Translator's note: This work is a translation of L'affaire de la boite bleue, a fanfic originally published in French by Twin Sun Leader and readable on this site . All credit for this work belongs to the original author, except for any criticisms on the translation which would of course be my responsibility.
The Adventure of the Blue Box
The tale within these pages has not been published, and probably never will be, for the simple and confounding reason that it is one of the rare cases in which the talents of deduction and sharp intelligence of my friend Sherlock Holmes came to partially false conclusions, granted in the most incredible of circumstances. What is more, it contains certain elements that, if they were to be made public, would undoubtedly earn me a reputation as a storyteller or a fool, or else would be of such a nature as to provoke an unprecedented panic among the good English people.
The adventure of the blue box will therefore remain hidden from the general public, but the strange nature of its events, coupled with its singular resolution or lack thereof, has affected me in such a way that I am forced to set the story down on paper. I am loathe to forget the incredible events I have experienced or the extraordinary people I have met. The organization that comes to light later in this account would no doubt disapprove of such a record, but they cannot condemn that which they know nothing of.
This singular business began for me on a Tuesday in April, 1890, when a message boy sought me out, bearing word from my friend instructing me to join him at once in a pub near Covent Gardens. After an instant's hesitation, I outfitted myself with my old service pistol and my medical kit, left a message to alert Mary that I would be with Holmes for an undetermined length of time, and leapt into a hansom.
Sherlock Holmes was waiting for me in a deep, isolated corner of the Coat of Arms, a smoky den but quite quiet at this hour of the day. I was surprised not to find him disguised, as would normally be the case when duty brought him to such a place, but far more surprising was his bearing. He had that intense, agitated air that meant he was on the hunt, cast onto some unusually complex slope that would hold him captivated and energized for the duration of the case. I had seen him in such a state before often enough, but that day it seemed to have an even greater hold on him than usual. He had removed his coat and hat and was pacing the length of his corner, shooting frequent glances towards towards the nearby window that looked out over the street. When he noticed my arrival, he dropped into a chair and assumed a deathly stillness, broken only by his feverish draws on his pipe.
Intrigued by his manner and the urgency of his message, I enquired as to what troubled him. My question seemed to bring him out of his reverie and back into animation.
"Watson," he told me, "I was called to a house in Coven Gardens this morning for a murder which Scotland Yard seemed unable to unravel. A ridiculously simple business. It took a single look to confirm my suspicions and know that the servant was the guilty party..." he shook his long violinist hands, as if to sweep away the inconsequential affair, and continued: "It was as I was returning that I was presented with this most strange business. As you can imagine, I had well examined the house's surroundings before entering, without finding anything unusual in this area of London. When I left the building, I decided to walk instead of hailing a cab. As I began westward along the road, I crossed the mouth of a dead-end alleyway. This alley had been empty upon my arrival to the house, but this time as I passed, some forty minutes later, it contained a strange box of blue wood, resting on the sidewalk some distance within. It was as wide as two men, about two metres high, with little high-set opaque windows. It somewhat resembled one of those cabins for boaters that are sometimes found on the coast, except for its presence in the heart of London and the words 'Police Public Call Box' above the door."
I listened to Holmes' description with concentration. The object of his attention, this strange blue box, sounded like nothing I had ever heard of, but even so it was not so exceptional as to explain the level of agitation that it seemed to have provoked in my brilliant friend. He must have noticed my perplexity, as he continued:
"That the cabin should have been carried there during my absence by two or three strong men is conceivable, it is true, although their motive would remain unclear. However, when I questioned the officer on duty in the area, he assured me that he had not left his post and had not noticed anyone entering the alleyway, let alone carrying an object so indiscreet as this blue booth. He was surprised to see it there when I pointed it out, and had never heard of such an object in connection with our august forces of order...although, he did vaguely remember seeing two people emerge from the alley."
"Surely he was lying, he left his post and refused to admit it."
"If he was lying, he is an exceptionally convincing liar. What's more, as lies go it would be a weak one, to pretend that you had not seen anyone enter, but to contrarily remember a man and a woman leaving."
"Even the best of men make mistakes," I said sententiously. By Holmes' expression I could see that he was not completely convinced by this explanation, however logical.
"At any rate, I continued to examine the strange blue-painted cabin more closely. The wood was scraped here and there, which is consistant with the transportation theory, but the bottoms of the planks were crusted with mud, mixed with some product which gave it a distinctive purple hue. I must confess that I have never seen anything like it, though as you know I have some chemical expertise and a considerable knowledge of the city's soils..." this was false modesty, as we both knew that as well as being unmatched in his knowledge of London, Holmes was a more than accomplished chemist. "The lock, though it bore every appearance of simplicity, resisted my attempts to pick it."
"Indeed a strange enigma," I agreed, alarmed by my friend's growing agitation as he recounted the story.
"And it doesn't stop there, my friend. Naturally I took a sample of the strange mud, and then stationed myself in a nearby pub that offered me a perfect view of the entrance to the alley and its mysterious contents."
Suspicions aroused, I looked through the window that my friend had been watching so attentively at my arrival. On the other side of the road I could see the entrance to an alley, in which was half concealed a singular blue box, identical to Holmes' description. But my friend was continuing his story and I returned my attention to him.
"I didn't have long to wait, as soon to arrive was a couple which could only be the one spotted by our brave Bobby earlier. Now, Watson, you know me, you know the deductions that I can make based on nothing but a person's appearance, their clothing...but I must say, I have never seen a case where such contradictory indications were given. They arrived at a rapid pace, in animated discussion with each other. He, a man about thirty years of age I would say, tall, thin, nervous, clothed in a clearly well-made but most unusual coat- but I'll come back to that. She, a young blonde girl with her hair down in the most negligent style, wearing a vest and a strange blue skirt in a fabric that I could not recognize, but one that even a woman of uneasy virtue would have hesitated to wear in public, it was so short. I know that I have often told you to rely on details over deceptive general appearances, but in this case even the general appearance was inconclusive! The man's long coat indicated a prosperous gentleman, but the cut and colour were far from the London style, and the slipshod way he wore it, his unkempt haircut, as well as the absence of a tie pin indicated a man with little concern for his appearance or social standing. So, a non-conformist, perhaps more occupied with affairs of the mind than everyday detail. We could equally deduce an easily distracted mind or even simply a hurried departure with good chances of accuracy, but other indications came later that supported my first deduction. Anyways, the most interesting aspect of this man's appearance was his choice of shoes. Not only were their soles and sides covered in the same purple mud as the box, which removed any doubt of their connection, but they were nothing like any type of shoe I have seen, anywhere in Europe."
"A foreigner, then?"
"Possibly American, but even so he would remain a most intriguing figure, possessing numerous curiosities. His shoes weren't made of leather, but of a mixture of pale canvas and what I can only imagine is a form of whitened, sulphurized rubber in the form of a sole. A rare, specialized sort of shoe, that I imagine we will soon see appear in the American sporting outfitters, possibly produced by one or two companies at most. Isn't it confounding? This man's choice of shoes was highly eccentric and unusual, not only for the possession of such shoes for athletic pursuits, but the decision to wear them to go out...
"All this I detected in the blink of an eye as I rushed out of the pub. As I headed towards them so as to meet them at the mouth of the alley, I had another chance to examine the companion of our man with the strange shoes. And she, Watson, was no less a conundrum than her partner. I already mentioned the indecency of her clothing and the fabric of her skirt. From a closer perspective I could recognize the coarse fabric from Nîmes that we sometimes use for work clothing, strangely coloured in Gênes blue. This working-class clothing was contradicted by her fine leather boots, also bearing that same purple mud. The image was again cast into confusion by her simple pink cotton blouse, worn under a shiny black leather vest held partially closed by a clasp-locker device. At least, that's what I assume, as the American Judson Whitcomb developed the device in 1891, so I'vepreviously only seen sketches..."
"I must admit that I have never hear of anything similar, Holmes..."
"I know!" replied my friend, mixed excitement and frustration in his voice, as if he was defying me to understand the sheer bizarreness of his experience. "But the affair doesn't stop there, and becomes even more obscure, listen...I'll tell you the facts first, and then pass to the analysis.
"Being direct is sometimes the best way to get answers, so I approached the couple and greeted them cordially, under the pretext of living in the house beside the cabin. I asked if by any chance they were the owners. The young woman asked me quite impertinently what made me think so, to which I replied that they were clearly strangers, the box was clearly strange, and that the same mud that plastered the bottom of the box was on their shoes. At this the man seemed more thrilled than surprised, exclaimed that I was quite brilliant, and raised his foot to confirm that, yes, there was in fact mud on his shoes. I was introducing myself to the young woman, under an assumed name, of course, when he exclaimed: "Oh, bad sign. Very bad sign. Rose!' He seemed very agitated and struggled to take off the shoe. This done, he presented it to me, put on a pair of thick-framed glasses, and began to rummage his pockets in search of something. 'Very, very bad sign," he murmured, extracting numerous items that were apparently not the object of his search from his pockets, because he passed them immediately into the arms of the young lady. He gave her an edition of the complete works of Shakespeare, a banana, a stethoscope, a little iron box and a mechanical mouse."
"But that's..."
Holmes gave me a slightly maniacal smile.
"I know what I saw, Watson. Let me finish. He asked the young woman -Rose, apparently- if she knew where he had put his magnifying glass. I still had my equipment from the morning and I was more than curious to see where he was going with all this, so I offered him my own lens. He took it, muttering a thank you and snatching the shoe from my hands, and suddenly froze. 'Oh,' he breathed. 'Oh! 1890! London! Magnifying glass! You- you're Sherlock Holmes! Oh, that's brilliant. Rose, it's Sherlock Holmes!' He began to shower me with compliments, saying he'd always dreamed of meeting me...Miss Rose said she thought I was skinnier, and asked where was the hat, the pipe, and you, my dear Doctor Watson, which I didn't deign to answer. The man introduced himself as The Doctor-capitalized, he insisted, and no name with the title-accompanied by miss Rose Tyler. Then he used my glass to examine the purple mud, sniffed it, tasted it on the tip of his tongue, examined it again and then suddenly cried that it had been charming, but really, they had a kettle on, and set off at a run towards the blue box, closely followed by the young woman. By the time I caught up to them they had already disappeared through the door, which was again completely sealed."
"And?"
"And nothing, it's been-" he checked his pocket watch- "it's been just over thirty-five minutes, during which you made good time coming here. They have not yet come out,"
"Both of them, in that tiny cabin? They must be singularly uncomfortable, unless of course...ah." I reddened. "Have you tried shouting to them?"
"No sound from within the cabin. It could even be empty."
"Are you sure there are no other exits? It's against the wall..."
"Well spotted, Watson, but no, it's nothing more than a wall. I sent the policeman to check in the house while I was waiting for you. Of course we cannot totally exclude the possibility of a tunnel, but it's unlikely considering the short time that the box has been there. No, we must assume that they are still inside."
"My friend, I must admit that this entire story carries the air of total strangeness, and I can see that many of the details have alarmed you, but there must be some logical answer to all this. Maybe it's nothing but a rich eccentric and his mistress?"
"You're perfectly right, Watson, in the sense that there is without a doubt a logical explanation connecting all these improbable details. All we have to do is find it. However, I think your deductions have have at best hit on one point out of three: our man is no doubt an eccentric. As to the other two, well, we must not make premature conclusions before we examine the facts in depth."
" Would you like to share with me those deductions you have made?"
I knew he would refuse, as he did sometimes when he was not yet sure of his hand. His mouth tightened into a concerned sliver and his eyes gleamed. He shook his head once.
"I only have speculations, there are so many things that don't quite make sense , and others that simply can't... and even so...the cabin, their appearance, the purple mud... nothing fits."
"How can I help, Holmes, why did you summon me? Do you think there is some plot underway? Is this Doctor dangerous?"
"I don't know, Watson, I don't know..."
And this unsettled me more than I would have believed, this admission on the part of my friend who was normally so effective at assessing his fellow men in the blink of an eye. He had taken from his pocket the little bottle with the purple mud and now he fidgeted with it, passing it back and forth between his fingers nervously.
"A preliminary study of this mud with the few means I can access has given me nothing...I would need to return to my laboratory, but I don't dare abandon surveillance. I have the feeling that whatever happens next will be this evening, and I can't risk returning to Baker Street or I could miss clues. It will have to wait."
Silence fell between us, and I reclined in my chair, observing his high forehead, creased in concentration, the tense line of his shoulders, the pressure that was engulfing my friend, while his gaze returned obsessively to the window and the mysterious blue cabin beyond. The image formed by Holmes' observations was completely incomprehensible to me, and more disturbingly it seemed no less perplexing for my friend. It was unlikely that I could help him untangle this enigma, but maybe I could bring him some indirect inspiration... what could I infer from what I had been told?
"This Doctor doesn't give me the impression of being completely...stable, from what you tell me...agitation, hyperactivity, irrational behaviour..."
"Tut, tut," Holmes interrupted me, "just because you do not see the rationality of an action does not mean that there is none, Watson, you should know that after all this time. No, I think that the Doctor's reaction to the sight of that mud was in fact in response to a perfect internal logic, though it may be invisible to the exterior observer. The man is no doubt abnormal, I grant you, both intellectually and in dress sense, as we have seen. Many scientists and chemists of great genius have been so."
"I don't quite see what you mean..."
"Capacity for deduction, agility of mind, the fact that he could identify something in this mud where I see nothing..."
"If you say so...well, I continue...if he is not insane, he is at least eccentric, as you said, probably rich since he has access to rare or very recently developed products...he is American, which explains the ability to procure such strange items as well as his slightly strange fashion sense?"
"He is not American," said Holmes shortly. "Pure London accent, both him and the girl. But you are right, he has probably been in America. The mud is not from anywhere near London, his attitude towards the city and tendency to be marvelled led me to believe he is a traveller, but one current enough in world affairs since he was able to recognize me, no doubt from your romantic little narratives about my business..."
" But what are you going to do about the presence of this blue box and all the incongruities that surround it?"
Holmes did not respond. He had stood up and was moving urgently towards the exit, without even taking the time to retrieve his coat or put on his hat. A glance towards the window told me why: the door of the blue box had opened and the couple was emerging. Without a second's delay I threw myself after my friend.
The man who called himself the Doctor and his companion were exactly as Holmes had described them. The young woman was quite lovely, which to me left little doubt concerning her role towards the Doctor, whatever my friend said. If she was his sister or his wife, he would certainly not let her out in such a costume!
The Doctor turned around the cabin, pointing an improbable gadget, apparently assembled of random bits and pieces and with wires and metallic objects emerging at strange angles. It had the vague shape of a deformed pistol, with a flared muzzle like a blunderbuss.
Holmes seemed convinced that the man squatted by the cabin and muttering under his breath was sane, but I personally had my doubts. Everything about him told me he was mentally unbalanced.
Miss Tyler approached us quickly and waved her hand as a salutation, flashing us a brilliant smile that, while it was of course quite improper, had its charm.
"Hello again, Mister Holmes! Sorry to have left like that, all of a sudden, but we had an emergency..."she turned to me and the smile widened. "And you must be Doctor Watson! Rose Tyler, it's great to meet you."
"Miss..." I said politely, "The pleasure is all mine. I can deduce that you have read my accounts?"
"Well... I was never a big reader, I mostly saw the fi- er..." she stopped, shot a nervous look at the Doctor, who seemed to have nearly accomplished whatever was his task. "Um, I mean, everyone's heard of Mr Holmes! It's elementary!"
"Oh, Holmes, still here! That's perfect, actually...and you brought doctor Watson, wonderful!"
The Doctor approached us enthusiastically and shook my hand vigorously, seeming to ignore the intense gaze of Holmes. For me, who knew my friend, his look was similar to a bloodhound examining his prey, waiting for the right moment to spring.
"And you are?"
"The Doctor, just the Doctor."
"That is not a title that stands alone," I remarked, "Doctor who?"
"Doctor no one. The title by itself's enough for me!"
"Doctor of what, if that is not too bold?"
"Oh, you know, this and that, jack-of-all-trades... that sort of doctor! But enough about me!"
"On the contrary," cut in Sherlock Holmes, with an amiable smile, "tell us more about your travels, and this strange blue box!
"Ha, of course, of course," the Doctor said, without appearing to be moved by my friend's mention of travels. "There's really no chance that a man like you wouldn't be intrigued...stupid of me to think otherwise. But there really isn't much to say, you know! I get around, one place to another, see the wonders of the world, and this old cabin," he tapped the box's wooden side affectionately, "it's really just a souvenir, a family heirloom that I'm reluctant to get rid of. Nothing special, as you can see,"
"I'm afraid I rather doubt that, Doctor...what was your last port of call, before returning to London?"
"Oh, Barcelona in fact. The city, of course-not that there's anywhere else called Barcelona...A charming place! But anyways-"
"Doctor," interrupted Miss Tyler, pulling on his sleeve, "We have things to do, remember. We don't have time..."
"These things are related to why you have changed shoes, and your great interest in that violet mud?"
The doctor reacted to my friend's question with a smile from ear to ear and a glance towards his feet, which I now noticed were indeed shod not in the cream-coloured shoes Holmes had described, but similar ones with red canvas and white soles.
"Oh, you! Nothing escapes you, eh? It's fascinating, really, the stories are true! You can't always rely on tales of great men, you know, they get quite exaggerated...Newton, for instance..."
"Doctor!"
"Yes, what? Oh, yes, sorry... things to do...very urgent!" He shook the machine which resembled a musket, causing it to emit a shower of sparks. "Whoops! Sorry, I put it together in a hurry and there wasn't time to-" A man's shout, followed by a woman's scream came from farther down the road, interrupting his monologue. He spun around with remarkable speed, all humorous pretensions forgotten, and exchanged a look with miss Tyler.
"Doctor, I think it's for us..." she said, grabbing his hand. "Come on!" And she left at a run, the Doctor trailing behind her. After several shaky steps he caught his balance and passed her with an energetic shout of "Allons-y!".
Without even a second's consultation, Holmes and I threw ourselves after them.
As we turned the corner the Doctor and miss Tyler came into view, kneeling by a body and surrounded by a small crowd of curious onlookers. I had drawn my revolver as we ran, but there were no targets visible. I knelt down beside the man sprawled on the ground, propped by a dishevelled lady who seemed only partially conscious, and who was no doubt the woman who had screamed. He was extremely pale and blood was streaming in great quantity from his right trouser leg. I ordered the crowd away and took the knife Holmes offered me to tear away the fabric around the wound. As I did so, the other Doctor busied himself walking in progressively bigger circles around us, waving his grotesque apparatus in people's faces and talking under his breath. Holmes watched him like a hawk.
The wounded man was clearly in shock and babbled incomprehensible fragments of words while Miss Tyler, keeping her head incredibly well, tried to calm him. When I finally freed his leg I couldn't hold back a gasp of shock. I was prepared for a terrible wound, considering the amount of blood lost, and it was terrible, but in depth, not size. The flesh within five centimetres around the wound was discoloured and scattered with little red points, like pinpricks. The cut itself seemed to nearly traverse the leg. The blood around the wound was mixed with little purple filaments with a semi-liquid texture, like a sort of jelly or saliva. Throughout my career, I had never seen anything like it.
"And even more strange," remarked Holmes from my elbow. "from what I saw, the trouser fabric had not been pierced above the wound." Addressing the lady, who Miss Tyler had brought a small distance away and was trying to comfort as well as she could: "Did you see what happened?"
Between sobs, the poor woman recited her story. I myself was entirely occupied with the task of keeping my patient from dying of blood loss, so I did not let myself be distracted by her words, but Holmes gave me an account of the entire scene later, supported by the testimony of a second witness, which I will reproduce here.
The woman- Mrs. Jones- was walking with her husband in the street, on their way to visit some friends who lived close by. They stopped for a moment on the sidewalk to converse with Mr. Worthrow, the spice merchant and second witness, when suddenly Mr. Jones had shouted and doubled over to clutch at his leg. A second cry of pure pain had escaped him and he collapsed, leg bloody and writhing in pain. In the confusion that followed, neither Mr. Worthrow or Mrs. Jones had noticed anything else.
By the time that Holmes had finished with the pair, I had cleaned the strange strands out of the wound and sufficiently bandaged the limb to stop the bleeding. I lifted my head in time to see the Doctor shout and hurry towards a nearby back street like a bloodhound picking up the trail-a similarity that I had never believed would exist between the man and Holmes-, followed by Miss Tyler and, of course, by my friend. I hesitated for a moment, but there was nothing more I could do except hail a cab to take the wounded man to St. Mary's Hospital. Anyone could maintain pressure on the unfortunate man's wound while Holmes, who was unarmed, was probably running into a perilous situation in the company of a lunatic in the pursuit of...of whatever had caused the injury. I swear that for the whole of my career I have never had to make such a pressing choice between a patient and my friend Holmes. This is likely fortunate because I must confess, what I did that day still bothers me as a doctor, but I nevertheless do not regret it: I gave some simple instructions to an arriving police officer, and left him with my patient to take off after Holmes and the Doctor.
They had a head start, and it was no easy task to catch up through the tangled roads of northern Covent Gardens. I thought that I had lost them for good when the voice of the Doctor, mixed with that of my friend, directed me to a dead-end street surrounded by stables.
My mind was absolutely submerged by the strange series of events, and almost without realizing I had taken on that automatic mode of functioning, well known by old soldiers, that I had learned during my career at arms: analysis and shock were left for later in exchange for fast reaction times.
That, I think, is why I did not react more violently when I saw what they other three had trapped against a brick wall.
The beast was a dark purple, and if it wasn't for its size I would have compared it to a sort of slug or stumpy worm. Approaching any closer was made difficult by the fact that the thing was nearly a metre long and a good twenty centimetres in diameter, and from what must have been the creature's oral orifice emerged a sort of sting barbed with little serrated teeth. The mouth's contour was covered in mauve mucus, approaching in colour and texture that strange saliva- for that was what it must have been- that I had found in the wound.
Without thinking I threw myself in front of Holmes, revolver trained on the thing. "By God," I breathed, "what is it?"
"I can safely say that it is the creature responsible for the injury of Mr. Jones," replied Homes in a cold voice, "although I do not understand how a creature of this size passed unseen and pierced Mr. Jones' leg without damaging the trouser. And by the bye, I also believe that you know exactly what it is, Doctor."
"You believe correctly, Mr. Holmes." said the Doctor with a stressed, intense voice, quite different than the debonair tone he had taken earlier. In a position that mirrored my own, he had his device trained on the thing. "It's a trafala, from Barcelona, and I must confess responsibility for its presence in London...It's only so big because it just fed. Ten minutes ago, it was small enough to fit up a trouser leg.''
The creature reared up like a cobra and let out an aggressive, piercing scream.
A if in response, the Doctor drew himself up to his full height, hair streaming in the wind, a terrifying expression on his face.
"Trafala, by the terms of the Shadow Proclamation you are guilty of illegitimate immigration, illegal time travel and aggression towards an inhabitant of a Class Five planet. If you surrender now, I will bring you back to Barcelona to stand trial."
Stupefied, I watched the scene unfold. I was simply incapable of making any sense of what passed in front of my eyes. The creature-the trafala, as it seemed to be called-screamed again and balanced precariously on its tail. I adjusted my aim.
"I am the Doctor, and that was my ship you hitched a ride on. I'm already very angry, and believe me, you don't want to provoke me any more." And in truth, I myself was feeling nervous, seeing the Doctor's expression. It left no doubt that he would not hesitate to put into action every threat that he could offer.
All this was taking place very fast, and it is only retrospectively that I can assemble what happened next. The street was wide, but we were spread out several metres from the trafala, blocking any means of escape: The Doctor and Ms. Tyler on the right, to their left Holmes and myself.
Suddenly, with a surprising speed, the trafala set into motion, charging towards us and covering the distance that separated us so quickly that I couldn't believe my eyes. Pure reflex made me fire, once, twice, three rapid shots. I knew I didn't miss, but the impacts had no visible effect on the creature. Miss Tyler screamed, and it was when the trafala was nearly on top of her that the Doctor finally engaged his device.
There was a burst of blinding light, an indescribable sound, and a smell of tungsten in the air. When the flash faded from my eyes the creature was gone. There was a burnt patch on the ground, and in the centre a little ball the size of a melon, from which was rising a tiny stream of vapour.
"What...what just happened?"
The Doctor stowed his device in a pocket and stepped up to the ball, which he picked up and raised to eye level. It was metalllic, or perhaps some sort of ceramic, and seemed to be divided into two equal parts by a wavy line, overlapped by a circle. The Doctor examined it closely from all angles, then grinned
"Perfect! Perfect! I knew the Japanese were on to something with Pokémon! See it, Rose? The perfect prison for a recalcifying trafala!"
Stupefied, I watched him tuck the ball under one arm and offer the other gallantly to his companion, who seemed no more shocked than him but was excitedly asking whispered questions about Pokémons. The word did sound Japanese, but I didn't recognize it, and at any rate I was too preoccupied to pay attention to their conversation. The disappearance of any immediate danger had brought me back to rational thought, and all I could think of was the patent impossibility of what I had just seen.
"Watson, take control of yourself." Holmes' voice interrupted my moment of internal turmoil, and lowering my gaze I realized that my free hand was clamped onto the arm of my friend in a way that must have been painful.
"Holmes, did you see it?"
"I saw it," he replied simply. "As to what I saw, that I think is another question entirely, and one which I cannot entirely answer. I suspect the Doctor can, at least partially." His lips were tight and his cheeks devoid of colour. Here was a man normally quite demonstrative of his rare emotional moments and frustrations, which was probably justified as they were so exceptional, but I realized that he was showing nothing at all, that he was possibly even more shocked than I. After all, logic and rational thought, the two pillars upon which he had built his entire existence, seemed to have been all but crushed in the path of the Doctor. "Watson," he repeated, and I forced myself to let go of his arm as we joined the Doctor at the entrance to the alley.
The police officer that I had left with my patient chose that moment to come running around the corner. He had been alarmed by my shots and was looking for the source. I admit that I was in no state to find an explanation and Holmes, who was well known by the London forces, stepped forward and managed to invent a perfectly simple and believable explanation. With unusual and touching care he also enquired after my patient, who we were told was out of danger and had been carried to the closest hospital in a hansom. I promised to visit the poor man as soon a possible, if only to assure myself that he was in the best care and that his injury would be full taken care of.
It was that thought that really brought me out of my state of shock, and I turned to the Doctor.
"Is there anything I need to know to treat Mr. Jones, Doctor? Any particular risks of infection associated with the creature that attacked him?"
"Hmm...I don't think so," he replied seriously. "Trafala saliva is remarkably germ-free, for a race of bloodsuckers...the sting's teeth may have left a few microlesions, but the teeth normally retract before removal...here..." He rummaged once again in his apparently bottomless pockets- another impossibility for a growing list- and drew out a tiny bottle filled with translucent liquid which he handed to me. "Give this to him, Doctor Watson. It's a universal immunostimulant and should deal with any rubbish the trafala might have carried. And voilà! All's well that ends well, as they say. I love when it ends well, you know, it's so unusual..." He tapped the ball under his arm. "I should put this in my ta- in my cabin. Wouldn't want to lose it, eh?"
Our discussion was interrupted by Holmes, who had finally satisfied the officer and fell into step beside us as we set off.
"I think you owe us some explanations, Doctor," he said simply.
Miss Tyler nodded. "He's right, Doctor. I remember how panicked I was the first time I met you. I thought I was going crazy or something...And I had science fiction movies and the X-Files to ease the blow, and they've got nothing!" She glanced at Holmes. "You haven't got science fiction yet, do you?"
"By definition science is not fictional, Miss Tyler. But if you refer by chance to a literary genre that tells fanciful claptrap in guise of logic, yes, we have such a thing. As it is irrelevant to my line of work, which deals with the real and not extravagant inventions tied together by fragments of logic, I have never referenced it..." he paused, possibly realizing that what we had just experienced was perhaps even more fanciful than any novel. "...Would reading such a work have the slightest chance of giving me any answers concerning our recent experiences?"
"Oh, probably not, no!" said the Doctor. "I'm far too extravagant for any human novelist to imagine up. Not for a few centuries, at least-although, Wells will publish 'The Time Machine' in five years, does that count? I suppose yes, even though I'm not actually in it and the concepts of time are very basic... but anyways, I can guarantee that there is a perfect logic behind everything that just happened! You two are just missing enough reference points and information to draw any good conclusions. Not your fault, you know...and here's my TARDIS...what?"
We had reached the street from which branched the alley where we had left the blue box. Three men in black overcoats were stationed in the alley mouth, and one was examining the cabin. Before he could be spotted, the Doctor backed away and we trailed after him.
"Ohlala," he said, peering around the corner at the men. "I knew it was too good to be true. We're going to have to run."
Miss Tyler took her turn to look, then leaned beside him, biting her lower lip.
"I think we could make it... if we could only get close enough to take them by surprise and get inside. But to do that we'd need some sort of disguise, we don't look very local. Hmm..."
"Who are those men?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know exactly, but they aren't exactly going to tell me and they seem to know what they're doing."
"The Doctor has a knack for making enemies and annoying the wrong people," Miss Tyler explained , a touch sarcastically. Somehow, that information was easy enough to believe. "Right. You need to take off that coat, it's not very inconspicuous. And a hat, maybe, that would make you look more respectable..."
"Janis Joplin gave me this coat," protested the Doctor. "It's a good coat! And a hat would squish my hair. I really don't have a hat head..."
Holmes, who so far had stayed uncharacteristically silent, suddenly spoke.
"Doctor, I have a question, You want to get into the blue booth, that's all?"
"Well... yes."
"And once you are inside, you think you will be safe from those men?"
"I'm certain of it."
"You guarantee it?"
"Yes."
"Well, then." And with the expression and energy that meant he had come to a decision, Holmes came into action, taking off his hat and handing it to the Doctor and trying to remove the man's overcoat. "Watson, give your coat to Miss Tyler, will you? It will be too big, but at least it is long enough to hide the...unconventional...length of her skirt for long enough." The young woman blushed and accepted my coat while Holmes gave his to the Doctor. They had more or less the same stature and with my friend's black overcoat and derby hat he was instantly less noticeable.
"Good. Now," Holmes instructed, "Watson, you walk past, we are going to create a diversion. Walk until the alleyway and pass it a bit, then stop as if hesitating and go back to ask them if they know the way to the gambling den at Cambridge Street. It's an unusual enough request to catch their attention. I'll arrive, running, and take you away. If necessary we can get to fists, but don't worry, I'll pull my punches..."
"Why are you doing this?" asked the Doctor suddenly.
"Perhaps I'm missing 'points of reference and information', Doctor, but I have seen enough and heard enough to know that you come from much farther away than Barcelona and that your place is not here. What's more, you did all you could to limit the damage caused by that...trafala."
The Doctor nodded his head as if he understood perfectly and offered his hand to shake that of my friend. "Your reputation is absolutely deserved. I am delighted to have met you. Between geniuses, we've got to stick together!"
He turned to me. "Doctor, it's been a pleasure." He hesitated for an instant and lowered his voice, so that Holmes, speaking to Miss Tyler, would not hear. "I probably shouldn't, but...don't worry too much about him, Doctor Watson. Sherlock Holmes is far harder to kill than you would believe, and believe me, you two have many, many adventures ahead of you! Don't forget that." Then, as if he had never uttered that cryptic message, and before I could react, he exclaimed, "Right, I think it's time!"
Events unrolled exactly as Holmes had predicted: I walked past the alley mouth, then turned back to ask the men about the Cambridge Street den. One of them stepped forward to answer me and at that moment Holmes made his entrance, at a run and out of breath as if he had been chasing me for several streets. "John, please, come back!" he exclaimed, perfectly in character as a worried friend and with the slow diction of a man with a few drinks down. "You've had far too much to drink to go off like this! Your wife's at home, she's waiting, she's worried, and you can't play away that money!" I retorted something or other about it being my best chance and my being ruined anyways. In the corner of my eye I could see the the two other men taking an interest in us, but still far too close to the blue box. When Holmes tried to put a comforting hand on my shoulder I responded with a right hook, purposely clumsy but still with enough force to make him back up a few steps. The quarrel veered into a tussle, Holmes shouting to the men to help him reason with me as I was clearly out of my mind.
The lads came a bit closer, farther from the cabin, and before I belted Holmes and we both fell to the
pavement, I could see the Doctor and Miss Rose wander out, arm in arm like a couple, nothing less commonplace. One of the men turned to watch them, but his attention was swiftly diverted back when Holmes shouted a particularly vicious curse and tried to twist my arm. It wasn't until the key clicked in the lock of the cabin that they turnedback, just in time to see the Doctor opening the door.
"Stop in the name of the Queen! Step away from the cabin!" one of the men cried, pulling out his weapon.
The Doctor beamed at the approaching men, gave a little wave, and slammed the door in the nose of the fastest one an instant before he reached the box. The man hammered on the door in vain. "Torchwood Institute! If you are Sir Doctor of Tardis, I order you to surrender, in the name of the English Crown! Open up!"
A strange, rhythmic humming could suddenly be heard. The man recoiled just as the cabin began to fluctuate apparently in and out of existence along with the sound.
"By God, it's real after all..." breathed one of the men.
The cabin's image wavered a final time, and then vanished as if it had never been. Holmes and I were left sprawled on the ground in our shirtsleeves, surrounded by three armed men.
"Oh, bugger," groaned Holmes from the region of my elbow. "I think I hit my head. What happened? John?"
Following the example of my friend, I stayed in character for the benefit of our menacing audience. We blamed the hallucination we had just had on alcohol and a strike to the head. Holmes made as to take me home, while I feebly continued to protest my intention to go gambling, and the men let us go, apparently convinced that we were no threat.
As soon as we had staggered around the street corner, I let myself genuinely lean on my friend's shoulder.
"By God, Holmes! The cabin disappeared! Like that, in front of our eyes! Did you know that something like that would happen when you decided to help them get in?"
"I didn't know," he replied simply as he hailed a hansom, "but I suspected. After all, the blue box appeared in the alley without being carried..."
We climbed into the carriage and I made no protest when Holmes ordered the coachman to stop at the Diogenes Club in Pall Mall before continuing to Baker Street. I was in no state to meet Mary and I was feeling an intense need for a good glass of cognac, but most of all I wanted answers. And, truth be told, the company of my friend seemed enormously comforting after such a day.
Our trip took place in silence, and upon our arrival at Pall Mall I let Holmes enter the Diogenes Club alone. His meeting with his brother was brief, but when he returned his expression was considerably more thoughtful than it had been some minutes before.
Back in our rooms at Baker Street, I headed straight to the dresser and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of the strongest alcohol I could find. I served us, drained the first glass in one, poured a second and let myself fall into a chair ungracefully.
A morose silence fell over us. We sat facing each other until I couldn't bear to hold my question any longer.
"What were they, the Doctor and his friend? You have deduced it, have you not?"
"That deduction is at the same time terribly evident and so improbable that the mind simply rebels against it. Even so, when all possible explanations have been eliminated, the impossible must be true...here this is the case, it would seem. The impossible is reality. It is by this intuition that I decided to help the Doctor return to his blue box...but even so, I wanted confirmation before voicing such an extreme conclusion. It seemed that those men in black who tried to arrest us in the name of the Crown claimed to belong to a certain Torchwood Institute, as you may have heard."
"Well, yes, but I have never heard of such an institute."
"Neither had I. That was why we stopped to consult my brother."
"And what did Mycroft tell you?"
"Torchwood is secret. Very secret. Even Mycroft is one of the very few men that are in the know. What I am about to tell you is dangerous, Watson. We were lucky that those men let us go just now, and what I tell you must never be published, or you and I would be in very real danger."
"You have my word."
"Torchwood was created just over ten years ago, in 1879, by Queen Victoria herself. The institute's mission is to battle any supernatural, non-human, or extra-terrestrial threat to the British Empire.
"Extra-terrestrial?"
"Let me finish. The institute was created following an incident involving what Mycroft described as a 'werewolf', her majesty the Queen Victoria herself, and a man who appeared in a blue box, accompanied by a blonde young woman. This man called himself the Doctor. He came from another planet and claimed to be able to travel in space and time using said box. For a reason that even my brother did not know, one of the primary mandates of the Torchwood Institute is his capture."
"A traveller in space and time? Holmes, you don't seriously believe-"
"Think about it, Watson. Reflect." growled my friend. "Think about the things we saw today! If we postulate that travel through space and time is possible, all that happened makes sense. The clothing, the strange remarks, the unknown references...the Doctor comes from who-knows-where and who-knows-when, his cabin materializes in the alley, which explains its appearance. It carries the mud from this far-off place, and in this mud a parasite like nothing we have ever seen, the trafala. When I mention the mud, the Doctor realizes that he had a passenger, returns to his cabin to 'throw together' a way to stop it. He comes back out, we intercept him, he loses time, the trafala attacks a passerby. His unfathomable technology allows the Doctor to track it, to catch up. We corner the creature in a dead-end, the creature -apparently intelligent- tries to escape. The Doctor imprisons it in that metallic ball-"
"But surely that's impossible-the size..."
"Would not be a problem. After all, the creature grew at least twentyfold in less than ten minutes. What's more, you must have noticed that the sheer quantity of things that the Doctor held in his pockets surpassed what we would have ever considered possible, and without any visible damaging effects. And of course, there is the box itself, which I suspect is much more than it seems."
I took another gulp and nodded weakly.
"Continue..."
"You know the rest. We returned to the vessel, diverted Torchwood, which had been alerted in the interim about the cabin, and the Doctor flew away to clearer skies. End of story."
"I can't believe you can take these things so calmly!" I burst out. The alcohol and the shock had finally taken over my facade as I turned to face my friend. "You, who prizes above all science and logic! If things like that were possible, how could you function as a detective, knowing that the killer might not be human, knowing that if the door was locked and there was no sign of force the killer might have simply appeared in the room and left the same way!"
Holmes bowed his head. "I accept it for that very reason. Logic tells me that it is the only possible answer. The implications...the implications have not yet hit me. But think, Watson, over all these years that I have practised my art, how many times have we met with such a case, truly fantastic and not simply mysterious, which could not be resolved by human logic and a minute examination of the facts? They have existed, it's true, but even knowing what we know, you could not convince me that the vast majority were not entirely human mysteries. Even looking back, non had details so incongruous or escaped every paradigm like this affair with the Doctor and his blue box. And if one day another affair does present itself, which the multiple faults and passions of the human race fail to explain...well, we will see, Watson. We will see."
Here ends this strange account. I gave Mr. Jones the remedy that the Doctor left me, and he recovered remarkably, though he would keep a weakened muscular mass in the area of the wound for the rest of his life.
Whatever claims to indifference Holmes may have made, faced with the reversal of his world vision, he passed the following weeks in that torpor that I normally associated with cocaine. I could do nothing to distract him until a new case presented itself...and then another, and another, which he would attack with his normal energy and mental ingenuity.
To this day, no affair has presented itself with such a collection of inexplicable events as to seem supernatural so convincingly as the blue box, but sometimes I wonder, always in vain, if this or that strange news article or rumour couldn't be the fruit of some fantastic event.
Five years after our adventure, a writer by the name of H.G. Wells published a work entitled "The Time Machine", which I bought and read attentively. I knew that, despite his vocalizations to the contrary, my friend did the same, and the book always held a prize place in his library.
Finally, to address any even remotely connected issue, I must mention the last words that the Doctor spoke to me. For some time, I could not decide what sense to give them and all but forgot them. Then, with the tragic disappearance of my friend over the falls on that terrible day in 1891, the message came back to me, a tiny flame of hope that prevailed for four years. I could not allow myself to really hope, imagining that it would only prolong my grief.
It was only after the return of Holmes that I could accept that the Doctor knew what was going to happen, and had done his best to lift the weight for me. For that kindness, I will be eternally grateful, whatever the future holds for us.
I do not know if we were dreaming that day, and even now I have difficulty imagining a path through time that is anything but linear. But I do know that it is possible, that one day the blue box could reappear and out he might come, perhaps aged, but the same man that crossed our path all those years ago. Why, I am not sure, but it is a strangely comforting thought in the middle of this madness that seems to engulf our world.
Doctor John Watson, London, 1915