A/N: I really don't know what to say. This is just supposed to be silly. The idea is that Watson was in a terrible mood when he wrote this. That, coupled with the total fantastical nature of the tale is why Doyle never had it published for him.
Dear Die-Hard Sherlockians: Please remember to give me a Viking Funeral after you kill me for this story!
It was early in my involvement in the life of one Mr. Sherlock Holmes from which this tale springs; as so many of our cases and adventures before, aspects of these strange and perception altering events have become only loosely known to the public, consequently elaborated on until the truth has been morphed into a convoluted mythology: many of the details changed dramatically.
I find it is my duty as one present, Doctor John Watson, to tell the facts as they actually occurred; rather than a strange and deluded fantasy. During that particularly uneventful summer, Holmes and I had decided to take a much needed vacation; though I dreamed of a far off, balmy and tropical destination, we had only gotten so far as Brighton when Holmes pitched his tent and swore to go no further.
"From the hotel, we will be able to glimpse the Spanish horizon. Won't that be exotic?" He attempted to placate me, as I grumbled and lifted the bags from the cab. If Brighton had been where we stopped, then it had Brighton he had meant us for the entire journey. In more than a small way, I felt duped.
"Come now, Watson the abundance of mysterious weather reports from the area alone will make it a fascinating stay." He stood, taking in his surroundings in the manner he was prone to. His hands in his back pockets, his vigilant eyes piercing through the icy breeze and spray. It was then known to me that though one could drag Sherlock Holmes on holiday, he would never come quietly. Relaxation was a luxury he would never afford himself or, by association, me.
The hotel we were to inhabit was a pleasant enough place, and certainly up to my standards. (This was key as Holmes himself had no standards. Often during our years and travels together I felt it was most definitely I who had prevented the both of us spending long nights in rain barrels. On the occasion Holmes was left to his own lodging, I recall tales of him sleeping in bales of hay and once in the pantry of a local establishment of a tarnished reputation.) As breakfast arrived, my companion finally revealed himself at our table.
"Morning Holmes. I say, old man, you don't look well rested at all!" I blurted, immediately regretting it, but his appearance was less than glorious. Where his hair was usually expertly combed, several strands were escaping any standard of style; the eyes that normally shone with expert lucidity had become redden and drawn; his tie was sloppy and his shoulders slouched.
"It was not a good night, Watson. I am loathe to sleep on a bed that is not mine, especially when the sheets are washed in foreign water," I would, myself, be reluctant to deem a three hour distance 'foreign'. He continued, "ordinarily, my cure for insomnia would be the dulcet tones of my beloved Stradivarius; however, it has been left at Baker Street by your request, and would not do well at three o'clock in the morning in a hotel besides." Holmes then rather snappishly ordered his toast to be crisp from a passing waitress and rubbed his fingers to his temples as he continued the woeful tale of the previous night.
"It was at a point a quarter past the hour suggested that I decided my only course of action would be to build a replica of Parliament out of forks. I feel it went well."
I glanced at my cutlery and noticed a distinct absence of a particular utensil.
"Holmes…"
"I know Watson, but no one was awake and there was no way to know how many I needed, so I merely grabbed my pillow cover and filled it with as many as it could carry. This turned out to be all of them. In a strange way, fate had smiled upon me." He must have seen some show of concern on my face, for next he said:
"Don't worry, Watson. I just get a little odd when I've nothing to do." I surely didn't have the heart to tell him then that he was plenty odd when he did have something to do.
"How did you sleep?" He asked considerately.
"Fine, pillow was a bit hard."
"Did you complain to the desk?"
"Yes."
"Good man."
I spent the rest of the morning perusing the shops for a suitable souvenir for our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, while Holmes enquired after odd weather trends. It seemed a compulsive triviality, as though the man could not go any longer than a day and a half without interrogating someone.
"Watson!" Came his sharp and unmistakable voice as I left an over-priced antique shop.
"There you are Holmes; I'm having a devil of a time finding a reasonable charge for goods…" I began, but he cut me off abruptly.
"Of course you are. It is a tourist trap at the height of season. Ghostly empty due to the abundance of remarkably unwelcoming weather, resulting in even more dramatic price gauging. Now then, what is the weather like right now?"
It was all I could do to stand and blink at him, he was outside in the weather with me, after all.
"Well, Holmes…" I tried not to sound too patronizing, but I am rather afraid that is how I came off, "you will notice that the sky is grey instead of blue. That is called 'cloudy' and no doubt means that we will see rain by this afternoon…"
"Very good Watson. I commend your patience with me. Do you, by chance, notice that there is no rain at all, though? Very little moisture in the air considering our seaside location? And now…" A fork of lighting flashed behind him, like a purple vein in the sky, "a dramatic electrical storm has begun?"
"Fascinating. Your conclusion?"
"That we should get inside promptly, as we neither have thought to bring umbrellas this morning." He smiled thinly and began a brisk walk back to our hotel.
Unfortunately, the rain began almost immediately after, in a torrent of near hail. By our luck, an old woman saw us hastening and called from her window.
"Gentlemen, hurry in here! You'll be chilled to the bone!" She quickly to rushed to her door and ushered us inside.
"Ah. Thank you madam. Most kind." Holmes panted; he was fitter than he appeared but the man, quite frankly, smoked like a chimney.
"I am Dr. Watson, and this is Mr. Holmes. I do hope we are not intruding…"
"Oh, heavens no!" The old woman beamed, "Most people call me Auntie Em. I feel quite honoured two fine gentlemen such as yourselves would be in my home, even if it is only to keep dry."
"Had you invited us in finer weather, madam, we would not have declined." Holmes added in his usual charming way and removed his hat and coat as I did the same.
Over conversation with the woman, it was revealed - as Holmes no doubt already suspected - that 'Auntie Em' was a street name she had earned many years ago, and that the life and blood of every tourist destination was cheating people out of their money. Most establishments would find legal ways of doing this, but often the poorer citizens of these towns would step outside of the law. Holmes found this fascinating, I heartbreaking.
It was at this point the eerie stillness returned outside; Holmes stood up and peered out of the window.
"Ah. That is slightly alarming." He confessed, immediately I dashed over to see what it was. Holmes never expressed fear, and I thought I might be able to lord it over him if it was something good – like a large spider or a French mime. Unfortunately for my nerves, it was neither.
A large gust of wind was twirling in a cone shape and tearing up pieces of the street as it moved in a seemingly purposeful path. I had read of such things but never seen one. To the best of my judgment this was a cyclone; and it was coming straight for us.
"Do you think this will hurt, Holmes?"
"Most definitely, Watson."
The next thing I can clearly remember is waking up in that same living room, what must have been several hours later to Holmes' searching call:
"Auntie Em? Auntie Em?"
"Holmes…?" I sputtered, sitting up. A hole in the building somewhere on the second story was letting in the most ghastly bright sunlight down the stairs and dust was just about everywhere.
My companion headed towards the door and flung it open, revealing even more of the obnoxious light.
"Watson, I don't believe we are in Brighton any longer."
We two stepped from the mason derelict into what appeared to be a completely different world, full of the greenest grass and bluest sky. As I openly gawked at our new surroundings, the ever vigilant Holmes merely scoffed in annoyance.
"What is this place?" I mused, more to myself than him.
"It would appear to be a manufactured paradise, Watson, some sort of gated community. Judging from the size of the footprints near that rainbow's end, I'd say we're dealing with children… or perhaps orangutans in shoes."
At this, I felt obligated to roll my eyes:
"Or midgets, Holmes. Do you think it could possibly be midgets?" I confess that my tone was less than forgiving.
"Oh, yes of course. Damn it. Why don't I ever think of midgets anymore?" He continued to mumble to himself as he surveyed the eerie rainbow. It was at this point I turned around to be greeted by quite the ghastly sight, a pair of pointed black shoes seemingly worn by someone trapped beneath the house. (My immediate reaction was an expletive that shall not be transcribed here; however, I find it imperative to point out that it was a remarkable shock.)
"Holmes! There's a dead witch under the house!"
"Wrong Watson! There is a dead witch sloppily shoved into the cellar!" Holmes strode over to the morbid scene and lifted a creaky door off of the corpse, who was hanging by her knees from the threshold.
"We have two options," he said with a sigh of conviction, "we can push her into the cellar properly or find her murderer."
"I know your views and you know mine."
"Indeed I do, Watson. However, I am taller ergo my way is best; we shall investigate this crime!"
Our first step was to try and establish the identity of the victim, with much care not to disturb too much of anything, we lifted the body onto a nearby over-sized toadstool and sat down for a good think.