. I felt no air about my face, nor any temperature, either.

My equilibrium did not report that I was floating, but then I also felt no ground beneath my feet. I heard nothing. This is a very disquieting feeling to get used to, let me tell you. After a moment it occurred to me to try to feel my clothes on my body. I was alarmed to find that I couldn't.

My hair sometimes falls into my eyes. My mind instructed my hand to brush it off my forehead, although I couldn't feel it there. My mind, however, received no return message from my hand or arm stating that such an action had been undertaken.

I tried calling out, "Father!" But I made no sound that I could hear, nor could I feel my mouth open or my tongue move. When my father answered, I did not hear his reply.

Instead, I heard his words in my head, much in the same manner as I can hear a piece of music long after it had ceased being played. "Steady, girl," he said. "Stay brave."

As disconcerting as this non-heard reply was, it did help pick up my spirits. Wherever we were, my dad was there with me. I could "feel" my mind calming down.

"Gita?" This time I didn't even try to speak the word, but merely thought it.

"Yes, I am here, too, My Dear."

"As am I," came the unmistakable "voice" of Sherlock Holmes. Compared to everything else that was happening, this seemed the least strange of things. "While I was expecting something would be invented to allow my brain to communicate with others, I have to admit I was not expecting telepathy."

"Holmes, do you know where we are?" This was from my father. As always, his mind was on the practical and the immediate.

"You are everywhere and nowhere," a new voice intoned inside my head and, I assumed, inside the heads of the others.

"That's absurd!" was my father's immediate response.

"That is not logical," came Holmes' thought. "It must be one or the other."

"It is illogical only within the confines of the macro-world," this alien thought replied. "However, here at the subatomic level, it is the only reply that makes sense."

"Maybe I can help explain," came a thought from Gita. "We are one with the universe. That means that we are everywhere in the universe. However, at this level of quantum mechanics, space does not exist. Therefore, it is also accurate to say that we are nowhere at all."

"I don't pretend to understand quantum mechanics," admitted Holmes. "However, if I understand Einstein correctly, space and time are one and the same thing. Therefore, if we exist in time, then we must also exist in space."

"You understand the problem correct, Mr. Holmes. However, we exist outside of time." This was from the unknown source that had entered our heads.

"I think it is only proper that you introduce yourself," I interrupted. "You seem to know who we are."

"Our apologies, My Dear Watson," it replied. "But we do not have a name. What you are 'hearing' in your head is the collective voices of all the subatomic particles in the universe."

"But wouldn't that also include the particles that make us up?" asked Holmes.

"Yes, you are right," replied this collection of subatomic particles, "and we can tell where you are going with this. How, you would ask, can we be part of you and yet you each seem to retain your individuality?"

"Exactly," said Holmes. "You refer to us by our individual names and when one of us thinks something, the others can tell that it came from us, not one of you. For example, I can easily identify the thoughts of Dr. Watson."

"All of that is true, but it is not an incongruity in the universe. You are capable of being you and also part of us. This is not to say that this is the norm after a lifeform dies. The usual breakdown of a dead life is that the body breaks down into chemicals and these chemicals, of course, consist of nothing more than us."

"Us being the subatomic particles you speak of," Holmes clarified. "But you speak of this as not being the norm. I take it, then, that normally when one dies, one loses all sense of individual identity? But why would you make such an exception in this case?"

"And why," asked my dad, "are the rest of us here? Only Holmes has died. Or are you saying you've caused all of us to die?"

"To begin with," said this "we," "Gita is not one of you. She was simply a manifestation that we caused to take human form."

"Wait!" I cried out. "Am I dead?"

"Not at all." Now came something that washed over me, calming me in some way I can't explain. "You will return to the living. We cannot, of course, reveal what your future will be."

Without "hearing" words this time, I was suddenly aware of something that I will call "emotion," but only for the lack of a better word. I became aware of my deep love for my father, and my deep concern at the violent turn his personality had taken over the last year.

It washed over me in a wave that I can only approximate by saying it was like a wave, slowly soaking into me. Without words, I now understood why I was here with Holmes and my father. Whatever was going to happen, it was important that I witness it. It was somehow tied into my future and apparently was of the utmost importance.

While everything I felt was true, at the same time I was offended that someone (something?) could so easily and completely break into the vault of my most private, deepest feelings. "Who are you?" I shouted as best I could without a mouth.

My objections seemed of no use. I'm not even sure that my words were "heard," or noted. On a plane of existence that had no place to call home, nor a timeline in which days, hours, minutes or seconds could be measured, the concerns of one little "lifeform" didn't seem to matter. In spite of myself, I felt myself being drawn into the vortex of everything.

To find oneself in the middle of a void that held the whole universe, was disconcerting -- to say the least. To witness the collapsing of time to where everything that had ever happened became an overlay or echo of everything that ever would happen was dizzying. It was like looking into one of those pictures where a series of mirrors shows a reflection of a reflection of a reflection...

I was to later learn that gravity doesn't exist at the subatomic level, and yet I began to feel like I was being torn apart by a force of nature that knew no end. It really didn't help matters that while there was no end, there was no beginning, either. A coin was held up to my mind's eye. Then I understood that a circle could have no starting point, little alone ending.

Yet in spite of all this inner turmoil, I felt like everything I felt or did matter. The universe cared in an overwhelming, all-encompassing, all-enveloping kind of way. Some may call it love, others may say some kind of universal empathy. But I became aware that words and labels didn't matter.

"We are you and you are us." That thought kept on repeating itself, like a mantra. As an individual, my natural instinct was to fight this.

"I am not you," I argued, at the same time feeling that my dad and Holmes were making the same argument, each in his own way. "I am me, unique from everything else that exists, ever has existed or every will exist." It was like hollering into a canyon that swallowed echoes.

Since time didn't exist, I can't point to any point in time I which my views changed. Of course, I remember saying to myself, we are all part of a whole. A whole that the universe referred to as "we."

I could see Gita smiling at me. It was a wide open smile, an accepting smile. I do remember that it jolted me, it seemed so much like my mother's love.

I think it really helped that I had seen her in human form. It is very hard to think about abstracts as being real. Her smiling face was like an overturned boat that I was holding on to for dear life. To extend the metaphor further, I and that little boat seemed to be floating in a constantly churning, foaming sea that I knew, on some level, was actually completely calm.

My father and Holmes seemed to be having a much tougher time accepting it all. It was not hard to see that their longer lives meant that they had much more to "let go of." My relatively brief life seemed even shorter when viewed as a whole.

Up for review was every memory I had, even those I'd forgotten. There were parents, of course, teachers, friends schoolmates. Every interest I'd ever had was on display, every grudged I'd held, every irritation and quirk, my petty hatreds, my passions, my dreams.

On top of all that were scenes from my father's life, most of which occurred before I was even born! Every tableau of his childhood were laid out before us, his relatively brief career as a physician in Her Majesty's service, all the myriad adventures he'd and Holmes had together. I shared the grief at the death of his first wife, the unexpected arrival of his finding love again with my mother, his pride at finally fathering an offspring.

I could tell that my dad was trying desperately to hold onto every memory, good or bad, as though precious heirlooms. He'd led such an eventful life, and all of those events made up the personality, the identity that was him, Dr. Watson. How could anyone, even the whole universe, try to deny him what he'd worked so hard to achieve?

But even harder still was the identity that was the famous Sherlock Holmes. Here was life writ as large as any man's. Since he seldom mentioned it, it was surprising exactly how much pride he'd secretly built up in his career, in his reputation.

His fight to retain his unique identity had an entirely different tone than my dad's. The steel grip that he held on to it with must have been the same inescapable clasp on his hand around the wrist of some criminal he'd caught. It was a grip that spoke volumes, that said, "No, under no circumstances are you to get away from me."

But there was one chink in this armor of ego. He cared about others. Although never technically a public servant, Sherlock Holmes had given his life, risked his life time and again, for the public good.

For all his seemingly "cold" logic, he often accepted or refused cases based on his heart-strings. He rose up against injustices, especially against the weak, the powerless. When he accepted cases affecting the rich and powerful, it was only due to his sense of patriotic duty.

Country and community first. The phrase was thrown in his face. Yet he stood his ground.

"I am," came his conviction. "I am the greatest detective ever," came his statement of fact. How could the greater good destroy that?

"You are, came the answer, the greatest detective -- of your time and place."

Holmes, always a man of action, had never been known for his introspection. The idea that other people might be the greatest detective of other times and places had never occurred to him. That unasked question now immediately shredded the last of his defenses. He noted, wryly, that his statement was now as meaningless as Francis Bacon's assertion that he knew everything because he'd read every book that he was aware of. Not only were there many works Bacon had been unaware of, written in countries he didn't know existed, but an endless number of books lay in the future.

All three of us were now made aware of how many times and places there had been and how many more there would be in the future. We were informed that there was no use in trying to count, since the number was infinite. Holmes' concession of his lack of uniqueness felt anti-climatic.

There is one further inaccuracy I feel I should add at this point. I have presented these dialogues and events as though they happened in a certain order. I have done so, because there is no other way to present them without going outside the confines of the world we live in.

Since all of this occurred where time doesn't exist, in truth things did not unfold in any order, certainly not the order I present here. If I were to present these thoughts and images as they occurred, I would have had to type them one on top of each other. In a world without time, everything happened at once.

Just as there was no ground beneath our feet, there was no passage of time. It is only in sorting them out, now, back in the "macro-universe," as they put it, that I have had to impose an order upon them that in actuality did not exist. While in this world that doesn't make any sense, when we were "there" it made perfect sense. The closest parallel I can draw is that it was like being in a room full of people, all talking at the same time, and understanding each and every conversation.

Having blown all our previous views and perceptions sky-high, having destroyed all our preconceptions, we were just as quickly knitted back together. It was odd, to say the very least. I would say that it upset my stomach, yet I no longer had that organ.

Chapter Ten:

### To the Sun

And then, just as suddenly, I not only had my stomach but the rest of my body, too. I looked up, and right across from me sat Sherlock Holmes. I looked to my left and there was my father.

We were seated in a small room, Holmes within ten feet, my father so close I could reach out and touch him. Our seats were molded into the walls, which were a light shade of gray. There was only one window, just to my right and directly opposite my dad.

Holmes was first to his feet, as my dad and I were just getting used to having bodies again. It only took one step for him to stand in front of the window, which took up all of the fourth wall. My father and I stood and hugged before we joined Sherlock at the window.

"Are you still there?" Holmes asked out loud. This time I heard him through my ears, just as though nothing had happened.

The answer, though, came in directly to my mind, just as it had been. "Yes, we are still here."

The view out the window was almost as mind-boggling as the reclamation of our bodies had been. The sky was completely black, the only thing in sight was more stars than I'd ever seen in my life. Holmes, however, didn't seem as impressed. "I take it Dr. Sestan was from the future," he said, more stating a fact than asking a question.

"Yes," came the answer inside my head, "he was not from your time period. To anticipate your next question, he first successfully kept a pig's brain alive in 2019."

"I hope I wasn't his first human experiment."

"No. You were his second. However, the first was not a success."

Sherlock snorted. He continued to look out into the night sky.

"Holmes," injected my father, "shouldn't the night sky be overhead? Are we on a cliff high on some mountain?"

"No, Watson," Holmes answered. "I rather suspect that we are in outer space."

"You are correct, Holmes," came the voice inside our heads. "Please do not be concerned. You are all perfectly safe."

"The stars are all moving away from us," Holmes observed, "so it must be that we are in motion. Yet, I do not hear any motor, nor feel the vibration of any. What propels us forward?"

"You are within the gravitational pull of the sun."

"Yet we do not feel any increase in temperature," Holmes remarked. "This capsule must be made of some incredible material."

"Yes it is," the universe agreed. It then spilled a word into our brains that was so long there was no way for me to comprehend it. "It is called THC3PP for short."

"Yet that alone wouldn't protect us from the intense gravitational pressure we'll soon be experiencing," Sherlock pointed out.

"Under the floor you are standing on is a gravitational belt that will counteract the sun's field."

"But," I insisted, "what are we doing here?"

"Believe it or not," came the voice, "but we are conducting an experiment."

"And we are the lab rats? That seems rather callous of you," I pointed out.

"If you are what you say you are," said Holmes, "what need you of conducting an experiment? Surely you must know everything already."

"Yes, well...That is rather embarrassing, actually. Technically, you should be right," answered the "we." "However, the conjunction of your three specific lives has created a singularity. While each of you, individually, are not all that unique, this is the one and only time that all three of you exist at the same time."

"Just what is this experiment supposed to prove?" my dad demanded.

"If we knew the answer to that, Doctor, we would not have endanger your lives thus."

"Aha!" Holmes jumped on this. "Then there are variables you are unable to control!"

"We are operating under the hypothesis that especially large solar storms emanating from your sun can change human behavior."

The following flow of information came to us all at a rush and I was hard put to understand it all. I'm afraid I can only explain it up to the point at which I became totally lost. The thinking was so advanced that it was well beyond anything I am capable of understanding.

I had been vaguely aware that our minds function with the use of electricity. To be more exactly, the synapses in our brains communicate by brief, short electro-chemical transfers. While this was only somewhat understood during our lifetimes, a great deal more has become known since then.

While the fact that electricity and magnetism are simply two facets of the same force has been known since the 19th century, how this applies in our brains was a question far beyond our time and place. I mean, it's not as though our heads are some kind of giant magnet or something. No, the magnetism taking place inside our skulls is much more complicated than that.

In a way, a particularly immense solar storm simplifies things, at least in some people's heads. Normally, magnetic poles between two synapses are constantly changing direction, depending on which way the information is flowing and what chemical transmitter is used. This constant flux keeps our heads from becoming a giant electromagnet.

However, if too many poles become switched all at once, bad things can happen. Particularly sensitive to this phenomena is the human prefrontal cortex, which is where our most basic animal instincts are controlled and hopefully stifled. If negated and decommissioned, the reptilian section of our brains sometimes takes control.

It is not hard to picture our pre-human ancestors being much more prone to the use of violence to solve problems. I am shown how the prefrontal lobes evolved as a way to deal with the social skills necessary when those ancestors first started living in groups. I saw how individuals who were unable to cope became abandoned by their groups. Left out on their own, they didn't survive.

While I was receiving lessons in evolution, Sherlock asked instead for in-depth information about the chemistry in the human brain. "My area of specialty is chemistry, not electricity or magnetism," he explained. "I am assuming you brought me along for some reason beyond being Dr. Watson's friend."

The subatomic universe agreed. They showed him molecules of serotonin and other neurotransmitters. I could see the gleam in Holmes' eyes as he feasted on this wealth of information.

Outside our cube's window, it was slowly getting brighter, lighter. I was informed that this was because we were getting closer to our sun. Soon enough, our view would be nothing but white.

"This is not enough!" Holmes cried out. "There must be other chemicals in play here other than neurotransmitters! The statistics you've shown me make it clear that this phenomena is much more prevalent in men. Show me the hormonal differences between men and women! The answer must lie there!"

It was like watching the great Sherlock Holmes out on the trail of a criminal. Indeed, if some chemical imbalance had changed my father so dramatically, it was a crime! At least to me.

"I take it your plan is to plunge us into one of these solar storms."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. We plan to take your vessel in at the positive pole and exit the sun at the negative pole. The idea is to see how Dr. Watson's brain reacts."

"But all you're planning to look at is whether the electrons in his brain respond. Will their poles reverse, for example, as we leave the influence of one pole and enter into the other?"

"That is an over-simplification, but that sums up the gist of this experiment."

I looked over at my father, who had retaken his seat. His face was totally drained of color. His fear was palpable. "Is all this necessary?" I wondered aloud.

"It will not cause Dr. Watson, your father, any physical pain," I was reassured. "As for mental distress, that is exactly what we will be following. Doctor, it is up to you. This may increase your emotional pain, or it may provide a cure. It is up to you, Doctor. Shall we continue?"

Memories of my father's past swarmed before all our eyes. We saw with him, his first time under fire as a young physician in Her Majesty's army. His coloring looked much as it was then.

But he didn't run. It took him some minutes but finally he responded to the cries of the wounded around him. His hands shook as he took out his medical equipment, but he did his job.

My father did not have to give his response aloud. We all knew how he felt. I felt a pride in my father that I had never known before. I doubt if I'll ever meet anyone braver.

Suddenly everything went dark. "We are in the heart of the vortex now." That was the only explanation we got.

I don't know how I expected to feel in the eye of a solar storm. I'd seen magnets, of course, but had never thought that they could have an effect on a person. I went inside myself at this point, trying to be hypersensitive to everything going on inside me.

I could feel my heartbeat. I became conscious of every breath I took. Was that a ringing in my ears or just my imagination?

Were my thoughts being scrambled? Just the ability to ask that question seemed to answer it. And yet, if my brain was being affected, would I know it?

Into all that darkness of the unknown came Holmes' steady and calm voice. "I need to see that molecule at the subatomic level...Good. Now this one. Yes, there it is. The entire molecule is being reshaped into another substance."

Without warning, Sherlock was thrown against the back wall. Then my dad and I followed after him. I felt a tremendous pressure, a force pressing me against the side of this alien cube. I closed my eyes, sure that any second I'd be pressed as flat as paper.

Luckily, we were traveling fast enough that our journey through the core of the sun was only momentary. The next second, we all tumbled to the ground, free from the grasp of that invisible force. "Ouch!" I cried out as my head met the toe of my dad's shoe.

"Sorry, My Dear," he said. As we picked our jumbled selves off the floor, suddenly we broke out laughing. To this day, I couldn't tell you what was so funny.

The universe seemed to let out a sigh that was almost audible. Congratulations, it seemed to say. I got the distinct impression that they had not expected us all to survive.

Had you expected any of us to survive? I asked inside my head. I received no reply.

Instead, the "we" us three had been conversing with supplied us with the data that they, along with Holmes, had compiled. Like in a classroom, we were offered diagrams of molecules and atoms displayed as little round spheres, held together with white sticks or black lines. Subatomic particles were all labeled for our edification.

Electrons that had starting spinning in one direction now spun in the other. Neurons came and went. Other subatomic particles with the oddest of names, were displayed. Slowly, slowly, we could see the changes wrought by the effects of a solar storm on a human body.

As we slowly stepped back into the macro-universe, atoms that now had different names bound together to change the names of the molecules they made. Hormones secreted from a variety of organs traveled up to the brain, that sensitive register of all that was happening in a body. Chemicals called neurotransmitters crossed gaps as though they were little ferries. Every time they reached the far shore, a brief electrical spark went up.

I don't pretend to have even a fraction of Holmes' knowledge of chemistry. And yet, if he were here today, I'm sure he'd have to confess that there were aspects of this case even he didn't understand. All that's left at this time is to define my new "here."

Chapter Eleven:

### Coda

I am now here in Chicago, although I have no idea how I got here any more than I understood how I came to be in a capsule traveling through the sun. The time is the next day, the day after Sherlock Holmes and my dad died. Yes, my father is dead and Holmes was found in his home, with his brain intact.

Much has been made of the fact that Sherlock and my father died within hours, "maybe within minutes," of each other. I think that is fitting and it gives me a great satisfaction. If my father had died even a few months after Holmes, his obituary would have most likely be consigned to the back pages of the newspaper. This way, he got his full due.

While Holmes' death due to his lung cancer was to be expected, my dad's death was certainly not. As best as can be ascertained with the current state of medicine, my father died of "apoplexy" due to the sudden physical exertion he went through in a fight with an orderly. According to the orderly, my father woke up in the middle of the night and, without provocation, attacked him.

"I'd seen him in violent fits before," the orderly was quoted, "but never something like this. He actually got the best of me and had knocked me to the floor." I suspect the man left out the part where he'd been knocked unconscious. "The next thing I knew, Dr. Watson was bending down to help me to my feet. His mood had entirely changed and he asked me if I was alright."

Then, just as the orderly got to his feet, my dad keeled over. The orderly immediately raised the alarm, but by the time a doctor got there, it was too late. Everyone who saw him there agreed that my dad died with a peaceful look on his face.

"There." What a strange word that has become for me. Because I was also "there" for him when he died, but it was a different "there."

Words describing times and places will never have quite the same meaning to me now. I better understand what Einstein meant when he described time as relative. I'm not sure if he understood fully that also applied to space.

When I woke up this morning, I found myself in a YWCA. There was United States money in a purse I never had before. And yet all of this is real.

I'm surprised I didn't die with Holmes and my father. But then, why should I? I still have my life before me.

In reflecting on it, I understand that the universe does not feel threatened that I will somehow change the future due to the experiences I went through. Even if I told someone what had happened to me, who would believe me? There is no chance I will somehow use the knowledge I gained through my interactions with the subatomic world.

I did not understand most of what was happening, in the first place. And in the second, what I did grasp I am quickly losing. While I'll always remember the experience, the details are already fading from my memory.

My future is still an open book. The universe did little to change that. My father died at peace with himself, relieved of the terrible burden of the violent tendencies that had overtaken his life. That is a great relief to me and I hope I can somehow it explain it in a way that will bring peace to my mother, also.

With a coin in my purse I was able to call Dr. Horney's clinic here in Chicago. I have made arrangements to meet my mother there. Later I will send a telegram to the London Institute of Psychoanalysis, care of Melanie Klein, and asking their, and especially her, forgiveness for leaving so suddenly.

When I get in the cab, the driver asks me the standard, "Where to, Miss?" and I give him Dr. Horney's address. But then I lean back in the seat and ask myself the same question. "Where to, My Dear Watson?"

Other Smashwords.com Ebooks by the Author

_00 Something_ (political satire)

_Children of Mother Moon_ (novel)

_The Hornswoggle Effect_ (novel)

_"How We Came to Be Here"_ (short story)

_The Kitchen Sink_ (collection of plays, poetry and essays)

_Patches of Snow_ (poetry)

_Wild Mammals of the Santa Rosa Plateau_ (nonfiction)

About the Author

Rick Bramhall was born in Hawaii in 1952. His family and he moved to California in 1958. He grew up in Hawthorne, CA. He served in the US Air Force from 1975-79. Graduating from Cal State San Bernardino in 1989, he then taught eighth grade Language Arts in the Colton School District from 1990-94. He currently lives in Yuma, Arizona.

His autobiography, I'm an Idiot, is a work in progress.

