Chapter Text
Should the day the world ends begin differently than any other? One would think it would somehow, but then again, why should it? A single moment must be the one when everything changes, when all safety and certainty fall away. For us, it was just after breakfast.
This morning was a Friday, so I was then leafing through half of one of the day's newspapers to see what good and distracting concerts might be playing that evening. The other half sat in Sherlock Holmes' restless hands after he wordlessly snatched the inner page from out of my grasp as I held it open.
But as soon as he had settled himself in his chair to read, he cocked his head curiously. He strode toward the window and pushed aside the curtain to view the bustling road just beneath us.
"My brother is here," he said. "I thought I heard his wheels. Serious business to lure the snail from his shell."
"Perhaps he has a case for you. It seems as though you could use the diversion," I said, looking at the inside pages of my newspaper, now flung unceremoniously onto the floor.
"Perhaps," he said, absentmindedly. I could see in the rigid cut of his shoulders and the tensing of his brow that something of this arrival was troubling him. My friend was anxious. I knew from experience to trust that anxiety.
As Mrs. Hudson was away visiting her aunt in Bristol at the time, we were left to our own devices. One of us would have gone in her stead to greet our guest, but the door downstairs opened and closed abruptly without even a knock. Mycroft Holmes let himself into his brother's home without bothering with any decorum whatsoever. I supposed it ran in the family.
We heard the man approaching before he appeared, trundling up the stairs as he did with all the characteristic grace of a man of some twenty stone. I took a peek down through the window and saw his attendant who remained outside, moving to guard the door against any other potential entrants. The man's stony expression was mildly disconcerting, but I let the feeling pass. When the English government itself came calling, it made sense that security and privacy were likely to be prioritised.
Holmes took a stand by the door to greet his brother as soon as he entered, but Mycroft simply pushed past him.
"Brother, Doctor," he said quickly in a semblance of greeting before walking straight to our sideboard to open a bottle of port. With one large hand, he extracted three glasses and poured them full.
Mycroft Holmes appeared haggard and pale, much unlike his common ruddy complexion. In his sunken eyes, I could see nights of insomnia, a considerable strain on a man of his general health. I knew now what Holmes had seen at the window.
My friend flashed me a look of concern and surprise, then stepped forward. "Mycroft, what is this? What–"
His brother turned around abruptly and shoved a generous glass of port into his hands, followed by another into mine.
"Drink it. All of it," he said, upon which he did exactly that with the glass he'd poured for himself.
"Why?"
Holmes asked my question for me, but then he continued well past it.
"This is bizarre behaviour, even from you. Especially from you. What, are you drugging us? You venture out of your cavern, make a journey all the way to our home, enter unannounced and immediately demand that we intoxicate ourselves with you when we have barely yet swept the sleep from our eyes. Mycroft, what are you doing?"
"I am offering you both the alcoholic consolation I wish I had received before I was first told of the matter I am here to discuss. If you are wise, you will drink it, but whatever you choose, do so quickly. This cannot wait."
I glanced over to Holmes for his reaction, but his attention was locked entirely on his brother. Heeding the stern advice of a man I never knew to be anything other than serious, I drank quickly and took my seat. Beside me, Holmes took his time to sit, eyeing Mycroft, taking in every detail. It was a moment before he took a long sip and sat his glass down half full.
"Tell us, then," he said. "Who has died? Or is dying? Only death would bring you thus."
As ever, Sherlock Holmes cut to the quick. Mycroft hesitated for a moment, an unusual occurrence. My friend answered for him.
"It is a high level government matter, that much is clear," Holmes began. "Your most trusted guard is downstairs waiting, and you have not slept in at least a day. It is an extraordinary event, then. Unexpected and no single person. Not even the Queen herself would cause such consternation. There are plans in place for that eventuality, but none at all for whatever is happening now. I would think it is war, then, more than likely. And not just any. This is a cataclysm you contemplate."
"There is no contemplation. The cataclysm is taking place as we speak."
"Where?"
"We lost contact with Sumatra some six hours ago. Since then, a steadily moving line across all of Asia has been lost. It will be approaching the Continent shortly. The great houses are preparing, as are we, but they have even less time than we do."
"Lost contact? A moving line? It is not a war you are describing. Something of that size… This is a natural disaster?"
"Of a sort."
"What does that mean, 'of a sort?'"
I raised my voice for the first time. "Is it contagion? Some form of emergent disease?"
Mycroft was grim. "A disease would be less disturbing."
Sherlock Holmes leaned forward in his chair, analysing his brother and following the inexorable logic.
"Because diseases are slower, often containable. Nations may survive a disease, even a plague. But not this. For that is who is dying, you believe. That is what would bring you to this. The loss of entire nations. No, larger. Entire continents. …Civilisation. I see."
Holmes reached over and quietly finished his glass of port.
"Stop. This cannot be right," I stammered, grasping for some kind of lifeline of sanity. "Even the most devastating disasters, natural or man-made, do not destroy civilisation itself."
"You anticipated this," Holmes said. "What is it? How long do we have?"
"The exact nature of the anomaly is still debated among my astronomers. Surely you noticed the inkling of the matter that found its way into the papers yesterday."
"The only thing I have seen in the papers of astronomy of late was something about a German sounding scientist and his lines that were not behaving or some such. I tend to gloss over non-terrestrial information, so the precise details do not immediately come to me. You read that article, Watson, did you not?"
"I did. The lines were blurred, I think it was. Something about using the colour spectrum to analyse materials in space, but the equipment was not working properly. A curiosity for further study, the author wrote."
"Indeed," Mycroft said. "What you are describing are Frauenhofer lines, usually clear and distinct and able to instruct astronomers about the elemental contents of distant stars and planets. Forty-three hours ago, something began distorting those observations of space. Something exists there that did not before, and we are looking out into the heavens through it. The scientists believe it to be a sort of a cloud, a great fog bank drifting through space. Earth is passing through this region now and, as feared, its effects are seeping across the globe."
"What effects?" I asked.
"If I knew, I would tell you, Doctor. All we can say with certainty is that in the span of hours, half of the world has gone silent and non-responsive, and more vanish from our contact with each minute that passes. Telegrams sent are never answered. Messengers dispatched for information do not report in and they do not return. There is every reason to believe these regions have succumbed to mass suffocation as they were smothered in this vast belt of poison. The people, and indeed, all oxygen breathing life in those places could be incapacitated, they could be unconscious, they could be dead. My researchers strongly believe the last of those possibilities, but it is impossible to know with certainty. What we do know is that within three hours, there will be no place on our planet left unscathed."
Mycroft Holmes faced us with a funereal solemnity, the true weight of his news falling on the room like a coffin lid. I felt sick to my stomach, wordless. Sherlock was not, still actively contending with the idea, although even he seemed daunted by the prospect.
"You mentioned preparations. What is being done? For that is why you are here, is it not?"
His brother nodded. "It is believed some small groups of select individuals may be able to survive in sealed, oxygen-rich environments until the cloud passes. We have such a space being prepared as we speak, as do a number of the royal families and governments of Europe in their respective countries. You will be there with us in ours, Sherlock. I am allowed one to accompany me to the shelter. It will be you."
Holmes greeted the suggestion with a scoff. "So we're to go two by two into the ark? We're not much of a breeding pair. And where do you intend to keep the cattle and the chickens we'll need when this is over? What about the bees? You are aware that a handful of wealthy layabouts are not going to be of much use working the land when there are no pollinators left."
"Sherlock, Brother, enough. This is a matter of–"
“Of mass extinction. Yes, I’m well aware. I know what this is, Mycroft, if your prediction is indeed correct. What I am asking you is what exactly we are meant to be doing about an occurrence that is so far outside of all current human understanding, much less control?”
“Our job is to survive. That will be difficult enough. This is not a request, Sherlock. You are among the greatest minds alive and you are required by your Empire and by humanity at large. We need you,” Mycroft said before pausing. “I need you.”
“My, if you are right, you are going to need far more than me.”
Holmes sighed and leaned forward towards his subject.
“Go to this room if you feel you must, Brother. But you must know I have no desire to see, much less live upon a dead planet. What purpose would there be for a consulting detective in a world with no crime or mystery? What would I do on a planet with none of the appealing strangeness of life? If anyone, the person you should be trying to preserve is Doctor Watson here. You will need someone trained to keep the living few that way as long as possible, as well as an author to document the experience for future generations, in the unlikely event there should be such.”
“It will be you.”
Mycroft brought out a small case from his breast pocket and laid it on the table. When he opened it, a filled syringe lay inside, ready for injection.
I sat up straight at the unexpected open threat. For his part, Sherlock Holmes only barked a laugh, startled and amused by the brazenness.
“You plan to drug me to force me into this futile scheme? Well, I do look forward to watching you make the attempt.”
“I’ve already drugged you,” Mycroft said quietly, looking up from the case. “The syringe was a last resort that I planned to leave to the good doctor to administer had it come to that. We all here know that he would save your life for you even if you obstinately refused to do so yourself. To our good fortune, you took the faster route and drank your sedative willingly so he did not have to.”
Holmes’ face fell at once in disbelief. “You lied to me.”
“I did nothing of the sort. You were merely imprecise in your questioning, as you all too often are, Sherlock. You asked if I was drugging the collective ‘us’, and I most certainly did not. The doctor and I are merely mildly intoxicated from a glass of fine port. You, on the other hand, are that as well as dosed with a potent sedative that will keep you at peace until this contentious transition is made. I did what was necessary for the survival of the human species, Brother. That is what we are doing here.”
“No, it isn’t.” Sherlock said. “You are lying to yourself if you believe that. Should this disaster come to pass, the only thing that will survive is human misery, and even that, not for long.”
“We must try. There is an innate biological instinct for self-preservation. We continue, or we perish in the attempt. There is no other choice.”
“There is always a choice.” Sherlock Holmes stood and wavered, dizziness hitting him as soon as he came to his feet. He took a step toward his brother, but had to put a hand out to steady himself with the back of a chair. “If you honestly cannot discern your own wishes from the clear, cold facts of reality any longer, you truly have gone mad.”
Holmes stumbled to his knees and I rushed to help him. He blinked at me, his sharp eyes struggling to keep their focus.
“It is all right, Doctor,” Mycroft said with a casual air as he rose from his chair. “Even his chemically abused and accustomed body cannot process the drug quickly enough to keep him awake. It is a heavy dose, but it is a safe one. He will sleep for quite some time.”
Sherlock went loose in my grasp but I held him firm. I would not let him fall. Pale and beginning to tremble, my friend looked up at me. He spoke to his brother, but his eyes did not leave mine.
“You are making a grave mistake, Mycroft,” he said. “And committing a crime. You have no right to steal from me all choice and freedom. You are robbing me utterly, even of farewells.”
“I am sparing the three of us the futile spectacle and delay of those maudlin farewells. My entire purpose is to try to prevent this separation from becoming permanent. Sherlock, I know you are fading. Suffice it to know that I shall be doing the best I am able for you and your companion, and that you shall sleep comfortably and dreamlessly for some hours. If we are fortunate, by then, the worst will be over.”
“’If we are fortunate.’” Holmes tossed his head weakly against my arm. “No, Brother. The worst… comes after.”
He tried to speak again, this time to me, but no sound emerged from his lips when he mouthed my name. Sherlock reached up to grasp me at the shoulder, the one I’d been shot in, the one that had brought us together. Rare fear flashed in his grey eyes and his head fell heavy into the crook of my elbow. His hand dropped away from my shoulder to dangle loose at his side.
My friend Sherlock Holmes was lost to me.