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“How many books do you plan on borrowing?”
“Several,” I muttered shortly. I had already finished both books I had packed for this trip, and if Holmes truly intended to stay until the weather cleared, I would need far more than that. This storm would sit over us for at least a week.
“Why?”
I did not answer immediately, scanning a summary. “Why do you think?” I finally replied. The book landed in my basket. “You disappear for hours every day, and you refuse to let me help. I want something better to do than sleep or stare through the fire.”
Two hours of nightmares for two consecutive nights had killed any interest in another attempt at sleep, but I refrained from saying as much. I doubted he had even noticed the date.
His frown suggested he read more into my words than I had intended, however. “You are not enjoying a quiet week?”
I turned away to roll my eyes. “Quiet” provided more relaxation with company. Holmes’ burglary case had taken us to a country manor in northern Germany, and while he claimed to have arrested the culprit days ago, a snowstorm had rolled in the morning we intended to leave. I had not seen him during daylight since. Combined with the impending date, the cold damp easily renewed nightmares better left in the past, and while I had not yet experienced a true, full regression, I would soon if something did not change. Anniversaries were difficult enough in London’s rain—and multiple diversions.
“We define ‘quiet’ differently,” was my only reply, my focus on the shelves. He had said only that a case arrested his attention, and what little sleep I had found either reimagined old events or speculated the trouble from which he could be excluding me. He knew I preferred to face the danger at his side rather than let him face it alone.
And I much preferred to face trouble at his side than face my memories in the flames. Their flickering dance provided a form of time travel otherwise found only in science fiction.
“You despise horror novels.”
I glanced again at the book I had just dropped into my basket, only then noticing the macabre picture appearing to leave a bloody slice through the cover. The book returned to its place on the shelf, but Holmes followed me down the aisle.
“You spent an entire evening expounding on how similar this place was to your childhood home,” Holmes continued, neglecting to comment on my lack of attention, “and it is much too large to go everywhere in a single day. Did you already explore the manor?”
“Yes.” I had wandered much of the house the first day, but stone rooms all looked alike. Eventually, a tapestry had hit too close to one of my last memories with Harry, and the storm had only cemented matters. I would have preferred to go home days ago.
We followed Holmes’ schedule, however, not mine, and the blowing snow had prevented any attempt to nudge him otherwise.
“How long do we have until supper?”
His frown deepened at the change in topic, but he pulled out his watch.
“Thirty minutes. Are you going to eat tonight?”
“Of course.” I counted the books weighing down my basket. These would last at least a few days. “Do you want to meet me at the dining hall? I need to take these back to our rooms.”
Silence stretched in answer. I finally looked up just before he claimed the basket, taking my arm in his.
“I should have considered the storm,” he told me in a quiet near apology.
“Don’t worry about it.” I leaned slightly against a shelf, trying to free my arm. I needed my stick more than I wanted him to know, but I could not balance with my left arm.
He refused, readjusting to force me to lean on him. “Is that why you have stopped eating?”
“Eat something, dear. Anything. I do not care what.”
The voice whispered from the past, taunting me with memories requesting access to the present. I missed her too much to deny the vision when alone, but now I firmly ignored it. Mary was not here, and I would not indulge in Holmes’ presence.
“I have not stopped eating.” My struggling only tightened his grip. “Let go of me.”
“No.” He tugged gently, directing our steps toward our rooms. “You need to eat. Do I need to ask the cook to make something different? Or differently?”
“I am eating.” The manor cook did an excellent job with a limited variety. I simply had no appetite. Too many anniversaries fell in too few days, and the ache lancing through my old wounds did not help matters. Fond nostalgia competed with blood and gore for domination of my thoughts.
“A few bites do not constitute a meal, Watson. What needs to change to convince you to eat?”
“You need to eat, John. Please.”
A vaguely familiar face knelt in front of me, worry knitting her eyebrows. Dishes clinked, then a spoon touched my lips.
“Open your mouth, John. It’s just broth.”
A creative twist finally freed my arm, and I immediately shifted to lean on my stick instead of him. “I am eating,” I repeated, “and you can hardly remonstrate me for something you do yourself. I’ll meet you in the dining hall shortly.”
With my cane in my right hand, I tried to take the basket in my left, but both Holmes and my shoulder refused. He scowled at the flinch I could not hide.
“You are stubborn. I do not skip meals to stare through the fire, nor do I spend entire nights counting constellations in the ceiling patterns. If not the storm, then what?”
How he knew about the constellations, I had no idea, but I had learned my stubbornness from my friend. He did not need that answer. I needed to get back to the room, preferably without him.
He thwarted my next attempt to take the basket by setting it on the floor behind him, and I gave up. If he wanted my stack of books, he could take them to our rooms himself. I needed to get out of sight before my promise forced me to speak.
“Watson.”
No. Not now, but he walked faster than I could hope to beat. Quick movements blocked my path down the hall, then he bent slightly to put his face level with mine, probably intending to ask a specific question and use my expression to gauge an honest answer. Instead, his relative location proved too like a memory. The vision crashed over me before I had a chance to push it away.
“John, can you hear me this time?”
That familiar face knelt in front of me again, lovely despite the concern in her eyes. I wondered who she was—and what about her sparked the rare escapes from my own mind. I still did not remember anything from Before, but she had stayed with me ever since—
I cut off the thought. I did not need to return to that. Not yet. Maybe this time I would recall her name.
Pleasure brought a beautiful flush to her cheeks. “Oh, John. How I’ve missed you.”
Why? Had I gone somewhere?
I had no idea, nor could I ask, but that made no difference. I stared at her for several seconds before the falls took over my thoughts once again.
“Watson. Watson, look at me.”
I blinked, finding myself in an opulent but nearly deserted stone hallway. Elaborate wall hangings matched thick rugs, and various paintings filled the gaps. Holmes stood in front of me, his gaze firmly locked on mine.
“Are you with me?”
A nod sufficed as answer. He knew I frequently could not speak after slipping through time.
“How long have you been fighting regressions?”
Long enough. Between the date, the weather, and the time alone, my thoughts had been wandering for days, and the nightmares had not helped. I had hoped to use the journal in my room to dispel the memory.
The worry in Holmes’ face announced he had deduced my plan and did not agree with it.
“Why did you try to hide it?”
Because he did not need to know. I had promised to say something should I be unable to dispel it myself, but the journal would have solved the problem—if I had made it back to our rooms. I had not expected him to block my path in such a manner.
“Oh, John. How I’ve missed you.”
I flinched but turned the motion into a step around Holmes. I would not discuss this, and I saw no reason to wait for my words to return. A novel would pass the evening just as the other books I had borrowed would pass the night. A light in my room would not bother him.
Attempting to avoid him might, however. He easily stayed with me, though he did not block my path again.
“Did I cause this?”
Indirectly, perhaps, I admitted silently. He had apparently lost track of the days in the chaos of travel, but he could not have known that this year would prove so trying. He could not have prevented it.
That keen gaze gathered something of the affirmative. “I left you out of the case,” he informed me, “because I solved it almost immediately upon arriving. The barn cat stole those jewels, not the stable hand, but several days passed before someone caught the menace. Then I spent a few days researching some local history. You know every case does not need two people.”
Yes, I did know that, though I wished he had told me as much when we arrived. Perhaps my dreams tonight would stop speculating his death.
Or perhaps they would simply place him next to me in battle. Those visions were always worse.
“Not the case,” he decided on studying my expression. “What, then? Did I say something?”
I shook my head. “You didn’t cause it,” I finally found the words to murmur, “and you could not have prevented it. Don’t worry about it.”
We rounded a corner. “Can I help?”
I shook my head again. “Let it alone. It will pass.”
Silence answered me, and we reached our rooms a moment later. He said nothing as I took the basket to my room, nor when I closed the door, but when I settled on the bed instead of coming out for supper, I heard a faint sigh.
“Are you going to eat?”
The question blended with another voice, one I had lost years ago, and I made no reply. Memories bled into the present too much to risk a regression in front of our hosts. I would eat something later.
Holmes would probably return with a plate, anyway.