The Storykeeper

Chapter Two: Watson is on the Case

Watson would have thought that he would have found Holmes delighted at the prospect of such a strange and incomprehensible mystery. Instead, he was languishing in his velvet-lined arm-chair with a sort of a gloomy heaviness that saw him staring into the cold fireplace.

"By God, man," said Watson. "What is with you?"

"Hmm?"

"We have to do something! I'm not sure what exactly - "

"Oh," Holmes waved a nonchalant hand, "it'll pass. It always passes."

"I don't understand."

Holmes smiled and then said, very gently, "this is an hallucination. None of it is real including, presently, yourself."

"I think I would know if were real," Watson spluttered.

"Would any of us?" Holmes closed his eyes. "You are probably at home right now, with your Mrs. Morstan."

"Holmes, I am telling you clearly, there is a dragon flying above London."

"Of course, my dear boy."

"You can't think that this is all some sort – some sort - of dream!"

"It is the most likely explanation. Although, I must say, you are usually more agreeable when we converse in my mind. Less cantankerous than the real specimen."

"Fine," said Watson, in exasperation. His mind, less prepared for the subtleties of imagination had a resilience to the extraordinary that could at once accept its existence in theory, whilst ignoring every bizarre implication. "You sit here, I'll go find out what this is all about."

It was not often that Watson had cause to investigate without his more brilliant counterpart and I'm afraid that his attempt was rather dull, and only really entertaining when told in bold brushstrokes. His first course of action was to visit the Zoological Society of London where he was promptly laughed out of the building for questions about whether anyone had been "keeping a giant dragon as a pet in secret" and "had anyone spotted one such creature flying over the city"? The members, who had been at a long luncheon all afternoon, discussing the anatomy of the "nine-banded armadillo", had completely missed the career-defining moment. After that, he went to Scotland Yard where he was equally mocked.

"Is this Holmes trying to make us into buffoons?" one of the sergeants asked suspiciously. "Has 'e been payin' people ta report they seen a great big beast over Regents? 'Cause that ain't funny."

"People have seen a beast? Who were they?"

The sergeant shrugged. "Some folks at Primrose Hill."

"Did they say anything else?"

"Only that it were flying ov'r the Thames, all fiery-like, 'wards Blackfriars."

"What about a woman? With red pants?"

"Are you barmy or som'ng?"

"Oi," said someone else, "there's been a break-in at the British Museum! Yer needed, Sarge."

"See, there's real crime." The Sergeant jabbed a finger at Watson, "so you tell Mr. Holmes 'e can stop wastin' valuable police time."

On the way to the Thames, Watson stopped for lunch. It was all a very gentlemanly affair, he thought. Usually, with Holmes, they would be dashing up and down the city, this way and that, with no time to stop for a crumb of supper. As he ate his cold boiled turkey, he reflected on the kind of honours that the British government might bestow on a man fearless enough to confront a mythological beast. He did not, at any moment, go so far as the wonder how exactly he would attempt that confrontation. Just a short forty minutes later, he had settled the bill, took up his hat, buttoned his coat and was once again in hot pursuit.

It had drizzled while he was inside. In the country, the rain would have developed a thousand fresh scents, and every drop would have had its bright association with some beautiful form of growth or life. In the city, it developed only foul stale smells, and was a sickly, lukewarm, dirt-stained, wretched addition to the gutters.

He went down, at a long angle, almost to the water's edge, through some of the crooked and descending streets between the river and Cheapside. Passing, now the mouldy hall of some obsolete Worshipful Company, now the illuminated windows of a Congregationless Church, and feeling quite sharply the exertion of walking so far after consuming such a rich meal. He left behind silent warehouses and wharves, and here and there a narrow alley leading to the river, which was plastered with sad little notices like "Found Drowned"; grave reminders of the crannies of obscure misery in that age.

It was, as he came up towards Sermon lane, that Watson found gathering crowd looking up in hushed awe at the looming cathedral. The closest to him, a burly countryman, had his eyes fixed upon to dome so wrapt in admiring wonder that he appeared to be quite insensible to the bustle of coaches that were whistling up and down the road behind him. That was, until of the coach windows being let sharply down, he looked round, and encountered a pretty female face which was just then thrust out to try and glimpse the object of everyone's fascination.

"See theer, lass!" bawled the countryman, pointing towards the object of his preoccupation. "Theer up on Paul's Church."

"Goodness! What a monster!"

"Monsther! - Ye're aboot right, I reckon."

Coiled around the dome was the vast red-golden dragon, fast asleep; limbs curled beneath him, wings folded like an immeasurable bat, huge tail wrapped around the glittering emblem of the cross. Thrumming came from his jaws and nostrils, and wisps of smoke that puffed into the gathering clouds above. The underside of his long, pale belly, crusted with gems and fragments of gold, glittered wondrously in the overcast sunlight.

The "acute stress response" theory of flight or fight was first described in the 1920s and, therefore, unknown to Watson. Which was a shame because it would have been useful in explaining his reaction to himself as he tried to both advance and flee at the same time at the terrifying sight above. This made him do a very indecisive backward-forwards-backwards movement that accomplished nothing at all. When he retold the story later on, he decided to omit that particularly embarrassing incident.

"I was just about to go up the steps," he would say, instead. "I was just about to march up there, for King and Country, to do what must be done, when the beast's eye opened, and it looked right at me."