“I’m going to try again.”
“Right… well… what if I just went in without you, Doctor?”
“No! I’m coming too!”
Whatever Hatherley was going to say was interrupted by a familiar voice, calling, “I say, is there somebody there?”
“Holmes?” I crowed. “Yes, it’s me!”
“Watson? Go away!”
“No, I’ve got a case for you, Holmes. This is Victor Hatherley; he needs you!”
“Very well, but you don’t.”
“Yes I do! My life is terrible!”
Holmes gave a frustrated sigh. “Mr. Hatherley, do come up and join me.”
“But… er…” Hatherley dithered.
“Watson will be just fine. Now come on up and let’s see if we can get to the bottom of your problem, eh?”
Hatherley hesitated a moment, his gaze shifting from his shoes to the open door he held in his hand.
“Don’t you dare,” I told him.
With a guilty shrug, he lunged through the invisible door out of my perceptible reality. As soon as he shut it, Baker Street snapped back to its right shape. Or—as I knew in my heart—its wrong one.
“You little bastard!” I shouted, then slumped down to the sidewalk with my back against the wall where 221 ought to be. I took a moment to gather my thoughts and let my reeling stomach settle. Holmes was doing an altogether effective job of shutting me out, that much was clear. And he was likely right to do it. It’s true I had endangered myself terribly, trying to understand his mystic world. It’s true that my safest course of action was likely to return home to Mary and the life of wealthy domesticity that awaited me.
But dash it all, I didn’t want to! I wanted to go with Holmes! I wanted to solve a mystery! I let my head fall back against the wall. And suddenly, I could hear them—Holmes and Hatherley. Just faintly. I could not tell what they were saying, only hear their muted tones filtering through the wall. Hatherley sounded earnest. Holmes concerned. Where were they in Hatherley’s story? Was he giving Holmes all the crucial details?
“Did you tell him Stark kept saying, ‘We are what sustains us’?” I shouted.
No answer.
So a few minutes later, I shouted, “Did you tell him about the fresh horse?”
This time my efforts were rewarded. From within, I heard Holmes’s exasperated sigh, then footsteps clomping towards me. Suddenly, Baker Street expanded again – sending my head and stomach into fresh swirls – and I heard the sound of a window sliding open. Holmes’s head popped out of the void in my perception somewhere above me and called down, “Watson, go home!”
“I am home!”
“Bugger off!”
“No! I’m going to come and show you how much you need me by solving the crime. I’ve got it very nearly cracked already.”
“Oh, yes, yes. We all know you’re very clever. But I’m afraid this time you’ve been outmaneuvered entirely. You will not be involved in this investigation! Now, good day, sir!”
And the window slammed shut, returning Baker Street to its false but normal-seeming form and discombobulating me so badly that I fell all the way over. I lay there for a moment, panting and fuming. Vexing Holmes! Foolish Holmes! He thought he’d outmaneuvered me? Me? Preposterous!
I drew myself to my feet, fell down again, got up again, marched to the nearest train station and purchased one ticket to Eyford.
* * *
Holmes did not arrive for some time. I had adequate opportunity to get cleaned up as best I could, complete a circuit of the train station, locate the rose bushes Mr. Hatherley had woken up in and take note of the enormous village square just out front. I also could not help but observe the rather steep hill behind the train station and the spires of some solitary house rising from behind the woods that stood at the top. I smiled. Satisfied I had the case cracked, I settled in to wait for Holmes.
The next train came. Holmes did not. He was not on the next one either. Or the next. I think I must have dozed off slightly, for I found myself startled to wakefulness some time in the mid-afternoon by the sound of familiar voices. Sure enough, there stood Holmes, just some thirty feet down the platform with Hatherley by his side. He must have deemed that some intellectual assistance would be necessary, for the diminutive form of Scotland Yard’s most accomplished vampiric detective—Vladislav Lestrade—was just emerging from the carriage, followed by his towering colleague, Grogsson. Holmes had a local map with a large red circle drawn on it and the four men seemed to be involved in some form of disagreement over where to begin their search.
“…somewhere between ten and twelve miles from here,” Holmes was saying, “but in which direction?”
“To the north, I would think,” said Lestrade, in his thick Romanian drawl. “Mr. Hatherley did not mention ever feeling the carriage travel up or down a hill, and the land there is flatter than any other direction.”
But Holmes disagreed. “Ah, but consider the criminal advantages to be had south of here. It is far less inhabited thereabouts and mischief is best accomplished in solitude. What do you think, Grogsson?”
The hulking inspector thought a moment, then decided, “West!”
“Why?”
“Dat’s ware cowboys is frum.”
“I have often heard that,” Holmes conceded, “but I fail to see what that has to do wi—Oh, by the Twelve Gods! Watson?”
And there I was, advancing towards my friends with a satisfied smirk on my face. “Oh, I think I could lay my finger on the correct spot. Why don’t you gentlemen start your search here?”
I pointed to the exact middle of the circle Holmes had drawn.
“Watson, go home. Right now,” said Holmes.
“No, but I’ve solved it.”
“I don’t care. Go home.”
“Besides which,” said Lestrade, “your theory is preposterous. Mr. Hatherley remembers driving for ten to twelve miles.
