Well, I'm back! I do hope you like this, and as with all my stories, it's not quite what it appears to be. ;D Thank you guys for being so understanding with my gigantic hiatus. ^^

Dr. Watson woke up knowing something was wrong. His soldier's senses, kept keen by constant exposure to danger, were rarely wrong on this point.

He sat up quickly, his eyes snapping open, his hands flying to the drawer where he kept his revolver. He was a bit disoriented when his hands met nothing and his eyes saw only white. He slowly brought his hands in front of his face and discovered to his extreme relief that he could see theme. He began to gently, if unsteadily, stand. He was perplexed to note that whatever his feet were standing on was the exact same shade as the horizon. Actually, as far as he could tell there was no horizon in this place, wherever it was.

He was also concerned to note, that although he had clearly felt his bedclothes upon waking, he could not see them. He could see his own soft pale nightclothes, but nothing else. He was very grateful that he could even see those. He was even more grateful that the temperature here was neither unduly hot nor cold, otherwise he would be hard pressed to remain comfortable.

He twitched his thumbs and 3rd finger as he stood deep in thought for a moment contemplating his situation. He hit upon a thought, and closed his eyes. Keeping his eyes closed, he held his arms outstretched and fingers wide, looking for all the world like he was playing a game of blind man's bluff with himself. He dropped to his knees after a few moments and started groping about like a blind beggar, or a thief who had dropped his darklantern and sack of jewels. He suddenly gave a small cry of delight as his fingers met the fabric of his bedsheets. His eyes flew open and the exulted grin withered off his face and he saw that he was clutching nothing.

"Curious…"

He cautiously moved his hands slowly up and down the length of the fabric. It certainly felt like his sheets…

He soon discovered the feeling of his sheets only lasted for approximately his measurements. He even discovered part of his pillow, and felt the crater his head had left. But the strangest of all these discoveries was when his questing fingers went outside the crater and fell down with a bump.

The feeling of the bedclothes only lasted to what he had been sleeping on.

He sat on the bedding and wondered what in Heaven's name was going on.

-

Holmes sat up, perched on the couch as he puffed furiously at his pipe. His brain raced along a thousand trains of deduction faster than could be recorded as he attempted to solve the intriguing little puzzle that had been brought to his attention by a rather diminutive, but attractive, housewife in a most unusual situation. After a few hours of solid puffing he leapt up with a perfect shriek of exultation.

"I've got it! I have him now!"

With that he sprang into his bedroom and with stunning alacrity proceeded to throw on his clothes and hat and dashed out the door, slamming it behind him. So exhilarated was he that he scarcely gave a thought to the disturbance this would cause his sleeping flatmate. Let Watson chide him later!

He fairly flew into the telegraph office, badly frightening the young clerk on duty as he dashed off his three messages with a frighteningly focused expression on his sleepless face. After delivering his messages, Holmes whistled loudly for a cab and managed to hop into on even at such a late hour.

"To Bakerstreet cabby!" he cried joyously. He settled back into his seat, and contentedly lit his second-best pipe which had fortuitously been nesting in this particular jacket's pocket forgotten. By the time he alighted and his destination, he had calmed down to a profound sense of peace and benevolence to the world. He payed the cabby and remembered not to slam the door, but it was a near thing. He started whistling a simply lovely tune from Nocturne Op. 9 as he took the stairs one at a time.

He quietly made his way to his chair by the smoldering fire and idly considered composing something on his faithful Stradavius, but out of deference to Watson (who had looked rather done-up when Holmes saw him heading up to bed) he decided against it. It was far too late to perform experiments, besides, he was out of some supplies and the shop wouldn't open until morning. There was no call for cocain thank Heaven. And Watson wasn't here to talk to.

His excitement rather dampened at his point, he (rather crossly) decided the only thing left to do would be to update his files. This had been an interesting case, but there wasn't much call for cutting and pasting. He contemplated scribbling "Solved affair of 27 drowned cats. Was a booby-trap for Mrs. Jefferies' husband to walk on while on his beat. Designed by neighbor, William Hemmer, who coveted his wife. Constable Jefferies was ill with cold for a week, and the bobby assigned to his beat didn't go as far out onto the docks. Cats got caught in the trap when trying to get at the fish. Very amusing if a tad simple." And calling it a day. But his swift mind decided on telling Watson when he arose at some thoroughly respectable hour all about the case and amusing himself later by reading his rendering of the account resplendent in all its floridity in his diary. Yes, he decided he would do that. Chuckling a bit, he nestled himself deeper into his chair as the adrenaline from the case left him and his eyes began to droop.

-

"Good Lord Holmes!" Watson exclaimed as Holmes sat up and rubbed his eyes at the blank whiteness all around him. "How in Heaven's name did you get here?"