The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [2]
What drives me to wit's end is the possibility that, as a result of the fanatical devotion engendered by my Baker Street Frankenstein, the rest of my books, the work into which I've poured heart and soul, may never receive the fair hearing every author hopes for in the court of public opinion. Still, I console myself with the thought that if it weren't for Mr. H. the only shelves my so-called personal writing might be lining are at the bottom of my steamer trunk.
But as to the Burning Question put to me so energetically last night, and likewise at every instance where I see fit to present myself publicly (including, appalling circumstance— mouth wedged open, throat exposed, sharp instruments in the hand of my inquisitor—my recent trip to the dentist!), the answer remains, steadfastly:
No, no, and no.
There will be no Resurrection. The man fell two thousand feet straight down into a crevasse. Dashed beyond repair, no reasonable hope for recovery. He is deader than Julius Caesar. Respect to the gods of logic must be paid.
I wonder how long I'll need to remind these people that, not only is he deceased, the man is a fictional character: He can't reply to their letters, he doesn't actually reside at 22IB Baker Street, and he can finally be of no help to them whatsoever in solving that lingering mystery which haunts their every waking moment—although my earnest advice to them remains that if Pussywillow has indeed gone missing they should look up a tree. If I had half a shilling for every time I've been asked if he... well, come to think of it, I suppose I do.
What awaits me with regard to the death of SH in America? I'm given to understand the passion for Holmes burns even hotter there, although my excitement at the prospect of setting foot on their shore should balance any inconvenience stirred up by Sherlock's leap into the void. The United States and the Americans have captivated my imagination since I was a child; their rambunctious precocity, the driving will that serve as whip hand to the blinding progress of that new republic should act as a strong and revivifying tonic to me.
Five months abroad: My dear wife not nearly as strong as she would like me to believe, but so determined to see me make the career advancement this journey represents. So be it: The frustration of my inability to ease her discomfort is bringing peace to neither of us. This damned disease will run its inevitable course regardless of my efforts, and the distance between us grows regardless of my whereabouts: The more I move out into the world the further she withdraws from it. For now the energy she spends trying to reassure me will be better spent marshaling her own resources. It is her battle to fight, finally, alone.
No regrets, then. The coming days will pass quickly in that way they always do; I shall conduct my tour of America and be home among my loved ones soon enough. Young brother Innes will make a splendid traveling companion: Two years in the Royal Fusiliers have done wonders for the boy. It occurred to me tonight, watching him leap to my defense at the Garrick, that Innes puts me very much in mind of the hotheaded young snapper I was myself ten years ago, when I briefly traveled in the company of a man the memory of whom remains to this day more vivid and beyond compare than any other I have known in this life.
Our train leaves for Southampton at first light; setting sail at