The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [127]
I grew in strength and pride and, while the weather held, spent hours on the deck reading, turning darker yet, my hair almost bleached white. Holmes, on the other hand, drew in. His scathing attacks began to reveal an undertone of bewilderment and pain, an emotional reac-tion that his pride would not allow him to show to the world. He rarely left his cabin, where the lights burnt at all hours. His plates were re-turned untouched, and he smoked vast quantities of his filthy black shag tobacco. When the supplies ran low, he resumed the habit of cig-arettes, which he had left some years before. He drank heavily, never showing the slightest sign of its effect, and I suspected he would have returned to his cocaine had he been able to get it. He looked ghastly, with a strange yellow tinge beneath his tan, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed in red, his normally thin frame on the edge of emaciation. One night I objected.
“Holmes, there’s not much point in this elaborate farce if you kill yourself before she has a chance. Or are you trying to save her the trouble?”
“It is not as bad as it looks, Russell, I assure you.”
“You look jaundiced, Holmes, which means your liver is failing, and your eyes tell me you haven’t slept in several days.” I was startled to feel my bunk shaking, and then realised that he was laughing softly.
“So the old man has a few tricks left, does he? Russell, I discovered a large quantity of spices in the ship’s hold and liberated a few of the yellower ones. Also, various irritants rubbed in the eyes cause tempo-rary discomfort but lasting external effect. I assure you, I am doing my-self no harm.”
“But you have not eaten in days, and you’re drinking far too heavily.”
“The alcohol that disappears in my cabin ends up largely in the drains, with certain quantities used on breath and clothing. As for the food, I promise you that I shall allow Mrs. Hudson to feed me when she returns. When I step off the boat, Russell, every eye must know that here stands a beaten man, who cares not if he lives or dies. There would be no other reason for me to return openly.”
“Very well. I just want your assurance that you will care for yourself in my absence. I will not have anything damage you, even your own hand.”
“For the sake of the partnership, Russell?” The smile in his voice reassured me more than his words.
“Precisely.”
“I promise. I shall, if you wish, promise to wash out my socks at night, too.”
“That will not be necessary, Holmes. Mrs. Hudson will do that for you.”
e came home to London on a grey, heavy morning, both of us burnt by the sun and scorched by the fires of conflicts honest and contrived. I stood alone on the deck and watched the city approach, feeling the palpable unease of the captain and men as they worked behind me and belowdecks. Familiar forms stood on the dock as we approached. I could see Watson looking anxiously for Holmes, and Inspector Lestrade standing next to him, equally curious at the de-tective’s absence. Mycroft stood to one side, his face a closed book. They called to me as we pulled in, but I did not answer. When the gangway was let down I seized my bags before one of the men could do so, walked firmly across with my eyes down on the boards, and pushed past the men standing on the dock, to the obvious amazement of two of them. Watson held out his hand and Lestrade called.
“Miss Russell.”
“Mary? Wait, Mary, what’s wrong?”
I turned to them coldly, not looking at Mycroft.
“Yes?”
“Where are you going? Is something wrong? Where is Holmes?”
A movement on the deck above caught my eye, and I looked up into Holmes’ eyes. He looked dreadful. His grey irises stared out like holes in two blood-filled pools. His yellowed skin sagged over his bones, and he was poorly shaven, this normally fastidious individual. His tie was straight, but the collar of his shirt was slightly rumpled, and his jacket was unbuttoned. I squelched any