Even happier when they were told they could just call her Maggie.
Pick fast. Da house on fire.
Maggie herself was in a state of shock and dismay, though her first taste of crumpet went a great way towards dispelling this. Holmes and Hatherley argued long and hard that she should not face criminal charges, but should be released to Mr. Hatherley’s matrimonial guardianship. Lestrade assured them that was not a thing. Then again, much of the evidence had been destroyed in the fire, the case was a bizarre one (meaning that it would be difficult to prosecute, especially without Hatherley’s help) and Grogsson didn’t feel like writing a report. As such, love won out and Magerzart moved in to Victor’s third-floor office. Though she’d had a somewhat sheltered childhood, she rapidly surpassed her new husband in business acumen and helped him prosper. We checked in on her a few times to make sure she wasn’t having any… relapses… but all seemed to be going rather well—not withstanding the few times she forgot herself and addressed me as “Dr. Joose”.
As for myself, the outcome came much more abruptly.
“How did you find me?” I gasped as my friends and I stood before the burning ruins of House Stark.
Holmes gave me a rather severe look. “We were still debating where to begin our search as we sat in the carriage. Lestrade was very concerned over what you’d said about our goal being in the middle of our circle. He said he wished we’d listened to what you were saying to the stationmaster and that perhaps we’d better ask him what he remembered of the conversation. So, we turned back and who should we see but the stationmaster, who was all concerned because he’d just got a wire from the next station up the line that some fool had thrown himself off the train. He also remembered seeing you again and wondering if the two phenomena might be related. When we asked him where he’d last seen you, he said, ‘Stumbling up the hill behind the rosebushes, towards the skinny German’s house.’ From there, of course, I had it all figured out in an instant.”
From behind Holmes came a burst of strenuous throat-clearing.
“By which I mean, of course, Lestrade had it all figured out in an instant.”
“Well, I’m glad you came,” I said. “Another few minutes and I probably would have—”
“Died?” Holmes interjected. “That’s the word you’re looking for, isn’t it, Watson? That your life was in terrible danger? Again? And that if it was not for the timely intervention of your friends, you’d have been killed? Because we know that, John. We are horribly aware of the fact. By the Twelve Gods, it sometimes seems that keeping you alive is becoming a full-time job!”
“But—”
“No! There is no ‘but’. There is only you, going home, right now.”
Which…
…resentfully…
I did.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE F***ING MEN
AS I SIT TO LAY THIS ADVENTURE TO PAPER, DEAR READER…
Oh…
My hand trembles.
I hardly dare to do it. Yet, without the revelation contained in this adventure, the progression of the clues Holmes and I received about the danger to the world of men would be incomplete.
So, I shall.
I’m going to do it. Even though it regards the topic that well-born Englishmen will avoid more stridently than any other. Even though it is the sort of thing one hopes one’s mother will never, ever read.
It began on a Wednesday morning at my home. Joachim interrupted my breakfast to tell me that a “pathient had arrived to theek my aid”. The man was waiting in the parlor. I was well within my rights, of course, to finish my breakfast. Indeed, many men of my station would take care not to hurry themselves, just to prove their importance.
Many men of my station are arse-faces.
I slugged back my tea, abandoned my poached egg, and rose to see how I could be useful. Yet, as I stepped into my front parlor, I got a shock: there sat Inspector Vladislav Lestrade.
“Oh! Lestrade! Hello. You… you need my help?” I stammered.
“Yes, Dr. Watson. I fear I do.”
“I shall strive to be of service, of course. Though I do hope it’s nothing… dental.”
“Nothing of the sort,” said the vampiric detective, with a certain coldness in his tone. “There is a case, Doctor.”
I must have got a very eager look, for he rose from his chair, waggled a finger at me and hissed, “Now, before you get too excited, I wish to make this clear: there is no danger involved. No magic or demons or supernatural assailants. There may well be no true victim of this crime and—depending on who you ask—perhaps no crime at all. Yet, our highest echelons find it deeply disturbing and it is certainly not the kind of thing we wish to hear of in the papers. We need an outside agent, Dr. Watson. One whose wit and discretion we can trust.”
“And you didn’t go to Holmes?”
“I think I just said, ‘One whose wit and discretion we can trust’,” Lestrade growled. “And knowing how reluctant he is to see you solving cases, I did not see the need to inform him I was coming here. Do you?”
“No.”
“But you want the case?”
“By God, yes!”
“Good. I think we can do business,” Lestrade said, with that guarded kind of smile he used to hide his teeth. He reached into his jacket and withdrew an oversized envelope. “Your client is Hilton Cubitt of Ridling Thorpe Manor, Norfolk. Due to the nature of his troubles, he does not care to discuss
