Free The Final Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Volume 1 by John A. Little

could do nothing right and was under a constant barrage of criticism from dawn until dusk. My father never took my side in any of the arguments. Indeed, he gave me much the same treatment. They used me as a tennis ball they could batter back and forth at each other. It was a form of torture to me. The result was that I couldn’t wait to go to university after three years of this… abuse. Which was only verbal, by the way. There was nothing physical about it. But it separated me from them both for good and made me harden my heart towards all relationships of an emotional nature. And to distrust emotion itself. What is the point of emotion, Watson, if it is simply a facade for our basest carnal instincts?’
    â€˜Oh, indeed,’ I concurred.
    â€˜During those last few years at home I spent most of my spare time out in the fields with Conan, switching off from that deteriorating family life. He had his own problems with his parents, who were devout members of an obscure religious sect called the Church Of The Loyal Brethren, in which he had been raised. Among their many strange beliefs was the notion that human life, in the form of a woman, had arrived on earth from a planet in a different galaxy, which they named The Birthstone. This woman, whom they called Rachel, and who was worshipped every Thursday evening, created a man using genetic manipulation and began to propogate the human race.’
    â€˜Sacrilege!’ I spluttered.
    â€˜Just because they didn’t worship a Christian God? I doubt it. At least they managed to avoid a Holy Ghost, Watson. Anyway Conan, being quite a bright lad, grew to hate the nonsense that was spouted at him each week and he left the Church when he was fifteen, around the time of my mother’s shocking discovery. His parents threw him out and he took to living rough.
    He built himself a small cabin in the woods and set up house there. I made sure he had enough to eat and drink from my own plate. We became close then, and looking back on it now, I believe that he might have wanted more from me, which I couldn’t give him.’
    â€˜Of course not,’ I stated loyally. ‘Eh, we are talking about the love that dare not speak its name , are we not?’
    â€˜Yes, Watson. I suppose. Not that I was aware of it at the time, being quite innocent in such matters. I would head off to meet him there after school each day, and even undertook to teach him whatever few interesting lessons I had been taught, particularly if they involved mathematics, his favourite subject. He became dependent upon me, in a way that caused many problems. If for any reason I missed a visit, he berated me for hours in foul language. I was his only contact with humanity and after a while the isolation in the woods began to affect his mind. He may also have been experimenting with some plant he had discovered, as I remember him experiencing hallucinations. Once he thought I was a barbarous black savage, a cannibal come to eat him.
    One stormy day in winter I arrived to find him naked, crawling around in the mud outside his cabin and muttering incoherently about having to travel to The Birthstone before midnight, in order to save the world. I wasn’t so young then that I didn’t recognise a serious deformity of his psychology, so I had no hesitation in reporting his whereabouts and unhinged state of mind to my parents. They contacted the Arthurs and Conan was taken away in an ambulance to Richmond Hospital, a local mental institution, where he was to remain, I believe, for many years. He certainly felt betrayed by me, and I shall never forget his vengeful imprecations at me and my family as he left in that van.’
    â€˜So you didn’t visit him?’ I asked.
    â€˜No. Perhaps I should have, but a couple of months later I started my university course and became involved in solving some minor problems for my fellow students, which led me to the application of scientific