Chapter Text
Tamerlane chess is distinctive in that there are varieties of pawn, each of which promotes in its own way.
KIND solace in a dying hour!
Such, father, is not (now) my theme—
I will not madly deem that power
Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revell'd in—
I have no time to dote or dream:
You call it hope—that fire of fire!
It is but agony of desire:
If I can hope—Oh God! I can—
Its fount is holier—more divine—
I would not call thee fool, old man,
But such is not a gift of thine.
Know thou the secret of a spirit
Bow'd from its wild pride into shame.
Edgar Allen Poe, Tamerlane
I am a brain, Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix. – The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone, 1903
Prologue
…in a dying hour…
In which Holmes reflects on time and incarceration.
Sherlock Holmes:
Prisoners, when incarcerated for long periods, often find remarkable ways to pass the time. They build intricate models out of matchsticks, carve out long passages of text on stone walls, and perform other feats that consume great amounts of time with limited resources. I have observed it, and even made use of the mania that often drives these fellows, but I cannot say I ever truly understood it. Not until now, when I have nothing to otherwise occupy me from the horror of my current predicament.
That sounds dramatic, rather more like something Watson would write than my usual precise language, but it is nothing short of the truth. My predicament is horrible, as terrible as anything I can imagine, and I do not lack for imagination. Worse, for all my imagination and intelligence, I do not see any way free of this diabolical trap.
Watson has often taken me to task for ignoring the needs of my body, even going so far as to accuse me of doing myself injury when I refuse to eat in the midst of a case. Generally I have brushed aside his well-meaning but inconvenient advice, preferring to use my blood to power my brain, not my digestive tract. I even went so far once to characterize myself as a brain first and foremost, with the rest of me a mere appendix to be used or ignored at will. It was a ridiculous statement, one Watson rightfully scoffed at (with that writerly gleam in his eye that usually means I will find myself misquoted quite out of context in one of those fanciful tales of his, probably when I least expect it). Indeed, I knew better myself, even then. I could not excel in boxing, stick-fighting, or fencing if I did not understand and appreciate the importance of a sound, well-trained, reasonably maintained body as well as an agile mind.
But never more so than now, when I cannot lift a finger to save myself – or Watson.