Hello, readers. Feel free to skip this intro and read it after you've gotten through the first chapter - or not at all, if you wish!

First, an apology to those who have faithfully - and patiently - followed my other Sherlock Holmes story, 'The Adventure of the Bee Keeper's Violin'. I'm sorry, but that story is on hiatus indefinitely. Some time ago my computer crashed, causing me to lose all my story notes; besides which, I had written myself into a corner and was struggling to find a way out. I might take it up again some day, but not in the foreseeable future, I'm afraid.

To new readers - and Tarzan fans - hello, I hope you enjoy this offering. A Tarzan x Sherlock crossover? Why not?

Why Disney's Tarzan? Because I like it - it's my favourite Disney movie. I haven't read the Edgar Rice-Burroughs novels, so I won't be encorporating any elements from them. I like Disney's gentle, idealistic take on the character; I've been watching 'Legend of Tarzan' episodes, which are quite good.

The first half of the story will be a Conan-Doyle style procedural; the second half will focus more on Tarzan and Co. I may have to give Tarzan a bit more of an edge of realism to fit in with Sherlock's world; likewise, Holmes might have to be Disney-fied a bit to meet it in the middle - not too dark, but hopefully still suspenseful.

A quick note on times. It is hard to specifically date Tarzan, since Darwin, Kipling, and Queen Victoria are all mentioned in the film, yet the 'Legend of Tarzan' series purportedly takes place in 1912, even though it has supposedly only been a year since the original film's end. I chose to shave a decade off that, setting the events of Tarzan around 1889-1901, and this story a few years after that. I also gave this story a very specific date, as it needs to fit around the Conan-Doyle canon; I've included references to some of Holmes' previous cases, as you will find as you read.

I have a few other ideas for Tarzan-themed stories, so if you like this one, I'd love to hear it!

Thanks for reading, please enjoy! ~ W.J.

The Adventure of the Simian Savant

Chapter One

It is strange, where a man's life will lead him.

At the time of my disastrous return from Afghanistan, I never would have believed that I might find myself as I did only a few short years later, happily married and with a thriving practice, quite comfortably well-off and not at all wanting for pleasant company. Besides having made a somewhat favourable impression upon my professional peers and acquired numerous congenial cronies of my own, my wife is the kind of friendly soul who attracts like-minded associates like moths to a flame; henceforth, I could never dare complain of loneliness.

However, on certain nights in this idyll of domestic contentment, when society at my chosen club seemed duller than usual, or the serenity of our humble abode became too much of a tedium, out of some nostalgia for my bachelor days, or perhaps a kind of keening for the excitement of some higher purpose, I found myself walking down the familiar pavement of Baker Street, to the abode of Sherlock Holmes.

When I first set foot on Portsmouth Jetty all those years ago, friendless and forlorn, I never imagined that I might make the acquaintance of a companion quite like Holmes. Admittedly, such a man is near inconceivable; to say that he is an odd fish would gravely understate the fact. Yet it is this very strangeness, it would seem, that made him so attractive.

I do not wish to give the impression that he was to me some sort of entertaining novelty; an oddsome diversion that I would seek out in times of boredom. To be a mere novelty, his great feats of deductive power would have needed to be only sporadic, which they certainly were not. I might have found him to be unbearably arrogant, if I hadn't had proof of his impressive skills so many times over; I suspect I had nearly as much belief in his abilities as he did himself. It is trite to say, but his unique accomplishments were always aimed at serving some greater good - even if that 'good' was merely his own relentless need to always prove himself right. Nevertheless, that his services helped innumerable clients and beneficiaries goes without saying; and I was proud to have contributed to this noble cause, in my own small way. Holmes was the not-so-humble servant to justice, and I his willing helpmate. It is perhaps not surprising, then, that I sought out his particular company on many a tiresome night, when normalcy became less than appreciated, and routine a downright nuisance.

That is not to say that we found ourselves on perilous missions at the culmination of all such visits. This was occasionally what transpired; on consulting my notes, I find that such cases as the Johnson extortion plot, the Compton-Vickers blackmailer, and the attempted Wickerbry abduction, all had their genesis in just such excursions. In more instances than not, however, I would arrive at my former place of residency to find Holmes calmly smoking his after-dinner pipe, luxuriating in one of those spells of lassitude that were so repugnant to him.

Sometimes, he would be embroiled deep in some mental exercise, and would not acknowledge my presence at all from the time I sat down until I took my leave. Other times, I found him to be in a sociable mood (or, at least, what constitutes for one within his particular temperament), ready to regale me with the various intricacies of some supposedly unsolvable mystery which he had just unravelled in a trice; or to lecture me on the musical virtues of Paganini compared to Strauss; or to extol the unique practical applications of a certain chemical nitrate, depending on his chosen occupation at the time. When caught in the right frame of mind, he had a sparkling wit every bit as fine as his professional prowess; when not, he was a morose, sullen presence, which I presume I alone, accustomed to his habits as I am, could find not just tolerable, but strangely comforting. Oftentimes, we would simply sit, each of us absorbed in our own affairs - I reading the evening papers or the latest medical journal, he sorting through his casebooks or poking at his chemical experiments - wrapped in a pall of companionable silence, until I at last bid him goodnight and returned to my own home.

It was on just such a night that this recollection begins. I have stated that my friend is a unique and somewhat eccentric individual, a summation which he would no doubt take as a gracious compliment. And yet, before this particular night was through, the pair of us would encounter a man who, perhaps, surpasses even my friend in both the remarkable nature of his singular accomplishments, and his astonishingly complete lack of conventionality.

It was on 16th September 1903 that I found myself once again at 221B Baker Street, sitting in my habitual armchair, deeply engrossed in a scientific paper. Holmes was darting in and out of his various scrapbooks, attempting vainly to diminish a pile of case notes which stood beside the hearth, threatening to collapse upon the long-suffering landlady every time she endeavoured to sweep the grate.

I was immersed in my own preoccupation, when my companion's sardonic jibe broke through my train of thought.

"Surely you are not thinking of extending your practice to cater for apes?"

He had looked up from his own work and noted the title of my paper, which was: The Comparative Physiology and Psychology of Homo-sapiens with Select Simian Species.

"Brilliant deduction though that is," I replied, with a bit of wry mirth, "I am merely extending my mind. This dissertation was recommended to me by a colleague; it is a fine read. Surely you are acquainted with Darwin's incredible postulations?"

It was a continued sore point between us that he deliberately eschewed all knowledge of the solar system's workings. Knowing this, he gave a complacent shrug. "I have attempted to maintain my ignorance on the subject, but I keep coming across the most insistent reminders. I did not know that you were an exponent of his theories."

"I was sceptical at first," I admitted.

"Just as you were sceptical about the science of deduction," was his uncharitable remark.

"Yes," I replied, rather testily. "However, once presented with the inescapable proof put forward in Origin of the Species, I found the idea to be resoundingly plausible; just as I did, might I remind you, with that seemingly-ineffectual twaddle ambitiously known as The Book of Life, the author of which shall remain unnamed. Perhaps," I added, "you take a more theological approach to the subject?" I was well aware that such a difference in opinion had likely parted many colleagues, and ruined many friendships.

He gave a critical snort as he reached for his pipe. "If the Creator did indeed make apes as His first template for the human race, I wish He had taken the time to refine their intellects a great deal more; to this day, most specimens are found to be sorely lacking."

"Of course you consider yourself the one exception," I retorted, somewhat acidly; his conceit could be quite irksome at times, justifiable though it invariably was. I turned my attention back to the article.

"This scientist's work is truly illuminating," I said, trying to impress the point upon my companion. "As well has having opposable digits and pentadactyl limbs much like our own, many species of ape also resemble us in their psychological and emotional traits. After extensively studying the habits of ape populations in the wild, this zoologist fellow observed that gorillas have a complex social structure, similar to ours in many ways - they follow a chosen leader, form devoted family units, mourn their dead, and even have something that resembles a judicial system."

Having refilled his pipe from the Persian slipper on the mantle, Holmes devoted his first puff to a derisive scoff. "I trust, then, that Lestrade and Gregson would recognize themselves in their simian cousins. It is even feasible," with a particularly scornful sneer, "that Dupin was on the right track when he suspected an orang-utan of committing murder!"

This last comment was purposefully meant to rile me; I had not quite forgiven Holmes for so savagely critiquing a Poe classic of which I had always been fond.

I was about to return some cutting remark, when there came a sudden frantic pounding on the outer door, then a series of thundering footsteps upon the stairs, rapidly drawing closer. Accustomed though I was to the sometimes less-than-decorous approach of my friend's prospective clients, I had a strange sense of foreboding as those haphazard footfalls same to an unsteady halt outside the sitting-room door.

Imagine my surprise when it then burst open to reveal none other than Stamford, our mutual acquaintance; the very man, in fact, who had initially suggested that we might take lodgings together.

"Stamford!" I cried. "This is an unexpected pleasure! But you look to be quite done-up about something, old boy!"

Indeed, he was in a pitiable state; quite unrecognizable from the smart, sparse figure he usually cut. In the time that had elapsed since we bumped into one another at the Criterion Bar, Stamford had become an associate lecturer on applied biology at the University of London, and henceforth was highly regarded as a distinguished member of the educational faculty. There was very little distinction left about him at that moment; he was puffing and panting like a steam engine, flushed in the face and soaked in perspiration, practically tottering on his feet. His face looked so ghastly that my professional sympathies were immediately aroused. I hastily directed him to a comfortable chair; Holmes set a glass of water at his elbow, which I pressed upon him.

"You look to have met a trying time, my friend," I told him, as he gulped inarticulately. "We will come to that when you are somewhat recovered. As your doctor, I advise you to take a minute to compose yourself."

"A straightforward and reliable medicine," he managed to say rather breathlessly, putting the glass down and eying us both with thanks. I suspect that Holmes had added a dash of whisky to it, for his colour was fast improving, and already he was becoming stronger. "I am so glad to see you, Watson, old fellow. I have serious need of yours and Holmes' aid - I didn't know where else to turn."

"You can rely on us, Stamford," Holmes broke in, soothingly. "If there is some tangled skein that needs unravelling, we're your men."

Stamford regarded him gravely. "I fear this problem is a little too much in your line of work. I have reason to believe-" and his voice took on a hushed, horrified tone "-that the most beastly crime has been committed."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "Whatever has happened?"

"It is our guest lecturer," Stamford began; he seemed so anxious to divest himself of his trouble, he struggled to know where to start. "I just came from the hotel, and-"

He suddenly stopped, staring past me with such a fixed gaze that both Holmes and I were momentarily startled.

"But it seems you are already acquainted with my problem!"

He sprang forward and snatched up the article which, until a few moments ago, had so engaged my attention. "This was written by our guest lecturer. There is to be a seminar tomorrow, and I visited the hotel to finish coordinating the slide projections that are required, only to find the room in shambles, and evidence that- well, I rather fear... that something dreadful has happened to her."

I think we both drew gasps at that; Holmes and I exchanged incredulous glances.

"'Her'?" I repeated.

"Yes." Stamford jabbed a shaky finger at the article, pointing to the name inscribed beneath its title. "J. E. Porter - Miss Jane Porter. I think- well, I greatly fear that... that she has been murdered."