Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone

Also by G.S. Denning and available from Titan Books

Warlock Holmes: A Study in Brimstone
Print edition ISBN: 9781783299713
E-book edition ISBN: 9781783299720

Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: May 2016
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 2016 G.S. Denning
Illustrations © 2016 Sean Patella-Buckley

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To my wife, Amanda, for all her support.

To my kids, who I hope get a giggle from this someday.

To my parents, who had the grace not to suggest I get a real job.

Cover

Also by G.S. Denning

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

A Study in Brimstone

The Adventure of the Resident Sacrifice

The Case of the Cardboard… Case

The Adventure of the Yellow Bastard

The Adventure of the _eckled _and

Charles Augustus Milverton: Soulbinder

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also Available from Titan Books

THE DOMINION OF MAN IS DRAWING TO A CLOSE. THE
age of demons is upon us. This, I recognize, is largely my fault and let me take just a moment to apologize for my part in it. I am very sorry I doomed the world.

Really, just… absolutely, horribly sorry.

And yes, I do realize my apology fails to come up to the occasion. I am not accustomed to expressing regrets of this magnitude. In fact—this being the first time the world has been doomed—I can safely say that no man has
ever
had to craft such an apology, so let’s all agree to give me a break, shall we?

It’s not as if my words could save any of us, in any case.

No, I’m afraid the only useful commission remaining to me is to chronicle the history of our fall. If this book survives to be read, if any survive to read it, I hope this volume will make clear that Warlock Holmes—though powerful almost beyond description—was merely a dupe. That Moriarty, whose name is unknown to the species he betrayed, was our true nemesis and architect of our destruction. That I am… well… not so much of an idiot as might be supposed.

How is it, some might wonder, that a London doctor chose to share his lodgings with a sorcerer? Is this the same John Watson who once demanded a new room at medical school, just because “Splitty” Winslow kept that damned yappy dog? Yes? Then why did he fail to move out of 221B when he noticed the walls were bleeding? In what way is a howling, demon-filled void preferable to a schnauzer?

These are fair criticisms, but there were extenuating circumstances. Believe me, if fortune had not contrived to doom me to the company of Warlock Holmes, I would not have endured it. You see, I do not enter into this story as a healthy, well-moneyed London gentleman. I enter it as a ninety-two-pound typhoid-wasted wreck secretly rifling his wallet in a cheap pub. I was sure—
sure
—I had another shilling. I could not have miscounted. I had not spent every night of the last month agonizing over the ever-dwindling pile of coins just to lose count. Where was that damned shilling?

Had I put it in my waistcoat pocket? I had! There I found it. I gave thanks for small mercies, withdrew the coin and snuck it into the leather sheath our waiter had brought with our bill. It was my last shilling. I had only three coins left to my name: tuppence, sixpence, ninepence. Starvation could not be far off. On the one hand, it was folly to be paying for a meal out for Stamford and myself. I hardly even liked the man and if it were not for a chance encounter on the street and the burdens of London gentility I would not have made the offer. On the other hand, why not? My choice as I saw it was this: If I did not purchase lunch, I would starve to death in a London gutter, in two weeks’ time. If I
did
purchase lunch, I would starve to death in only one week’s time, but just before I succumbed, I could turn to the next beggar over and tell him with my dying breath, “If you ever find yourself at the Holborn, don’t bother with the beef consommé; it’s somewhat overrated.”

Without taking my eyes off of Stamford, without respite in my continual “Oh yes, quite,”-ing agreeing and nodding, I slid the sheath to the edge of the table, hoping our waiter would claim it the next time he passed and that Stamford would not notice. I needn’t have worried; Stamford was not known for observational acuity.

“I have the worst luck,” he was saying. “Just the damnedest luck! Why such misfortunes should flock to me, I will never know!”

“Oh yes, quite,” I agreed, nodding.

In the years since we’d worked together at St. Bart’s, Stamford had done nothing to cure the tediousness for which we’d all shunned him. He had been holding forth for ten or fifteen minutes about his troubles, which seemed to revolve around nothing more than making an ill-advised promise to help some chap he knew at the hospital. At last he came to the end of his diatribe and settled on a topic I enjoyed even less.

“I say, Watson… I don’t mean to be rude, but you look like you may have had a bit of misfortune yourself. I’ve rarely seen a man so changed. Do I miss my mark, or…”

“No. You are quite right, Stamford. I was shot.”

“Shot?”

“Through the shoulder.”

“But how did you manage to get shot in India? Nobody gets shot in India—nobody British, anyway.”

“Exactly why I elected to go there,” I told him, “but then the army realized it had been nearly forty years since our last disastrous invasion of Afghanistan. I was sent to Maiwand.”

“Maiwand? Afghanistan? As in the Battle of Maiwand?”

“The same.”

“But we lost that one, didn’t we?”

I winced.

“Well, you know, I missed the end. Still… the last bit I remember… it looked as if we weren’t doing all that well.”

Oh yes, I’d say we lost that one. I choked back memories—visions of my friends and comrades being hacked to sauce all around me.

“Oh… well… you got out all right, though, eh?” Stamford stammered. “So… getting shot—that’s what made you so skinny?”

“Eh? Oh, no. Enteric fever. My orderly Murray got me back to the hospital at Peshawar before I bled to death, but the conditions were filthy. The fever killed off half my ward before it relented.”

Memories: piles of corpses, baking in the sun. The doctors too busy, the soldiers too sick, the natives too wise to dig our graves. I tried to think of something else besides the big black wasps that laid their eggs in our dead and dying. Puppies, perhaps? Christmas? Ponies? Big-eyed puppies riding ponies home for Christmas?

“Ah… So sorry to hear it, Watson,” said Stamford, visibly regretting the zeal he’d just employed complaining of workplace trivia. “What is next for you? Are they sending you to India?”

“They are not sending me anywhere. The army has reconsidered our partnership. I suppose I wasn’t the most useful doctor they’ve ever had…”

“What are you going to do, Watson?”

What could I say? The truth was I had considered myself a goner from the moment I was struck. The better soldiers had the sense to be unconscious before they hit the ground and dead two minutes later. I, it seemed, was determined to stretch the ordeal out.