It was one of the few times in my life I had ever seen Sherlock Holmes startled enough to make an unguarded comment. It had taken me a long night of observation to notice the change in our guest, but Holmes, with his near-inhuman skills of observation, had noticed almost instantly. Of course, he'd also last seen the man hours earlier, and left. The change by now was dramatic indeed.

When we had brought the young man in hours earlier, I had judged from the relative seriousness of his injuries that he would be days, if not weeks, in recovering. Yet in the short space from the time we brought him in and now, the gash on his forehead had healed to a white scar that would vanish in time, and the bruising on his face had faded almost to nothing.

Glancing at me for permission, Holmes crossed to the bed and carefully lifted the gauze pad I had placed on my patient's shoulder. His breath hissed sharply through his teeth as he saw what had most disturbed me. The wound, though not so well healed as the other injuries, was nonetheless in far better condition. It now looked days, not hours, old.

Replacing the gauze, Holmes lifted his gaze to mine. "Well, Watson," he said with a trace of black humour, "You are either a miracle worker who has been keeping secrets from me, or this young man is an unusually fast healer."

"Not 'unusually', Holmes. Unnaturally."

He raised an eyebrow. "Superstitions, Watson? Come, now. Surely there is another explanation."

Nettled by his mockery, I folded my arms stubbornly. "Very well then. You explain it, Holmes."

The corner of his mouth quirked, the only apology I would get for his catty remark. "I don't think I can, Watson," he admitted, sinking into the chair I'd placed next to the bed. He looked suddenly weary, his grey eyes troubled. The soot and street-grime brought the spare lines of his face into sharp, unkind relief. Black hair, usually neatly slicked back, fell over his forehead. He looked as though he had just spent the past several hours dragging himself face down on London streets. Suddenly remembering where he had gone, and knowing Holmes as I did, that was a likely possibility.

"Your meeting didn't go well," I hazarded.

He smiled thinly, humourlessly. "You might say that. In fact, that would be stating it mildly."

"The contact wouldn't give you the information?"

"He...died." It was said in such a matter-of-fact tone that it took me a moment to comprehend his meaning.

"What—dead? How?"

Briefly, Holmes outlined the events of his evening. Though his voice was level, even cool, the look in his eyes told me he was deeply worried by the strange events. When he finished, I sat silent for a long moment, contemplating what he had told me. My gaze wandered to the man on the bed. I had to agree with Holmes; a link between Moriarty and our young guest seemed awfully coincidental.

As if on cue, the young man stirred for the first time all night. Holmes came alert like a hound on point, all weariness and concern forgotten. I straightened from my position against the doorframe, and moved closer to the bedside. Blue-green eyes opened in the pale face, staring unfocused at the bed's canopy for a long moment. Then he blinked once, twice, and turned his head to look me directly in the face. Though still cloudy from his long unconsciousness, I found his direct, penetrating glance a little unsettling. It was a great deal like Holmes's, when he was measuring someone to analyze, and yet there was a subtle difference to it that I could not put my finger on. Somehow, that indefinable quality made it even more unnerving than Holmes's.

"Where am I?" he asked softly. His voice was a light baritone, husky still from sleep, and laced with an accent that seemed at once an odd mix of British and Scottish and something else entirely.

"Baker Street," Holmes supplied, "in London."

There was no flicker of recognition in his eyes as he turned to look at my friend. "Do you remember your name?" I inquired gently.

He looked back to me. "Yes."

I saw Holmes's mouth twitch as he suppressed a smile. He admired people who never gave extraneous information. "What is your name?" he asked.

The silence stretched out. Finally, the young man seemed to relax, and he let out a soft breath. I had the strangest feeling that Holmes and I had just passed some sort of test. "My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi," he replied at last.

I glanced at Holmes, hoping he could shed some light on the origins of the strange name. All I got, however, was a slight shrug. For once, Sherlock Holmes was as much in the dark as I was about our unusual guest. "I am Doctor John Watson," I said "And this is my friend and associate Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes, never one for polite small talk, leaned forward. "What were you doing on that street in Woking? And who was that man hunting you?"

Kenobi's hand stole towards his shoulder, and he winced a little. "I don't know where Woking is."

"You are not from London. Or England," Holmes said.

If the young man was startled by Holmes's knowledge, he gave no sign. "No. I am from somewhat...further away." There was a note of finality in his voice that told us further questions on the subject would not be answered.

"Why did that man shoot you?" Holmes would not be deterred.

"Why are you so determined to know?" Kenobi shot back, and for a moment his almost unnatural control slipped, revealing a personality more fitting to a twenty-year old.

Holmes spread his hands. "I am a consulting detective, Mr. Kenobi. It's my business to know such things."

Obi-Wan Kenobi eyed him for another long moment. "I suppose, then, Master Holmes, that you and I are somewhat in the same business then." He sighed and settled more comfortably against the pillows. "My master and I came to London looking for a thief. He had stolen something from an important..." he hesitated, seeming to search for an appropriate word. "...shipbuilder. Plans for a new design."

Holmes quirked an eyebrow. "You are not telling me everything, but no matter. Why are these plans so important that he would kill to keep them?"

"Plans for a weapon are always important, Master Holmes."

"Ah." My friend steepled his long fingers. "He must be expecting to receive a great deal of money, if he is willing to attempt murder."

Kenobi's young face darkened a little. "He has already killed. And my master believes there is more to this than money."

"That's the second time you've used that phrase. Are you an apprentice? Rather an archaic notion. Is that why you wear your hair in such an...unusual fashion?"

Our guest touched the thin braid lying on his shoulder, interest entering his eyes. "You are an observant man, sir."

"One tries," Holmes said with uncharacteristic modesty. "And I also observe that you are not willing to share any more about your...occupation with me, is that right?"

"Not at this time."

Holmes changed tack abruptly. "Where is your master? When Watson and I saw you, you were alone."

"We were separated." Kenobi's voice was quiet and even, but it was difficult to miss the volumes of worry contained in those few words.

"Well, then, we shall have to do what we can to reunite you," Holmes said jovially. I shot him a sharp look. He had not mentioned Moriarty or Kenobi's rapid healing once, though I was certain that his rampant curiosity was clamouring for satisfaction. My friend rose. "It's very late, Watson," he said. "We should let our young friend rest." He nodded to Kenobi, and, taking my arm, dragged me from the room.

Once we were in his study, he shut the door, dimmed the lamp, and threw himself into the basket chair, eyes closed. I remained by the door. "What was that all about, Holmes? I've never seen you avoid asking questions so determinedly in all my life!"

Holmes gestured me impatiently to a chair. "I can't carry on a conversation with you when you hover like that, Watson," he complained. I obediently took my customary armchair and waited. He was silent so long I thought that he had fallen asleep on me, when suddenly he stirred and opened his eyes. "I was reticent for a number of reasons. The first, much as it pains me to admit it, is that I can tell virtually nothing about this young man. He's not from England, nor is he from America, the Continent, Asia, or anywhere else. I've never seen clothing like his before, or hairstyle--though those do remind me a little of some Eastern orders. He's far too controlled for someone so young, and if he truly is an apprentice as he claims, I shudder to think what reading his master would be like. He's playing a deep game, Watson, and it is somehow tied into Moriarty and his new allies."

"Do you think he's one of Moriarty's men?"

Holmes considered that. "No, strangely I don't. I believe he's telling us the truth—an edited version, but the truth all the same." He sighed heavily, and it turned into a yawn. "It's far too late to worry about this any more, Watson," he said. "And it's been forty-eight hours since I slept last. I'll learn more from him in the morning."

I rose stiffly, feeling my own exhaustion settling into my bones. "Good night, then, Holmes." His only reply was a grunt. I paused at the door. "What do you suppose Mrs. Hudson will make of him?"

"She'll never tell," Holmes said drowsily. "But you can be certain she'll feed him."

Morning found me but little refreshed, and wishing I had not drunk that extra brandy-and-splash the night before. I lay in my bed for a moment, thinking about nothing in particular, when the events of the previous day came back in a rush. I dressed hastily and hurried downstairs to see if our guest was up and about.

I found Obi-Wan Kenobi in the dining room, dressed in his own clothing, which had apparently been rescued from my associate's clutches. Holmes's assessment of Mrs. Hudson's reaction was proving correct. She was busily plying him with enormous amounts of food, and although he was eyeing the kippers with deep suspicion, he was doing admirable justice to the rest of it. "Good morning, Doctor," he greeted me politely. He still held himself a little stiffly, and I judged that, despite his unusual recovery, his shoulder still pained him.

"Good morning, Mr. Kenobi," I replied.

He pushed the salver of kippers towards me with the air of someone offering an uncertain gift. "Please, Doctor, call me Obi-Wan. Or," he corrected, "you could follow Mrs. Hudson's example and call me Ben."

I glanced sharply at the landlady. She was usually the very soul of propriety, and despite keeping house for Holmes and I for several years, still referred to us as 'Mr. Holmes' and 'Doctor', respectively. This was somewhat out of character for her.

Holmes breezed into the room then, looking disgustingly well rested. He could function better on four hours of sleep than most men could on ten. "Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," he said airily. "Breakfast looks especially delectable this morning."

She raised an eyebrow at this. Holmes almost never bothered to notice what was put in front of him, if it was edible, and I half-suspected he wouldn't notice if it weren't.

Ignoring her patent disbelief, he continued. "I trust you are feeling better this morning, Obi-Wan?"

"Call me Ben, Mr. Holmes. And thank you, I am."

My friend stabbed a forkful of eggs, his face studiously innocent. "Doctor Watson was certain you would be weeks in recovery."

I concealed my start of surprise in a gulp of tea. I hadn't said anything concerning that to Holmes. How had he-? But no, I could guess. Holmes could read thoughts simply from an expression or gesture, and he knew me better than most.

"I've always been a fast healer," Ben replied laconically.

"Really."

It was impossible to read the young man's reaction to that loaded response. Like Holmes, he let few unwanted emotions show on his features. "Perhaps you should tell me more about your work, Mr. Holmes," he said. "For instance, who is this man you are hunting?"

Touché, I thought approvingly as I caught the brief flicker of surprise cross Holmes's face. I did wonder how Ben had known, though. Had Mrs. Hudson told him? That was unlike her, if it was true. She never discussed her employer's business with strangers, and as likable as this young man seemed, he was still a stranger.

Holmes recovered quickly, leaning back in his chair and tapping a pattern on the table surface with long fingers. "You are well informed suddenly."

"I have my sources," Ben replied with a small smile.

My friend shot a faintly accusing glance at Mrs. Hudson. "Then you are a far more persuasive man than most."

Mrs. Hudson looked offended. "'Ere, now, Mister Holmes!"

"Never mind. As to your question, ah, Ben, I am willing to answer it. But," he raised a long finger, "only if you answer one of mine."

"That, Mr. Holmes, will depend on the question."

Holmes snorted softly. "Very well. His name is James Moriarty. Outwardly, he is a professor of mathematics at Oxford, but I know him to be something far more sinister. He is a criminal mastermind. In the last ten years he has subverted and consolidated forty percent of the criminal organizations in London, Oxford, Brighton, and Paris. He has been responsible for any number of large-scale thefts, scams, and I thwarted him in an assassination attempt only last year."

I looked at Holmes in surprise. "I didn't know that. Whom did he try to murder?"

"I'm not at liberty to say, Watson," he replied with an apologetic smile. "But you might take a closer look at the initials on the study wall."

Holmes had once, whether out of boredom, a fit of patriotism, or some other bizarre reason, fired a gun at the study wall, spacing the shots so they spelled out 'V.R.' He'd then hung a Union Jack over it. I felt the blood drain from my face as I connected those initials with his revelation. 'V.R.' stood for Victoria Regina..."Dear God," I muttered.

"Exactly." He turned back to Ben. "I believe that I am accurate when I say that Moriarty is not a man I feel comfortable leaving loose and at large. Unfortunately, he is a genius, and has so far managed to elude me." He smiled self-deprecatingly. "At first he simply ignored me, other than to send me a few rude notes telling me I was far too young and inexperienced to be a nuisance. I hope my last encounter with him has changed that view."

Ben nodded. "I do not know you very well, Mr. Holmes, but I believe that it would be foolish of Moriarty to underestimate you. However..." His brilliant eyes grew strangely distant. "Be careful. This hunt could be your death."

I watched the young man in alarm. Now, I am not the sort of man who subscribes to superstitions and the supernatural (unlike my literary agent Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle) but there was a strange, compelling conviction in Ben's voice that sent a chill through me.

Holmes reacted not at all, other than a small twitch of an eyebrow to indicate his skepticism. "Now, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you will answer a question of mine."

Ben folded his arms, waiting.

My friend finished off the last of his coffee and leaned back in his chair. "What is that unusual thing hanging from your belt? I was interrupted in my study of it yesterday."

I blinked. I'd nearly forgotten about it. It also was not what I had been expecting Holmes to ask.

Ben glanced down at the cylinder hanging from his belt, looking as though the question had caught him off-guard as well. He thought about it for a long moment, then said: "That's a difficult one for me to answer just now, sir. Suffice it to say that it is a weapon, and I sincerely hope I will not have to use it anytime soon."

Holmes made a small noise of satisfaction. "I thought as much. And I intend to get a better look at it before this is all over." He rose suddenly. "Now to business. I have reason to believe that this thief you are chasing has allied himself with Moriarty."

The young man's mask of control slipped, revealing shock and something akin to horror. "What makes you say that?"

"An informant I spoke to last night mentioned that the Professor has been making new friends—friends with weapons no one has ever seen before. And though I got a very poor look at it, I would not hesitate say that the weapon you were shot with yesterday evening was one I've never seen before." He glanced at me. "And Watson will tell you that I am familiar with nearly every weapon known to man."

"I wonder if I might speak with this informant of yours," Ben ventured.

"Impossible. He died rather suddenly before he could finish sharing his information with me."

"How?"

"I don't know. My guess is poison, since his throat seemed to have closed up, but I know of no poison that leaves no mark or indication whatsoever."

Ben had grown very still, his face unreadable. "I must find my master," he said, very softly.

"Mmm. I believe I know someone who can help us. I need to speak to him anyway, give him my report."

Since there was only one person currently to whom Holmes would make any sort of report, I could guess immediately the man my friend was referring to. "Mycroft?" I asked.

"Yes. You'd better get your hat, Watson. You're involved in this whether or not my brother likes it."