Hello everyone. A few housekeeping things before we get started.
Firstly, this is a sequel to A Study in Spheres. If you haven't read that, go check it out and then come back. Don't worry, this story isn't going anywhere. You can even open it in a new tab! Aren't tabs lovely? I remember when the internet didn't have them and it was just plain annoying. You can even have some music going while you read. Isn't that awesome?
Secondly, I will be going back and making some MINOR edits to A Study in Spheres. Just word choices, things I find now don't work in the larger scheme of things, ect. The plot is the same, the dialogue is the same, everything is the same except a few little tweaks to make it better. Don't feel the need to reread it if you already did. Just giving you all a head's up.
Thirdly, this story is based mostly on "The Sign of the Four", but it also has huge chunks that were inspired by "The Greek Interpreter" and "The Engineer's Thumb", which is one of my personal favorite Sherlock Holmes short stories but doesn't get nearly enough love. Go read them if you have the chance. They're amazing.
Lastly, enjoy the ride, and see you at the end!
(As usual, Dragon Age does not belong to me, although I would love to join the writing staff someday. Sherlock Holmes is public domain, but was originally written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.)
The Sign of the Dragon
From the writings of Enchanter John H. Watson, spirit healer and mage of the Circle of Magi
The City of Denerim, Capitol of Ferelden
9:32 Dragon
When I first took up residence with Sherlock Holmes in his apartments in the city of Denerim, I quickly learned that there was a careful balance between his brilliance and his eccentricity. While he was then and remains still the most clever and intelligent being I have met, he has habits which I can only describe as odd. There is the usual nonsense of his; playing his Antivan violin at all hours, his comings and goings, his strange and sometimes unnerving clients for his unusual profession.
Lately, however, my friend has taken to stranger activities. In particular, he has taken to injecting himself with small doses of poison. He will use a small blade with the tip dipped in the vile stuff, making a small incision in the skin just below his elbow and allowing the poison to seep into his blood. This will more often than not leave him in states of near-unconsciousness for anywhere between several minutes and several hours.
I have protested more than once that this practice is not good for him, but the elf simply waves a hand in my direction and snorts. "The poison is distilled in water to the point it is not lethal in the slightest. I am a master with a blade, and know how to avoid causing damage with it. Besides, should the worst occur, I have the pleasure of competent healer living in the room next to mine." I would usually change the subject following this, and it would go no further.
One morning, we were seated in our common room in Baker Street. I was positioned near to the window, reading a book. Holmes, meanwhile, had set up near the unlit fireplace. He was dabbing his thin blade into a solution of poison and water and ignoring my glances of worry.
Eventually, it became too much. I protested once again, and he responded with his usual reply. This time, however, I did not let the conversation turn to other matters. "But why must you subject yourself to poison?"
Holmes let out a very long and very heavy sigh, dropping the knife onto the table unused. He leaned back in his chair, placing his fingers together delicately beneath his chin. "In short, I require some stimulation to function. When I am working, my mind is active and all is well. When I lack problems, however, the strain of boredom weighs heavily on me. The poison slows the blood, allowing me to relax."
Before I could respond, the front door opened below us. Someone ascended the stairs, and after a moment, there came a knock at the door. Without waiting for a reply from either Holmes or myself, Madam Hudson opened the door and approached the other elf. She cast an angry eye at the knife and the cup at Holmes' side, but did not say a word. She did not have to, for Holmes refused to meet her gaze, and all meaning between the two was conveyed in that gesture. Instead, she held out an envelope in my friend's direction.
"I ran into a courier outside as I was returning from my errands," She said, "He said he was to deliver this to you."
Holmes turned his head towards her at last. He reached over with slender fingers and plucked the envelope from her hands. Quickly and deftly, he tore the top open and pulled the letter from within. Dark eyes darted back and forth across the paper. When he reached the end, Holmes snorted and dropped the letter onto the table.
"Thank you, Madam Hudson. Once again, you have proved an able messenger. It is not your fault that the message is one worthy of being ignored."
Madam Hudson stood for a moment, watching her tenant. Then she rolled her eyes, turned away, and crossed to the door. "Good morning, Sherlock," She said, and left the room as quickly as she had entered.
Once she had closed the door fully behind her, I looked back at my friend. "What was that about, Holmes?"
"I have mentioned that I have a contact in the palace. Occasionally, he asks me for favors. Some days I feel like obliging him. Some days, I do not."
I know that Holmes had mentioned his palace contact several times in the past, but he had never told me who the mysterious person was. I had even made a note of it in A Study in Spheres, my account of the first case Holmes and I had solved together. Every time he mentioned this person, I had always wondered to their identity, but I had never dared to come out and ask Holmes. "Were you not just complaining that you had no work? It sounds to me as though this could be a case."
"Of course it is," replied Holmes dryly, "but the relationship between myself and my contact is a strange one. You must leave it as it is, Watson, and trust my word. If I feel like taking on the job he is offering to me, I will, but on my time, not his."
Knowing that there was no arguing with my friend, I settled back into my chair and went back to my book. It was but a few minutes, however, before Holmes spoke once more.
"I have read your account of our first mystery, Watson."
I looked up at the elf. "Oh? What did you think?"
"I cannot say that I have a high opinion of it. My work is an absolute science in a world that pretends it has no absolutes, and it should be treated and documented as such. You have made the entire story into some sort of romantic bard's tale, and as such, have lost some element of the precision which goes into my work."
It took all of my considerable willpower to resist throwing my book at Holmes. "I simply told the story as I witnessed it."
"And therein, I believe, lies the problem."
I promised myself many times that I would not launch a fireball at my friend. Sometimes, I will admit that it is difficult to resist the urge. "Well," I said with some bitterness, "Why don't you write down one of our cases, then?"
"I most certainly will," replied Holmes, "As soon as I have the time, I shall set about to record a particularly interesting case. You will see how such records are to be properly kept."
Before I could retort, there came three knocks on the door below. Holmes quirked an eyebrow and looked over at me, all thought of criticism forgotten at the prospect of a new development. "It would seem, Watson, that we have a client."
"It could simply be a neighbor," said I, but Holmes shook his head.
"No, it is a client. No neighbor would call on us before noon." Below us, I could hear the sound of the door opening and Madam Hudson's voice in the hallway below. After a moment, there was the sound of someone ascending the stairs to our apartments and a knock upon our door.
Holmes smiled in a way that said to be ready for an adventure. "Now, Watson, let us meet our new client. Come join us! The door is open!"