THE EXPERIMENT

---

In the many years of my association with Sherlock Holmes, it was my privilege to witness many triumphs in his famous career. The most personally satisfying of these accomplishments was his conquest of the evil addiction to cocaine. The end of the habit came abruptly, but the aftereffects remained for long after the interlude in Cornwall when Holmes last partook of the drug.

Early in our association I was aware of his unfortunate habit. My medical advice, my concern for him, never swayed Holmes from the drug in those years. For my own peace of mind, I studied the latest medical research on addictions and the psychological motivations behind them, and their effects. It was my sole contribution to his well-being at that time. I was therefore an avid pupil of the newest theories on the forefront of scientific knowledge. Of particular interest were the European techniques for weaning the addict from the drug, and following up with treatment including counseling sessions and hypnosis. After Holmes had ended his addiction, I was fortunate enough to attend my first seminar on these mental stratagems.

In the spring of '98 we had come to a comfortable and much appreciated pause in our busy existence in Baker Street. Behind us was the cocaine; the lingering aftereffects Moriarty's death, Holmes supposed death, his resurrection, and the mental upheavals caused by these events.

Following my friend's amazing return in '94, there had been almost constant demands upon his time. Holmes' practice was successful beyond even his expectations. There was a continual cry for his services from the greatest in the land to the most humble. Thus, Holmes was able to pick and chose his cases to suit his whims. He worked when he wished and was rarely bored by lagging spaces between investigations.

One fine May morning I awoke late and was unsettled to find Holmes' dozing, nightshirted form draped upon the sofa. Many were the dismal mornings in the years past when I would enter the room and find my exhausted friend disheveled and disoriented from an ill-spent night, either from drug abuse or from nightmares -- the residual effects both of the addiction and the recovery. On this morn I made a quick visual examination and determined that my friend had spent a troubled night. During the previous week he had experienced erratic sleep habits, but they had caused no alarm to me, no indication trouble was on the horizon. In the past I had sometimes literally nursed him through agonizing terrors in his unseen, yet vividly imagined, world of phantoms and spectres. I was disturbed to find those Shades still preyed upon his peace of mind. I was dismayed that I had not been summoned to assist him in his time of need.

I knelt down beside him and pulled the disarrayed rug up to cover his chest. The slight movement awakened him and he jumped in fright.

"Holmes." I gripped him until he emerged from the half-slumber fears still clutching his mind. "Holmes, it's all right. You were sleeping. I didn't mean to wake you."

It took a moment for his senses to clear. At first he looked about wildly, then calmed down, never letting loose his hold upon my arms.

"Watson. It's morning." He gave a short, chagrined, mirthless chortle. He released me and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. He pushed back the wild mat of thick dark hair tumbled round his brow, which returned to his forehead instantly after his efforts to neaten the mop. "I fell asleep . . . . "

"You had another nightmare." I sustained my steadying hold. "I thought they were behind you."

His eyes showed both amusement and censure. "Just an -- unsettled night, Doctor. Nothing for you to worry over."

"I think I should be the judge of that."

He sighed. "Oh, all right. If you so insist." Behind the hint of long-suffering at my caretaking, was a notable lack of resistance. There was a hint of amused tolerance in his weary green eyes. "But you must not take this too seriously, Watson. A few restless nights should not send you into a flurry of doctoring!"

My usual instincts in these cases was to fall back on the medical basics which had seen me through internship, Afghanistan and Sherlock Holmes. This time I sensed there needed to be something beyond the usual pulse and thermometer gauges of health. This was my chance to depart from tradition and go beyond; to try a lasting and beneficial method of comfort and perhaps cure for my friend. I had first attempted experimental methods of analysis during our conversations in Cornwall* and those seemed to have been helpful. Perhaps it was time for another level of treatment.

"What I take seriously is your well-being," I reminded. "Why don't you go back to bed. We can discuss this later after you've sufficiently rested."

"I am rested, Watson. I shall even join you for breakfast." He threw off the blanket and disappeared into his room.

For a moment I sat back on my heels and stared after him. As long as I lived I would never fathom his complexities. I wondered if I had ever been foolish enough to think I could.

In the years of Holmes' cocaine abuse his physique was lean and wiry and his eating and sleeping habits deplorable. After Cornwall he had experienced erratic swings of appetite and nerves and at one time gained considerable weight compared to his former leanness. Now he had stabilized to near normal (according to medical standards) sleep and health habits. He had returned to his former lean self and was perhaps in the best condition of his life.

That morning he ate well and seemed quite relaxed as we sat on either side of the fire with our post-breakfast cigars. I noted that my instincts had been correct: this was not like his former nightmares. This was different, and thus called for a different kind of approach.

"You are too concerned over a few troubled nights, my dear Watson," he began. "You are also disturbed because you were not awakened by my usual nocturnal distresses." He tsked. "Are you never satisfied?" I did not respond to his outré humor so he continued. "I am happy to say I believe those dark terrors are behind us. But there are nights still --" he shook his head. Up to this point he had been objectively calm, but now a tinge of uncertainty crept into his voice. "The nights are sometimes still fraught with intangible ghosts."

"No ghosts need apply to this agency."

He smiled at the comment, then pushed out of his chair and strode to the end of the mantle. He stared out the window for a moment, then turned round to observe me. "Then what are we to do?"

"I have an idea. Are you willing to try something a bit -- experimental?"

His eyebrows arched. "What have you got up your sleeves, doctor?"

"There are some relaxation techniques I learned in Vienna. Somewhat altered, I think they could be of great benefit to you. Are you game?"

He spread his hands in a gesture of cooperation, but there was a familiar glint of humour in his eyes. "As always, my dear Watson, I am in your hands."

"And never easy to handle," I returned under my breath.

***

The beginning of the treatment was as unconventional as the entire program would prove to be. I forbade him to enter into any correspondence, nor read the paper or the mail. I insisted his mind be clear from any puzzles or concerns. Then we started the program with a relaxed walk through Regent's Park. We took a cab to Goldini's for lunch, then finished with a leisurely stroll on the Strand. On pure impulse we spent some hours in a new art gallery which had excited much comment from the press. Afterward we dined at my club, then returned to Baker Street in the early evening.

"This has been a pleasant day, Watson," Holmes commented as we hung up our coats and hats in the vestibule. "If this is your experimental technique, then I heartily approve."

"It seems to have relaxed you. I hope it has put your mind upon other thoughts besides nightmares."

"I had no nightmares," he pungently corrected. He shrugged out of his coat, disappeared into his room, and emerged moments later in his mouse-coloured dressing gown. He ambled to the window, turned and paced across the room, and stabbed the coals with a poker while the fingers of one hand danced upon the mantle.

Indeed it had been a delightful day, but throughout the hours I had sensed Holmes' curiosity, though it had been in check. He longed to unravel my plan, and was slightly perplexed and surprised that he had not been able to deduce my new method. In his own cagey fashion he had tried subtle interrogation, but I had remained aloof on the subject of my experiment.

"Consider it the prelude -- ah -- Holmes, do not start your pipe just yet," I called.

His hand mid-way to the pipe rack on the mantle, he stopped and turned back to me. "Ah," he sighed with satisfaction, as if he had anticipated something of my madness.

"Our aimless and pleasant day has, in truth, been a design, as I know you have guessed." I explained.

"Deduced."

"Of course. Now, I would like to proceed with the next step."

He gave a slight bow. "I am yours to command," was his wry and not entirely serious riposte.

"First, find a place to relax completely. Your chair -- no, the sofa would be best, I think."

Obligingly he stretched his long form upon the sofa and folded his hands across his chest. "You are not going to try and hypnotize me, I hope," he smirked.

"Pity the poor practitioner who tried," I replied as I knelt next to him. "No, I am borrowing a few of those basic techniques, though. Now please try and relax."

He closed his eyes. "Yes, Doctor."

"Concentrate on the ticking of the clock. Think of it as a metronome to give your subconscious something steadying to hear."

"The musical ear is trained to use the metronome as a consistent beat --"

"It is also trained to focus on the music and allow the beat to recede to the unnoticed background," I countered.

"Touché."

"Meanwhile," I continued, "your conscious thoughts will be attuned to the task of purging any worries from your mind."

His eyes opened. "You expect me to consciously relax? Isn't that a contradiction in terms?"

"No. Now please relax."

"Yes, doctor."

"And wipe that smirk off your face."

"How can I do that if I am to relax?"

"Very funny, Holmes. Now, please take this seriously. It is for your own good."

"Of course." His face and body relaxed, but the impish amusement was still in his tone. "Proceed."

I went round and turned down the wall sconce lamps until the room was aglow from only the fire in the grate and the low-turned gas lamp by my desk. I shuffled through the seminar papers on my desk and gathered the notes on hypnosis. By using the preliminary methods I hoped to bring Holmes' mind to a level of relaxation where he would no longer be troubled by disturbing nights.

"First, I want you to breath steadily and slowly." I paused for a moment to be sure my instructions were followed. When the rise and fall of my patient's chest was at an acceptably slow rate, I proceeded. "Now think of the sound of the metronome. It is rhythmic. It is peaceful. Just let your thoughts drift to calm and peaceful --"

The knock on the door was so abrupt and loud in the quiet of the room that I jumped with surprise. To Holmes' credit, he hardly flinched. He remained as still as a statue.

"Damn," I muttered.

The statue's mouth quirked with amusement.

With great irritation I crossed to the door and instantly shushed Mrs. Hudson. She had brought up the card of an agitated client, despite my precise orders that we were not to be disturbed. I took the card and closed the door. I slipped the card into Holmes' waistcoat pocket and returned to my desk. I picked up the papers to continue and was alarmed when a portly man literally burst into the room and fell down in a faint upon our hearth rug.

Holmes sat up, his eyebrows raised in silent, amazed amusement. I dropped the papers back upon my desk. So much for my attempts at scientific cures for Sherlock Holmes. From my friend's expression, for now this intriguing new case was all the cure he needed.

THE END