The next day, the sun rose on Baker Street. Baker Street was famous for primarily two things: The best detective partnership in London, and the second best detective partnership in London. The best detective partnership in London, the one comprised of the famous genius Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, held residence in 221B.

The second best detective partnership in London resided in 203B, Baker Street. The partnership, as the sign on the door read, included Jonathan Langley, a lanky, pale, black haired boy. There was much debate and gossip over what his age was exactly, opinions ranging from a very mature fourteen-year-old to a twenty-five-year old eunuch. But one thing was for certain- Jonathan Langley was far too young to have already came from apparently nowhere (no noble birth, no records of him at any school…) and establish a business in crime investigation that would rival Sherlock Holmes himself.

Obviously, there was much supposition upon who, exactly, this person who called himself Jonathan Langley truly was. No one at all in the higher circle of life, no magician, no MP, could ever recall having met a person named Jonathan Langley, and yet the boy must have had some sort of high birth to get him the education he obviously possessed. Langley could, after all, out vocabulary even the cleverest Scotland Yard policeman. Also, it was generally agreed that no one without wealthy blood was ever as haughty, pettily spiteful, and insufferably arrogant as Jonathan Langley.

Nearly as mysterious was his partner, one Bartholomew Hayden. Hayden was significantly older than Langley. Or, as some said, about the same age. Or maybe he was older. Hayden had inquisitively playful blue eyes. Or green eyes. Bluish green, most people supposed, must be the way the light hits them… but what about when they're brown? His hair was sandy blonde. Usually.

Like Langley, the only thing that was certain about Hayden was that he was absolutely genius. Like Langley, Hayden lacked any obvious background and had apparently simply sprouted up from the cobblestones one day a readymade detective. Although Holmes had made no comments as yet about Langley and Hayden, most people assumed that he was just as clueless about his competition's background as anyone.

There was speculation that they were anarchists. There was speculation that they were wayward magicians on the lam. There was speculation that they were spies from the French.

The truth about Jonathon Langley and Bartholomew Hayden was, however, infinitely stranger than any of that. And it was best that most people never figured out what it was.

Nathaniel was reading Hound of the Baskervilles with a rather triumphant and smug grin on his face.

"Do you know," he asked, "How long it took me to figure that out?"

"Figure what out?" Bartimeus asked, bored. He was sifting through the large pile of newspapers on his desk, searching for anything that hinted of criminality.

"The Hound of the Baskervilles," Nathaniel said, casting the book aside, "I realized it was Stapleton days before Holmes did and weeks before that blithering idiot Watson figured it out."

"Very nice work," Bartimeus said with a weary sigh, "You know, though, some enjoy spending their time solving crimes that have not already been solved, don't you?"

Nathaniel pursed his lips, glaring, "Yes, Bartimeus," he said coldly, "I am aware of that. However, at the moment, I am lacking a stimulating, or profitable, project. I need something supplementary to keep my deductive mind in full working order."

"Ha!" Bartimeus exclaimed, throwing his head back. "Your deductive mind? Natty boy, you do amuse me so. You're rather beginning to enjoy this little playing detective act, aren't you?"

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes, "It's not an act," he grumbled. "I am quite good at this, if you haven't noticed. We've solved ten cases in six months."

Bartimeus sighed, "Poor Nat. All this cultivating a deductive mind is really taking its toll on your memory, isn't it? Here, let me refresh you regarding what you told me the day you decided to undertake this fun little sojourn into crime solving. Ahem."

The djinn morphed into a form resembling Nathaniel, only with a larger nose and large gaps between his teeth, "I usually wouldn't dirty my hands with something so crass as criminal investigation, Bartimeus, but it may prove the quickest way to earn the money to get out of this god-forsaken city."

Nathaniel rolled his eyes, "My voice does not sound like that!" he snapped.

Bartimeus reverted back to the form he had taken to using of late, "Does so," he said, "But that's really not my point here, Natty, try to keep that deductive mind of yours a little more focused, shall we?"

Nathaniel glowered.

"Good job. Now… I wonder why the sudden change of mind, Nat?"

Nathaniel turned away from him, picking up another book in an attempt to ignore the incessant annoyance of the djinn behind him. It didn't work. He sighed. It never worked.

"Not in a talking mood? That deductive mind of yours to weighty to talk to old Bartimeus?"

Nathaniel sighed, "Fine!" he snapped, "You want to know why the sudden change of mind? You want to know why I like doing this? It's because I'm bloody good at it! I like being good at things. I especially like being better at things than other people. It makes me happy."

"You want to know what else I think makes you happy?" Bartimeus asked, a tiny smirk playing on his lips.

"No. But you're going to tell me anyway, aren't you?"

"I think," Bartimeus said moving over to stand behind the chair where Nathaniel, "That the knowledge that you're helping your fellow man makes you happy."

Nathaniel glared sideways at the ground, saying nothing.

"It does, doesn't it?" Bartimeus bounced his eyebrows, "You love it, eh? You get all warm and tingly down in that icy dungeon of a soul you have…"

"Please shut up…" Nathaniel sighed, rubbing his temples. Why did he torture himself by keeping this creature around?

"Not until you admit that you are motivated by something other than a desire to one-up Sherlock Holmes." Bartimeus said, crossing his arms and turning into a fly, which buzzed in small, noisy circles around the top of Nathaniel's head.

"I do hate him though, you know," he said.

Bartimeus sighed, shaking his head, "I know, I know." He said, "I have always been well aware of the fact that my little Natty just can't stand it when someone does something better than him."

Nathaniel's scowl deepened as he crossed the room to look out of the window onto Baker Street. Bartimeus buzzed up behind him and continued his circling, "It must be some sort of complex…" Bartimeus mused, "I wonder where it stems from. It's probably because you have a teeny, tiny little- What are you looking at?"

Nathaniel had produced a pair of dingy opera glasses from his pocket and was peering through them out the window, "That BASTARD!" he shouted, "The GALL of him!"

"Gall of who now? Oh, Holmes, his gall, is it?" Bartimeus asked, looking out the window as well, "He doesn't look particularly bastard like to me, actually…"

"He is obviously investigating something over there!" Nathaniel hissed, "Right over there! In that house across the street! Do you know what that means?"

"Errrmmm… another riveting tale from the pen of Sir Conan Doyle?"

"It means…" Nathaniel hissed, "That he is investigating in a house barely five meters away from ours. That should be our case not his!"

"You know," Bartimeus said, "That there is the possibility he's just popping in for tea?"

A sneer crept over Nathaniel's lips. "No," he said, "He's found a case. And it's one that I want! Bartimeus, get back in your Hayden guise… we have an investigation to begin."