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I lay in bed that night with nothing but the intention of sleep. My mind needed unadulterated rest more than anything. As you have already read, I am not the most energetic of fellows[1]. I prefer to abide by the first half of the old adage, 'Early to bed', (but the rest should read 'late to rise.')

However, as I lay there, my body stretched out warm and comfortable, my mind was cold and rampant. I could hear Holmes below me, pacing about as restless as a cat. It was strange. Normally when not engaged on a case, he was as lethargic as a corpse, hardly moving from his chair or bed unless forced. It was only when on the trail that his thin body became enamoured with energy. He could then go days without rest and not feel the effects. If he slept at all that night, I didn't know, but I was grateful that there was no more torrid violin playing. I would not have been able to stand that. Dare I say it, but I shan't ever think the same way about him on that instrument again.

Sleep at last found me sometime after the clock chimed one. Even then, it was a strange half-sleep I was subjected to, one filled with colourless images. I must not have been able to reach that truly relaxing sleep where one feels refreshed upon awakening. Instead, I was plagued with memory- like nightmares:

The heat of an Afghan summer's sun boiled into my skin as I stood in a dry desert surrounded by men I thought I knew. The old 5th Northumberland Fugeleers. Smyth...Bennett...Hampstead...they were all here. I was in a make- shift surgeon's tent, trying to set the broken femur of a young private. We were all laughing at one of Patrick Bennett's jokes. Something about the Captain's bowleggedness.

'Do you suppose that he keeps a cactus down his trousers?' Bennett was saying, doing a terrible interpretation.

We all laughed. 'Someday you will be flogged for your insolence,' I told him.

It was at that second that a terrible screeching sound filled the air, accompanied by what seemed a thousand reports[2]. The tent was ripped to thick red pieces as I felt searing fire in both my shoulder and thigh. I was flung against the ground, an action that may have saved my very life. It had happened all in the blink of an eye; the surprise rebel insurrection was over hardly before it began. All I could do was lay against the hot floor, coughing in immense pain, hardly able to keep my eyes open. Bennett lay next to me, three bullets in his chest, his entire frame drenched in his own fluids. The boy whose leg I had been setting dangled half off the table, his eyes a blank tablet staring into me. One hand flopped downward, grazing the top of my head, fingers still curling slightly, his blood dripping leisurely- droplet by droplet against my face. I thought only to get away from him...but the pain that coursed through me would not allow it.

A violin began to shriek behind me, covering all sounds of the screams of the men in my brigade. It played no music. Only noise, horrid loud noise, louder and louder still...until there was a black shadow over me, a tall, slender shadow with pointed features and long jagged claws. 'Watson...'it hissed, leaning inward toward my throat. No...No...No...

"No!"

"Watson?"

I looked up into the dark of the room. It was Holmes. I wasn't in Afghanistan at all, but here in my bed in London. My heart was beating so that I feared I may be going into coronary arrest for a second. I was so cold...and wet. Covered in a thin layer of my own sweat. A croaking sound escaped my throat, so dry and parched that I could not speak.

"What ails you, doctor?" I heard him say.

"Wha..."

His hand was suddenly upon my shoulder. Shuddering, I moved away. Even long healed, I could feel the sting in the empty crevice of my body's wounds. And it had been he...no, it was only a dream. Wasn't it?

"Are you quite alright?" His voice was concerned now. "You are ever so pale...are you ill?" Reaching to my night table, I watched him pour a little water into a glass and press it into my hand. "Should I send for a doctor?"

I thought there might even be a little humour in that last statement, but I couldn't be sure. The water was lukewarm, but it released whatever demon was clawing at my throat, and I felt more awake. More alive.

"No, I am fine," I managed. "I was just...it was just a dream. Nothing more." I tried to smile, to play it off. The last thing I wanted was for he to think a mere dream was enough to agitate me to this state. I was not a weak man, a coward, after all.

But instead, he flashed me a sad sort of half-grin. "We all have our nightmares from time to time, doctor."

"Yes. Holmes, what are you doing in my room in the middle of the night?"

He laughed. "My dear chap, you must be disturbed indeed. It is now exactly a quarter past the hour of seven. And I am here to impose on you."

My whole body went rigid for several seconds. I only hope that in the still dark room that my friend did not see. "Impose on me...in what way?"
"To join me in the sitting room, of course. A client has just arrived. What did you think I meant?" The eyes narrowed suspiciously, and I swallowed a mouthful of dusty air.

"Nothing...nothing at all. But a client? So early?"

"Yes...and at last a case that I can sink my teeth into, if her appearance is any indication. So you must come. Into your clothes. Quick now, Watson! We mustn't keep the lady waiting!" With a fit of energy, he sprang from my bed, clapping me on the arm before disembarking downstairs.

With the light of the gas, I was able to think more rationally. It was morning. It had just been a dream...or rather a memory of one, up until Sherlock Holmes appeared...appeared like Satan waiting to journey with me downward. Still, it was strange. I am not usually a man for such nonsense. In fact, it is a rare occasion when I even remember what goes on in my head whilst asleep. And now I was thankful that I did not. I would rather never close my eyes again, than relive what had just occurred.
*

I was dressed in record time, even for myself, whose Army habits have taught me speed. Grabbing a notebook, and splashing some icy water upon my eyes, I headed downstairs. I certainly hoped that the horror I had just witnessed was not evident in my appearance or demeanour.

Our client was a beautiful woman, quite young, with soft hair of chestnut, a pink glow about her elfish face, and small very dark eyes framed with delicate lashes. Her dress and manner suggested wealth and refinement, but I knew enough of character to recognize the spirit in her. A humorous, adventuress streak-at times suppressed and at times allowed to roam free. I immediately thought much of her, even before she had spoken a single word. There was an aura about her that reminded me of Mary.

Holmes, in typical fashion, took no notice of such delicacies, preferring instead to concentrate on the trivialities. What these were I couldn't say yet, but no doubt he was forming facts about her entire past and present from a glove or a boot or a freckle on her nose. Hadn't he said up in my chamber something about her appearance already? I couldn't be certain. But to him the trifles were the spice of life.

"Miss...Bishop," said he, after a glance at the calling card.

"Yes," said she, her voice one of intelligence beyond her age and sex. "And you are Mr. Sherlock Holmes, are you not?"

"Indeed. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson."

She turned a gentle smile onto me. "I have read your accounts of Mr. Holmes' cases in The Strand. It is that which convinced me to consult the two of you."

Holmes had settled himself into his wicker-backed armchair with his favourite pipe, the calabash, no doubt ignoring the comment. It was always clear to me that he took no pride in my writings of him, despite their popularity. He did not go in for the romanticism and fantastic elements I occasionally included, although even he could not deny how recognizable he had become because of them. "If you would be so kind as to convey the reason you find you find yourself at Baker Street this early morning?"

I turned a reproachful gaze on my friend, but if Miss Bishop took offence at his rudeness, she didn't show it. "Certainly, Mr. Holmes. The reason I sought you out is because my father was stabbed to death Tuesday as he slept and the police are getting no where with it."

"Good Heavens...your father was murdered?"

"I am afraid so, Dr. Watson."

"You have my most sincere sympathies, Miss Bishop."

"That's very kind of you," she said with the slightest hint of smile. "I have had four days now to absorb the shock however. I can speak clearly and frankly, I assure you, if you are concerned about my emotional state."

"Excellent," Holmes said. "Then please, from the beginning. And prey, be exact and detailed as possible."

"Perhaps Miss Bishop would care for a cup of tea first, Holmes." He saw the glare on my face, and sighing, slunk back into his chair. He turned questioningly toward our client.

"Yes, I would appreciate it, in fact. If it is not too much trouble. I did have a rather early morning, as is evident."

"Oh, it is no trouble," Holmes said. "Mrs. Hudson!"

"Holmes!" I said. "Must you shout so? Josh is still asleep and unless you want him in here asking thousands of questions, I would prefer him to remain so."

I knew that he did not like to hear this. If there was one thing he disliked more than anything, it was to be told what to do. This was something he didn't even stand from me. Second on that list of pitfalls was to change his habits without good reason. And shouting at Mrs. Hudson was one habit that he has had since the day he met her, bless her heart.

"My apologies," he said, re-lighting his pipe. His teeth probably would leave permanent marks on it. "I forgot the boy."

"If you don't mind me asking," Miss Bishop said. "Who is Josh?"

"My son. He is but three and a terrible curiosity. Worse here than even Holmes."

She laughed softly, just like Mary. "I didn't know that you had any children, Dr. Watson. He has not appeared in any of your cases."

While we waited for our tea, I explained to her about my late wife and Holmes' re-appearance. I left out all the necessary parts, of course, such as my outrage at his deceiving me in the matter of his 'death', and ended with my moving back here to assist him. If she thought this strange, it didn't show on her face. As Mrs. Hudson was fond of saying, she was a genuine lady.

Holmes put up with this tete-a-tete for as long as his mind would allow him to, which was not long. When Mrs. Hudson arrived with our tea, he threw his penetrating look toward her and said, "Now, if neither of you mind, I would like to return our attention to the case of your deceased father, Miss Bishop. That is why you are here, and it is dreadfully early."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, you see"-

"The hour apparently is not unusual for you, however, as I see that you are an early riser. Very early, as it is at least a two-hour train ride from Dartmoor or Exmoor, whichever of these it is that you are from."

"However did you"-

"You live in a large estate no doubt, on which you do a great deal of walking in the outdoors. Your family keeps horses and you are an avid equestrian. You must care for horses a great deal, Miss Bishop, to drive your own team. Only a skilled lady of your obvious class would undertake such a thing. And it is clear that the death of your unfortunate parent is not the only thing preying on your mind. There is much perturbing it of late."

She laughed again, as most clients do when Holmes is finished summing them up. "It is quite amazing. To read of this skill, Mr. Holmes, to read of it being used on others is in itself a grand thing. But to actually witness it being used on myself, it is ever so incredible."

"It is nothing of the kind," he said with his usual amount of forged modesty. "A few small deductions that even the doctor could make."

"'Thank' you Holmes."

He did not catch the sarcasm in this, I guarantee it, as he continued. "It is easy to tell that you are from a region south and west of here by the remains of mud upon the heel of your boot. It is a thick, country mud not found except in wet moorish-regions such as Dartmoor or Exmoor. The fact that your boots are worn along the outer seam and of course the tan of the back of the neck suggests that you walk a great deal outside. The circles under your eyes tell me that much has been troubling you lately, much later in date than just these last four days, I should think. And as far as the horses are concerned, what else could be indicated by the hunching of the spine except a great deal of time on a horse or spinning. And a lady of your class, Miss Bishop, does not spend her hours in front of a loom."

"But how did you know that she drives her own team?" I was compelled to ask.

"Her gloves," he said, with a wave of the pipe. "Are creased with a slight blackening in the palm. It is the exact sort of mark that the reigns of a team would create."

"And the fact that I am an early riser you knew from the fact that I am here now, Mr. Holmes?"

"My dear Miss Bishop...that is an ineffectual assumption. It is much more along the lines that you are immaculately dressed that suggests that you, like most young ladies your age, care a great deal for your appearance and that you take some time with regards to your toilet in the morning. However, your boots, madam, are haphazardly buttoned. This suggests to me that you were dressed this morning quite early, all except for your boots. No doubt something propelled you to London as fast as possible, and therefore you did not take the time you usually would in buttoning them properly."

"Astonishing, Mr. Holmes."

"No, Miss Bishop...logic. And now, if you would, please tell me what exactly it was that forced you to leave for London so early that you have neglected your boots as it is? If your father has been dead for four days now, as you said, than certainly you thought not to hurry in consulting me."

She looked down into her cup of tea as if carefully considering her words. I really wished that Holmes could learn to be a little gentler when dealing with ladies. It was a queer thing. There were times he was positively charming around them, times when I thought that any young lady should consider herself lucky to have him as a husband. However, there were other times when he was so forceful...so nearly un-gentlemanly. I shouldn't think I shall ever fully understand the man. "The reason, Mr. Holmes," she said in a quiet voice, "is that Inspector Clayton, who is investigating the case of my father's murder, arrived very early this morning. He informed me that he was placing Thomas Kingston under arrest for this murder, as he now found it fit that Mr. Kingston may have had motive to want Father dead. And so I took the earliest train available from the Dartmoor station to London."

"And this Thomas Kingston is whom?"

I could detect the slight reddening of her flawless porcelain skin as she answered. "He is our groom. He has been with the family since the age of ten, some eleven years now. His mother was dead and his father was a drunk who beat him. Mother had a soft heart in those days, and took him in. He is wonderful with the horses. He and I...well, we are quite close."

"Indeed. You love him, do you not?" He dipped his pipe into the slipper to refill it for the third time. I wondered at how the man could manage so much tobacco on an empty stomach.

"I...yes, Mr. Holmes. I do. It will do nothing to conceal the fact from you. I have been in love with Tom since I was quite a young girl, and he with me. We planned on marrying this summer. That is, until this ugly situation reared its head. Oh, Mr. Holmes, you must help him!" She cried with some feeling, some feeling that instantly released any attachment in my own heart. It was quite obvious that this young lady was already spoken for, and spoken for very well. "If only you knew him. You would see that he is quite incapable of such a thing. Tom could no more commit murder than I. He has seen so much anger and hurt in his short life that I know he would never succumb to violence! I know it Mr. Holmes, but Inspector Clayton is such a pig-headed, stubborn man that he has already made-up his mind!"

"Calm yourself, Miss Bishop..."Holmes said gently, holding up a re-assuring hand. "I will do what I can. But you must remain calm. Leave your Mr. Kingston out of the picture for the minute. I am quite more interested in your Mother and Father. You must take a deep breath of air, and tell me the beginning of this story."

Miss Bishop nodded, taking an unsteady sip of tea with a grateful look to my friend. A look that he never saw a woman give. And then she spoke. "My mother is the daughter of the Earl of Cantor, whose people have inhabited the east of Dartmoor for generations. We may, in fact, be distant relatives of the Baskervilles through whom I first read of you, Mr. Holmes."

"Hm! I certainly hope this case is significantly less messy," Holmes interrupted.

"Come now, old boy. It was the Hound more than any case you have solved that propelled your name throughout the public. It was a fascinating business."

"It was fascinatingly messy, more dramatic and sensational than the majority of your published works, Watson, which is the only reason you trumpet it. The case, the mystery, was actually simplistic. And now, do not interrupt Miss Bishop again. Prey continue."

It was times such as these that I would love to throttle my friend. Only he would possess the audacity to suggest I had interrupted our client. He is also the only man I would let get away with it. Even in the company of a lady.

"My father-Bruce Bishop"-she supplied after no more than a glance from Holmes-"was a merchant fisherman before he met my mother. He is not a man made for dry land, Mr. Holmes. I realize this now, but he and Mother fells so passionately in love that both thought they could overcome this obstacle. As well as the fact that my maternal grandparents were opposed to the match. She was not a son (and in fact they had no male children) and even only a second daughter, but the fact remained that she was still the daughter of an Earl. And wanting to marry nothing more than a labourer."

"So they eloped." Holmes stated.

"Yes. And so furious was my grandfather than when he found out he banished her to live with the new husband in a small cottage...well, small compared to the estate she had grown up in. It was only after Grandmother died, just a few years later, that he changed his mind, realizing the importance of family. He offered the couple Hilton Grange, one of several family homes, for their own. I was a child of six at the time, my brother, Richard, only one. I should tell you that my brother and I are the only children of my parents. Three pregnancies ended in still-birth before I and another between Dicky and myself. This played heavily on my mother, I can assure you."

"I'm sure that it did," I found myself saying, not being able to hold the sentiment back. I had the horrid experience of one stillborn child. And I was a man. I could not imagine how much worse it would be to be a woman and to lose four children at birth after carrying them nine long months. I glanced sideways through the smoke of my cigarette at my friend, expecting a rebuking look. But there was none. If anything, he was lost in a brown study[3] silently puffing out little clouds of smoke.

Miss Bishop continued-"My father was not satisfied with his new life as master of such a large estate. Black Bishop-that is what Mother re- christened Hilton Grange because of the black agate stone used in its construction-quickly became a respected homestead on Dartmoor. But with the exception of our horses, there was nothing to distract Father from his longing for the sea life. And so, he purchased for himself a small fishing vessel that he kept anchored just off of Plymouth. He would take it out, sometimes for as long as two weeks at a time. Mother didn't like it, but it was the only point of disagreement between them, so she didn't raise the issue. However, one day-it was March of '88, nearly six years ago, when Father set out aboard the Catherine and was simply never seen again."

"What?" I said without meaning to. "But I don't understand. If your Father disappeared some six years ago-how came it that he was murdered four days past?"

"Oh...you see, Dr. Watson, what I should have said was Father disappeared six years ago, only to magically return just three weeks ago. Much like you told me of Mr. Holmes here. Everyone thought him to be dead. Lost on his ship, or something. But then three weeks ago, he returned, perfectly alive after all! My brother and I, and everyone who knew him, were shocked beyond words."

Holmes' eyes popped open immediately. Had he been a machine he would not have managed it more exactly from the second our client's mouth closed. "No, no, no," said he. "That will not do, Miss Bishop. If what you say is a fact and your father seemingly reappeared from beyond the grave than you must tell me exactly what occurred. Pray leave nothing out."

She nodded. "Well, the first thing I should tell you is that my mother has been ill for quite some time. She contracted consumption nearly a decade ago, and is now, as the doctor tells me, not long on this world. I do not say this to ask for your pity gentleman, but more because I fear you may think it the reason my father returned so suddenly."

"To see your mother before she passed on?" I asked.

"Not exactly," she said, with a sad shake of her glistening head. "But more along the lines that my father is still named in the only will my mother ever made as the soul heir to the Hilton fortune left to her by my Grandfather when he died just short of seven years ago. You see, Mother never stopped loving my Father, even after everyone told her that she must accept his death. But she refused. She even refused to change her will. She was convinced that he would return one day. Up until three weeks ago, I thought this to be mere fancy on her part, maybe even relating to the unnatural state of her nerves do to illness...but now, it appears that she was right."

"Why, this is quite fascinating," I mumbled, absent-mindedly lighting a cigarette. "I have never heard of such a thing, have you, Holmes?"

"Never...now, you say, Miss Bishop, that you fear the reason your Father returned is because he had somehow gotten word that if he did so, he would inherit Black Bishop upon your mother's death, as well as a large amount of money left from the estate of your late Grandfather?"

"Yes. My mother's elder sister died unmarried, and so Richard and I are the only Hilton heir's left. But despite the fact that I am of age, Mother never altered the will, save a few small allowances so as not to leave my brother and I destitute. Father would have inherited nearly all..."she paused then, flushing slightly in the face, as if not wanting to continue. "I know this may look as though I myself am guilty. If Father had been really dead, than I would in fact be the benefactor by reason of default. But I assure you, neither I nor Tom had anything..."

"Oh, we would never think such a thing, Miss Bishop!" I cried uncontrollably. "Would we, Holmes?"

"Hmm?" He asked, having been peering into the fire unmoving. "Oh...I think not...Miss Bishop, there is just one last thing I should need to know, and then I think, you may very well return to your Black Bishop. I should need the details of your Father's return conveyed to me as exactly as you remember them. It could prove to be the catalyst for this case."

"Of course Mr. Holmes...I recall them very well in my mind. You do not forget such a day as that. It was a Sunday, exactly three weeks ago tomorrow, and Richard and I had been attending chapel in the village of Darby, nearest to Black Bishop. It is a drive of nearly an hour, but after Father's disappearance, Mother became quite enamoured with her faith suddenly, and ever since we have attended every Sunday. Even after she herself became too ill, my brother and I continued without her. As soon as services had finished, I had stepped out to call to attend to our carriage. Dicky was still inside. There was a man standing by my team, I man I nearly instantly recognized, despite the passage of time. 'Lizzie, my girl,' he said, and then I knew for certain. 'Father!' I cried. 'Father, you have come home!'"

"And then what?"

"Well, we were all so thrilled...the entire household. Mother was...well, I don't think she really understood what was going on. She was almost catatonic by then. She will only allow Richard and her private physician to see her. Dicky and she were always quite close."

"What explanation did your father offer for his strange disappearance and miraculous return?"

Miss Bishop frowned. "Never a satisfactory one, I am afraid. Only that he missed his life on the sea too much. He was so ashamed that he abandoned us that he could not even muster the courage to write and say he was alive. He thought it better that we believe him dead, rather than a deserter of his family. But he was adamant about one thing Mr. Holmes...he knew nothing of the my Mother's will, even after Mr. Bullard informed him...and his return was because he needed to make his peace with us. He said that he couldn't go to his grave with this on his conscience. Oh, I truly believe he is repentant, Mr. Holmes! I know that the money could not have been the reason for his return! It just couldn't be! If for no other reason than the fact that he could not have known Mother never re-wrote her will!"

"Just a moment...you spoke just now of a Mr. Bullard, was it? Who is this?"

"Mr. Ambrose Bullard," she said. "Father's best friend and our family's personal solicitor for many years. He has been very kind to us over the years. He took care of all the legal and financial matters of Black Bishop after Father left."

"I see. One last question, Miss Bishop. Who was present the night your unfortunate father met his end?"

"Well...I, of course, and Richard. Mr. Kingston was out in the stable loft were he lived. Mrs. Oliver, our cook. Jane Merriweather and Anne Duncan, our housemaids. And Mr. Bullard was there as well."

"Mr. Bullard?"

"Yes. He occasionally stayed the night after Father returned. The two had much business to attend to, as you might imagine."

"Of course...although that seems to be very singular..." Holmes mumbled almost to himself before jumping to his feet and making his way to the door, which he held open. "That will do for now, Miss Bishop. I have a few things to attend to here in London, but if at all convenient, I should like to see the scene of the crime today. Tell me, has your father's body already been buried?"

"Why, no. The funeral is scheduled for tomorrow at the church in Darby. The very church we first met at these weeks ago, no less."

"Excellent! That is very fortunate, indeed! I believe there is a train that arrives at the Dartmoor station a little after five this evening. What it be possible for you to meet the doctor and I there?"

"Well...yes, I think so. But Mr. Holmes, I have not yet told you all yet. For instance, the nature of the murder. It is not something I much like to explain, but surely it is of some..."

"No, no," Holmes said, waving a hand. "That I would prefer to see with my own eyes and draw my own conclusions. There is more than enough inference here and now as it is. The main facts that you can provide second-hand are all-in and stored safely. What remains must be seen by my own eyes."

It was at that exact second that my son appeared in nothing but his nightshirt, hair rumpled every which way, and eyes still glazed with sleep. He held on to the bottom of the railing with both hands, carefully making his way down one stair at a time. I have to admit, his timing was terrible. Five more minutes and Miss Bishop could have been safely out of the house and I would not have to deal with the endless questions that were sure to come out.

He took one look at the lady and every inch of shyness that usually accompanied him was washed away. "Who are you?" He asked bluntly.

"Why, I am Elizabeth Bishop. A client of Mr. Holmes. And you must be Josh Watson."

"Yes. Do you have a case?"

She smiled. "You are a very perceptive young man. Indeed I do have a case. Mr. Holmes is going to look into it for me."

"Can I help, Uncle?"

Holmes looked at me, trying desperately hard not to smile. I found the matter significantly less amusing. "No, indeed, Josh. Miss Bishop has to return to her home, and you must have breakfast. You and your... 'uncle' can play detective some other time."

"It was nice to meet you, Josh," Miss Bishop said, patting his cheek. "I hope that we meet again, some time."

He was pouting now, his short arms folded against his small chest. But his anger was directed at me, and not the lady. "I hope so too. I want to see your horses."

I felt my entire body stiffen. I was very glad that I was not on the stairs at the time, for I feared had I, I may have had quite a fall. Miss Bishop stopped dead in her tracks, and even Holmes looked knocked for six. "How..." I began, but words utterly failed me. "How did you know...it's not possible."

"Know what, Papa?" He asked.

"John Sherlock Watson, were you listening in on our conversation just now with Miss Bishop?"

He shrunk several inches in fear. The use of his full name was enough for him to see how upset I was. "No, Papa. I didn't. I just 'waked up. I promise."

"Don't lie to me, boy! There is no earthly reason that you could have known about her horses unless you did!"

"I'm not lying!" He said, as the first big tear drops blurred the blue eyes and found their way down his cheeks. "It was her glove. That was how I knew! I didn't hear nothing I shouldn'ta!

"Her...glove..." It occurred to me then that her glove, or rather the fresh marks upon them from the reigns had allowed Holmes to conjecture she drove her own team. But surely...no, it couldn't be. A three-year old simply could not have made that connection. It wasn't possible... "What about her glove?"

He was almost afraid to answer now, but the stubborn streak in him won out. "She has marks on her glove. It's from horse-things. The ropes."

"The reigns, John Sherlock, the reigns," Holmes corrected.

"Yes. The reigns."

I was utterly taken aback. "But how could you have possibly know that?" I asked, shaking my head.

"I don't know. I just did. That's all, Papa."

"It is really is quite remarkable, Dr. Watson," Miss Bishop said. "Such a small boy...why, I would have thought him 'your' son, Mr. Holmes! He seems to have your great gift of observation."

My teeth immediately clamped down, an instinct that may have saved me great embarrassment. Holmes smiled, a little too widely at that, but did not have the courage to look at me after that statement. He enjoyed it immensely, though, I can assure you. "If we judged by early indications, we should all be geniuses[4], Miss Bishop. We can but hope this is not the case. If you wouldn't mind, I shall escort you out." He motioned toward the staircase and the two left, left before I could say something I may grow to regret. Only Josh remained oblivious, still standing in his rumpled nightshirt, eyes pink with crying, looking nothing like the genius he was sure to become.

"I'm sorry, Papa," he said, sniffling. "I won't never make adductions again, I promise! I didn't know that it would make you upset."

"I...oh, Joshie, I'm not upset with you," I picked him up, enjoying the warmth he radiated against my cold face. "Someday you will understand how hard it is to be a mere mortal living among the Gods."

I know this seems an odd place to stop, but so much was happening in this part, that I didn't want to bog you down. Sorry there's so much dialogue, but it's still the best way to get Holmes and Watson on the case...please review. Thanks! ----------------------- [1] Watson says in STUD that he is 'notoriously lazy,' although I really don't see him living up to this. [2] The explosive noise of a rifle [3] A state of deep thought. [4] Similar to a quote by Goethe, "If children grew up according to early indications, we should have nothing but Geniuses."