Disclaimer: Nothing mine, of course. Holmes is Conan Doyle's and most of the plot belongs to M. R. James. A.N. Happy birthday and many, many happy returns, my dearest Sendai! I apologise for how poor this is, but I have been hit with major writer's block (and flu, which might have something to do with it ^^'''). Sorry for the lack of John at the moment, and I know this is a small offer, but I promise more is to come. Enjoy! (I hope)

Magic bonds

Holmes huffed. How Stamford had thought that Doyle would be a good fit as a flatmate, he didn't know. For once, it wasn't whichever flatmate Sherlock tried to cohabit with that ran away for the hills claiming the only room fitting for the sleuth was one in Bedlam. Doyle was, actually, unusually tolerant of his odd hours and experimental bent. But Sherlock refused to live with someone who at a ripe adult age still believed in fairies, ghosts and whatever other tripe any conjuror could come up with. A lengthier cohabitation would have caused his brain to spontaneously rot, he was sure. When he couldn't resist anymore, he said it openly…and finally was rid of such a naïve companion, after a rather spectacular row.

There was only one good thing that came out of his acquaintance with Doyle. It all started with an accidentally spoken aloud deduction during a séance – one that the doctor should really have known better than hold in their shared rooms anyway. His consulting detective business was still at the beginning, leaving him much more time than he would have wished, for the sake of his sanity as well than of his wealth. So, when invited, he would happily – as a sort of side activity, which he would never confess to any inspector – debunk self-proclaimed psychics, telepaths, and whatever other title a man – or woman – could claim to dupe people. It was too simple most often, of course. But if it didn't tax his brain, at least it kept his eyes sharp.

Still, most of these charlatans were people who wouldn't find a place otherwise. Then someone consulted him about a professor urging them to add to a philosophical convention they were organising a panel discussion – which he obviously offered to lead – on demonology and its practical effects. The sleuth checked, of course, and he was surprised to find that the man was an actual university professor, not just someone who thought adding the title to his name would be beneficial.

Even more strangely, the man (a certain James Moriarty) taught, in fact, mathematics. Many of his colleagues would shun the whole branch that was his target's hobby, but Moriarty not only solicited the committee that turned to Holmes – the professor published (undoubtedly out of his own pocket) a weighty tome on the subject. Since the book was rubbished by a long list of critics, one more savage than the other, the detective didn't even bother going undercover to see the man's tricks first-hand like he often would for such requests. He just assured his clients that the man belonged in Bedlam, and it was a wonder no one had forcibly brought him there yet.

When professor Griffiths, who represented his clients, asked hesitantly if he wouldn't mind being mentioned as the person who supported their refusal, the consulting detective just shrugged. Of course they could say as much. It didn't matter a jot to him. Griffiths was fidgety while asking, and that surprised Holmes. Odd hobbies or not, the man was still a professor. The worst they did was to pen scathing reviews of each other's essays, not beat up people in back alleys. That obvious amount of unease was a bigger mystery than Moriarty's nonsense.

Now, Holmes regretted not having considered the case worthy of more than a quick browsing at the library. Then again, there were no lives at stake. Unless the man was really so creepy that his clients especially wanted someone else to pin their obvious refusal on…in which case, the professor appeared as if he could turn from a loud loony academic to a potentially violent madman at the drop of a hat. (He should certainly be used to being dismissed in his line of enquiry after all.)

If his life was about to be in danger, he should like to know it. Which was why he donned a disguise, and headed for the village where the professor still resided. That was yet another oddity. Why would the man live a good number of miles from his chair?

Once there, on pretence of being just a merchant passing through, he sat in the local pub and started chatting amiably. It took him longer than he'd hoped, but finally (offering a few rounds), he managed to bring the other customers around to gossip.

What he heard was a mix of the credible and the absurd (or at the very least, the highly improbable). That Moriarty didn't get along with his neighbours was obvious. Tales of his seclusion – but for when he hurried to his job in a coupé, more than once almost running over an innocent bystander. Griping about the man's servants being a spiteful lot, and with such faces that nobody would be surprised to learn that they had sojourned in jail in the past. But the most prominent remark was how easy to take umbrage the man was, how persistent his grudges, and how sure you could be of his vengeance.

That was the report you could easily believe. Then came the outlandish part. Hushed whispers of the man throwing away religion and starting a dark cult, which made the detective wonder if these simple people had confused a mere academic interest coupled with a disregard for mass with actual devil worship. And above all, one disquieting tale…

Apparently, just after the professor moved in, he pretended to be a nice person, and even decided to offer a show to all the local children, since he received some special plates, or so he said. He apparently took a special delight in telling the villain's point of view, when narrating, and the plates…well, they were special all right. The characters depicted seemed to jump out of the image, and of all the fairytales he recounted, both his words and the images seemed to indulge in the most grisly details of any story. People (actually, mostly children) eaten, dismembered, stabbed…with a very believable wolf apparently jumping at you, there was enough to feed nightmares for a month.

But the worst was the last image he picked, what his informants insisted had to be flesh-eating bugs from hell… And somehow these didn't just look able to get out of the screen, but they appeared to spread in the room, among the children… The result was a veritable stampede of terrified children, which lead to a number of broken bones. No wonder that there was no love lost between Moriarty and his neighbours!

Sherlock regretted having taken an interest in the man so late, because he would have loved to observe this, so he could expose him (the actual spreading of the creatures sounded like a hard trick to pull off, but he didn't doubt he could figure it out with first-hand data) and so protect the children from being hurt.

All considered, the sleuth came back from his expedition without a worry. The man was despicable, for sure. Insane, very possibly. But he was no kid to be terrified by magic tricks, and if any of the very likely felon servants were to be sent against him, they would have a rather unpleasant surprise. He had learned long ago to protect himself.

It was all true, of course. But it wouldn't be long before Holmes self-assuredness and contempt for someone who managed to ignore all the scientific precepts he was supposed to teach took a hard hit, with the truly inexplicable entering his life…

As it ever happens, the inexplicable seemed dull at first. A leaflet that someone had apparently glued or otherwise affixed to his compartment's window, perhaps because they were bored, or because they had some extras. Holmes might have ignored it, if he wasn't alone in his wagon, so nobody was offering material for deductions that would keep him amused, and if the paper itself wasn't a brilliant yellow. In ornate, dark blue characters, it declared, "In memory of Henry Watson, F.S.A., of Fairways, Farnham. Died June 22, 1881. Three months were allowed."

It was odd that anyone would choose such bright paper for such a sombre announcement, much less – if the 'allowed' lines really meant that – demand or receive permission to stick it on the train. The name, though, attracted the sleuth the most. He recognised it as one of the most cutting and in-depth critics on whose opinion he'd assured his client to ignore Moriarty's request. At the time, he'd had no idea the man was actually dead. Maybe this rather silly case could still have some points of interest…he would have to look into it. If there had been foul play on the professor's part, and Mr. Watson had been less prepared to deal with it, justice would have to be served.

Which was why, mildly curious about it, when the train conductor came by to check his ticket, he nodded towards the obituary and asked vaguely if there was an office appointed for authorising such things nowadays.

The conductor denied it vehemently, deplored the taste of whoever concocted this, and went to scrape it away from the window…with no success. "Oh look, they glued it on the outside. Some people are really queer," he remarked, before continuing his duties.

Soon, they arrived at a midway station, and the detective could see the conductor – who apparently had taken the minor matter to heart (possibly, he was bored too) – on the station platform, outside, marching towards the offending obituary. Amazingly, it wasn't ripped off a second later. The conductor stared, scratched, stared some more, and then came back with a colleague. What could be the problem? This was becoming stranger by the minute.

The two seemed to argue a moment, and then they entered Holmes' carriage. "Is there a problem?" the sleuth asked, puzzled.

"It's not out there!" the train conductor he'd already talked with blurted out, looking flummoxed.

The other had marched to the window, only to still suddenly. "I was sure you were having me on, Luke, but it's not in here, either."

At that, the consulting detective had to get up and examine it closely. The two befuddled men were right. It was as if both colour and words were painted or etched inside the glass. This was not necessarily supernatural – one could conceivably send someone to switch a glass nightly, he doubted that the train would be running twenty four hours a day. But if someone had, they did an awesome work. There was no obvious sign of it being recently changed. Besides, what reason would have Watson's relatives for a similar trick?

Of course, it could be Moriarty's men. But this opened a more disturbing prospect. If the obituary was an implied threat, showing off what they already did, it meant that either the professor had another enemy usually taking this line (but the villagers hadn't mentioned any ongoing feuds, even when they extolled the man's resentful character)… Or Moriarty wasn't just aware of his 'slight', but had deduced a)that he would come to investigate; b)which train he would take; c) which carriage he would choose. All without ever meeting him. Impossible. Not even Mycroft could have been certain of it, and his brother knew him from birth. Such a feat would be much more terrifying than getting words 'inside' a glass and switching a train window.

Obviously, it could be meant for someone else. The detective offered his calling card to the conductors, saying he was curious about such an odd thing and would like to know if it had really been allowed, after all, and how long it would be up. They nodded, still mumbling about, "Strange," and, "Who would do that, anyway?" before going on their way.

Perhaps he'd dismissed things too soon. This case was unusual enough to be definitely interesting. First, he needed more data. Next stop, Fairways, Farnham. Hopefully, Henry Watson had left behind someone who could shed even a partial light on this.