The morning after our adventure in the warehouse, I awoke and entered the main room of our lodgings. There I found Holmes, seated in a chair near the door and staring very intently at the wall. His eyes were glazed over, as if he was locked in his own thoughts. I took to my seat across from him slowly, expecting him to acknowledge my presence.

When several minutes had dragged by and he had not done so, I cleared my throat quite loudly. Holmes jumped and fixed me with a confused gaze. "Watson? How long have you been sitting there?"

"For some minutes." I said. "Didn't you notice me enter?"

Holmes shook his head. "I did not. I was deep in thought about the problem before us, and such thought secludes me from the workings of the world."

"Did you sleep at all?" I asked, astonished.

The response from Holmes was to shake his head once again. It is becoming a regular response to any query I pose to him. "I frequently do not sleep when I am presented a difficult problem. Nor do I eat. Both seem to simply slow down my process, and my mind must remain at peak focus during my investigation."

I did not question this further, instead rising from my chair and quietly preparing myself a breakfast of cheese and bread. After I had finished taking my morning meal, I attempted to distract myself by reading. However, the unmoving presence of Sherlock Holmes constantly served to draw me back into thoughts of the case presented before us. I found myself asking questions in my mind, but not wishing to distract Holmes from his thoughts, I kept them to myself.

First amongst my thoughts was who the murderer could possibly be. It must be a member of the Circle of Magi, according to Holmes. But was it a templar? A mage? A priest? One of the citizens who dwelt near the docks? It could be anyone involved with the Circle. I most likely knew the murderer. My thoughts turned at once to my friends in the tower, to Stamford, Wynne, and First Enchanter Irving. I worried for their safety, knowing there was a killer among them.

Around mid-morning, there came a knock at the door below. A minute later, the door to our lodgings opened and Sergeant Kylon was escorted in by Mrs. Hudson. As he took up a position by the window, Mrs. Hudson remained by the door, her features contorting in a frown as she regarded Holmes.

"You aren't eating again." she broke the silence.

Holmes' response was to shrug his shoulders in disinterest. While Mrs. Hudson's frown continues to terrify me, Holmes seems completely indifferent to it. Perhaps it is the amount of time he has spent as her tenant, or perhaps he is merely unable to express any sort of fear.

Mrs. Hudson placed her hands on her hips and pursed her lips. "I'll go whip up a stew for you. Don't you dare go anywhere." She nodded to Sergeant Kylon and again to me before vanishing out the door. I heard her go down the stairs and begin banging about in her rooms below.

"Kindly shut the door, Watson." Holmes said to me, continuing to stare down at his fingers. I stood and obliged him, moving to lean against the wall once that had been done. The moment the door was closed, Holmes turned his head to look over at Sergeant Kylon. "Well?"

Sergeant Kylon met Holmes' gaze. "The templar was from the Denerim Chantry. Ser Enoch."

"Aha!" cried Holmes, and sprung from his chair. He clasped his hands together and began to rush about the room. "This is excellent! Brilliant! Fantastic! Oh, thank you, Sergeant! Feastday has come early!"

Glancing in my direction, Sergeant Kylon shook his head. "I don't get it."

"If the victim had been from the tower, it would have been a simple solution. The murderer took advantage of their journey away from the Circle to strike. But since Ser Enoch is from the Denerim Chantry, this means that some sort of larger conspiracy is at play. Ah!" Holmes was beaming. His arms were thrown out to either side, and he was bouncing back and forth between either foot around the room. He seemed to be a small child being told that he was getting his own mabari war hound.

Sergeant Kylon, by contrast, seemed to be disheartened at the very idea of a conspiracy. He slumped against the wall next to the window, lowering his head into his hands. "Maker, Holmes..."

"Don't despair, Sergeant." said Holmes, coming to a stop. "We shall solve this mystery for you."

"Oh, I trust you to do so. I just wish you wouldn't make murder look so blasted fun." intoned the Sergeant into his palms.

Holmes wrinkled his nose. "If you insist, Sergeant. I forget that you are soft to those sorts of things sometimes." He crossed over to the window next to Sergeant Kylon and peered down at the street below. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he turned his head back to the Sergeant. "Sergeant, were you followed?"

"No. I made certain of it."

"Not certain enough. Look." Holmes pointed down at the street below. As Sergeant Kylon turned to peek around the edge of the wooden frame, I rose from my seat and joined the elf and the guard at the window. As I stared through the glass at the dusty road beneath us, I searched for whatever it was that Holmes had noticed. Despite my best efforts, I saw nothing out of place.

Neither, apparently, did Sergeant Kylon. He shot a sideways glance at Holmes and cleared his throat. "What am I supposed to be seeing, exactly?"

Holmes looked over at me. I shook my head. He turned back towards the window, disappointment etched on his features. "Look there. The figure crouching beneath the drain, three houses down."

Sergeant Kylon and I looked to where Holmes was pointing. Three houses down, beneath a worn metal drain, a hooded and robed beggar squatted in the street, drawing shapes in the dirt with a slender finger. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the scene. Beggars came down the streets of the Alienage often, as many of them were elves and made their residences in the muck that lined the houses. This beggar seemed no different from any of them.

I said as much to Holmes, and he sighed with disappointment once again. "No, look closer! The lining of his cloak is worn, yes, but it's not stained with dirt or the usual substances which line beggars' cloaks. Look at the way he covers his face! Why would a beggar in the Alienage wish not to be seen?"

"Some disfigurement, perhaps?" Sergeant Kylon suggested.

"No. No!" cried Holmes. "Even a disfigured beggar will often reveal his face. In fact, it makes him stand out from the crowd and makes him more noticeable to passers-by. This one is taking great pains not to be seen. Most likely he followed you from the Chantry, Sergeant, and even now waits to see who emerges from this house."

My confusion turned at once to fear. I felt my instincts kick in, my muscles and bones preparing themselves for combat. "What should we do, Holmes?"

"There is but one thing to do." He said. With a great flurry of movement, he spun on his heel and rushed for his coat. As he swung the black garment around his shoulders, he turned to look back at me. "Can you run, Watson?"

I moved to retrieve my staff from where it rested against my chair. "I believe I can keep up, yes."

"Good! Then there is no time to waste! Sergeant, you must wait until we are gone to leave. Take the main road to the Pearl, and then double back to the Market. If I do not contact you, come and see me in a week's time. Come, Watson!"

With that, Holmes burst forward and bounded through the door. I followed as quickly as I could, but by the time I was out of the room, Holmes was already down the stairs and hovering near the front door. As I hurried down the stairs to join him, Mrs. Hudson came from the kitchen, holding a bowl of stew in her hands. When she saw Holmes, she frowned, but stayed near the kitchen.

"Maker, Holmes..." She said, her disapproval apparent even to me.

Holmes smiled over at her. "Your stew must wait, Mrs. Hudson. I fear our mystery cannot!" With that, he threw the door open and launched himself into the street beyond. I followed as quickly as I could, not even bothering to turn and shut the door behind me.

When the beggar saw Holmes barreling towards him, he jumped to his feet and sped off down the street. Holmes broke into a run, sprinting in hot pursuit.

Even with my injury, I was able to keep both of them in sight as we ran. The beggar had a good lead on Holmes, but the elf was gaining on his target. We ducked and weaved through the streets and alleys of the Alienage. With his black coat and hair, Holmes seemed to me a wolf as we ran, his eyes never straying from his prey.

Our quarry led us through the Alienage to the bridge leading to the Market District. Once, he lost us near the Vhenadahl. Holmes stopped and thought for a moment before speeding off down a nearby alley. I followed, unsure as to what Holmes was doing but trusting his intelligence. I was correct to do so, for we soon saw our hooded beggar once again, and quickly resumed the chase.

The Market District was crowded with refugees and visitors to the city that was slowly rebuilding itself. We dodged our way through the Market in pursuit of our beggar. By this point, I was growing winded and tired, but Holmes seemed to be even more alert than when we had started our chase. His eyes were alight with a strange fire, and he was completely focused on his task.

We followed the beggar as he closed in on the Chantry. When at last we rounded the corner into the courtyard, I found my feet coming to a stop at the scene before me. The courtyard was completely deserted.

Beside me, Holmes stopped as well. His eyes darted to and fro about the small courtyard, from the recently replanted garden to the well. He listened for a moment, and then strode forward. I followed him as he made his way to the Chantry door and threw it open.

Inside the Chantry, several groups milled about amongst the pews and pillars. Templars stood watch by every doorway and window. Several of them shot glares at me as I entered, but as they were no doubt aware of my situation and I was with Holmes, they made no objection to my presence. Sisters moved in and out of rooms, paying no heed to me or my companion. Parishioners lined the pews, some praying, others deep in thought or conversation. Near one of the corners, a group of mages and tranquil stood, waiting to begin the journey back to the Circle of Magi.

It was this group that Holmes approached. He strode up to them, and as he did so, they turned from their whispered conversations to look at him.

"Your pardon." Holmes said, with no indication that he had run almost the entire way from the Alienage. "I was wondering if any of you saw a beggar with a hood come through here."

The mages and tranquil looked to one another. Then one of the tranquil shook his head. "I am sorry." He intoned, his voice bearing the flatness characteristic of all tranquil. "But I have seen no one matching that description enter the Chantry."

This answer did not seem to suit well with Holmes. He shook his head violently from side to side. "He must have come through here. He did not vault the wall or descend into the well. I am sure of this."

"I am sorry." The tranquil repeated.

Holmes scowled and turned on his heel, marching from the Chantry in frustration. I followed him, nodding farewell to my fellows as I went. When we entered the courtyard, he threw his hands up into the air in frustration and kicked at the dirt.

"But he was there!" He exclaimed. "He entered the Chantry. He must have!"

I laid a hand on Holmes' shoulder. "He must have shed his cloak and blended with the parishioners before anyone could see him." Holmes let out a great sigh. His shoulders slumped and he shook his head. I began to step towards the Market, pushing Holmes in front of me. "Come. Let's get back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson no doubt wishes you to eat some of her stew, and I don't think it would be wise to argue with her."

Holmes made no protest. He simply stared blankly as the two of us made our way back to our lodgings. He made no protest as Mrs. Hudson forced her stew on him, and after he had finished eating, he retired to his room, and I did not see him again for some days.