Sherlock Holmes had heard of Professor Challenger, of course. Who hadn't? But for all the man's supposed brilliance, he was clearly deluded. And if he wasn't, why turn around and deny that his own theory, the one he'd been spouting and defending for years, was so impossible? Holmes had read some of the things he'd written, and he had to admit the man was certainly self-assured and convincing if nothing else, but he'd never wanted to meet him. That was why he was so surprised when the man showed up at Baker Street.
Mrs. Hudson had no time to announce him, he simply barged into Baker Street and walked right up to where Holmes was in reclining in his chair by fire, violin in hand and clearly not expecting a visitor.
"I need to speak with you," the abrasive man said, coming straight to the point. He glanced at Watson who sat across from Holmes in his own chair, his book now closed and discarded on the side table. Challenger frowned at him. "Alone," he amended, and his tone left no room for argument. He was the kind of man who didn't need to puff out his chest or take a stance to look intimidating, he was simply naturally so. He was huge, taller than Holmes, with a broad chest and gigantic arms and a long beard. He was the kind of man who was used to never needing to shout to be heard.
Holmes and Watson exchanged an annoyed glance. Who did this man think he was to order them about?
"Now, if you please," the professor growled.
"Mr. Challenger, I…" Holmes started to say, but Challenger waved him off, annoyed.
"Now, Mr. Holmes." He approached Holmes and leaned close to him, saying something softly only he could hear. Holmes swallowed hard, glancing over at Watson. Watson raised an eyebrow at him, his face neutral.
"Watson," Holmes said softly, "You know I've never…"
Watson nodded and left the living room, still stoic. Holmes knew he must be feeling a bit betrayed, but he didn't know what else to do. In the past, Holmes had refused to listen to the cases of kings and commoners alike if they disrespected Watson, but here he was letting Challenger be as abrasive as he wanted without consequence. He was certain Watson would wonder about it, but what else could he do when Challenger had told him, 'you met Scrooge'?
"What do you know?" asked Holmes, annoyed, as soon as Watson was gone. "Who even are you? Are you…"
"Yes. I'm fictional, like you. I assume you've realized this? That you're fictional, I mean. Even an idiot would realize it is true after having met Ebeneezer Scrooge of all people. So yes?"
"Yes. I have. But you, professor? You're fictional? Even though you don't exist in a book like Scrooge?"
"I have thought about that, too, Mr. Holmes. I've concluded that we have the same author, and somehow, even though our stories don't overlap, since we exist in the same time in our stories and we come from the same mind, we exist in the same world, each thinking the other is real. But really, we neither of us are quite real."
"How do you know?" Holmes asked. "How did you find out?" He was insanely curious; he never thought he'd meet anyone like him, someone who knew the truth about their own existence or lack thereof. Professor Challenger sat in Watson's chair like he owned it and leaned forward, his elbow on his knee and his enormous head in his gigantic bear's paw of a hand like a gentle giant. "I have always known, I suppose," he said thoughtfully in a way that contrasted sharply with his brusque and abrasive entrance.
"I knew it was that or that I was a madman," Challenger continued. "I've spent my entire lifetime, Mr. Holmes, championing the existence of a perfect lost world, a place untouched by man where anything could be true, where any kind of extinct animal could be thriving. Just think of what we could learn! What secrets we could discover! It's a dream, a perfect dream. And it's real."
Holmes knitted his eyebrows. "Real? Certainly not, you yourself say so… right?"
"Right. And I've lied, Mr. Holmes. You may have heard that when my team and I returned we were at first met with praise, but the matter has since been shushed."
"Something of the sort," Holmes said, lighting his pipe. "I was out of London at the time and it doesn't necessarily come within my purview, but I was intrigued by the rumors just like everyone else. So… the lost world exists?"
"Yes," Challenger said. "It exists, it is a part of my story. But it's not a place for the modern man. Do not go looking for it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, or I fear you would live to regret it. It is a dangerous place, not for skinny little men who play the violin, genius though they might be. We have decided it is too much for our world to know about. We must leave it be."
"You mean to say," said Holmes with a shake of his head, "that when people reported seeing a flying beast above London…"
"They were telling the truth," Challenger confirmed. "I have seen the dinosaurs; I have seen creatures beyond your imagination. And I have met the primitive men we all evolved from and I have found vast treasures untold. That is also why no one can know of it, Mr. Holmes. If the world knew there were riches there, they would destroy it for them. Worse, they would destroy each other to conquer it."
Holmes nodded. "I understand. It is real in our world because it is a part of your story. But it likely is only that: a story. It doesn't exist in the Author's world."
"No," Challenger said with a shake of his head. "It doesn't exist just like we don't. But to have seen it, Mr. Holmes… it almost makes being fiction worth it."
"I know what you mean," Holmes confirmed. "I can't imagine my life any other way than it is, can't imagine myself in any other profession than the one I've made for myself. And though I have some regrets, I don't want life to be different. Is that because I am fiction? Does it matter?"
Challenger nodded. "I understand."
"So how did you know I met Scrooge?" Holmes asked, unable to restrain his curiosity any longer.
"I've made it my mission to, well, let's say, keep tabs on people like us," Challenger replied with a small shrug. "Ebeneezer, you see, is notorious for wandering out of his story. Nothing seems to be able to keep him in his place, he's just so… blissfully happy, and he wants to share that with everyone. He frequently wanders away from his story and yet never seems to be the wiser. Or, if he does know, he's too happy to care."
"How?" Holmes asked, leaning forward and staring at him intently. "How do you know this? How do you keep tabs on us? How many of us are there? How did Scrooge travel to our world? How many stories are real? They can't all be, can they?"
"Slow down," said Challenger, smiling slightly. "I know, it's a bit overwhelming. I'll answer your questions, have no fear. First things first, I know all this because someone once answered my questions and explained how it all works to me. And you are correct, of course. Not all of stories are real. At risk of sounding like a self-centered prick, only the great stories are real."
"I knew they couldn't be!" said Holmes vehemently. "It made me go crazy to think of all those stories which I hated when I read them all being true."
Challenger continued to smirk at him. "Yes, Mr. Holmes, I had much of the same thinking. But no, not all stories are real."
"And who told you this?" Holmes demanded. "How do we know?"
Challenger glanced away from him. "I'm not sure you'll believe me when I tell you, Mr. Holmes."
"I am fictional, Professor. There is nothing you can say which will shock me more than that simple fact has. And as you know, I was written to be very smart. A genius, you said. so yourself. I can handle it."
"Of course," Challenger snorted. "I… Mr. Holmes, the Lost World is not the only foreign land I have discovered. There is another, one that exists hidden amongst all worlds. Even the world our author is from, whoever that is. The island serves as a link between all worlds and there is only one inhabitant who lives, well, let's say on the outside of its mountain."
"Outside of the mountain? What do you mean? Does it have inhabitants on the inside of its mountain?"
"Of a sort. And when I say I discovered it, that is not quite true. No one can or will ever discover it, it is completely hidden to those who are not brought there by the inhabitant."
"Professor! Please, just tell me."
"It is the Island of Camelot, Mr. Holmes. It is the legendary island resting place of King Arthur, where he slumbers until he is needed again and is awakened by magic to be a hero for the world once more. And King Arthur was real, Mr. Holmes, and yet he was not quite real. And he lies there, inside the island' great, hollow mountain, and he is not alone. All the legendary heroes are there: Sir Gawain, Beowulf, even those you wouldn't expect: Prince Hamlet and Laertes and Horatio; Robin Hood and his Merry men, and those were just the ones I recognized because I am English, Mr. Holmes. There were more there, and they looked like they must belong to stories from all over the world."
"And how did you get there? Who is the inhabitant? I assume it is he who told you all this."
"It was," Challenger confirmed. "He used his special powers to rescue me from the waves after I fell overboard on a voyage. He brought me to the island. He showed me the mountain where they all sleep while he lives on the outside, keeping a lookout throughout all realities for anyone else worthy of the island and waiting to wake his king."
"Do you mean…"
"Yes," Challenger said, nodding. "He is Merlin, sorcerer advisor of King Arthur. He told me that one day, I will need to make a choice. If I do well, I may one day be allowed in the mountain. He tasked me with keeping an eye on Ebeneezer Scrooge and on any others who discover they are fictional or cross over to another reality in our world."
"And what is 'our world?' How does it differ from others?"
"We live in a world very close to the 'real' one, Mr. Holmes. And those stories that are set in our world and, roughly, in our time period can accidentally cross over sometimes. It's like there's a door that's usually closed, but sometimes it's opened just a crack and some things slip though. They always get drawn back to their own world, but sometimes they realize something's not quite right. As I said, Scrooge is a bit of a pain. He wanders into other worlds more often than anyone else. He does good in them, at least, but I knew it was only a matter of time before he clued someone in on the fact they are also fiction. I had no idea that it would be you, however. I thought you were real just like you thought I was. It makes me wonder who else may be from a story I simply haven't read because we share the same author."
"How do you know any of them, though?" Holmes pressed him.
Challenger sighed. "You really want to know all that I do? It's not knowledge that is easy to live with. And if you know, then you will have an obligation, like I do, to keep tabs on our reality, and to explain it to others if they find out."
Holmes shook his head. "I have to know everything, Professor Challenger. Please, before I convince myself you're not even here and that I'm mad."
"I understand that feeling, too," Challenger assured him. "Very well." He stood, and pulled out a small, golden, medieval looking amulet. He gripped it and spoke some strange words as he laid his hand on Holmes' shoulder. Holmes felt something wash over him, something awaken within him.
In his brain, something connected and he saw everything just a little more clearly. He was only one of many, one fictional character that lived a life he thought was real in a vast world of others. He'd been so selfish! He realized it now, realized just how self-centered he was in imagining he was somehow the most affected by being fiction.
"It's alright," Challenger said. "I was much of the same when I first found out. I didn't realize the world is so… wide. And Mr. Holmes, I need you to realize something important."
"Yes?"
"It is not a curse that you are alive. It is a mercy."
Holmes stared at him, thinking about that. Finally, he nodded in agreement. "A mercy," he repeated.
"I was never a very religious man, either, Mr. Holmes, but I've always known there must be a God. And now I know that it is God's mercy that we have consciousness. It is not punishment, not judgement. It is love. It is an act of God's generousness that we have life."
"And what will happen when we die?" asked Holmes hesitantly.
"We can't know for sure, but I suspect there is at least peace. Merlin says there is more than that. And I have spoken with another very old and very wise... man, who says we will all be redeemed, just not in the way anyone may expect."
"Redemption," Holmes murmured. "That sounds nice."
"I think it will be. Let me teach you something else, now. It's a simple spell that will allow you to pass through to worlds similar to ours. If you're able to pick up on it, I'll help you learn some more complicated spells as well."
Holmes was an attentive student as Challenger talked him through one of Merlin's spells. He promised not to use his newfound power recklessly, and Challenger promised to share more with Holmes when he could.
"There are some things you won't know how you know," Challenger finished finally. "You'll just know. Try to follow your instincts, and try not to be angry when it all seems unfair. Try to remember this is a gift. Now, if you'll excuse me, my lovely wife is awaiting my return. Before you ask, no. I haven't told her we are fictional. And I don't care. I would choose her over every woman in every world every time." He coughed, looking away after his impulsive little emotional outburst. "Well, Mr. Holmes, I'll be going now."
The two men shook hands and Holmes saw the other man out. When Challenger had departed and Holmes had closed the door, he glanced up towards Watson's room, grimacing as he remembered how he'd allowed Challenger to toss Watson out of his own living room. He wasn't proud of that, but he'd needed to speak with Challenger in private. Why couldn't Watson have been out when Challenger came? Then Holmes felt guilty for that thought, too. This wasn't Watson's fault.
"Watson?" he called, stepping up the stairs to Watson's room. "Come walk with me?"
Watson came out of his room a moment later, and Holmes knew he didn't deserve the man's loyalty. Any lesser man would have become angry at him or would have eavesdropped on their conversation, but Watson had done neither.
"Of course," he said softly, and soon the two of them were walking arm in arm through the park in silence
"I am sorry," Holmes finally said as they took a seat on one of their usual benches.
"Don't be," said Watson. "You have right entertain any visitors you like in the privacy of your own home. I am not offended by that."
"But you have every right to be," Holmes insisted. "After all, I have not asked you to leave the living room like that since we first met and you had no idea what my self-proclaimed profession was. I have always had a policy of dismissing the cases of anyone who is rude to you, and I need you to know that hasn't changed. You are a vital part of my cases and my life; you are my friend and colleague. But you simply must believe me when I say this has nothing to you with you. I had to speak with him, else I never would have allowed him to be so rude, I promise you. And it wasn't about a case; you're missing nothing, Watson, so don't feel like I'm shutting you out."
"You've been worrying me, Holmes," Watson said softly. "For a while now you have, and I don't know what to do. When I'm around, you act as if you want me to leave, like you have something better to do that you don't want me around for. And then when I come home, you treat me like… I don't even know how. Like you don't ever want me to leave again. Just yesterday you bruised my arm with how hard you gripped me when I returned. Do you remember?"
"I'm sorry," Holmes murmured. "I didn't realize."
Watson shook his head. "I don't want you to apologize, I just want you to talk with me like you used to. You're so closed off, it's like I don't know you anymore. There's something weighing on you, but you don't share it with me or even try to act normal. Sometimes I think it would be better if I left."
"No! Watson, please, this isn't about you, I swear it."
"Then what is keeping you from telling me? Holmes, you must swear to me this won't end up like the last time you kept secrets about a professor."
"No, Watson. This is nothing at all like that. I just needed to talk to him."
"That used to be my job," Watson pointed out. "You used to talk to me when something came up that was bothering you whether I had the expertise to help or not. How did I manage to stay your closest companion but lose the role of your confidante?"
"You are still both," Holmes said quickly. "Of course you are. There is just one thing I choose not to share with you now. Can't you live with that?"
"I can," said Watson, "but can you? Whatever this is, it's worrying you day and night. You try to act like it's nothing, but I know you better. You're not yourself, it's like whatever this is has gnawed its way even to the core of who you are."
Holmes flinched a little bit at that. Watson would never know it, but he'd struck it exactly. Holmes' new understanding had changed his own perception of himself fundamentally, but he was still Holmes. He just needed time to figure out what that looked like. He just needed Watson to be patient, and thankfully, he knew, Watson was good at that.
"I got a little clarity today," Holmes said softly. "Watson, you are not only my dearest friend, you are also a doctor. You are used to being all things to all people, but you can't be all things to me. Challenger and I are… related, in a way. Things will get better from here, Watson, I promise."
"I trust you," said Watson.
Holmes grinned slightly. "Thank you, my friend. That's all I need. Let's go home," he sighed.
Watson agreed and the two of them began to walk home. Their silence wasn't quite as strained as it had been earlier, and Holmes thought that things were certainly looking up. He hadn't, he now realized, taken the news he was fictional with quite as much grace as he thought he had, but that was behind them now. It was time for him to step into his new life. He was feeling good about it all.
That was when everything, quite literally, came tumbling down around him.
All tales may come true; and yet, at the last, redeemed, they may be as like and as unlike the forms that we give them as Man, finally redeemed, will be like and unlike the fallen that we know.
-J.R.R. Tolkien
