No doubt Watson will be put out with me for usurping what he sees as his sole domain as the chronicler of my 'adventures', as he so inaccurately calls them. I feel, however, that some facts require a first hand accounting. This will also prevent my associate from embellishing the situation, as he is so wont to do, particularly when taking it from a second hand account. The whole incident was bizarre enough without Watson getting his hands on it.

After leaving Baker Street, I walked a few blocks south before hailing a hansom to take me to the riverdocks. The driver gave my rough clothing an alarmed look, and insisted I pay him in advance. Falling into character, I swore affably at him, ignoring the sneer that had taken up residence on his face, and counted out the coins.

The night had grown chill, and the insidious fog had crept up from the Thames to blanket the city, mingling with the soot from factories and homes. I had the cab driver stop well before we reached the docks. A character of my class would hardly be wasting money on a hansom, and to be seen arriving in one on the docks would not only weaken my cover, but also mark me as a target for robbery. Despite Watson's opinion, I do not go out of my way to seek trouble.

Pulling the battered oilskin coat closer about me, I stood on the street corner until the hansom was out of sight. Moriarty had a reach longer than mine, and I would not put it past him to find the one driver in all of London who had seen my destination. Once I was certain he would not see me make for the river, I tugged my cap lower over my eyes and shuffled off to my destination, a seedy swill-bucket of a pub with the colorful name The Roll in the Hay.

The Roll was famous for its brawls, which the local constabulary could do nothing about, (and usually wouldn't take money to try) and its singularly disgusting atmosphere. Run by a huge woman named Hilde, who was taller than I was and twice Mycroft's size, its reputation made it an ideal place for shady dealings. I personally find it fascinating, though Watson does not need to know that. I had made certain never to place myself in a position where I had to take him to the Roll. Some things really do not need published in The Strand, and Watson has never quite learned when to stop.

My contact was a man I knew as Rat. I found his pseudonym uncreative and clichéd, but as he wasn't interested in my opinion of it, I kept it to myself. He was waiting for me at a stained, rickety table near the back, where Half-Ton Hilde, as she was known behind her back, was busy muscling a small fight off her bar. She was in her forties, an immigrant from Germany, ambidextrous, and fairly well educated, though she concealed that fact well. She had never been married, though she had four children, one deaf, had a deep dislike for me. She was half-convinced I was a policeman. It was her policy not to get involved with her patrons' business, however, so she kept her opinions to herself. I was greeted with a venomous glare from her as I stepped up to my informer's table.

Rat pushed a tankard across the grimy surface to me. I took it, feigning to take a swill. I am not so unwise as to actually drink anything from the Roll. I wouldn't put it past Rat to do something to it—and if not he, then Hilde certainly was capable. "You're late," Rat snarled, with what he apparently thought was a threatening glower.

Rat, I might mention, has delusions of grandeur. He's a petty, American-born thief who's read far too many yellow-back spy novels, and fancies himself mysterious and dangerous. Hence the dramatic name. His image was spoiled somewhat by the weak, rabbitish face, myopic squint, and noticeable paunch. A snarl, for Rat, was more of a whine. Still, he got around, having spent time in Germany, France, Hungary, and Bohemia before washing up in London.

"You sure you weren't followed?" he continued.

I raised an eyebrow at him. "No games tonight, Rat."

He blinked, a little startled at my bluntness. "Money first."

"Half," I said curtly, placing a five pound note on the table. "Now talk."

He grabbed the money and hunched lower in his seat, his twitching nose heightening his rabbity appearance. Darting a nervous glance around the noisy room, he said: "Let's go outside."

I sighed. Rat would not be deterred from playing cloak and dagger. "All right." Knowing he would insist I pay for the drinks, I rose and flipped a coin at Hilde. She caught it with a scowl, and I sneered back as I followed my dramatist snitch outside.

He scuttled around the pub's corner, into a narrow alley that smelled slightly better than the Roll's interior. I could not approve of his choice, as my shoulder blades began to itch the moment the shadows closed around us. "Enough of this," I snapped. "Talk, or I take my money and go elsewhere."

Rat shrugged, wiping his nose. "Word is the fella you're lookin' for has made some friends."

"That's not surprising," I said in my most withering tones, dropping most of my lower class accent. Rat didn't know precisely who I was, but he knew I wasn't a dockworker. "He always makes contacts with the underworld wherever he is."

"Word is, these ain't kosher underworld."

I raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged again, a truly irritating habit I believe he picked up during his tenure in France. He'd brought home more than a French-cut sailor's coat. "Nobody's ever seen 'em before. They're strange, got strange stuff."

It was like pulling teeth. "Such as?" I hissed through gritted teeth, jingling the money in my pocket pointedly.

"I don't know rightly. Gossip is that they gave your guy's group some sorta weird weapon."

A warning bell went off in my head, and I called up an image of the earlier scene in Woking. A link between Moriarty and the other enigma currently unconscious in my guest bedroom? It seemed rather a large coincidence. "Can you be more specific?"

Rat opened his mouth, but no reply came. A strange gurgling noise came from his mouth, and his hands shot up to clutch at his throat. Alarmed, I grabbed him as he toppled forward, jerking. He shuddered a final time, and was still. I knew the answer, but I checked for a heartbeat anyway. He was dead. I searched him swiftly, a sense of growing unease rising as I found no sign whatsoever of what killed him. He had choked to death, and yet there was nothing I could find that might have caused it. There was nothing lodged in his throat, no poison tipped darts. I suspected poison in his drink, but there was no swelling of his throat or tongue, or residue of any other sort, that indicated such. If it was poison, it was none I'd ever seen, that killed so subtly and left no trace.

Suddenly feeling eyes on me, I rose, scanning the darkness surrounding me. The sound of footsteps—a large man wearing heavy-soled boots, with a slight limp—came to me through the fog. Stepping over Rat's body, I half-ran toward the sound, but it vanished into the night. Swearing softly under my breath and feeling it prudent to leave the docks as quickly as humanly possible, I left my unfortunate snitch where he was and made for the nearest street where I could call a cab. Watson would call me callous, for leaving the dead man there like that, but I saw little point in drawing attention to myself. There was nothing I could do for Rat now but find out who killed him. It was possible he had died naturally—I would ask Watson about it—but I believed otherwise.

It took me over an hour to find a cab, and it was well after three in the morning before I once again reached 221b Baker Street. I was surprised to see a light still burning in the upper window. I paid my driver, neglecting to tip him, and took the steps up to the door two at a time. It opened before I could touch the knob, and Watson stood silhouetted in the doorframe, the tense set of his sturdy frame telling me a great deal. "You're troubled about something," I observed, moving past him into the foyer. It was poorly lit by a single candle, but I could see the concerned expression on my friend's round, hearty features. "What has happened?"

"I think you'd better come upstairs with me," he said, turning to precede me.

It was something to do with our 'guest', I was certain. Watson's expression was that of the worried/concerned doctor, not the baffled this-is-your-area-of-expertise-Holmes. I busied myself with removing my coat and hat as I followed him, and dumped them beside the guest bedroom door as Watson opened it for me, allowing me to enter before him. The lamp was turned up, filling the room with warm light. I turned my gaze to the form on the bed, and saw immediately what had alarmed Watson.

"Dear heaven," I could not help myself exclaiming softly. "How is that possible?"