The carriage stopped outside Silverwood Manor, wheels dipping into the road puddle. The rain had ceased, but the sun wasn’t ready to brighten the grey streets. It was just the mood Sherlock needed now, released yet unwilling to let go. He hoped that his new acquaintance sensed it, as it was oddly both embarrassing and comforting to ride in the carriage wrapped in his warm embrace, no matter how kind and welcome at that moment.
Will I ever stop missing Mother? Will I ever be myself again?
To his relief, Galahad was silent, leaving his wistful questions unanswered. It wasn't a tense or indifferent silence, but a tranquil and understanding one. Galahad stepped out on the cobbled sidewalk and held Sherlock by the hand like he needed it more than the injured man.
“Thank you, I’m quite capable of getting out of the cab,” Holmes dropped casually with a tint of irritation at being treated like an old man (or a cripple!)
“You didn’t look capable of anything a minute ago,” Galahad retorted, and Sherlock fixed him in his gaze. “Don’t give me this scary look, Sherry. It was kindly done.”
Sherlock linked his fingers in front of him. “I wish you didn’t call me Sherry.”
“It’s the name your mother left me.”
“Yes, she used to call me that, but it’s too intimate. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I’m not aware of the traditions of your country, but here, only close friends and family members use first names. As for the nicknames…” he sighed, looking away. “If you call me this in public… we might face certain issues.”
“I understand,” Galahad said plainly, locking his hands behind him. “I won’t let you down in the presence of others.”
Sherlock smiled. “And you’ll have my gratitude for that.”
He turned and strolled towards his house, but stopped abruptly behind the gates, making Galahad bump into him. “What’s up?”
“Someone’s in my garden,” Sherlock raised a finger, asking for attention. “I saw a shadow behind the rosebushes, the leaves are slightly bent. Considering last night’s incident, a crime to be precise, your assaulter might have easily followed you or traced you towards my...”
“No, she isn’t the assaulter with a knife, rather a cane,” Galahad replied, crouching.
Sherlock turned on his toes and blinked at him. “What?”
Galahad pointed at the footprints on the ground. “Barefoot, holding a cane. A woman. Oh, and also, she picked your weeds. A killer all right. She’s just killed some of your grass.”
Indeed, the human footprints in the wet soil were distinct. Some weeds that used to strangle the rosebushes lay scattered around. How could he miss that? Sherlock turned his eyes to his companion. “Well done,” he said, gazing at Galahad with curiosity. “Are you a detective now?”
Galahad touched the imprint in the soil and smelled his fingers to Sherlock’s bewilderment. “Nah, I don’t remember shit about it but this body does. Instincts.” Galahad stood up and brushed his hands. “She’s not from here, from across the ocean, and she means no harm.”
“How can you say that by...” Sherlock waved his hand at the ground, astonished by being beaten in his game. “...by smelling her steps?”
Galahad shrugged. “Magic, Mr Holmes.”
Sherlock was about to say there is no such thing as ‘magic’, but got distracted by the approaching woman. Indeed, a foreigner. Her skin was so ebony black that the whites of her eyes shone their own reflected light. The woman was about five feet and six inches tall, sturdily built and agile, wearing a long colourful dress and a sort of high turban on her head, covering her hair. The bright yellow and orange clothes of hers had an unusual geometric pattern.
She moved silently, like a cat; no wonder nobody noticed her coming.
“Are you the master?” she asked in a heavy African accent.
“Yes, I am.” Sherlock spun towards her. “And who are you, I pray, and what are you doing on my property?” Surely, he already knew what she was doing — plucking weeds, but why?
“Waiting for the master. I am your new housekeeper.” That wasn’t a question. The woman stomped her cane on the ground. It looked sinister, rather like the twig Merlin the sorcerer would have carried around, not a walking stick.
Sherlock stared at her in surprise. “But my advertisement isn’t even in the print yet. How do you know?”
“Have you seen the state of the house?” The woman pointed at his manor with her stick. “And the garden! Shame on it.” She added a few phrases in her language that Sherlock assumed were swear words. “I do it back to well, master.”
“But I can’t offer a job to anyone who comes by. Do you have... recommendation letters?” Sherlock asked, already sensing the answer.
“Man,” the woman lifted her head defiantly. “I’m a black woman. You keep folk like us as slaves. What letters do you expect me to have?” Her English, apart from the accent, was excellent. “You can see all you need to know about me here,” she bumped herself on the chest.
“Fair enough.” Sherlock touched his chin and squinted at her. Strong hands, nimble body, short nails, weather-bitten skin — worked outside a lot. Hard to identify her age, maybe thirty, maybe fifty. Not much into family judging by the state of her brea...
“You’re hired,” Galahad chipped in. “The garden does look like a wreck.”
“Galahad.” Sherlock stopped himself from rolling his eyes just in time. “I’m the landlord, you’re the guest, remember?”
“Yeah, but madam here has just the right sort of power.”
“Yebo, madam here also sees the right sort of power in yourself, walking dead.” The woman nodded firmly, like it was something absolutely normal to say.
Sherlock frowned. “Pardon?”
She pointed at Galahad with her stick. “His ancestors saved him, the spirits keep him alive. It happens when your doors to infinity are open ajar.”
Sherlock frowned even more, translating her English into his English. “Are you saying you can sense this man has been recently severely injured? Just to be clear. How can you know?” His eyes slid by her neck to an amulet made of polished beads and teeth, big, human teeth, and he knew before she said it.
“I am a sangoma,” she put weight in that word. “I know many things, master. Like the fact that your friend is one of us.”
That did the trick.
“Welcome to Silverwood, you’re hired!” Sherlock clapped his hands. “I can only pay you three pounds a month so far, and the lodgings are a little room behind the kitchen. I’m sorry for the state of affairs; the house was neglected, and I’m not used to having a lot of stuff.”
“I don’t shy away from hard work.”
“But there is one condition. First... you tell me your name.” Sherlock couldn’t help smiling at forgetting the introduction part.
“Malika.”
He nodded, waiting for her surname, but it didn’t come, so he continued. “Malika... And the second condition,” Sherlock looked back at Galahad. “You’ll tell me everything you know about this man.”
Malika gave him a nod with her lips pressed tight. This node said more than any words.
“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock introduced himself, giving Malika his hand.
She briefly glanced at his palm but didn’t shake it. “I know who you are, master.”
“Yes. Well, um…” Seeing that there won’t be any handshake, Sherlock gestured to the entrance. “Let’s discuss all the details inside, shall we?”
As they walked by the overgrown driveway, Sherlock couldn’t help admiring Malika’s light gait. Again, he marvelled at her age. A young girl scarred with life or an old woman tricking her time? Watching her pace ahead, Holmes wondered where she might come from. He heard something about smuggling people to Terra Santa. There was a whole settlement of folks from Africa brought here for cheap labour.
She must’ve come from there. Seeking better work than in the factory.
Malika stopped at the entrance, took a bundle of clothes and a wild-looking drum made of wood and animal skins from the floor and waited for Sherlock to open the door.
“After you, ma’am.”
The woman gazed at him like he’d just offered her to jump into a volcano, not fulfil a gent’s code of honour. “With all due respect, master, if it’s haunted, I’m not gonna take the punch.”
Sherlock swallowed the gulp of brief cultural shock and stepped inside. Galahad followed him, and Malika tailed the men. “There isn’t much furniture in here. For now,” Sherlock spoke apologetically, leaving his Trench coat on the hook and looking around the spacious hall. “But the room behind the kitchen is all set.”
He turned to Malika.
The woman was sniffing something in the air, then quickly glanced left and right. “No good spirit in the house,” she noted with a frown. “No good at all.”
“Right. About the spirits,” Sherlock looked at Galahad wandering by the hall and touching the walls as if looking for serial killers hiding behind them. “What can you tell me about him?” He nodded at the islander.
Malika glanced at Galahad briefly, skimming around his frame as if afraid to make eye contact. “I would never cross paths with that man if I were his enemy.” She concluded in a serious tone, then placed her possessions on the floor and rummaged in her pockets. “To tell more, I need to ask his and my ancestors. They tell me who this man is.”
“Um... who told… I mean. Your dead family?” Sherlock squinted.
“Ancestors. I need a clean cloth and silence.”
Sherlock couldn’t help chuckling, spreading his arms in an amused gesture. “I’m sorry, if it’s one of those spiritual seances…”
“Do you want to know who this man is or not want? You said I can have this job if I tell you. So I tell you. Give me a cloth and silence, the ancestors will speak.”
I’m in trouble. This is insane, and I’ve just signed my ticket to the madhouse.
Sherlock locked his hands on his stomach. “Very well, Malika. You can use the plaid from my sofa.” He pointed at the drawing room, glanced at Galahad and sighed, tracing his forehead with his index finger.
Can I trust this strange woman? She seems perfectly crazy.
Malika brought the plaid and spread it on the carpet in the hall, clicking her tongue at the brown stain where Galahad had bled. Even though it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault, and he actually hired her to deal with that, he felt a prick of guilt. Mother always taught him to keep things neat and clean, not wait for the servants to do what he’s perfectly capable of doing himself.
Malika beckoned Galahad with a wide fling of her arm. “Be my guest, dead man.”
Without saying a word, he walked over and sat on the plaid, crossing his legs like he was about to pray to the Indian gods. His pose was relaxed and balanced. The entire situation seemed natural to him, no matter how bizarre it looked. Involuntarily, Sherlock recalled the night when he and his childhood friend Mary, aged maybe eight, called for the ghosts of the dead poets, and ran away screaming when they heard an owl cry from the garden. That was just as silly.
Malika fetched a wisp of dry weeds and lit it up with a long match.
“What are you doing? You’ll burn my house with...”
“Sit!” The woman pointed at the plaid beside her. Her command came in such a powerful voice that Sherlock collapsed on the floor with little (if any) resistance.
She blew on the grass in her hand, enriching the fumes, and performed a series of shaky movements around Galahad’s face, leaving a thick plume of white, spicy smoke. Sherlock couldn’t recognise the smell and assumed the weeds came from her homeland. Malika started swaying and humming softly, transitioning into a chant. Her voice rose and fell in erratic waves. It was a simple song that repeated over and over, like a mantra.
The smoke filled Sherlock’s lungs, and he coughed into his fist, unable to believe that both the islander and sangoma maintained their composure in this thick wall of intoxicating reek. Fortunately, before Holmes could lose the remnants of his pride and flee for some fresh air, Malika extinguished the smouldering embers with a spit and a quick pat on the weeds.
Through the dense mist in the hall, Sherlock noticed Galahad sitting still with his eyes closed, as if deep in a trance. The woman took a pouch out of her pocket, shook it thoroughly, then spilt the remnants between her and the islander. Sherlock identified a weird set of items, scattered by the plaid: bones, coins, buttons, pebbles, seashells, beads, dice…
Malika watched the pattern of the trinkets on the floor meticulously, chewed on her lower lip, smacked with her tongue, and turned to Sherlock.
“This man came from afar, from the sunny islands in the ocean.” Those were her first words spoken after the chant, and they came coarse and low, like the smoke itself sipped through her mouth. “His family died, sangomas of his land raised him, and when the ocean took him, they called him Ocean. His friend, a white-skinned woman with black hair, misty-blue eyes, and a tiny scar on her eyebrow, died, and he came to help her go with peace.”
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Sherlock opened his mouth, unable to believe it. She described his mother.
“She lived here, and he came with a message from her spirits. He came to bring justice to those who set death upon his friend. This woman had many spirits within her who helped her see justice, and she had enemies. This man, Ocean, has many spirits within him, too, and so he can’t die a natural death or be killed by a man. His allies guide him. He is a sangoma.”
Shaman, Sherlock translated, barely keeping himself from pressing the aching point on his temple, as he felt a sudden fit of a headache. “Right. That makes sense, of course.” It didn't. “But how can you tell this by reading… buttons and stones?”
“These are bones. I am a diviner, I can see anything my ancestors tell me.”
“Your ancestors, I see.” Sherlock wanted to scream, What ancestors? What spirits? Who are you talking about? I don’t see any ancestors here! “But you threw them on the flow.”
Malika lifted her incredibly patient eyes at him. “I may throw the bones, but my ancestors control how they land. I let the spirits of my ancestors and his ancestors flow through me, master.”
She waved at Galahad, who still sat in his lotus pose with his eyes closed.
“But how can you be sure that Galahad is a san… with the spirits? I want to say, is there a shred of physical evidence that this man is with... other powers... inside?” Sherlock could hardly believe he said that aloud. Still, Malika mentioned his mother’s murder, things that may or may not be true, but nonetheless, scratched the insides of his very soul. If only he could prove it, not blindly rely on the imaginative (or brainsick) talk of an African sorcerer.
“There’s a simple way to prove it, master.” Malika swept the bones into her pouch. “There is a spot somewhere on his body where the spirits entered him. It usually looks like a birthmark, but unusual birthmark. If you stub it with a needle, he won’t feel any pain.”
“Just like during the Inquisition time?” Sherlock spread his hands in doubt, but by the stone face of his new housekeeper, he read that it meant an empty sound to her.
“Spirit enters the body and gets out through this spot,” she repeated, pointing at Sherlock. “In my world, it’s as natural as for you to eat chicken and use its fat to have power to do your job,” Malika added, as if biting it off. “He doesn’t remember much now, because his spirits rule, not his mind. His mind is deeply asleep.”
Sherlock blinked at her. That sounded like gibberish, still, that gibberish crawled under his skin and made him cold. Something in this woman’s voice gave him no choice.
Sherlock glared at Galahad and saw him open his eyes, gazing straight at him through the dispelling smoke, sharp, glistening, calm, giving the young man a shiver. His face was unreadable, like the face of a tiger right before the launch. Or a madman.
The witch-hunt practice Malika suggested seemed cruel and questionable. But what were the options? The explanation the sangoma gave him was as weird as this weird situation, but the only one he had so far. He might’ve needed more information, but the fact stayed. The procedure must be done eventually to exclude all the speculations.
“You don’t mind being pricked by a needle, do you, Galahad?”
“I can play a voodoo doll if you insist.” He nodded slightly.
“Pardon?” Sherlock did a brief search in his memory storage but couldn’t find any file signed ‘voodoo doll’. He assumed it was something African, hearing Malika chuckle.
Is this possible that these two are together and plotting against me?
“Prick me all you like if that can help ya,” Galahad added. “Though it’s rather annoying, believing solely in things that you can see or touch. Eyes don’t see much of this world.”
“Still, I prefer facts…” Sherlock turned to Malika. “Whenever you’re ready, madam.”
“No, master. I need no proof. I know,” she raised her palm, pale brown, with deep lines on the inside. Then scooped the pouch and the half-burnt weeds back into her pockets and stood up in one quick move as if someone pulled her up by the shoulders. “And I have work to do. This house needs my full attention.”
She walked to the door and picked up her knot of personal things from the floor. “Show me your home now, master. I did what you asked, eh? Now I am the housekeeper,” she said it with a sinister accent on the ‘housekeeper’ as if she actually meant the house keeper.
Strange woman, I need to persuade her to wear shoes. At least.
Sherlock stood up and followed her to the kitchen. There wasn’t much to show since half the house stood locked to save on heating (the sea breeze brought cool nights even during summer times) or due to the roof damage. However, Malika insisted on seeing every single room and made a series of clicking and slurping sounds with her tongue as she wandered by the chambers and corridors. They echoed from the empty walls and made the new housekeeper shake her head like doctors do when they see the patient is hopeless. Still, her mere presence in his deserted place warmed Sherlock’s heart. The shadows of decay shimmered and subsided before the barefoot woman, and the sadness of the empty halls and leaking roof tiptoed back into oblivion. Slowly, Silverwood Manor started feeling like home again.
Sherlock handed her the keys and promised to write a cheque by the end of the week.
Malika glared at him, and he added, “Cash then.”
“I’ll be needing an errand boy, master. I don’t shop, the house and garden are big enough for one pair of hands, so think about an errand boy.” That wasn’t an offer, but an order. She jingled with the key ring and strutted to the kitchen, leaving Sherlock wondering if he had hired a housekeeper or the housekeeper had just hired him.
He shook his head, dispelling the feeling, and went to get Galahad. He found him in the hall, loitering around the pictures and stopping by the one Sherlock liked most as a child. Storm on the sea by Ayvazovskyy. A painful heaviness moved in Sherlock’s chest when he thought about the procedure to prick this man with a needle. He felt nauseous from the mere thought of taking part in this madness. But what choice did he have? The method was maverick, yet reasonable.
Deep down, Sherlock knew Malika was right. Even Jesus took three days to resurrect, and this man was fit as a fiddle in just a few hours. There had to be another variable in this equation. He only needed physical evidence to prove it. Alas, science didn’t have such instruments to do so. But the shamanism had. And these instruments were no less logical. If a spirit enters your body, it leaves an insensitive spot on your skin. If there’s no such spot, there's no spirit. As simple as that.
Silently, Holmes joined Galahad at the picture. “I used to imagine myself sailing there,” he mumbled, sliding with his eyes by the canvas. “The sea seemed so... gravitating. Full of secrets. Unknown.” He sighed, “So chaotic it hurts.”
Galahad kept silent. This cosy silence again. Sherlock glanced at him and noticed the man was looking back. Their eyes met. For a tiny second, Sherlock panicked, as he didn’t see anything human behind those tranquil, magnetic eyes. He could be as gravitating and chaotic as the sea, shaking a ship in that picture.
What if I’m just being fooled? What if he’s a maniac, toying with me?
But then. He knew my mom.
Sherlock remembered the Quiet Nights in his house, the nights when Mother invited her guests strictly by midnight, quiet guests, sometimes wearing masks and capes, like a masquerade. They locked themselves in the drawing room until the first light of dawn. It was forbidden to disturb the party or even walk by the ground floor during the Quiet Nights. Once, Father slapped him and locked him upstairs for being too peeky.
They never discussed what happened behind the closed doors, but smart little Sherlock figured out pretty soon that it was called ‘seances’, and they talked to the dead. Later, he even attended one in London, among Mycroft’s powerful friends, and proved that the medium, with her accomplice, used double panels, cheesecloth, hidden hooks and wires attached to her heels and belt to imitate the ectoplasmic ghosts soaring in the air.
It was just a fashion fad, Mother told him, a fun experience, nothing more.
Nothing more?
Sherlock realised his face was getting red, whether from a stranger’s glare or memories of him peeping through the crack opened doors and seeing his mother talking with a stranger’s bass and things moving on the floor. He couldn’t tell. Holmes cleared his throat and hurried to end that uncomfortable silence between them. “I suppose you need some rest. We’ll make this…” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Experiment. With a needle. When you feel better.”
“I’m fine, Mr Holmes.” Galahad turned to face him, stepping up, his eyes glittering right through him, making Sherlock shrink under his impending size. Did I always feel this intimidated by taller people? “Let’s not delay the inevitable.”
“Let’s not forget you’ve almost died last night, Galahad. You have bandages all over your chest. I don’t wish to poke into your wounds.” Sherlock turned to the picture, then back at his new companion. “I’ll show you the guest room. You can stay and rest, and I need to trace your tracks while they are still warm. Then I’ll be attending to my business in the local graveyard, so I won’t be home until late evening.” He said in his usual cool tone on his way upstairs.
“Your mother’s grave?” Galahad asked and made Sherlock turn on his track. “Not the way I do my job, Mr Holmes. I can’t protect you sitting home.”
“I’m perfectly fine on my own, I can assure you, there is no danger for me, and I’m capable of protecting myself if needed.”
Galahad raised an eyebrow. “Like your mother?”
Ouch.
“My mother died of natural causes,” Sherlock replied in an impassive tone, trying to detach himself from the mere memory of it. “I saw the postmortem report, the evidence people gave about her sudden sickness. My family had no enemies in Terra Santa…” Sherlock turned to him at the door. “Whoever tried to kill you had nothing to do with me or my mother.”
They stepped into a large, dusty bedroom overlooking the garden, a queen-size bed, and a massive desk. It used to belong to Mycroft before he moved to Oxford.
Galahad checked the lock and the windows. “Where is yours?”
“Um… the opposite door.” Sherlock looked under his feet shyly. It was a new experience, having someone stay at his house, not the other way around. He never had friends close enough to sleep under one roof, if not in the stinking boarding school chambers.
“I’d better sleep in your room, in case of an intruder.” Galahad turned from the window.
Sherlock blinked in bafflement. This audacious man had no sense of social propriety! “There is only one bed in my room, and it’s pretty small. We’re both too big for one bed.” Sherlock glanced at his fingernails as if they could confirm that. “Besides… this violation of personal space is… We are not used to sharing beds when…”
“I need no bed. Too soft. I sleep on the floor,” Galahad cut off.
Good grief!
“Galahad, I’m perfectly fine! And I’m sane enough not to let a stranger from God knows where, who can’t even say his name, to sleep on my floor just because he feels something with his guts, where his ancestors apparently reside!” There, he said it.
“You don’t trust me cos you don’t believe in what Malika said,” Galahad stated in a firm tone. “You prefer facts. Different people in different parts of the world live by different facts. How about including them in the inventory of your own? Or do you suggest only your facts count?”
“No, Galahad, this is not...” Sherlock raised his hand.
“C’mon, do the needle focus, let’s finish it. I can’t stand your doubts.” He walked towards Sherlock, staring him straight in the face. “T’won’t do me any worse.”
Will it?
“Very well.” Sherlock blinked. He couldn’t explain the sudden rush of his heart. Was it his worry for Galahad’s wounds? Or for the experiment’s results turning out not the way he expected? “If you insist.” He arched his eyebrows and gestured outside.
They walked down the corridor to their old governess’s room. Mrs Bucket only stayed one summer, but will be remembered forever for the embroidery lessons that she gave little Sherlock every time he slipped in Latin or took false notes in music.
“Right, let’s find a needle,” Sherlock said, clapping his hands.
He took his jacket off and dropped it where it fell. Mrs Bucket’s sewing table was still here, collecting dust in the corner. Sherlock opened the drawer and rummaged through the boxes, pieces of ribbons, scissors, and wool balls, absorbed in the idea of conducting a clean experiment. To be honest, he was a bit afraid it wouldn’t work, knowing it wouldn’t. What will that mean? That these people in his house are simply insane, and Sherlock takes his wishful thinking for reality?
“Magic... Magic, dear me, I’m too old to believe in…” He grabbed the pillow of needles and turned to Galahad, seeing him fling his trousers on the sheet-covered sofa, lifting a cloud of dust. The man was standing completely naked, if not for the bandages on his chest and arms. He was just getting to the bandages, too.
“What are you doing? Stop,” Sherlock demanded.
“You need to find a spot on my body. It can be anywhere.” His voice sounded indifferent.
“Yes, but...” Sherlock muttered slowly, touched his hair for no reason and lowered his eyes to the carpet like he was going to search for mysterious marks on it instead. He felt his face burning. “You need to keep your bandages on for at least a week.”
Gosh, this whole shamanic insinuation is ridiculous!
Sherlock touched the end of the needle. It was sharp. “Let’s do it this way,” he suggested, still studying that carpet. “We check for all the spots we can see without uncovering your wounds. If none of them proves us anything, we’ll check what’s under the swathe next time we change the bandages.” No reply followed, so Sherlock had to glance at Galahad-the-Islander to make sure he agreed. The expression he met on the other man’s face was impenetrable. That confused Holmes for a second, as he had never seen such emotion (or rather, the absence of any) on someone dying the night before and now just about to go through another round of torture.
Those green eyes were looking at him with a mix of deep tranquillity and keen pressure. Sherlock looked away almost immediately (coward!) and gestured to the window.
“Let’s move closer to the light.”
They stepped to the window. Galahad moved with ease and self-possession, like it didn’t matter to him whether he was naked or dressed. For a brief moment, Sherlock assumed people from his world didn’t know what clothes were for.
Some aborigines wear only belts for their weapons.
Oh, shut up and concentrate!
Sherlock forced himself to focus on Galahad’s skin, again marvelling at its unusual tan, the wild-looking waves of tattoos, the curvy lines of his muscles. Tiny veins netted under it and shaped their ways along his strong arms. His chest and chin were shaved, whether by himself or as a basic procedure in the hospital (he ticked himself to look up if islanders of Mauka traditionally shave beards and body hair, then hated himself for thinking of people as items of his brain research). He took a deep breath and then remembered he hadn’t cleaned the needle.
“Wait, I need some brandy to... Oh, there is a bottle of one…”
“Just do it, Mr Holmes,” Galahad cut off.
“Right.” Sherlock turned back to his chest, the unbandaged part of which was dotted with two tiny birthmarks. He blatantly refused to think he’ll be needing to prick him below the waist, too. That suddenly made him break into a sweat and back into the hot dressing rooms and showers of the boarding school when he first felt uncomfortable with naked men discussing girls and all those matters you better not repeat in church or at the dinner table.
“How do you feel it?” He asked, stubbing into one dot lightly.
“Like a sting of a mosquito.”
“Very well... and now?”
“Same.”
Sherlock moved towards his shoulder, completely engrossed in his experiment. The man's skin reacted to his touch in little goosebumps and a twitch of his muscles, every time the pricking went a bit deeper, so there was no doubt he felt it. But when Sherlock raised his needle to his face and touched the birthmark at his left eye, Galahad kept looking ahead like nothing happened.
“Um… Galahad?”
“Yes?” His eyes turned to cling to Sherlock’s
“Did you feel the sting just now?”
“No.”
Sherlock made two more stubs, but Galahad didn’t seem responsive. He decided there was something wrong with the needle and pricked him in his cheek near the mark, a little too hard, and Galahad gasped, pushing back and clapping his hand over his face. “Ay, that hurts!”
“Sorry, sorry! I’m sorry, I...” Sherlock raised his hands with a needle in surrender. “Gosh, is it too bad? Let me see.”
“Like a bloody bee! Or a horsefly.” He straightened up, uncovering his face. His left eye was red and teary, and the cheek where Sherlock pricked it had a tiny red spot.
“Oh, dear, my bad.” Sherlock sighed. “It wasn’t intended, I’m sorry. Let me disinfect it.”
He turned to take a bottle of brandy. And after the wound was dabbed profusely, he stubbed the birthmark at his eye again. Again, Galahad simply looked back at him, steadily, almost with a smile. And with that red eye of his, it looked rather menacing.
“Galahad...” Sherlock swallowed.
“Hm?” Galahad looked around his face with a shadow of a smile and focused on his eyes.
“You don’t feel anything?”
“Why, I feel a lot of things. The warmth of your body so close to mine, your sweet breath on my face, the fresh, woody and spicy flower notes. It’s so nice… the way you half-open your mouth when you concentrate...”
“No, the sting.” Sherlock felt the rush of blood to his cheeks and shook his head to dispel the effect of his words. “Do you feel the needle touching your skin? Here.” He pricked again.
Since the birthmark was right in the corner of his left eye, he couldn’t see the needle. But there was no tremble on the skin of his face, no wincing, no goose bumps. Galahad shook his head softly, without taking his eyes off Sherlock. His curls sway alone, in the golden light of the sun behind the window.
“Nope. Try again?”
Sherlock sighed and pricked deeper. No reaction. No blood.
“Are you trying?”
“I’m definitely trying, Galahad.”
“Well, I still feel only your hand on my neck and your vest buttons poking into my stomach. And that trousers’ chain of yours, I think it’s trying to marry my thigh.”
Sherlock swallowed, feeling a cold sweat rushing through his skin. He let what the islander had just said pass his ears. His mind at this moment was paralysed with solid walls of panic, inside which the chaotic thoughts bounced like tennis balls.
“Mr Holmes?” Galahad raised an eyebrow and leaned towards Sherlock’s face. They nearly bumped their noses when Holmes turned away abruptly.
“We need to. We need to clean the...” He grabbed the bottle of brandy from the table, but instead of cleaning Galahad’s stings, he just shoved it in his hands and dropped into the nearest chair. Galahad looked at the bottle, uncorked it with his teeth, and took a few gulps of alcohol.
“Here. Have a drink.” A brandy bottle nudged into Sherlock’s shoulder.
Holmes kept his pose of total despair, with his head down in his hands, elbows propped on his knees. “No,” he muttered, shaking his head slowly.
“Sherlock.”
“No. I need to think,” Sherlock hid his face in his palms.
Galahad sighed. He crouched in front of Holmes, put the bottle aside and took Sherlock by the wrist to make him uncover the face. After a moment of silly resistance, Sherlock finally looked at Galahad. He glanced at the tiny string of blood on his cheek, the red eye. His stomach twisted at the mere thought that he had done this.
“You have this spot, Gal,” Sherlock murmured, frowning as if from the pain.
The islander moved closer. He took his other hand in his palms when the door opened, and Malika stepped in with a bucket in her hand. What a scene it was! Galahad crouching completely naked beside sobbing Sherlock. They stared at Malika, frozen, and Malika stared back at them. Then the woman cleared her throat and casually placed the bucket of water on the floor.
The bang made Sherlock shudder. He jumped to his feet. “Y-yes. Thank you for reminding me!” Sherlock stuttered, brushing his hair back, looking around the room as if searching for something. “I must be off to Antigua, investigating the... investigating!” Holmes finally spotted his jacket and grabbed it on his way out.
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