A week passed. My injured ankle was healing nicely, and as Holmes and I sipped well-earned spirits by the fire, I recounted the events that happened while he was unconscious during his latest case. Holmes was silent as I spoke, but his eyes twinkled with inward merriment. When I concluded my account, he shook his head.

"Watson," said he, "I never do get your depths, my friend. I must congratulate you! Your taste for sensational romanticism has finally bore fruit!"

I downed my brandy in an annoyed gulp. "Holmes, only you could combine an insult with a compliment and get away with it!"

"And you accept it always with gracious thanks," Holmes retorted. His expression suddenly grew serious. "And on that subject, I must thank you."

"Even though it was the Sailor Guardians that ultimately saved you?" I replied.

"Not them," he continued curtly. "My thanks is for the fact that your conclusion was, upon deepest thought, absolutely right."

"What conclusion, for heaven's sake?" I felt a twin pang of annoyance at Holmes's habit of roundabout conversation and my inability to get accustomed to it.

"The conclusion that love compliments logic instead of running in opposition to it," Holmes stated.

I felt my pulse begin to race. "How on earth did you know that?" I asked.

"I never stated as such in my account, as those were only my subjective feelings, and I know you never place any credence on-"

Holmes didn't respond, but merely gazed at me with a warm smile.

I swallowed hard with the implication.

"How, my dear Holmes," said I,"did you know of my-my heart's intent?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson," he replied with gentle confidence. "My soul, or something one may classify as such, was no longer in my body. Since there was no corporeal form to constrain it, I could read your nature more deeply that I ever imagined. You heart's intent was clear; wonderfully so. And once my soul's crystal was returned and my mind back from the brink, it gave me the basis for some splendid speculation upon the subject of love, and all its various forms. Beautiful, Watson! Splendid work!"

Holmes clapped softly and I flushed with pleasure at his words. "What can I say to that?" I answered, my throat tight, "but, you are sincerely welcome."

Holmes rose and refilled my brandy, clapping his hand on my shoulder. For his part, he pulled down his old Persian slipper to fill his clay pipe for a meditative mood.

"You know, several centuries ago, Doctor," Holmes remarked. "the Elizabethans held the belief that love was like a disease. Once contracted, man was doomed. However," he continued, "if love is tempered with more healthy humors, one need not dread it. Take for example, wisdom."

"Indeed," said I, sharing in his conjecture. "If love is combined with wisdom, and passion…"

"And courage and strength," Holmes continued.

"And hope," I finished. Holmes paused, then pursed his lips in his slight, familiar smile.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Perhaps it is of some use, after all. So, tell me Watson, dare you put pen to paper now? Will you make a record of this case?"

"Good Lord, no!" I gaped. "My editor would never allow it!"

Holmes chuckled. "Quite so, he does seem to be a most prickly fellow. What was his name again?"

"Doyle. Arthur Doyle. Some eye specialist who fell into editing to help pay for his bread and cheese."

Holmes shrugged in good humor. "Well, one never knows. If he appears vexed by the story's content, you can always put it down to a drunken dream brought about by bad brandy and too much Mozart!"

"Hee-hee! What an absurd excuse!" I chortled. "But I bow to your optimism, Holmes. There are indeed wonderful parts to this case; excitement, mystery, with all the wonder of…"

"A fairy tale?" Holmes interjected. "Yes, quite so, complete with royalty."

I raised my brow. "Royalty?"

Holmes shifted in his chair, taking on speculative airs. "Well, there I move into the realms of conjecture. You recall what Sailor Mercury said? The pen made of mystical sliver crystal, which you reported had lost all functionality to you and had gained all but miraculous powers in the hands of Sailor Moon, could only be used in its full potential by one of the Moon Kingdom's bloodline."

"Holmes," I cried, "that's too simplistic even for you. You're not saying that Sailor Moon was…"

"I have no proof, my boy." Holmes inhaled and blew out a thin, blue line of smoke. I watched it curling upward as Holmes continued. "You have every right to dismiss it as dubious. Nevertheless, I think it not completely improbable that, for a brief time, we kept as a guest under our roof a descendant of that celestial royal house. Now, don't look at me like that Watson! It was unavoidable. I had to do what I did in order to calm her down."

I felt the mirth rise up within me. Gazing playfully at the ceiling, I began to compose out loud.

"And so when the princess wept, Sherlock Holmes gently wiped the tears from her eyes."

Holmes snorted. "Pah! Romantic dribble!"

"But it happened, Holmes," I argued. "You can't deny that fact, even to yourself. Admit it. You held a princess in your arms. A princess, you rogue!"

Unable to contain myself, I burst into a roar of laughter that lasted many minutes. Holmes merely scowled and turned towards the fire. As my merriment died down with its embers, Holmes continued to smoke his pipe in silence.

"Ridiculous," he said at last. "This entire business has been hellishly ridiculous." There was a distinct tone of weary disappointment in this statement, and he looked at me with a face I could only describe as crestfallen.

"My dear Holmes," I began," if you don't wish me to publish-"

"We'll talk about that later, Watson. Much later!" A sudden burst of impatient energy brought Holmes to his feet, and he took up his violin in a attempt to soothe his spirits. Drawing the bow in with a lazy scratch, he glanced over at me.

"Write this up if you wish, create a world of magic and miracles, but I shall happily confine myself to the world of crime and criminals."

"The world that suits you best!" I proclaimed, raising my glass in a toast.

Holmes flashed a quick grin at this honorable motion, and started to play. At first the tone was slow and uncertain, eventually coming to something rather light. But then he stopped abruptly.

"I can still smell it," he muttered.

"What, old fellow?"

"My violin, dear chap," Holmes answered sadly. "The scent of the ocean still on its strings."

THE END