The cab took Sherlock through the wet and misty narrow streets towards Antigua—a part of the Terra Santa islands filled with dense forests, ancient ruins, Mexican and indigenous settlements. Small, cubic houses painted bright yellow, orange, turquoise, and white, meandered along the tall, mossy stone walls, lush greenery, and majestic statues of ancient deities. Spacious haciendas owned by wealthy Mexican families stood decorated with peculiar murals featuring mythical creatures and scary humanoids. Conquered by Spain during La Conquista, Terra Santa gained its peculiar spirit and shape. Spaniards implemented their culture and built the first church, the Church of Santa Maria in Antigua. Although many colonies attained independence during the Spanish-American War, Terra Santa was occupied by the British Empire, bringing along new culture, industrialisation and mediocre cuisine.

  Nonetheless, Antigua remained the embodiment of Terra Santa’s history, predominantly populated by Mexicans mixed with natives who spoke both Spanish and English, attended Santa Maria Church, and celebrated native holidays. Even though they swore allegiance to the English crown, some tension existed between them and the Brits. The horrifying ancient statue thrusting its long, pointy tongue at everyone crossing the bridge between Antigua and Gran Palacio served as a vivid reminder of this. Sherlock often wondered what the natives thought about the 'cold war' between the Spanish-Mexican and British occupiers. Surely, nobody asked for their opinion. Their ancient heritage remained stone and silent. Like alien gods from outer space, those majestic ruins scattered around Antigua stood indifferent to humans and their scant problems.

  Sherlock held his palm at his eyes to shield from the sun, trying to put the mess in his head in order. He had his confirmation. Galahad was a sorcerer of some kind, which explained his extraordinary vitality, shamanic accessories, and his exceptional looks. The logic of this simple conclusion was evident, and yet, he felt shuddered inside his mind cage. Because now, accepting this fact, he will have to accept many more, which will unroot nearly everything he has grounded in. His intellect clung to any simple, ‘real’ explanation. What if Malika knew his mother? That would explain her ‘visions’. But how could she possibly know about Galahad? Unless they plotted it together, which again made no sense.

  I saw his wounds. The man was dying. There’s no way anyone can fake their death like this. An image of Malika with smoking dried grass in her hands, ordering him to sit, appeared in Sherlock’s mind. Her eyes. Black and deep, magnetically gleaming, like polished onyx.

  Shiver ran down Holmes’ spine.

  Come on, Sherlock. You’re just hiding from the obvious. Stop twisting facts.

  Sangomas are real. No matter how, they see things beyond human perception. But what did his mother have to do with them? What message did Galahad bring from her? The labyrinths of Sherlock’s memory ran into dark ends and locked doors. And he lost the keys a long time ago.

  Sherlock took his hand from his face and looked into the window at the ornate buildings of Antigua, a striking contrast with the classic Victorian style of Gran Palacio. He will think about it later. He’ll do the proper research, visit the library, the archives, talk to the experts, and sort recollections in his Mind Palace. For now, he’d better focus on the other side of this problem — the islander. That would be easier. If he knows who he is, he will get his answers sooner or later.

  If sangomas carry spirits within them who assist them, does it mean they are possessed?

  When Sherlock arrived at the shore where he was sure the right type of soil from Galahad’s boots was, the rain and crowd cleared and messed up all the evidence. All he could rely on was the locals’ memory. But, considering last night’s storm, there were hardly any witnesses. He wandered around the area, listening to people’s conversations, reading ads, searching for any clues of the night fights, suspicious foreigners, or police being involved. But nobody discussed anything apart from prices, latest news, and politics.

  There was a small tavern not far from the spot. A simple colonial building with a tiled roof and walls painted in warm sand colour. A stunted woman wrapped in a colourful shawl washed the dishes outside in a large bowl. She gave Sherlock an unwelcome glare when he entered the tavern. Too late to worry about his noble British outfit in Antigua. He walked to the wooden bar counter and looked around. One or two visitors were busy studying their beer mugs. None of them looked like they could remember their own names, not to mention last night. So Sherlock waited for the barman. He was a bit surprised to see a British man in his mid-fifties. He assumed the man was no less surprised to see a well-dressed gentleman in return. They exchanged confused glances, and Sherlock ordered ale and asked about the visitors from the Mauka islands.

  “Ay, sir, we’ve had a bunch o’them, sailed here for a job on the sea. But the Navy isn’t a charity, eh?” Said the man, while chewing on his cig. A fan of wrinkles lined the corners of his eyes, and the skin was spotted brown, wind-bitten. Sherlock recognised an ex-sailor.

  “Indeed, it is not,” Sherlock agreed, moving a glass of murky drink he ordered in a little circle on the bar stand. “They’d better join factories.” He led carefully.

  The barman laughed with the corner of his mouth, still clenching a cig in his yellow teeth. “Nah, they don’t go there. Islanders, eh! They go fishing.”

  “Right, you got me! Anyone in particular caught your attention?” He asked, imagining Galahad’s tall figure, broad shoulders, fluffy hair, imposing coat and... a gun. Indeed, he must have had a weapon. He looked more like a mercenary, not a fisherman.

  “All foreigners are the same to me,” the barman-sailor barked and turned to a rough woman in sailor’s pants and bandana over her bold head, walking to the stand.

  Sherlock left, leaving the drink on the stand.

  Along with the British and Africans smuggled here as cheap labour, Mauka’s mercenaries could arrive in Terra Santa with the British fleet. If that’s the case, the Navy Marines might know something about it. However, Sherlock had no access to their base. He could try to disguise himself as one of their own, but the risk of being exposed is too high. Besides, a marine officer’s uniform can’t be bought on the streets. Too many troubles for the doubtful benefits.

  All in all, apart from Dr. Armstrong’s suspicious conduct and speculations, Sherlock had nothing. He felt locked up. Devastated. Lost. The recent events spun like a hurricane through his sensitive mind. He needed some… order. Some distraction. Leaving the cab in the centre of Gran Palacio, he strolled along Wavy Street towards the bridge to give himself time to think. After a while, Sherlock realised he was heading to the southern part of Nizhoni Kéyah, the Indigenous part of the islands, mostly occupied by farms.

  To the cemetery. It was time to visit Mother’s grave.

  The stroll calmed him down. Sherlock always felt his brain worked better during a walk. He decided that having Galahad by his side next time on the spot might revive some memories of the locals, since it was impossible to miss him even for the untrained mind.

  Once seen, never forgotten. This must be carved on his grave!

  Sherlock caught himself thinking rubbish while watching the gravestones with mournful epitaphs, statues of crying angels, and wilting flowers in the vases.

  Gosh, he might have a loving family somewhere, waiting for his return, a wife…kids?

  This idea fell hard on his chest, cloaking him in a black shroud of jealousy. Galahad was his mother’s close friend. And Sherlock only had one person in the entire world he could call close, his elder brother he barely talked to. Most of the time, because they couldn’t stand each other.

  In the corner of his eye, Sherlock noticed a figure of a man skidding across the graveyard, keeping his cane up and holding his hand on a hat like people do in a hurry.

  But people usually don’t hurry in the valley of the dead.

  Sherlock halted and checked where the man was heading. His shadow fled behind the trees towards the entrance. Then, he heard him whistling for a cab.

  No need to dramatise everything. He might be late for an important engagement.

  Sherlock walked up to his mother’s grave and froze in his tracks, his heart jumping up his throat. The man wasn’t late. He was escaping the crime scene.

  He took his hat off, watching a train of white powder circling Aileen Holmes’ resting bed. On top of it, several stones of peculiar shape lay, forming a cross, dusted with the same white powder. Sherlock looked at the footprints left by the intruder, size nine. He reached out to touch one of the stones when he heard Galahad’s voice, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Mr Holmes.”

  Sherlock shuddered and turned around. The islander was standing behind him with his hands on his hips and one foot on the decorative pavement. He wore his clothes, what a relief! And his hair curled up a little tighter in the salty wind.

  “Galahad. What are you doing here? I thought I clearly asked you to rest.”

  “And I clearly replied to you that your safety is my priority.”

  “Really, Galahad, there is nothing…”

  “Don’t worry 'bout me, Mr Holmes. Malika stitched me up. I’m as good as new.” Indeed, he looked revived, radiant. His eyes were bright as usual, with no traces of prickling on his face. He walked up and crouched by the powder circle, gazing at it like it was alive.

  “Why did you say not to touch it?” Sherlock asked.

  “Cos it’s cursed.” He pointed at the stones. “A powerful ritual but conducted in a hurry.”

  Sherlock looked closer at the stones. “I saw the man who did it briefly. He was eager to get out of here.” He took his notepad from his pocket, made a few notes and sketched the grave. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

  Galahad touched the powder with his finger and licked it. “Salt. Well, they obviously didn't want her to get outta her grave. It’s hard to kill a kahuna.”

  “Who?” Sherlock frowned, stopping his pencil on the page.

  “Malika calls them sangomas. We call them kahunas; local Indians call them shamans. But it means the same: someone connected to the source.”

  “I see. It’s sorcerers in my language, then.” Sherlock tapped his pencil on the page, but then shook his head. “This is ridiculous. That man might be just a vandal.”

  Galahad looked up at him, still in his uncivil crouching pose, eyes smiling softly, although his face didn’t. “Something is going on, Mr Holmes. Does Aileen’s death look suspicious now to you? Surely, this is no ordinary crime,” he pointed at the grave. “And considering her being…”

  “Don’t say ‘magic’, please, I need solid... magical facts to call it as you say magic, kahuna, whatever.” Sherlock sighed and put his notepad away. “I’ll inform the police. But you’re right. This is just... not normal. I need to find out the reason why and who did this to Mom’s grave and not to anyone else’s.”

  He turned to leave and heard Galahad’s footsteps following him.

  “Where to now, captain?”

  “Restaurant,” Sherlock said, still thinking about the pattern of pagan symbols on the grave, Malika’s teeth beads, Mother’s secret seances with the dead, and... oh, yes, the islander’s amulets. It started to form into a straight line in his head.

  “Oh. Did you deduce that the vandal works as a waiter?” Galahad asked, intrigued.

  “No, Gal. I’m just hungry.”

  Sherlock chose Galatea Cafe on Solar St. in Celestio. He used to come here with his mother as a child, and the sophisticated atmosphere, with lushly blooming azaleas adorning the Greek statues in the dining area, hasn’t changed a bit. It remained Sherlock’s favourite place, not because of the view (in the centre of the street, with a huge, loud fountain in front), but because of the good memories associated with it. They served the best gelato on the islands! And Mother always treated him to Cherry Delight— three snow-white balls of vanilla ice cream under a net of delicious cherry jam. The best dessert ever. Sherlock almost felt it melting on his tongue as they reached the tables.

  Just their luck; only one appeared to be vacant. At this hour, Galatea Cafe was filled with aristocrats flocking here for a dose of fresh gossip and idle chatter. With Sherlock’s appearance alongside his new friend, the conversations grew somewhat quiet. Holmes noticed a few grim looks directed at Galahad. The men twisted their moustaches nervously, assessing Galahad from head to toe, while the women averted their faces in defiance. And Sherlock knew why. He had no illusions about the rules in his society, established by those who hold power — the white British aristocracy. They regarded the islander as if his mere presence here was an outrageous insult to their refined white bums.

  Sherlock felt physically sickened by these people.

  He pressed his lips, frowning. If only his determination alone could shoo those glares away. He looked at Galahad and noticed him casually taking a seat at the table, indifferent to everyone around. Holmes took a seat in front of him, still brooding about how everything was wrong in this society. “Why are you smiling?” Sherlock raised eyebrows at Galahad’s relaxed smirk.

  The islander shrugged. “Why not? It’s a nice place. I’m having lunch in a nice company.”

  “Huh,” Holmes chuckled. Involuntarily.

  It’s the nerves.

  He opened the menu and quickly ran his eyes through the list of dishes. “What would you like?” Sherlock tried to sound nonchalant, with his eyes deliberately glued to the menu. He held his breath waiting for Galahad’s answer, trying so hard to look unconcerned about the islander’s preferences in food.

  “Whatever you like, Mr Holmes,” Galahad shrugged. “I’d say I’d like fish and chips. Not something you would order, though.”

  Sherlock involuntarily looked up at him and spotted a crooked smile on his lips. Those white, strong teeth of his companion bewitched him. Holmes smiled back.

  “You know what? I’ll order fish and chips.” He closed the menu. “Why not? It’s not against the rules to order something mundane and cheap in a five-star restaurant.”

  He clicked his fingers to draw the waiter’s attention.

  A man, thin as a pole, came up, bowed theatrically, and, avoiding looking at Galahad, muttered in a heavy Italian accent. “Good afternoon, signores, my name is Giovani and I’ll be your humble assistant today. Now, your desire is my gospel.” Like he was their old friend.

  Sherlock opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Galahad snapped, “Hi, Giovani, I’m Galahad, and I don’t give a damn. Bring us fish and chips.”

  He slapped the table. Giovani blinked at him, still in his half-bow pose. Sherlock couldn’t help a smile curve his lips as he turned his eyes away. He wasn’t going to help this man out of this.

  “Signore...” Giovani swallowed. “Would you like to see the menu first?” There is no ‘fish and chips’ in a respectable establishment, you dirty-faced emigrant! His eyes screamed.

  “No, why? Maybe I'd better go and look into your kitchen, mate,” Galahad leaned forward. “Can’t imagine you don’t have any fish and bloody potatoes to fry to a golden crisp.”

  Giovani turned to Sherlock and met his cold gaze. “Fish and chips for me too, Giovani. And don’t let us wait, will you?”

  He had no choice but to finish his bow, offer some wine and gracefully withdraw with the menus.

  “That was. Pretty rude, Galahad,” Sherlock noted, still keeping his smile on. “Scandalous.”

  “This world is rude for people like me, Mr Holmes,” the islander snorted and snatched a bread stick from the basket in the centre of the table.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  “And it shouldn’t be like this,” Sherlock replied with a sigh. His keen eyes stopped at Galahad’s leather-skin coat. He tilted his head, inspecting the tiny stitches fixing the cuts together. The last time he saw this coat, it was in blood stains and pretty shredded. “Oh. Did Malika tend to your clothes, too?”

  Galahad looked down at himself. “Nah, she was pretty busy with the house. I did it.”

  Sherlock’s eyebrows jerked in amazement. He remembered the tedious sewing lessons his governess forced him to endure. Not that they were completely useless. Oh, they did serve him well during his solitary life, but still, it felt somewhat unfair that he had to learn several ways to mend a hole in a sock while other boys made pebbles jump on the water! No doubt, an important skill he hadn’t accomplished until today. In the end, the mended socks didn’t win him any friends.

  Could it be possible that I’m not the only one who suffered with the thread and the needle?

  “Well. You’re a man of wonders, Galahad. But. Isn’t it... a woman’s job to do such things?” Sherlock noted, looking at the table. He remembered Mary, his childhood friend, throwing her embroidery into the window and crying that she was meant to travel the world, not sit and stitch.

  Galahad simply looked at him. The second breadstick disappeared in his mouth.

  “I believe it’s a human’s job to look after themselves. Or did you mean it was a woman’s job to be human?” He brushed crumbs off his hands, making Sherlock blush with shame.

  Indeed. Wasn’t that how his mother raised him? And isn’t that his credo now, too?

  Sherlock smirked, shaking his head. “Pardon me. I think my comment was rather childish. Your position is, on the contrary, very mature.”

  Giovanni, less springy now, brought two plates with fish and chips and a bottle of white wine. He placed it all on the table with a stone face. “Anything else, gentlemen?” He said insipidly, holding the tray down in his hands, ready to fall underground if there were any more requests.

  “No, you’re free to go, mate,” Galahad said and scooped a couple of chips with his fingers.

  Both Sherlock and the waiter stared at him. Giovanni left immediately as if blown by the wind, and Holmes hovered his fork and knife over the dish.

  “Tasty,” Galahad said, chewing.

  “Um... Galahad?”

  “Yeah?” He got to the fish, tearing the flesh off the backbone, pressing it a little between his fingers and putting it into his mouth, enjoying every bite.

  “Isn’t it… hot?”

  “Very hot!” Galahad licked his buttered fingers and looked at Sherlock. “Try it.”

  Sherlock cut a chip in two, elegantly with his knife and put a morsel on his tongue. “Yes, it’s quite...”

  “Delicious!” The islander ate two more chips, scooping the sauce from the table with them.

  Sherlock felt like each pair of eyes in the restaurant was turned to his friend, relishing the fried potatoes.

  “Why don’t you use the cutlery?” He asked with a polite cough.

  Galahad looked at him, perfectly unaware of his confusion. “Why? It’s better this way.”

  Sherlock made a sip of wine to swallow the lump in his throat. He wasn’t ashamed or appalled by Galahad’s manners, but rather shocked. After a second of paralysis, Sherlock tried to reflect on everything he was seeing in front of him.

  He was amazed at the zest with which the islander devoured his food. Strangely, Holmes couldn’t take his eyes off how Galahad skillfully gathered the morsels with his left hand and put them into his mouth. None of the crumbs fell on the table. For him, eating with his hands was as familiar as using a fork for us. But also, his moves. So swift and light, so easy and masterful. Like he was never hurt. Like he wasn’t dying yesterday. How is it even possible? No matter how strong the body is, it has limits.

  Are those truly spirits holding him in one piece?

  This unformed thought kept wandering through his mind from the restaurant to the police station, and to the Terra Santa Chronicles to cancel his ad about the housekeeper and post another for an errand boy. All the while, Galahad followed him like a shadow, silent, swift, and watchful. Nothing threw this man in a loop, neither the noisy streets of the big city nor the baffled stares of passersby, gawking at his towering stature. Once or twice, Sherlock caught the astonished gazes from the people and felt somewhat uneasy. He wasn’t accustomed to being the centre of social attention, but with a companion like Galahad, he simply had no choice.

  Back in London, Sherlock happened to expose the charlatans with their medium tricks and solved the minor issue of the Duchess’s missing jewellery (taken by the local crows). He allowed his elder brother to gather the laurels, as he preferred to avoid public attention, unlike Mycroft. Nevertheless, someone wrote an article in the Times, and people began knocking on the door of his humble flat, pleading for his assistance in locating their jewels, lost dogs, or runaway husbands.

  They don’t look at me, stop fretting about it. They look at Galahad.

  Sherlock caught himself staring at the passing carriages like a man would stare at a running river to calm himself down.

  “What’s wrong?” Galahad asked him as the fifth cab clambered by. “We’re not riding?”

  “I'm sorry, I must’ve fallen into my thoughts, Galahad.” Galahad! He can’t even know his real name? “You surely don’t remember,” he turned to him, “anything about you?”

  “Er,” Galahad raised his eyebrows. His expression was blank. “I dunno. I guess I like fish.”

  Sherlock sighed and brushed his brow with a finger. “We need to identify you. To look for your assailant. It may trigger your memory, and you’ll tell me then why you think my mother was killed. But there’s only one clue we have for now, pretty far-fetched, and it’s Dr Armstrong. I have a feeling he knows you. He’s also our family doctor. He must know something about my mother’s death, too.” Sherlock stopped and gave it a thought. “I have his address.”

  “Oh, absolutely, let’s see the doctor, Mr Holmes!” Galahad turned and whistled for a cab. And of course, he opened the door for Sherlock.

  Dr. Armstrong’s posh office was located on Royal Street in Gran Palacio, overlooking the Plaza. A prestigious place like this primarily offered services to the islands’ aristocracy. It was no wonder that the waiting hall was empty, and the timid woman behind the desk stated that the reception hours had ended and that Dr Armstrong wouldn’t accept any more visitors today. Perhaps the gentleman would like to leave a card and schedule a call?

  “We’re not here for his professional help, miss,” Sherlock said. “It’s a personal matter, and we’d be happy to discuss it as fast as possible. I’m sure Dr Armstrong won’t mind assisting me in solving a crime.” He handed her his card.

  “Sherlock Holmes,” the young woman read and smiled at him, shaping funny dimples in her plump cheeks “The same Sherlock Holmes who found the Duchess’s jewels in a magpie nest?”

  “Crow nest,” Sherlock corrected, touching his necktie, irritated by her inattentiveness to the vital details. “Can we see the doctor?”

  “Of course, sir. He’s in his office.” She stood up. Sherlock noticed she was fully dressed and had a pouch in her gloved hand. “Would you inform him that I left the keys on the table?”

  “Certainly. Thank you, miss... Feeble.” Sherlock read her badge.

  Miss Feeble glanced up at Galahad and hurried to leave the room. She turned to look at him again, pushing the front door, and crossed herself twice before leaving.

  “Holy dickens!” Dr Edward Armstrong cried as they walked in. With his jacket and hat on, he jumped from his table, where his already packed case stood. His face turned pale under the net of freckles, like he’d just seen a ghost.

  “It’s… you,” he breathed out.

  Sherlock opened his mouth to greet him and apologise for the late visit, but Galahad rushed forward, flinging his arm with dashing speed, and something metal glinted and clicked in his hand.

  “Hello, doctor. Remember me?” In a split second, he kept Armstrong at gunpoint.

  He has a gun? Where did he... wait. It’s my father’s gun!

  “Gal!” Sherlock exclaimed, both from shock and horror.

  What the hell is he doing?

  Dr Armstrong jerked his hands up, stepping back. His lower lip trembled, and his forehead glistered with sweat. “Don’t shoot! Don’t...”

  “Why, gimme at least one reason why I shouldn’t shoot a doctor who killed his patient?” Galahad glared at him, cutting every word like with a knife.

  “What are you talking about? I’m not... I saved your life. I did, didn’t I?” Armstrong turned his pleading look at Sherlock.

  The man was trembling like a rabbit. Sherlock spotted his upper lip curved up and eyes running in circles around the room, desperately looking for excuses. He's lying. Sherlock frowned, feeling his limbs getting ice-cold. God, Sweet Mercy, he's lying!

  “I’m... I’m glad you’re fine...”

  “Oh, are you? My guess is that you’re surprised to see me, sonnava bitch!” Galahad stepped closer, pressing his gut to his forehead. “You injected me with a killing dose of drugs, remembuh?”

  “It was a sedative! I swear? For your own good!”

  “Was it for my own good to tell the nuns to give me more drugs to overdose? So I wouldn’t make it till morning? You didn’t think I could hear you, did ya? And you didn’t think I could tell ‘em the truth!”

  “For heaven’s sake, call the police!” Armstrong screamed, pressing himself into the wall.

  “Galahad, please, lower the gun,” Sherlock ordered. His voice sounded blank. Emotionless. Dismayed by the fact that Armstrong tried to kill his patient.

  “Huh. At least one reason why I shouldn’t shoot this pig?” Galahad repeated, his accent getting heavier.

  “You’ll get hanged for this!” Sherlock raised his voice and stepped closer to the islander.

  “I can take the risk,” Galahad waved his head, still pinning Armstrong with his glare.

  “Galahad, I beg you,” Sherlock put his palm on the gun.

  The islander turned to look at him. Something flashed across his cruel green eyes, and they softened. “O’ right, that’s the reason enough.” He took the gun away, put on the safety, then kicked the doctor in the crotch. It happened so quickly that both Sherlock and Dr Armstrong flinched, and the doctor doubled over, gasping with pain.

  Galahad hid the gun behind his belt and walked around the room, like a beast in the cage, watching Dr Armstrong insipidly, still ready to shoot him if he moved.

  Sherlock looked at the man, crouched at the wall, holding his crotch and moaning. “Do you know this man, doctor? Answer me.” A cold grip twisted his stomach as he spoke.

  Fish-and-chips were already asking to see the world again, as he watched the doctor crawl on the floor. He never liked violence. As a kid, he avoided fights at any cost. Talked the situation through. Ran away. He felt nauseous from the mere thought that Galahad could do something horrible to this man.

  Coward.

  Sherlock glanced at the small bar near the bookshelves. There must be some ice, too.

  “I’ll give you an ice compress to...” he stumbled, “Help. With the injury. But you must tell us everything you know.”

  “I’ll tell you nothing, Mr Holmes!” Armstrong spat, then caught Galahad’s glare and softened. “Listen… Sherlock.” Dr Armstrong lifted his teary eyes at him. “You’re a good guy, I know that. I’m your family doctor, for Christ’s sake. Why do you believe this thug and not me? Upon my word…, I don’t know him. I saw him for the first time yesterday, in your house.”

  “Then why did you want to kill him?” Sherlock went on in a strange, iron tone. He scooped ice cubes into a napkin and handed the compress to the doctor.

  “I didn’t! I helped him!” Armstrong yelped, turning his face up and snatching the compress from his hands, the red veins on his neck stood out. “And he’s just made me sterile!”

  Sherlock sighed. He needed some air. Gosh, it’s so stiff in here.

  “Why are you lying to me?” While Sherlock’s voice was ice cold, all his insides shivered from the surrealism of the situation. I’ll have nightmares about this.

  Armstrong was silent. In a moment, he said, looking at the floor. “You’ll regret this. I’m a respectful man. Your brother will know about this. So will the police. They will arrest you!”

  “Respectful men don’t kill their patients, Dr Armstrong,” Sherlock cut off.

  “Says who? Your beast? Who are the police going to believe, eh? A respectful doctor or a dangerous nobody with a gun? My word against his, Mr Holmes.”

  Help me, God.

  Sherlock’s heart drummed in his ear, and he felt his vest a bit too tight to breathe. “Is this how you treated my mother? How did she die? In truth. Was it her word against yours, too?”

  Armstrong changed in his face. The muscles around his eyes relaxed, and he turned away. He limped to a chair and lowered his bum. Slowly. “She was ill, Sherlock, I told you.”

  “Yeh, and we know how you treat your patients,” Galahad stepped closer.

  Sherlock blocked his way with his stretched arm, in case he decided to hit him again. “Show me her file, Doctor,” he demanded.

  This is against the law! What am I doing?

  But shortly after, the answer followed — Uncovering the truth.

  “She was my patient; I have no right to share her…”

  “Mother is dead, Doctor!” Sherlock exclaimed in a surprisingly loud voice. Was my voice always this screechy? “And I’m her closest family. If you have nothing to hide about her treatment, give me that file.”

  Armstrong glanced towards the set of drawers. It was enough for Sherlock to know where he kept the medical records. He paced the room towards the cabinets and opened the one marked ‘H’. Doctor grappled at his table, standing up, but Galahad pushed him back with a heavy drop of his hand on his shoulder.

  “You took the wrong lead, Sherlock,” Doctor quacked from his chair, shrinking down like just about to crawl into his suitcase and sit there till this stupid boy and his scary pet leave. “I didn’t kill your mother… I was trying to help.”

  “Help with what exactly?” Sherlock asked, leafing through the papers in the file with Mrs Holmes’ name. “There is nothing serious on the records. Pregnancy. Postpartum treatment. Second pregnancy. Seasonal flu… She didn’t even suffer migraines or stomach bugs or anything tedious. According to your records, my mother was a strong, healthy woman, who suddenly got depressed and delusional, was treated with morphia, and died of… an aneurysm.”

  Sherlock slapped the file closed and looked at Armstrong. “And the postmortem report confirms your diagnosis. Why was she depressed, Doctor?”

  Armstrong shrugged, still holding a cold compress on his crotch. “Women, Sherlock, are prone to hysterics and unstable behaviour. It’s in their nature.”

  Galahad huffed with a roll of his head.

  “More lies.” Sherlock waved the file in his hand. He glanced at the islander. “Here’s what you’re going to do, Dr Armstrong. You’ll tell us everything you know about this man,” he nodded at Galahad, “And in return, I won’t report you to the police. Yet. I need his name, origin, and, most importantly, what you’ve got against him.”

  A chuckle bursting from Armstrong grew into hysterical laughter. “Why, Sherlock? Did he lose his memory? Oh, he did, didn’t he?” He added, noticing the grim expression on Sherlock and the absence of any on the ‘beast’, and giggled till tears glistened in his eyes.

  Galahad took his gun in one swift move, and the laughing stopped abruptly. “All right! All right!” Armstrong raised one hand. “His name is Yason. That’s all I know, I swear on my mother’s grave, Sherlock. Just. Take this… animal away, will you?”

  Holmes put his ice-cold palm on Galahad’s shoulder. “Yason, who?”

  The doctor shook his head. “I only knew him as Yason.” He lifted his timid look to Galahad. “You addressed me about Mrs Holmes and her son. Then I learned you were a mercenary, a dangerous man. The next time I saw you was in Silverwood Manor, dying. That’s all I know.”

  Sherlock frowned, taking the file in both hands. “Who told you he was a mercenary?”

  “Just… some of my patients. I don’t remember.”

  “Why did you try to kill him, then?” Sherlock pressed on.

  “I... I didn’t! It was late at night. I was tired! I tried to save his life, for God’s sake!”

  “I’ll show you how you tried to save my life,” Yason, if that was his name, moved towards Armstrong, glaring, but Sherlock stood in his way.

  “Galahad. No.” He put his hands on his chest. “We’re done here.”

  “I’m not done here,” Yason snarled, showing his long fangs.

  Armstrong squeaked behind his back.

  “I said. Enough!” Sherlock raised his voice, pushing Yason back. “We’re leaving. Now.” He turned to Dr Armstrong, folded the file and hid it in his pocket. “I’ll return Mother’s papers shortly, doctor. Good evening.”

  But before leaving, he turned and said in his usual polite tone. “Also... Your secretary asked to tell you that the keys are on the table.”

  He hated leaving his promises unfulfilled.

  They walked out of Dr Armstrong’s office into the cool, still twilight. The last glimpse of the daylight was dying in a crimson red flash far on the horizon. They paced in silence down the street. Sherlock was shivering under his jacket.

  It’s the wind. It’s just the wind.

  He put his hands around his shoulders. There was no wind. A gentle touch to his elbow made him flinch and turn abruptly. He looked at his companion, frowning.

  “Give me the gun, Galahad,” he demanded.

  “No,” Yason’s answer was sharp and final. “I need it to protect us.”

  “It’s my father’s gun. You had no right to take it.” Sherlock insisted. “Give me the gun.”

  Yason put his hands akimbo and tilted his head, daring him. “Make me.”

  “Gosh. You... This is not...” Sherlock gave up. He breathed out loudly and ran his fingers through his hair. “We are not... pointing guns at suspects, Galahad... Yason, or hit them. This is inexcusable and unacceptable. Do you understand? It’s inhumane and also against the law. We stand with the police and justice, not the terrorists with their brutal methods.”

  Yason lowered his arms. “You heard him. Even if the truth is on my side, whom will your law trust? The respectable doctor or a dark-skinned stranger?”

  Sherlock watched him in silence as the logic of his words wormed into him. “Yes, all right, you’ve got the point here. But still...” he tucked his palms back under his arms. “Keep your anger under control. We’ll have more chances to bring him to justice in cold blood.”

  Yason nodded. “Agree.”

  “Good.” Another brush along his hair. He gulped air, calming himself down. Even though he accused Yason of anger, Sherlock felt less in control than the islander. Hitting doctors in the crotch, probably crippling him for life, seemed a routine business for him. Involuntarily, the myths about berserks crossed Holmes’ mind. He looked at his companion, who watched him back in the tranquillity of his greenish eyes.

  “Well... Yason? Is that your real name?”

  “I dunno. Maybe.”

  “Don’t you feel anything about it?”

  Yason shrugged. “Should I? I wouldn’t believe that prick. He could invent this name.”

  “Why would he…” Sherlock sighed and went back to the safety of critical thinking. “Why would you lose your memory in the first place? It doesn’t make sense. Your head wasn’t injured.”

  “I died, Mr Holmes. But I’m a kahuna, my spirits kept me afloat. That’s the only why.”

  Sherlock had nothing to say in return. The solid ground was melting under his feet, turning into deep, dark and dangerous waters. And the only way not to collapse into it was to keep going through this mess. So he did. He turned away and walked into the falling darkness. Yason followed him silently, like a shadow.

  “I wish to be alone,” Sherlock muttered, not even looking in Yason’s direction. “I need to. Clear my head. Process. All this.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone at this hour.” It was a statement.

  Holmes stopped abruptly and turned to his follower. They nearly collapsed into each other, so Sherlock raised his hand to his chest.

  “Dead people don’t magically resurrect, Yason.” His voice was tense. Sherlock struggled to remain calm when everything inside him was storming in a hell of a tornado. “This is not. How. Life. Works.”

  Yason’s gaze on Sherlock stayed calm. In the blue tint of the upcoming night, it was hard to tell how he accepted this.

  “For kahunas life works in many ways, Mr Holmes. Not all of them are familiar to you.”

  “How can you be so certain?” Sherlock squinted. His voice trembled. God knows he was on the edge. “You don’t even remember if Yason is your real name, yet you are adamant about this ‘kahuna’ thing. How can you remember about being a kahuna and not about being Yason?”

  Yason blinked. If he was on the mere edge, as well, he didn’t show it.

  “My body didn’t lose its memory. My mind did. My body knows I’m a kahuna. Yason is only a personality, something people call me. What I really am is kahuna.”

  Okay. This is too much.

  Sherlock splashed his hands and turned away in utter bafflement. He walked several steps a bit further down the street, but then stopped again. “Yason, please. Can you just…” he held his breath. “Go to the Silverwood? I need some time. Alone.”

  He shot an angry gaze at Yason, emphasising 'alone'.