It was in the fall of 1902, during a stormy time that brought to mind the hecates and ghouls of All Hallows Eve that first brought my attention to the oddity of the situation. Amidst the howling winds one particular night, several Londoners reported seeing lightning strikes of odd colours. Flashes and sparks of red and blue seem to streak across the grey-clouded skies, sending vicars of the English countryside into sermons of God's vengeance upon mankind, while men who put their faith in the tangible dismissed it as mere optical tricks.

For my part, I found the suppositions regarding this queer weather a grateful distraction for, as I approached the well remembered door at 221B Baker Street, I was once again apprehensive as to the mood of my old friend.

It had been over three months since Sherlock Holmes brought the case of the American murderer and forger, James Winter, to a successful conclusion. And without work to sustain him, Holmes would undoubtedly have fallen into that black, bored melancholy that ailed him. I trudged up the steps and was greeted by Mrs. Hudson, our long-suffering landlady. But rather than appear weary by the weather, she opened the door with a look of bafflement.

"Ah, Doctor Watson! I'm glad you've come," she greeted. "I'm sure Mr. Holmes will need your help tonight."

"Oh? He didn't send for me."

"No, sir," she continued, "but with those three girls in his sitting room, I'm sure your bedside manner would be a great relief. They were odd ones…"

"One moment," I interrupted. "Three? Did you say, "three girls," Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes, Doctor. Oh, they were quite impatient and agitated; dressed strangely too. Downright scandalously, I thought, so I insisted they wear some of my old petticoats before consulting Mr. Holmes."

I gave Mrs. Hudson a small smile. "I am sure Mr. Holmes appreciates that. But don't worry, he has all sorts come here for his services. Prime ministers all the way to scullery maids come with problems for him to sort out."

Mrs. Hudson frowned as I went up the steps to our sitting room. "Maids and ministers, yes, but burlesque performers? They may as well be, all glitter and bows and skirts that scarcely cover…"

"My dear Mrs. Hudson," I paused. "Whoever these girls are, I'm sure Holmes can divine their profession and other points, and I shall do my best to put them at ease. Leave it to us."

"I always do," she replied with a shrug.

Opening the sitting room door, the first thing I noticed were the fact none of our visitors were wearing hats. Holmes was seated in his old wicker chair, and when his eyes met mine, all three girls rose from the sofa and turned to me.

The first girl had her hair cut extremely short in a boyish bob. The colour of her hair could hardly be called natural, for it was a sharp shade of blue.

The second girl was dark, with long ebony hair spilling loosely about her shoulders. Her eyes were exotic and serious, a noticeable opposition to her companion's gentle expression.

The third visitor was no doubt the youngest, for her face was chubby with childhood fat, and her big blue eyes gazed at me in wondrous, yet anxious confusion. Her blond hair was done in twintails, with two odd buns on either side of her head. Ruby decorations dotted the buns, and two crescent earrings dangled about her face.

I was also struck by the uniformity of their dress. Indeed, all three wore petticoats and shawls, undoubtedly borrowed from Mrs. Hudson. They stood in pale contrast to the bright colors of their short skirts and pearl white gloves. Two of them wore knee-high boots while the third wore red heeled shoes. Golden jeweled tiaras crossed their foreheads and chokers decorated their necks in an odd, theatrical style. I sat bemused by the fire while our guests resumed their seats. They were all beautiful and young, I supposed between thirteen and sixteen years old. They all seemed impatient and anxious about something, and Holmes waved in my direction.

"May I introduce my dear friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. He is an expert at putting ladies to rights."

The girl with the blue hair spoke first. "Good afternoon, sir."

The other two merely nodded, with the blond haired girl biting her lip in agitation. I rose and shook her hand.

"My dear young lady," I began, "there's no need to fear. Mr. Holmes is the foremost at solving strange problems, and I'm sure he-"

"Doctor Watson, I'm sorry." The girl with the black hair spoke sharply. "We only came to warn Mr. Holmes of trouble."

Holmes raised his hand. "Patience, young lady. Pray, compose yourselves. Then, tell me calmly and slowly who you are and what it is that you want."

The three girls looked at each other as if contemplating a hard decision. Finally the blue-haired girl faced me.

"My name is Sailor Mercury."

I started. "Sailor-?"

Holmes quirked an eyebrow as the darker girl stepped forward.

"I am Sailor Mars."

I looked over at Holmes, perplexed. He merely waved in my direction.

"Watson, deduce."

I rose from my chair to observe the third girl closely. She stared at me uneasily, and as she too stood up, her old shawl slipped from her shoulders.

I saw she wore a nautical sailor collar, and the other girls deftly removed their shawls as well to show their similar costumes. I could plainly see these uniforms were unusual, yet clearly inspired by seamen. Their short skirts that adored their petticoats reminded me of ballerinas, so I created a working hypothesis that all three of them were stage performers of some sort, possibly coming to Holmes to report some mischief at a playhouse. The blond girl's choker had the same crescent moon decoration, as did the kneecaps of her boots. I reported my observations to Holmes, and stated my conclusions.

"Two of them have stage names taken after Roman gods," said I. "Given that pattern therefore, the third visitor's moniker must be Sailor Selene."

Holmes clapped his hands. "Excellent observations, my dear Watson, but I'm afraid your deductions were faulty. First, Selene is the Greek Moon Goddess, not the Roman. Secondly, you failed to take into consideration the fact those gods are also namesakes of planets in our solar system."

I chuckled under my breath. Apparently Holmes had forgotten that, upon my meeting him for the first time in the 1880s, he made it clear to me knowledge of the Copernican theory and the solar system was irreverent to crime solving. But this no longer was the case, Holmes having recognized the importance of trifles after years of experience and acquired learning as a detective. Holmes continued as if lecturing a student body.

"Thirdly, while you did notice the crescent moon decorations on her clothes, nothing is as deceptive as an obvious clue. Is that not so…" Holmes spun around to face the young girl, his eyes shining proudly, "…Sailor Moon?"

Holmes was answered with stunned silence, followed by the blond giving a slight gasp.

"Woah! How did you guess?" she asked breathlessly.

"My dear Miss Moon, I never guess."

With that blase retort, Holmes returned to his chair, eager to hear the facts. I sat dejectedly at the dining table, trying to shrug off the disappointment of missing the vital points. Miss Mars noticed my expression and shook her head.

"Don't take it personally, Doctor Watson," she said with a smile. "Sailor Moon isn't that smart herself. Rather stupid, really."

Miss Moon sprang from her seat, flushed and angry. "What?" she cried. "Exactly what year, month, day and time was I being stupid?"

"Every year, month, day and minute!" Miss Mars replied with a confident sneer.

"I was not!"

"You so were!"

I glanced over at Holmes. He was drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair, his eyes tight shut. This puerile dispute was testing my patience as well, but I put forward a professional front and merely pursed my lips in waiting. Holmes, however, was not so giving, as he began writhing in his seat as the girls argument grew in volume. Finally, he shouted over the fracas.

"Sit down!" he barked.

Instantly, Miss Moon and Mars were silent and sank to their knees. They sat on the floor with straight backs like pups, gazing wide-eyed at their master.

I put my face in my hands in a poor attempt to conceal a snigger, marveling at the preposterous scene.

Sherlock Holmes looked at me with a mournful eye. "My dear Watson," said he, "I feel I have hit bottom as last. There are no crimes or criminals these days, and instead I have contend with distressed children."

Holmes spat out these last words contemptuously, and I shrugged in empathy for my friend. Usually Holmes was genial enough to put clients at ease, but I could not blame him for his outburst, for our guests were very reticent in giving information. My professional medical opinion was that Miss Mercury was clear in mind while her friends had emotional disturbances, and I wondered if Holmes' services were even required.

Miss Mercury's face contorted with pained embarrassment and she led her companions back to the sofa. Both she and Miss Moon were red and shame-faced, while Miss Mars merely crossed her arms stubbornly.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes." Miss Mercury stammered.

Holmes waved a hand in her direction. "May we begin again?" His voice assumed a cold, business-like manner. "Your names, please?"

Miss Moon looked up, confused. "But you already know our…"

"Oh no, no," Holmes purred with a cat's smile. "Your real names. It is so awkward doing business with aliases."

Miss Mars leaned forward earnestly. "We're not here on business. Like I told you before, you're in danger. I sensed it the moment we came."

"Danger, you say? From whom?"

"A monster." Miss Moon spoke quickly. "A daimon monster that…"

"One moment, please," I interjected. "This man, whom you view as a monstrous threat, is named Daymond? What is his surname? Can you tell us?"

"No, it isn't…" Miss Moon struggled. "It's not like, oh!"

"Calm yourself, please," I said gently.

The blond girl sighed, clenching her hands. "I don't know how to say," she lamented. "But it's a really scary monster, very dangerous."

Holmes' mouth quirked. "The dangerous, criminal classes are a natural element to my work," he said. "I have faced murderers, blackmailers, poisonous snakes, and supposed hounds from hell. I am not easily cowed."

Miss Moon listened closely to Holmes dramatic examples, but raised a brow at it's ending. She turned to Miss Mars with a desperate need for understanding, and the black haired girl sighed impatiently.

"He's no chicken," she explained coarsely.

Miss Moon's shoulders relaxed when she understood. I thought it pertinent to ask Mrs. Hudson bring up refreshment for her, as Miss Moon was clearly the most upset. Before I could voice my opinion, Miss Mercury clasped her palms together and spoke.

"Mr. Holmes, the only name we can give you is Professor Souichi Tomoe."

"An Oriental?" I remarked.

"Watson," said Holmes, "kindly pass me the index of "T" to "U". I did so, and Holmes began flipping through the pages of his vast criminal records. Miss Mars fidgeted nervously on the sofa, and once again I felt something was needed to calm their hysterical imaginations.

"Holmes," I said, rising up," I believe Mrs. Hudson would do us a great service by bringing up tea for our guests."

Holmes paid me no heed, but continued his single-minded research.

"'The Tarlton Murders', 'Tadpole Percy Phelps' bad filing there, Watson! 'Thomas Hagreaves, Chicago Police Bureau'.."

"Holmes, shall I call down for some tea?"

"Tottenham Court Witch', remarkable case, that! 'Tripoli and the Grecian Forger', did you say something?"

"Tea, Holmes!"

"I am researching "T", Watson."

"No, I meant; oh, nevermind." I started to pace by the fireplace, catching a glimpse of our guests looking every more nervous. I smiled gently.

"Young ladies," I began, "perhaps it would be better if.."

Suddenly Holmes shut the volume loudly. "I do apologize, my dear. The name conveys nothing to my mind. Who, precisely, is this Professor Tomoe?"

"He is a scientist with very evil ambitions," said Miss Mercury. "He was expelled from the academic establishment many years ago."

"Indeed?" Holmes remarked. "If this man is anything like the late, lamented Professor James Moriarty, I should be delighted to meet him."

"No, you wouldn't," Miss Moon chirped. The four of us stared expectantly at her, but received no other answer. Holmes steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair.

"I am waiting, Miss Moon," said he. After several moments of uneasy silence, Holmes abruptly stood up, walked to the other side of the sitting room, and opened the door.

"Girls," he stated coldly. "I do not have the taste for aimless conversations. It is difficult enough taking on a case with incomplete information, let alone fabrications."

Miss Mercury rose slowly from the sofa, looking hurt. "Fabrications? Meaning you think we're lying?"

Holmes narrowed his eyes with a sardonic gaze. "I tried to put it delicately, to keep your friends emotional fits at bay, but if you insist upon the word, Miss Mercury, I will not contradict you."

I was stunned at my friends' attitude. This was too much, even for him.

I strode towards Holmes with a warning shot. "Holmes-" I started.

"Come now, my dear Doctor!" Holmes cried. "Does this not present a prime example of my axiom that women cannot be completely trusted?" He swiftly returned to the center of the room with this biting insult, and I snapped my attention quickly to the ladies on the couch.

Miss Moon was standing now as well, looking panic-stricken and wide-eyed. Miss Mercury grasped her trembling friend by the shoulders. I looked firmly in their eyes, finally landing my gaze on the unusually calm demeanor of Miss Mars. The girl calmly flipped her black hair out of her eyes and rose slowly. She eyed Holmes with the same sour look as his, then looked at me with an icy smile.

"Once again, it's alright Doctor. I am not offended at all," she said. Then she whirled her attention to Holmes, her voice as cold and snapping as a winter wind.

"I don't trust men either."

Now it was my turn to be angry. Clearly these were not clients, but annoying gnats buzzing about our ears with tales to fantastical to be believed. Nevertheless, my professional ethics and softer feel for the fair sex forbade me from dismissing them. Holmes, on the other hand, gave an nettled snort and returned to his chair, filling his cherrywood pipe with black tobacco. He had made his mind up to ignore their presence entirely. I gave a deep breath and made one final attempt.

"Miss Mercury, Miss Moon, Miss Mars," I appealed. "Neither Mr. Holmes nor I can possibly be expected to act or to take your claims seriously without facts. You have given us a name that has no connection to anything Holmes has seen, and Mr. Holmes has an encyclopedic knowledge of crime. You say he is in danger. There would cease to be a danger if we could define it. This you have refused to do. You won't give us any basis for speculation, you won't give us your reasons for being here, save a vague threat; you won't even give us your names." I gave them a resigned look. "Who is the better for that, eh?"

Miss Mars shook her head. "Even if we told you everything, it wouldn't make a difference. There's no action you can take that would change anything."

"What do you mean?"

Miss Mars stepped forward. "We can fight this danger," she said unwaveringly. "We can protect you from it. You can't."

"Why is that?"

"Because they're not human."

"Oh for God's sake!" I muttered under my breath and gave up, returning to the dining table chair exhausted. Finally, I looked at Miss Mercury.

"Take your friends home," I stated with finality. Our guests gave one last pleading whimper, and was lead to the door.

"Sailor Mars?" Holmes presently pointed the stem of his pipe in their direction. The girls turned to face him, and Mars glared.

"Yes?" she replied impatiently.

"If this grotesque, inhuman threat were to present itself, how would you deal with it?"

The girl cocked her head curiously. Then, she casually raised a gloved hand before him.

"Simple, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. We send it back to hell."

A bright spark suddenly rose up, and the girls' hand was engulfed in flames. Holmes and I were at her side in an instant, but before I could give aid, Holmes seized my arm. As Holmes and I stood in shock we observed Sailor Mars, whose face showed no sign of pain or discomfort. I stared in horror as the fire continued to burn, the heat emanating from her palm with no smell of burnt flesh. The only burning came from the surrounding atmosphere, and while Mars remained calm, her friends rushed forward in alarm.

"Sailor Mars! Put it out!" Miss Mercury cried. "There are chemicals here! See, on the table! Your fire could burn the place down!"

Holmes clenched his teeth. "Your fire?"

Miss Mars' face was that of a marble monument. Cold, unmoving and utterly assured. Holmes set his jaw firmly and reached out, his fingers gingerly reaching for the licking red flames. He hissed in pain when he realized the fire was indeed real, and squaring his shoulders, gave the girl an ultimatum.

"Sailor Mars," he said icily, "You will leave my rooms now, and heed my advice. It is dangerous to finger combustibles in the folds of ones petticoats."

Their eyes remained fixed on each other, and Miss Mercury touched her friend on the shoulder. Sailor Mars finally clenched her fist and a plume of smoke rose into the air, making the immediate danger vanish. I breathed with relief, and Holmes eyed me quickly in reassurance. Miss Mars and Mercury hastened downstairs, and after Holmes and I sat down, we started to notice Miss Moon standing quietly by the doorframe.

"The enemy is after your pure heart," she said quietly, gazing at Holmes. "Be careful." With that, her blue eyes bowed to the floor in apology and Miss Moon left the room.

I was utterly at a loss for what I had just seen. I wearily rose again from my chair and looked out the window to catch our young guests in the street, but saw no one resembling them. I turned to Holmes who was, ironically, staring into our crackling fireplace. He sucked at his slightly singed fingers and, turning to me, he frowned.

"My heart? Ugh!" He turned up his nose like he smelled something foul. His hatred of romanticism mirrored my own disgust at the utter futility of that interview.

"Those girls," I said at last," are very ill. If ever there was a case of hysteria in need of an alienist, it's this. And that Mars girl," I continued, "is extremely dangerous. Pyromania, I should say."

"Oh, is that your esteemed medical prognosis?" Holmes asked.

"Well, how do you explain it?" I sat opposite him.

"I don't attempt to do so. It is pointless to use the brain without sufficient material."

"Yes, but what material?" I pressed. "They were more than frugal with their information, if one could call it that. Overactive female imagination at best; delusional, diseased minds at worse, which is not in the realm of the detective."

Holmes chuckled. "Perhaps." He then assumed a distant, introspective look. "Nonetheless, their story provides some features of interest."

"My dear Holmes," I said with some heat, "you can't possibly be in earnest. They nearly burnt our lodgings to the ground!"

"To prove a point."

"But you're not going to take this rubbish seriously, surely?"

Holmes closed his eyes and groaned, softly and mirthlessly. "Watson, do you know how long it has been since I last had anything of interest present itself?"

I hazarded a conservative guess. "Ten weeks?"

"Twelve and a half, Watson," Holmes grumbled. "Nearly thirteen wretched weeks of boredom and decay. I swear, my friend, my brain will fossilize before long unless something stimulates it."

"So you propose to humor the situation? You're going to further poison those girls minds with their delusions?"

Holmes answered in a near whisper. "Either I poison their minds, or I poison myself…"

"Don't you say it! Don't you dare!"

The ferocity of my temper startled Holmes from his black reverie, and he turned his attention to the fireplace, a mortified expression on his face. He knew full well what caused my anger, and I sat seething in shared silence.

Sherlock Holmes, for many years, had alternated between morphine and cocaine when his great brain wasn't being used to his satisfaction. I reprimanded him, then tolerated him, and finally brought out all I held dear in our friendship to convince him to abandon the practice. I was successful, or so I thought, until this moment.

It was clear to me that the demon of addiction was not dead, but merely sleeping. It was waiting its chance to reemerge triumphant in our circumstances, tempting my dearest friend into its embrace. Dreadful thoughts of Holmes' mind being ravaged to pieces, the tissue of his brain being ripped like cotton cloth haunted my heart. What if all those great powers Providence had endowed him with were taken from him all at once, rather than little by little? The perverted wish of that disaster to bring him to his senses gnawed away at me, and I sighed in resignation.

"Watson," Holmes said softly, "I will fit the bill for our dinner at Macini's tonight, if only to wipe that petulant, culpable look from your face."

Holmes had read my expressions like a newspaper column, and I felt a sudden urge to make amends for my outburst. It was clear this side of Holmes would always be present, regardless of my concern or desires.

"My dear Holmes," I protested, "please don't trouble yourself. You paid last time, and this week I'm the one in charge of that; we agreed. Besides, you chose the concert for this evening…"

"Ah, yes, the concert," Holmes remarked casually. "Are you curious about my pick?"

"Yes, I am," said I, grateful and relieved for the change of subject.

"It so happens to be a German programme…" Holmes began, but he paused, seeing my face distinctly take on a look of disappointment.

"Oh, Holmes, not Wagner again!" I complained bitterly. "His work is always so dark and depressing, and you're already in a black humor.."

Holmes laughed. "My dear fellow, Wagner was hardly the only German speaking composer!"

"No, but he's your favorite!" I remonstrated, pointing a derisive finger.

"Once again, you reason without sufficient data." With a flourish, Holmes pulled two cream-coloured slips of paper from his sleeve. He presented them to me with an proud smile.

"This will be our entertainment for the evening."

I studied the tickets with nettled curiosity. Under the location, at the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden, were printed these words:

Die Zauberflöte

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

"'The Magic Flute'?" I exclaimed. "Good heavens, Holmes! I had no idea you were interested in fairy tales!"

"Be that as it may, that particular libretto shall be our pleasure." He reached for his tobacco pouch and lit a match, his eyes once again glazing over in deep thought.

"Besides, Watson, I have an odd feeling that fairy tales will play an important role in the days to come."

And with that cryptic, uncharacteristic remark, Holmes leaned back in his chair to enjoy his pipe.