Scottie had no idea what time it was when he woke up. Emily liked to keep a digital clock that lit up on a dresser opposite from their beds so that they could see it in the dark, but now Scottie couldn't see the little red numbers. The boy sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face. He looked to his right then and saw Emily still sleeping in the adjacent twin bed. This was hardly a surprise, considering the girl had gotten into the habit of staying up until four or five in the morning drawing in Photoshop and then sleeping through half the following day.

Scottie threw back his comforter and skirted around the second bed to get to the entrance to the bedroom and felt along the wall beside the doorframe. Upon being unable to locate the lightswitch, the boy frowned and extended his search a good half foot further from where he had expected to find the switch. After a moment he pulled back his arm and squinted at the dark wall and quietly reassured himself that yes, this was the correct end of the room, and he couldn't possibly be THAT blind without his glasses on.

"No light," he hummed sadly. "No light in your bright blue eyes… Hey, Emily?" he asked, unconcerned with the fact that she wasn't awake yet. He turned his head to the lump under the covers that was his roommate. "Emily," he tried again. "Emilur. Emlay. Emiloo. Elmo. Bitch."

"Oh my God, what?" Emily groaned and rolled over. Although she was facing him now, her eyes were still closed (not that Scottie could tell the difference, with combination of the dark and not having his glasses on).

"The lights are missing," explained Scottie.

Emily hugged onto her pillow tighter. "How is this my problem?" the girl grumbled into it. "Go tell Mrs. Hudson there's a power outage. I don't know."

Scottie huffed in annoyance. "I didn't say there was a power outage," he corrected, "I said the lights are missing. As in, gone. Nonexistent. There should be a switch here, but lo, there is not. Eet ees a meesteree!"

Ultimately deciding that she wasn't going to get back to sleep anyway, Emily forced herself upright, long brown hair not necessarily tangled but still sticking up every which-way, particularly in her face. "No offense," she mumbled, "but I don't think that The Case of the Missing Lightswitch is something Sherlock will be interested in picking up with everything else on his plate."

The girl instinctively reached below her pillow for her phone and was quite obviously confused and upset when she didn't find it right away. Emily grabbed the whole pillow and threw it to the floor beside her bed. Still had no luck in finding the device. "Did you take my phone?" she accused and shot a dirty look at Scottie.

"What? No. Did you leave it on the charger upstairs again?"

Emily thought for a moment. This was a thing she was prone to doing. "No," she blinked. "I remember being on Tumblr for like a half hour before I went to bed."

"What bullshit is this?" Scottie asked himself, having gone back to their shared end table to find a candle on it.

Emily got up and went to the bathroom to grab her hairbrush. "This is all wrong," she announced loudly and came out carrying a brush that was doing a rather adequate job impersonating a brush that might be hers - it even had strands of Emily Hair wrapped around its teeth - but was clearly not anything close to what should have been her hairbrush. "Literally everything in there, and look at this… hideous white thing." She gestured to the nightgown she was in. "I do not own this, let alone remember going to bed in it. I mean, what is this, the stone ages?"

There was now enough sunlight streaming in from the living room that they could see things more than a couple of feet away from their faces, but the entirety of the room was still rather dim. Scottie pried open a wardrobe that had seemingly replaced their closet and his mouth slightly opened upon viewing its contents.

"Victorian," he said.

"Victoria quien?"

"No, Victorian. The time period. Everything in this room has been… redone to fit the Victorian era. Look at these costumes."

Emily came up beside Scottie and frowned. "Huh" was apparently all she had to offer on the subject.

"And just when I thought materializing in modern day London overnight was the strangest thing to ever happen to me," Scottie said, rubbing at his forehead.

Emily glared into the wardrobe filled with period clothing and folded her arms. "Okay. So we we've now materialized into 17-something London overnight."

"Nineteenth century."

"Huh?"

"1800's, not what you said."

"...since when were you a history buff?"

"Remember how you scored a one on your history AP? That's right. Don't question me, sonion."

Emily wrinkled her nose. "Whatever, daderino."

"I'll be right back," Scottie announced and started out of 221C. In the foyer he bumped into Mrs. Hudson, who jumped in surprise.

"Oh! Lewis!" the older woman gasped. "I didn't see you there."

"Lewis?" Scottie echoed. He shook his head. "Whatever. Important question: do you know what a car is?"

The landlady furrowed her brows and stared down at the boy. "Car...riage?" she offered.

Showing literally no emotion, Scottie patted the woman on her shoulder and went right back around into 221C.

"Well?" Emily asked from where she hadn't left the bedroom.

"Don't worry about it," Scottie told her on his way past. She raised an eyebrow and watched as the boy climbed back into bed and pulled up the sheets. "Just some nonsense we don't get paid enough to deal with."

Emily stared at him for way longer than was necessary before wandering out into the foyer herself. "Where's Sherlock?" she demanded upon seeing Mrs. Hudson still there and looking a little confused herself.

"Mr. Holmes is out still," Mrs. Hudson informed the younger girl. "And what are you doing still in your nightie, Miss Claus? It's well past noon already - go and get dressed! Go on!"

Mrs. Hudson then shooed Emily back into 221C. Emily proceeded to pull Scottie back out of bed and relay the information that they were supposed to be getting dressed.

"Well I will say," Emily began as she looked over the heap of green fabric she had thrown down onto her bed, "whatever the hell's going on, I do love this time period! Women have the best dresses!"

"And no showers or rights," Scottie chimed in. He dug through the wardrobe and pulled out a shirt, vest, and tie for himself.

"You must be fun at parties."

"You would know."

Emily slipped out of her nightgown while the young adults' backs were turned to one another and tried to get into her dress, managing to get lost looking for the holes amidst all the layers of fabric. After realizing she was missing the corset piece and having to have Scottie help her tie that, she did eventually manage to put on the dress, and Scottie nodded approvingly into the mirror.

He met Emily's eyes. "So this is happening."

"Yup."

"Do you think we really time traveled?"

"Dunno."

"Okay."

The both of them awkwardly and rather stiffly (with Emily tripping over her dress and coming close to falling face first into Scottie twice) exited their own flat once more just in time to hear the doorbell ring. "MRS. HUDSON!" they both let out simultaneously. When their landlady didn't respond immediately and the bell went off for a second time, Scottie looked expectantly to Emily, who sighed and went to open in herself.

Confronted with a woman clad entirely in shimmery black with her face obscured by fabric, Emily let out a surprised squeak and stumbled backwards.

"Are you alright, dear?" the woman asked without removing the covering. "I hardly meant to frighten you."

"Fine," Emily wheezed. There was something familiar about the lady's voice, but she couldn't quite place it for the life of her. "Well. Not fine. That was… That outfit is terrifying. Seriously, right out of the Haunted Mansion, I swear. You just about gave me a heart attack."

"Is Sherlock Holmes around?"

Scottie and Emily exchanged glances and then turned back to the mystery woman and simultaneously shrugged.

"You… don't know?" the woman asked with a raised eyebrow.

"We just woke up," Scottie said. "More or less. Sorry, who are you supposed be again?"

"A ring wraith?" offered Emily.

"I was going to go with the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come but that's not bad either."

"Mm. Dementor could work as well."

"I am a client," the woman cut in.

"Oh!" gasped Scottie. "Well then, Sherlock is out, but fortunately for you, we are both junior detectives! Of sorts. In training, one could say. Not quite the real deal, but damned if we don't pick up every case Sherlock deems too boring to look into."

"Scottie!" hissed Emily between clenched teeth.

"Some of them we even manage to solve!" the boy grinned cheerily.

"I'll wait for Mr. Holmes," the woman decided. "Would you show me to his flat?"

"...Yeah that's probably smart."

From the top of the stairwell they entered 221B, which was unlocked, as per usual. The stranger strode ahead of them into the living room and glanced around the flat for any signs of Sherlock, just in case, while behind her Scottie and Emily had crept into the room with wide eyes. It was similar to the set as they'd seen on the show, but everything was… off. The stag's head mounted on the wall was a rather noticeable change. But there were lots of tiny details, like the types of books scattered about the room, the antique-looking paintings hung up around the room, the obvious lack of anything technological - even the wallpaper was slightly different.

The both of them seemed at a loss for words. "Y-Yeah, like I said, I don't think he's around!" Scottie sputtered as soon as he noticed that she had been turned towards him for some time now. Her figure wasn't unlike a living shadow in that outfit and quite honestly it was unnerving. She must have caught him staring and he could only assume that that was because he was supposed to just accept all this as normal. If he and Emily were entirely new to this world it would be one thing, but Scottie remember that Mrs. Hudson had been very much familiar with them, which only made the whole scenario more puzzling.

"As I said, I'll wait," announced their cloaked guest.

"Should I make you some tea or something?" Emily offered. But the girl scarcely took one step into the kitchen, which appeared even more transformed than the living room, and stopped again, muttering "No. Wait. Bad idea. I don't know how to make tea in this era." And then, a little louder: "Would you like to ...have a seat?" She figured, of course, that the concept of sitting was not one of the things to differ.

"I'll stand, thanks."

"Oh. Aight."

"Pardon?"

"...Alright."

Scottie shot Emily an incredulous look, to which she threw out her arms in response. They continued to meet each other's eyes for an almost uncomfortable amount of time.

It was to be a rather long and uneasy wait, but eventually the ensemble did hear the front door opening from below and was relieved to have the presence of Sherlock and John ease the situation. Or make it ten times worse, as it very well might have. It was near impossible to make out the muffled words spoken from the foot of the stairs, but they ceased after a few moments, only to be followed by heavy boots up to the flat. Sherlock was the first to enter the room. The man didn't seem to notice Scottie and Emily standing there in the middle of the living room on both sides of the woman in black. He merely made a beeline for the curtain and pulled it open (a gesture neither of the youths had thought to perform themselves).

They could really see now how his hair had been slicked back. Sherlock must have seen them at this point, they realized, because he had to walk right by to open up the second set of curtains, but still the man didn't acknowledge any of the three. They turned their heads to see John enter through the kitchen, set something down, and then walk into the living room.

"It's back!" Emily whispered to Scottie, referring specifically to the moustache she had teased him about back at the restaurant when John was going to propose to Mary.

"Good lord," John muttered upon coming in.

"Howdy diddly there partner," Scottie greeted. Emily elbowed him in his side. Hard.

"There is a woman in my sitting room," Sherlock said to one or both of the kids.

"Two, actually," Emily corrected.

Scottie looked up at Mary to see that the woman had covered her face again, which perhaps attributed to neither of the newcomers recognizing her.

"You let her in?" the consulting detective interrogated.

"Of course?" Emily answered, unsure of which of them he was addressing.

"Why didn't you offer her a seat?" John also asked neither of them in particular. "Honestly. Where are you manners?" John then pulled up a chair for their guest himself.

"Didn't you ask what she wanted?" Sherlock went on.

"Well she… Hang on, why are you going off at ME about this?" Emily huffed and folded her arms.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "For God's sake." The detective places his arms behind his back and smiled in such a way that to a stranger it might have seemed genuine. "Good afternoon. I'm Sherlock Holmes, this is my friend and colleague Dr. Watson, and I assume to some degree you have already met our assistants, Scottie Lewis and Miss Emily Claus. You may speak freely in front of all three of them, as they barely understand a word."

Scottie and Emily made equally offended noises in the backs of their throats while John rather maturely responded to the diss with a vaguely annoyed "Holmes…"

"However, before you do allow me to make some trifling observations." Sherlock took several steps closer. "You have an impish sort of humor" - Sherlock began pacing around the woman from behind as he spoke - "which currently you're deploying to ease a degree of personal anguish. You have recently married a man of a seemingly kindly disposition, who has now abandoned you for an unsavory companion of of dubious morals." Now the detective came full circle, around John and approximately back to where he'd been standing when he began his "trifling observations."

He crossed his arms now and came closer to the client again. "You've come to this agency as a last resort," Sherlock breathed, "in the hope that reconciliation may still be possible."

"Good lord, Holmes!" scoffed John once more.

"Is he talking faster than usual?" muttered Emily. "Think he's talking faster."

"He's using slightly bigger words," explained Scottie.

"All of this is, of course, perfectly evident from your perfume," Sherlock concluded.

As soon as he had done so John snapped his head to the side. "Her perfume?" the doctor parroted.

"Yes, her perfume, which brings insight to me and disaster to you."

"How so…?"

"Because I recognized it, and you did not." Sherlock was standing directly in front of their mystery client now and pulled back the fabric draped around her face. As soon as the man stepped aside to became clear to everyone in that room exactly who she was.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Scottie cursed himself. "How did I not know!"

"Mary!" barked John.

"John," the doctor's wife purred back.

"Why in God's name are you pretending to be a client?"

"Because I could think of no other way to see my husband. Husband."

Sherlock clasped his hands together. "Well! By all means, don't let me stop you two from getting into it. Lewis, perhaps you'd like to escort Miss Claus back into your own flat?"

"Excuse you?" choked Emily.

"I can't tell her how to live her life!" Scottie backed his friend up.

"Clearly, if she's going to insist upon wearing your shoes."

Emily lifted her dress just enough to have a look at the boots she was wearing. She still couldn't tell the difference. Seeing that they had no intention to budge, Sherlock went to end of the room and dug out his violin. Meanwhile Scottie and Emily tried to get comfy on the sofa that was even less comfy than they'd remembered it being.

"It was an affair of international injury!" John was saying in the background.

"It was a murdered country squire," corrected his wife.

"Nevertheless. Matters were pressed-"

"I don't mind you going, my darling, I mind you leaving me behind!"

"Wh… But what could you DO!"

"Well what do you do? Is it wander 'round, taking notes, looking surprised-"

Sherlock stopped playing his instrument abruptly, shouting "Enough!" This caused everyone in the room to jump to some degree. "The stage is set," the detective went on, his eyes fixed on the wall now. "The curtain rises. We are ready to begin."

Mary squinted at John and then looked back toward Sherlock. "Begin what?"

"Sometimes to solve a case one must first solve another…"

"Well, you have a case, then?" John shoved his hands into his pockets and strode across the room. "A new one?"

"An old one," Sherlock answered softly. "Very old."

"Was he always this cryptic?" Emily wondered allowed, to which Scottie shushed her.

"I shall have to go deep."

"Deep? Into what?"

"YOUR MOM!" Scottie spewed out suddenly and immediately slapped his hands over his mouth. "I'm sorry. My filter broke. I'm so sorry."

There was a tense silence following the outburst as all eyes fell on the boy. Moments later Emily lost it and bust up laughing and Scottie was quick to join in.

"Myself," Sherlock seethed loudly over them. "Lestrade! Do stop loitering by the door and come in."

The youths' laughing died out and they turned their heads to see what Sherlock was talking about. Sure enough, the door squeaked open to reveal Lestrade just on the other side. He was wearing a tophat and had…

"SIDEBURNS!" Scottie and Emily screeched at the same time and immediately started up with their snickering again.

"Do your best to ignore them," Sherlock instructed sternly.

"I always try," confessed Lestrade. "How did you know it was me?"

"Regulation tread is unmistakeable - lighter than Jones, heavier than Gregson," Sherlock said in one breath. He went over to his armchair and sat down in it. His legs swiftly crossed over one another and his hands slid together in front of his chest, as they so often did.

Scottie pressed his hands over his cheeks and got mildly serious. "Oh no he's still hot though."

"Don't you start that again," warned Emily.

"Can't stop won't stop."

"Scottie."

"It's word vomit. It's comin' out."

"Hoh… yeah, I… I just came… Uh, Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to be talking?" the Detective Inspector began with a confused stutter.

"I fear she's branched into literary criticism by means of satire." Sherlock reached for his end table and took up a pipe "'Tis a distressing trend in the modern landlady. What brings you here in your off-duty hours?"

"HOT DANG LESTRADE, YOU LOOK FI-"

As if on instinct, John sprung over to Scottie and clasped a hand over the boy's mouth. Similarly, Emily sighed and slapped the palm of her hand over her own face.

"FIRED UP ABOUT A NEW CASE," John finished for him.

Scottie wrestled John's arm away from his face. "I know what I'm about, son," he insisted.

"Lewis! He is a police officer! Not only that, but a detective with the Scotland Yard!"

Scottie nodded seriously. "Right. They hot."

"Is he always like this?" Lestrade asked, pointing to Scottie, who had begun to flail as John attempted to apprehend him.

"Most days," admitted Sherlock. "Although I will admit, he has been behaving more peculiar than usual just in the past ten minutes. Truthfully, I think he believes my being away gives him more cause to act out upon return."

"Sorry, how did you know I'm off-duty?"

John finally gave up squabbling with Scottie. The boy pulled away and yanked down his suit jacket. "That's right. Fight me, John."

"For the last time," John grimaced, "that's Dr. Watson to you. Windy wallets."

"...Wind-whatsits?"

Sherlock squinted and tilted his head slightly. "Well since your arrival you've addressed over forty percent of your remarks to my decanter," he answered Lestrade, entirely ignoring the dispute. Sherlock pointed towards the other end of the room with the end of his pipe.

"Was that English?" Scottie asked Emily with a point to John. The girl shrugged back.

"Lewis."

Scottie, assumedly growing used to being called by his surname, turned around to Sherlock.

"Why don't you make yourself useful and get the Inspector what he so clearly wants."

Scottie pointed at the alcohol on the table suspiciously. "You were just talking about drinks, correct?"

"Indeed." Sherlock pursed his lips.

"Right. Ah. Okay, but are you SURE you want me handling that?"

"Oh my God, it's not explosive," sighed Emily, who hopped up and went to the drinks arrangement. The girl hesitated for just a moment before selecting one at random and completely overestimated how much she was supposed to put into a glass. She then tasted it herself, made a completely disgusted face at the stuff, and then brought it over to Lestrade, who first removed his hat and then seemed rather reluctant to take the drink.

"She does that sometimes," John explained. "You get used to it."

"Well, good to know some things are consistent," commented Scottie.

"Long as she didn't spit into it, I suppose," grumbled Lestrade as he took a sip.

"Transitive property," Emily said. Lestrade looked over at her confusedly with his mouth still to the glass. "A equals B and B equals C. My lips touched the glass, now yours are in the same spot, so by the transitive property we're basically kissing right now."

Lestrade immediately gagged on his drink and held the glass down.

"So Lestrade," John tried to change the subject, "what can we do for you?"

"Oh, I'm not here on business," the other man wheezed and shoved the drink back into Emily's hands. "I just sort of… dropped by."

"Social call?"

"Of course! Just to wish you the… compliments of the season. Merry Christmas?"

"Merry Christmas," mused Sherlock.

"Merry Christmas!" Lestrade exclaimed once more.

Mary smiled. "Merry Christmas."

"And a happy New Year!" Emily let out. She raised the glass, took another sip, and then made the same exact face and hurriedly set it back down on the table from whence it came.

"Thank God that's over," muttered Sherlock. "Now, Inspector, what strange happening compels you to my door, but embarrasses you to relate?"

"Who said anything happened?"

"You did. By every means short of actual speech."

"Ah ah ah ah ah," tutted John, "Holmes, you have misdiagnosed."

"Then correct me, Doctor."

"He didn't WANT a drink," John explained. "He needed one." John then looked over at where Emily had just set it down again. "He might need a new one, actually. And he his is not embarrassed. He's afraid."

Sherlock grinned proudly. "My Boswell is learning. They do grow up so fast. Take notes, you two - you've a lot of catching up to do."

"Is it a competition?" questioned Scottie.

"Yes. And you're losing. Watson, restore the courage of Scotland Yard. Inspector, do sit down."

"I'm - I'm not afraid, exactly," Lestrade tried to clarify. He picked up a chair from the dining room and brought it closer to Sherlock before having a seat facing the other man.

"Fear is wisdom in the face of danger. It is nothing to be ashamed of."

"That sounds a tad hypocritical coming from you, don't you think?" Scottie asked snidely. "I mean, after the Baskerville thing-"

"You're done talking," Sherlock decided for the boy along with a warning point of his pipe.

Scottie leaned back and crossed his arms. "Whatever, Basil of Baker Street," he said.

Sherlock furrowed his brows. "What did you call me?"

"Oh my God, you're right," chortled Emily.

John got Lestrade a second and uncontaminated drink and handed it to the man. "Thank you," Lestrade breathed his gratitude.

Sherlock struck a match. "From the beginning, then."

"Let's start from the very beginning," sang Emily softly.

Scottie shifted his eyes over. "You're at least fifty years ahead of your time. Stop this."

The girl grinned back. "A very good place to start."

"Do re me fa so done with you."

Lestrade took a sip and cleared his throat. "There was a bride," he started. As he began his tale, John had a seat in the other armchair and his wife sank down onto the arm of it, while the children came closer as to be a part of the conversation, while not actually sitting. "In her wedding gown," Lestrade went on. "She stood atop a balcony, a pistol in each hand. She fired down into the streets, shouting 'you.'"

"When was this?" inquired Sherlock.

"Yesterday morning."

"The bride's face - how was it described?"

The Detective Inspector hesitated a moment before pulling up a small notebook and reading from it: "White as death. Mouth like a crimson wound."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Poetry or truth?"

"Many would say they're the same thing."

"Yes, idiots. Poetry or truth?"

"I saw her face. Afterwards."

"After what?"

Lestrade looked toward the floor nervously and rubbed at the back of his head. "Well… she said… 'you' again, aiming both pistols down at the street, and then… 'or me?' And she put the barrel of one of the pistols into her mouth and… shot herself."

There was an uneasy silence that followed the man's story that was broken by Sherlock letting out an exasperated sigh. "Really, Lestrade? A woman blows her own brains out in public and you need help identifying the guilty party. I fear Scotland Yard has reached a new low."

"That's not why I'm here."

"I surmise."

"What was her name? The bride," asked John.

"Emelia Ricoletti."

Emily squinted. "Isn't that a kind of pasta?"

"Yesterday was her wedding anniversary," explained Lestrade. "The police, of course, were called, and her body taken to the morgue." He nodded and took another drink.

"That's gotta be a pasta. And if not, it should be."

Sherlock remained uninterested. "Standard procedure. Why are you telling us what may be presumed?"

"Because of what happened next," Lestrade said, leaning forward. "Limehouse, just a few hours later. Thomas Ricoletti. Emelia Ricoletti's husband."

"Presumably on his way to the morgue to identify her remains."

Lestrade had another sip and nodded. "As it turned out he was saved the trip. Cab came, but… she was in it. The bride. Still in her wedding gown. This time she had a shotgun with her. Ricoletti, well, he didn't recognize her at first. Veil still down. Witnesses say she was… singing. An odd song, no was able to recognize it. I, uh, I took down some of the lyrics here… At least, what I gather they were close to."

The man then fumbled about with his notebook for a moment before reading: "I'm dangling off the edge, I put a bullet in my head, I'm gone, gone, gone…"

"The song isn't important," Sherlock interrupted once more. "What happened then?"

"She lifted the veil and it was her all right. Emelia Ricoletti. The back of her head all… Well, she had shot herself. Ricoletti was terrified. Looked as if he'd seen a ghost. And perhaps he had. She killed her husband then and vanished into the night. Just like that."

"'Til death do us part," muttered Sherlock as he stared forward. "Twice, in this case." The man turned his head back to Lestrade and smiled.

"Extraordinary," breathed John.

"Impossible!" his wife let out.

"EEEEEEEEEE" Scottie squeaked. Perhaps this wasn't the best response, because it certainly drew in the attention of the others in the room. "What? An actual possibly supernatural case and you're NOT excited? A creepy as shit manic corpse bride on a revenge trip in 19th century London? It really is Christmas!"

"That he gets from me," Sherlock said, still smiling. "Superb. Truly. Suicide as street theatre, and yes, murder by corpse. Lestrade, you're spoiling us. Watson, Lewis, your hat and coat." The man got up and went to the door and John jumped up after him.

"Where are we going?"

"To the morgue! There's not a moment to lose" - the consulting detective threw off his dressing gown and replaced it with a jacket - "which one can so rarely say of a morgue."

"N-Now hang on, why Scottie and not me!" Emily shot back.

"And am I just to sit here as well?" Mary asked, looking equally offended.

John doubled over and tapped the bottom of her chin playfully. "Not at all, my dear. We'll be hungry later! And, of course, Miss Claus is welcome to assist you."

Emily huffed and folded her arms. "I most certainly will not."

John, of course, entirely ignored the girl. "Holmes, just one thing? Tweeds? In a morgue?"

"Needs must when the devil drives, Watson. Lewis? You coming?"

Scottie looked to his friend guiltily. "Don't you fucking go without me," she hissed.

"But… But Victorian London… and an old fashioned morgue with a ghost bride! And horse drawn carriage! Horses, Emily! Horses!"

"We're supposed to be in this together, might I remind you!"

"Lewis!" Sherlock snapped from around the corner.

Sorry, the boy mouthed and bounced after the two men. Emily grit her teeth and stomped a foot. "Dickheads!" she shouted after them. Without thinking first, she took up the glass of alcohol again, downed the rest of it, made even worse of a face than she had before and shook her head violently, immediately regretting the action.

Lestrade put on his hat and awkwardly turned to Emily from the doorframe. "Uh, quick question, Miss. You and Mr. Lewis. You married quite young, didn't you?"

Emily choked, not necessarily on the alcohol as that was gone, but on the horrid taste that was still in her mouth.

"You think he's my husband!" the girl wheezed.

Lestrade blinked in surprise. "You two are living together, are you not?"

"So what?"

"I'm part of a campaign, you know," Mary interrupted, standing.

Lestrade's gaze shifted from Mary, to Emily, and then make to Mary, mouth still very much ajar. He swallowed. "Oh yeah? Campaign?"

"Votes for Women."

"And are you - are you for or against?"

Without warning, Emily chucked the empty glass at Lestrade. Luckily it missed by a long shot and shattered against the wall behind the couch. Still, Lestrade jumped a good half foot in the air in surprise, shouting, "You're hysterical!"

"No, Inspector, I am livid. Now get the fuck out."

Mrs. Hudson must have heard the glass breaking and was already rushing up the stairs. "What's going on? What's happened?" Emily heard her ask on her way past Lestrade.

"Miss Claus in unstable, that's what's going on! You ought to have a stern word with that young lady. Violent outbursts, no respect for authority - it's improper!"

Loud footsteps told them that Lestrade had gone down to the first floor and was on his way out. Emily rolled her eyes and looked to Mary, who was quite possibly proud, but it was difficult to tell from the shock still on her face.

"Is everything alright?" Mrs. Hudson asked nervously, poking her head into the room.

Mary came over and put an arm around Emily. "We're fine. Miss Claus had a bit of an outburst, but she's quite alright now, aren't you, dear?"

Emily grumbled something inaudible in response.

"Well, if you insist," the landlady sighed despite looking unconvinced. "Ooh, almost forgot." She came in further and held out an envelope. "That came for you."

"Oh!" Mary dropped her arm and took it from her. She opened it up to find a card which she flipped over, read quietly to herself, and then grinned. "Mrs. Hudson, tell my husband I'll be home late. I have some urgent business."

"Is everything alright?"

"Oh, you know, just a…" She waved a hand vaguely and cleared her throat. "Friend in need."

"Oh dear. What friend?"

"England. Claus, I don't suppose you'd care to join me?"

The girl's eyes lit up at this. "You mean it?"

"Of course," Mary insisted. "Grab your hat."


Meanwhile, Sherlock had hailed a cab. A black horse-drawn carriage pulled up alongside the sidewalk and he and John piled in.

"Lewis!" John called. "Stop petting the horse and get in!"

"Sorry!"

Scottie jumped in after and sat on the bench facing Sherlock and John. Lestrade joined them almost immediately after, pulling the door shut and trapping the four of them in an uncomfortably tight-knit box.

"The morgue," Sherlock instructed the driver, and the carriage set into motion at an admittedly slow and bumpy pace.

"This… is less exciting than I anticipated," Scottie muttered to himself.

"Who's on mortuary duty?" Sherlock asked, looked at Lestrade.

"You know who."

"Anderson," realized Scottie.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh at this and glanced out the window. "Always him."

Once they arrived (which would've been considerably sooner via a regular motorized cab), the ensemble piled out of the small carriage and filed into an underground mortuary. Sherlock held open the door to one of the rooms to allow the others to enter first. Once he had gone into the room, he walked straight across to the nearest table, on which was a covered body that had been chained to the table.

Sherlock was less than amused: "Please tell me which idiot did this!"

From behind the table, a man turned and walked towards the newcomers. Scottie immediately recognized him as the old-timey rendition of Anderson.

"It's for everyone's safety."

John reached out and pulled back the sheet just enough to show the corpse's face. "This woman is dead," he said flatly. "Half her head is missing! She's not a threat to anyone!"

"Tell that to her husband," Anderson said with a point across the room. "He's under a sheet over there. I see you brought you brought your pet with you again," he added with a disapproving look in Scottie's direction.

"Yes, as traditional when mentoring someone," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "But that is beside the point. Whatever happened in Limehouse last night, I think we can safely assume it wasn't the work of a dead woman. I'm sure even my pet could tell you that much."

"Stranger things have happened."

"Such as?" Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and waited expectantly.

"Well… strange things…" Anderson replied hesitantly.

"You're speaking like a child," said John.

Sherlock looked down at the body again. "This is clearly a man's work. Where is he?"

Before Anderson could answer the question, the door swung open and in came a man wearing a suit and with a mustache. Scottie let out an involuntary gasp at the possibility of a trans person, but was able to keep himself from commenting on it in case it wasn't supposed to be obvious.

"Holmes," the possibly trans Hooper said in a slightly deeper voice than Scottie had been accustomed to.

"Hooper," Sherlock greeted back.

Scottie's eyes lit up. Hooper? As in, Molly Hooper? (Scottie had difficulties with facial recognition from time to time, but as soon as he'd placed the newcomer's voice, there was no doubt in his head that this was in fact one and the same Molly Hooper and he let out an involuntary excited squeal in the back of his throat.)

Hooper circled the table and looked across it at Sherlock as Anderson turned away. "So. Come to astonish us with your magic tricks, I suppose."

"Is there anything to which you would like to draw my attention?"

"Nothing at all, Mr. Holmes. You may leave any time you like."

"Doctor Hooper," Lestrade spoke for the first time since they entered the room, "I asked Mr. Holmes to come here. Cooperate. That's an order."

Hooper drew in a long breath and then looked down at the body. "There are two 'features of interest,' as you are always saying in Doctor Watson's stories."

"I never say that."

"You say it all the time," Scottie countered. Sherlock frowned in the boy's direction at this. "What? Yes, I've read them all."

"First of all," Hooper went on, "this is definitely Emelia Ricoletti. She has been categorically identified. Beyond a doubt it is her."

"Then who was that in Limehouse last night?" asked John.

"That was also Emelia Ricoletti."

"It can't have been," John protested. "She was dead. She was here."

Sherlock took out a small magnifying glass and bent forward with it.

"She was positively identified by her own husband seconds before he died," explained Hooper. "He had no reason to lie. He could hardly be mistaken."

"The cabbie knew her too. There's no question it's her," Lestrade confirmed.

John squinted. "But she can't have been in two places at the same time, can she?"

Sherlock straightened and held down his magnifying glass, saying, "No, Watson. One place is strictly the limit for the recently deceased."

John snapped his fingers and pointed to Sherlock suddenly. "Holmes! Could it have been twins?"

"Yes!" Scottie exclaimed.

"No," Sherlock answered a little too quickly.

Scottie's face fell. "Just kidding then."

"Why not?"

"Because it's never twins," insisted Sherlock.

"Yeah, John, it's never twins," Scottie backed him up.

"Emelia was not a twin," Lestrade told them, "nor did she have any sisters. She had one older brother who died four years ago."

John shook his head, humming. "Maybe it was a secret twin?" he offered.

"A what?" Holmes asked in disbelief.

"A secret twin. Hm? You know? A twin that nobody knows about? This whole thing could have been planned."

"Since… the moment of conception? How breathtakingly prescient of her! It is never twins, Watson."

"Then what's your theory?" huffed John.

"Clones!" Scottie let out.

Now John frowned at Scottie. "Whats?"

"More to the point," Sherlock ignored them, "what's your problem?" This he directed at Lestrade, who blinked back owlishly.

"I-I don't understand. What…?"

"Why were you so frightened? Nothing so far has justified your assault on my decanter, and why have you allowed a dead woman to be placed under arrest?"

"Ah," mused Hooper. "That would be another feature of interest." They lifted one of the corpse's hands, showing an index finger smeared with blood.

"Ah," John sounded unimpressed, "a smear of blood on her finger. That could have happened any number of ways."

"Indeed. There's one other thing: it wasn't there earlier."

"And neither was that," Lestrade said, pointing to a nearby wall.

Scottie was the first to hurry over and see what it was. Behind him, Lestrade lifted a lantern and held it up to the wall. They could see now that the word YOU had been scrawled across it - thick, red, and dripping.

John let out the often involuntary and rather frequent "Holmes!" This time it was likely because the consulting detective had stiffened and spent an almost uncomfortable amount of time staring straight forward.

"Gun to the mouth, a bullet through the brain, back of the head blown clean off…" the man finally let out softly. "How could he survive?"

"Moriarty," Scottie followed along. "That's what this is about, isn't it? That's what it's always about."

Sherlock shifted his eyes over to Scottie as he said this, paused for another tense moment, and then shook his head, saying, "Well! Thank you all for a fascinating case. I'll send you a telegram when I've solved it. Watson. Lewis." Without looking back the man left the room. Scottie was on the verge of following him, but hesitated to see if John was coming first.

"Er, the gunshot wound was obviously the cause of death," John added with a point in the body's direction, "but there are clear indicators of consumption. Might be worth a post mortem. We need all the information we can get."

The doctor had only just turned and placed a hand over Scottie's shoulder when Hooper let out a snide "Oh, isn't he observant now that Daddy's gone."

John stopped. His hand slid down from Scottie's shoulder and he turned to face Hooper again. "I am observant in some ways, just as Holmes is quite blind in others," he said matter-of-factly.

"And I am observant in all ways always," Scottie boasted for no particular reason other than to feel included.

"Really?"

Scottie nodded. "Yes, really. I once-"

"Amazing what one has to do to get ahead in a man's world," John talked over the boy.

There was a moment of stunned silence that both Hooper and Scottie shared. Obviously feeling rather proud, John tipped his hat in Hooper's direction and turned to leave. Furrowing his brows, Scottie's gut reaction to someone calling out a possibly trans Molly Hooper, Doctor John H. Watson or otherwise, was to stick out a leg and trip them. Well - his gut reaction was to punch John in the face, but this was a nearly an equally justified alternative. Unfortunately John regained his balance before entirely toppling over, but it was enough to prove a point.

"Wh… Did you just-" John started in disbelief. Without answering, Scottie stomped ahead of the doctor out of the room.


Months went by. You'd think Scottie and Emily would have fit into the time period better by then, and in some ways they had, but the lack of internet to take up every minute of their spare time was taking its toll on them. On this particular day, Lestrade had stopped by for a visit and was currently speaking with Sherlock in the dining room while Scottie and Emily lay sprawled out on the floor staring at the ceiling.

"What did people even do for fun back… now?" Scottie grumbled. "Count dust particles? At least you still have your drawing, anyway."

Emily rolled over sadly. "What's the point? It's not like I'd have anywhere to post my work. Literally no one would see it except you, maybe." She sat up and looked down at her friend. "I asked John if I could illustrate one of his novels, you know. Do you know what he did?"

"Did he laugh?"

"He - well yeah, actually. That's exactly what he did."

"The obliquity of the ecliptic," Sherlock was saying from the other room. "I have to understand it."

"What is it?" they heard Lestrade ask.

"I don't know. I'm still trying to understand it."

Emily gasped suddenly and Scottie sat upright under the assumption that she had just come to an important revelation. "I wonder what Stephen is up to?" she wondered aloud. "Do you think old-timey Stephen would take me back?"

Scottie pinched at the bridge of his nose at this. "First of all," he started, lowering his arm, "don't you dare. Secondly, what year is this and when did slavery end?"

Emily thought for a moment and then her face went blank and she mouthed fuck.

"Well?" the boy pressed.

"1880-ish and admittedly not that long ago…" the girl sighed and sunk back into a horizontal position.

"I don't want to be all like 'black people didn't exist outside Africa before the 1600's,' but the writers would. That's likely why we haven't seen Donovan, either."

"You can't have solved it!" Lestrade snapped angrily from the dining room. Scottie turned and Emily lifted her head, for the first time fully aware of the conversation occurring just over there.

"Of course I've solved it," huffed Sherock. "It's perfectly simple. The Incident of the Mysterious Mrs. Ricoletti, the Killer from Beyond the Grave, has been widely reported in the popular press. Now people are disguising their own dull little murders as the work of a ghost to confuse the impossibly imbecilic Scotland yard. There you are: solved." The man slammed a book he had been holding out shut and set it down on the table.

"Someone's pissier than usual," muttered Emily.

Scottie shrugged. "Or just as pissy as always. You really think it's copycat killers?"

"Pay Mrs. Hudson a visit on your way out," Sherlock added as an afterthought, "she likes to feel involved."

"You sure?"

"Certainly. Go away. Watson! Lewis!" Sherlock called loudly into the living room. "I'm ready. Get your hats and boots. We have an important appointment."

Emily rolled her eyes. "Why does he always love to yell that out? And what's with the weird hat fetish everyone seems to have? Hats are disgusting and screw up your hair."

"Uh, have you forgotten John moved out?" Scottie threw back at the detective.

Sherlock made a face. "He did, didn't he? Who have I been talking to all this time?"

"Yourself, mostly," answered Scottie. "Although Emily and I like to throw in unnecessary responses from time to time."

Sherlock proceeded to squint distrustingly in the direction of John's armchair. "Well," muttered Lestrade, "speaking on behalf of the impossibly imbecilic Scotland Yard, that chair is definitely empty."

"It is, isn't it? Works surprisingly well, though. I actually thought he was improving."

The detective ruffled through a stack of paperwork on the table and went off in the direction of his bedroom. Lestrade let out an exasperated sigh and wandered in the opposite direction, stopping in the doorframe.

"Well. Always a pleasure," he grunted with an awkward nod and then turned to exit the flat without a response from either of the others.

"Someone better hurry up and invent Netflix or I'm gonna die," Emily let out bitterly as soon as the front door shut.


Sometime later, Scottie was back in a carriage with Sherlock and John. "Come at once," John was saying. "I assumed it was important."

"It is," assured Sherlock. "It's the inclination of the Earth's equator to the path of the sun on the celestial plane."

Scottie nodded slowly. "Okay, I think I followed along with that one, despite it being completely unnecessary wording. How about you, John?"

John frowned back at the boy. "Why do you insist upon referring to me as John? This is… This is inappropriate. We've had this discussion more than once before."

"What's the big deal? It's still your name."

John shook his head. "That's not the… I mean, yes, technically… But you can't just…" Sherlock snorted softly as John got increasingly flustered by this concept. "Look. Lewis. I… I cannot allow… That's Dr. Watson to you."

Scottie shrugged nonchalantly. "Sweet. I prefer John, though."

"No!" John protested, eyebrows furrowing further still. He was starting to flush, which only made the scenario more amusing to the other boys. "Lewis. Please. Only… Only spouses and close family members… Good lord, this is terrible…"

"I am your SON," Scottie let out an offended gasp and clutched his chest in exaggeration. Sherlock was forced to bite on his lower lip and stare out the window in the other direction.

"YOU AREN'T THOUGH!" fumed John. "Why do you keep saying that? Holmes, why does he keep saying that? Holmes!" John reached over and smacked Sherlock's upper arm, causing the detective to whip his head back around.

"ARE YOU SAYING YOU AREN'T MY REAL DAD?" choked Scottie. "What the fuck… My whole life is a lie…"

"What?" blinked John. "I'm not your father at all! What's the matter with you?"

"God, this is so embarrassing," Scottie wheezed. The boy pressed the palms of his hands over his cheeks. "I'm going to have to stop calling you Dad now… Can I call you John? Oh, what will I tell the others?"

"You were calling me Dad? What others? Who did you tell I was your father? This is insane!"

"Are you happy now, Dr. Watson?" Sherlock asked with a bemused smile. "You are quite clearly tearing this family apart."

John swallowed. "Not you too."

"AAAAYYY!" Scottie beamed. He held out an expectant high five hand and waited for a moment for Sherlock to complete the gesture. When the detective didn't, he pulled back in, sighing "Ahead of your time? It's okay. I get it."


Scottie didn't realize just where the three of them were headed until they vacated the carriage, at which point the boy saw a building that he immediately recognized. He searched the side of the building's entrance for confirmation of his theory. And there it was: a sign reading THE DIOGENES CLUB. A little bounce was added to the boy's step as he trailed after Sherlock and John inside, but this died down as he remembered that he still wasn't on the best of terms with Sherlock's elder brother.

Maybe he would be less of an asshole in this time period? Unlikely, Scottie admitted to himself.

The group stopped in front of a reception desk, where an old man in uniform was waiting for them. Sherlock removed his gloves and began speaking with the man in sign language. Unfortunately, Scottie did not know sign language, and was immediately upset about being left out of this conversation entirely.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Scottie waited quietly as the man, Sherlock, and John all proceeded to sign to one another. Although he didn't know what they were saying in the least, the stranger looked slightly confused as soon as John started to sign, which lead Scottie to the suspicion that John's signing perhaps wasn't the best. And that only annoyed him more, because now he really wanted to know what was going on.

And then Scottie felt it.

A slight tingle in the back of his nose.

Now, this had gotten him into trouble once before, and the boy pursed his lips tightly and tried his best to ignore it, hoping that the sensation would pass. It didn't, though, and in another couple of seconds he lot out a sneeze that seemed ten times louder given the previous utter silence.

Just about everyone in the lobby turned to look at him. Scottie glanced up at Sherlock and smiled guiltily. Sherlock rolled his eyes, signed something to Scottie and then to the man at the front desk, and then went further inside. John tapped Scottie on the shoulder and they both followed after him.

Nothing quite could have prepared Scottie for what he would see on the other side of that door. From behind he didn't even recognize Mycroft, wedged into a chair and looking about five times wider than usual, and surrounded quite literally by stacks of baked goods on buffet tables at both sides of him. As soon as Scottie realized that that enormous man was, in fact, Mycroft Holmes, he began wheezing uncontrollably and reached out for a wall to keep from falling over.

"To anyone who wishes to study mankind, this is the spot," mused Mycroft, rubbing his fingers together.

John shut the door behind them and Sherlock circled around the room to face his brother, saying, "Handy, really, as your ever-expanding backside is permanently glued to it. Good morning, brother mine."

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, still chewing, "Doctor Watson. And, of course, the young Mr. Lewis. Are you quite alright there, boy?"

Scottie was quite literally wiping away tears. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine the "fatcroft" jokes becoming this much of a reality. "Oh, God. Fuck. Fucking shit," he choked. "Fuck man I wish I had a goddamn phone on me so I could snapchat Emily, because she'd never believe this."

John came over and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Snap… chat? Just what are you raving about now?"

"She'd probably just respond with a stupid selfie and set the caption as an eggplant emoji."

John gestured to Scottie and threw an incredulous look at Sherlock and then Mycroft in turn. "Are you both hearing this?" the doctor demanded. "He's just making words up now!"

"Well, Dr. Watson, I can tell you that by eggplant he means aubergine," Mycroft replied.

"Oh. Wonderful. So the boy's not delusional, just American."

Scottie lifted a finger at this. "I want to be offended. And yet."

A door at the other end of the room opened to let in a couple of men carrying chairs for the three guests. Once they had been lined up facing Mycroft and the men vacated the room again, one of them returned wheeling in a table with a coffee pot and various things to go along with that.

"Please, make yourselves at home," Mycroft urged Sherlock, John, and Scottie, who each had a seat and the other man waited expectantly.

"Black, if you don't mind," Sherlock said with a polite smile. The other man nodded and began pouring him a cup.

"None for me, thanks," John said.

"Same," Scottie shook his head.

The man handed Sherlock the cup and a saucer and saw himself out of the room. Sherlock blew over the brim of the cup and took a sip as Mycroft admitted "I expected to see you a few days ago about the Manor House case. I thought you might be little out of your depth there."

The detective set down the coffee on a nearby surface. "No. I solved it."

"It was Adams, of course."

"Yes. It was Adams."

"Murderous jealousy," Mycroft told the others. "He'd written a paper for the Royal Astronomical Society on the obliquity of the ecliptic, and then read another that seemed to surpass it."

"I know. I read it," Sherlock said.

"Did you understand it?"

"Yes of course I understood it! It was perfectly simple."

"No - did you understand the murderous jealousy? It is no easy thing for a great mind to contemplate a still greater one."

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and smiled falsely at his brother. "Did you summon me here just to humiliate me?"

"Yes," Mycroft purred back. Personally offended, Sherlock immediately stood and Mycroft let out a chuckle. "Of course not, but it is by far the greater pleasure," he promised.

Sherlock seethed "Then would you mind explaining exactly why you DID summon-"

"Our way of life is under threat from an invisible enemy," Mycroft spoke over him. "One that hovers at our elbow on a daily basis. These enemies are everywhere, undetected and unstoppable."

"Socialists?" John guess with a concerning amount of intrigue and leaned forward.

Mycroft furrowed his brows. "Not socialists, Doctor, no."

"Anarchists?" John tried again.

"No."

Scottie gasped. "The cishets!"

Mycroft tilted his head. "What?"

"The French?" John went on guessing. "The suffragists?"

"Fanon Jesus," whispered Scottie. "Or maybe bronies?"

"Is there any large body of people you're not concerned about?" sighed Mycroft.

Sherlock met his brother's eyes, saying, "Doctor Watson is endlessly vigilant. Elaborate."

"No. Investigate," pressed Mycroft. "This is a conjecture of mine and I need you to confirm it. I'm sending you the case."

"Trump supporters?" Scottie asked thoughtfully.

"Trumps?" John asked, glancing over at the boy, worry in his voice. "Is that a new one?"

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Are you aware of recent theories concerning what is known as paranoia?"

"Ooh - sounds Serbian."

"A woman will call on you," Mycroft went on after pointedly rolling his eyes in John's direction, "Lady Carmichael. I want you to take her case."

Scottie straightened. "Fuckboys!" he hissed.

"But these enemies - Trumps, fuckboys, whoever they are: how are we to defeat them if you won't tell us about them?"

"We don't defeat them. We must certainly lose to them," Mycroft countered.

"Why?"

"Because they are right and we are wrong."

Scottie rubbed a finger across his chin. "PROBABLY not the fuckboys then…"

"Lady Carmichael's case," Sherlock said loudly in an attempt to pull them them off of that topic again. "What is it?"

"Oh, rest assured, it has features of interest."

"I never really say that."

"You really do," murmured John.

"And you've solved it already, I assume?" Sherlock asked his brother.

"Only in my head," admitted Mycroft. "I need you for the, er… legwork."

"Why not just tell us your solution?" John asked.

"Where would be the sport in that? Will you do it, Sherlock? I can promise you a superior distraction."


As Mycroft had predicted, it was not long before this Lady Carmichael paid them a visit. Scottie was in his own bedroom at the time, attempting to invent the tampon. When the cotton wasn't cooperating, the boy put his project aside for the time being and ventured upstairs to see what the others were up to.

"Did you keep the envelope?" Sherlock was asking as Scottie entered the living room to 221B.

"My husband destroyed it," the woman he didn't recognize answered. "But it was blank. No name or address of any kind."

"Tell me: has Sir Eustace spent time in America?"

"No."

"Not even before your marriage?"

"Well, not to my knowledge."

Scottie stepped further in and gave a little wave to Sherlock and John, who were in their respective armchairs. "Ah, Mr. Lewis," John greeted with a polite nod. "I figured you ought to have been nearby. Did find it a little odd that you weren't in here when I arrived."

Scottie shrugged and slipped his hands into his pocket. "Didn't know you were stopping by. Also I was… working on something. Client?" he asked with a point to their guest.

"That would be Lady Carmichael," Sherlock told him. "So yes."

"Hello," Lady Carmichael said, having turned in her chair to look back at the boy. "Mr. Lewis, was it?"

"...Sure. Hey, have you guys seen Emily around?" asked Scottie. "I appreciate the quiet, don't get me wrong, but it's reached the point where it's getting a little unnerving. See, she hasn't whined about disturbing lack of microwaves in nearly twelve hours."

Not knowing the answer himself, John simply looked in Sherlock's direction. "I assumed the girl was with you," the detective confessed. "No matter. If she gets into any real trouble, surely Inspector Lestrade will bring it to our attention." Sherlock switched which of his legs were crossed and smiled falsely. "Now, if you don't mind, Mr. Lewis, I'd quite like to get back to my conversation with Lady Carmichael."

"What? Oh. Right. Of course." Scottie then maneuvered over to the sofa and sunk into it.

Sherlock looked back at the woman. "Pray continue with your fascinating narrative," the man urged.

"Well," the woman started, turning back in her seat, "that incident took place last Monday morning. It was two days later, on the Wednesday, that my husband first saw her."

"Who?" John squinted.

Lady Carmichael tucked several loose strands of hair behind her ear. "The bride," she said, her voice suddenly weaker. Scottie, at least, seemed to straighten at this. "We had gone to bed," she continued. "Something woke me, and when I looked over, Eustace wasn't there. I spied him by the window then and called out his name. He didn't answer and I went to him, concerned. That was when he told me… that she'd come for him. That his sins had found him out."

"Sins?" echoed Johned.

The woman shook her head, eyes wide. "I… I didn't… know what he meant. I told my husband that he was frightening me. He insisted that she was there. He urged me to look out the window, but when I did… there was no one. When I told him this he began sobbing. He insisted that she'd been there. The bride."

"And you saw nothing?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing," insisted Lady Carmichael.

Sherlock leaned forward slightly. "Did your husband describe-"

"Nothing," Lady Carmichael said again, "until this morning. Once more I awake to find the bed empty beside me. This time when I found him when I looked out the window. He was heading toward our hedge maze. I put on my slippers and outside and into the maze after him. I… I kept calling out his name. I couldn't find him and I had begun to panic. And that was when I heard her."

"The bride?" asked John.

Lady Carmichael frowned. "Yes, of course the bride! She was… singing."

"Do you remember what?" Scottie asked now.

Lady Carmichael looked back at the boy then turned forward in her seat, thinking. "Yes," she said after a moment. "Part of it, anyway. Ah... I put a bullet in my head. I'm gone, gone, gone… Something about… dangling? And a bottle? That's all I can remember, I'm afraid. I'm sorry."

"It's alright," Sherlock told her.

"It wasn't a tune I was familiar with," the woman muttered.

"What happened then?" pressed Sherlock.

Lady Carmichael blinked. "Oh. Well. I rounded a corner, and there they both were. My husband, Eustace… he was just standing there, frozen in terror. Standing across from him was the bride. Her veil pulled down over her face. I clung to Eustace and demanded she tell me who she was, but she wouldn't speak to me. That was when Eustace told me that she was Emelia Ricolleti. I… I couldn't tell if he had started to laugh or cry. Perhaps both." The woman paused to swallow, touching her fingers to her throat. "Then… the bride told Eustace that he was to die that night, and my husband collapsed. I clung to him still. I was afraid that he really had died just then. But then he started to gasp, and when I looked up again, she was gone. Just like that."

Everyone fell quiet for some time after Lady Carmichael has spoken her piece. Finally Scottie lept to his feet and erupted in an enthusiastic "Aw, FUCK yeah! We're goin' on a ghost hunt!"

"Mr. Lewis!" John snapped just as suddenly.

"Hush, Watson," Sherlock said, holding up a hand in John's direction but continuing to look forward at Lady Carmichael.

"Wh-?!" John made an offended sort of noise.

"You heard the lady!" Scottie just about bounced his way around the room and between their armchairs. "Emelia Bedelia Spaghetti!"

"Emelia Ricoletti," Lady Carmichael corrected.

"Yeah. Whatever. But the bride, Sherlock!" Scottie literally reached out and shook the detective by his shoulders. "The one I said was a ghost but you said couldn't possibly be a ghost because ghosts aren't real, and yet literally everyone else still thinks it's a ghost, and IT'S ACTUALLY A GHOST AND-"

Sherlock stood, swatting the boy away as he did so. "Yes, I am familiar with the name, thank you, Mr. Lewis!"

Scottie saluted. "Proud to be of service."

The consulting detective let out an exasperated sigh and turned to face Lady Carmichael once more. "May I ask: how is your husband this morning?"

"He refuses to speak about the matter," Lady Carmichael told them. "Obviously I have urged him to leave the house."

"No, no!" Sherlock let out and took a step forward, as if this gesture might change anything aside from startling the woman slightly. "He must stay exactly where he is!" the detective insisted.

"Well, you don't think he's in danger?" Lady Carmichael looked surprised still.

"Oh? No, somebody definitely wants to kill him, but that's good for us! You can't set a trap without bait." Sherlock grinned in the woman's direction and she let out a shocked gasp.

"Oh my God it's gonna be like a Scooby Doo episode isn't it," breathed Scottie. "Wherever the fuck Emily is, she is missing out!"

"My husband is not bait, Mr. Holmes!" scoffed Lady Carmichael.

"No. But he COULD be if we play our cards right," Sherlock mused. "Now, listen: you must go home immediately. Doctor Watson, Mr. Lewis and I will follow on the next train. There's not a moment to lose. Sir Eustace is to die tonight!"

"HOLMES!" barked John.

"And we should… probably avoid that…" Sherlock squeaked, his fist finding its way in front of his mouth.

"Definitely," John pressed.

"Definitely avoid that," wheezed Sherlock.

Lady Carmichael looked vaguely confused by this exchange, but the woman nodded regardless and stood.


Sherlock, John, and Scottie did get onto a train, where they claimed a compartment for themselves. "I feel like I'm going to Hogwarts," Scottie beamed, practically smooshing his face against the window and looking out of the train.

"Hogwhats?" John frowned from beside the boy.

"And you two are my attractive magical professors who are totally into each other!" Scottie went on, whirling around to face him.

John looked away. "Forget I asked."

Across from them Sherlock was leaning back on the bench with his eyes closed. John looked from Sherlock to Scottie and then back to Sherlock. "You don't suppose…" he started.

"I don't, and neither should you," Sherlock answered quickly.

John tilted his head. "You don't know what I was going to say."

"You were about to suggest there may be some supernatural agency involved in this matter," Sherlock said, eyes still very much closed, "and I was about to laugh in your face."

Scottie pushed himself up and sat cross-legged on the bench. "Sherlock. Please. It's two against one here. This is a losing battle."

Sherlock cracked his eyes open just enough to glare disapprovingly back at the boy. "One and a half," he commented. "Not that that in any way changes the scenario. The fact of the matter is-"

"Look, Holmes," John cut off his friend. The doctor pulled down on the sides of his jacket and leaned forward slightly. "As much as it physically pains me to agree with Mr. Lewis to any extent…"

"Then don't." Sherlock let his eyes shut again.

"But the bride!" exclaimed John, looking frustrated now. "Holmes, Emelia Ricoletti, again. A dead woman, walking the Earth!"

"Oh shit, what if she's a zombie!" Scottie gasped. "I was totally set on the three of us becoming Ghost Busters, but I will also settle for ruggedly handsome survivors of the upcoming apocalypse."

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and opened his eyes once more. "You amaze me, Watson," he commented.

John looked confused by this. "I do?"

"I'd always considered it Mr. Lewis' job to spew fantastical impossibilities at every opportunity. But since when did you have any kind of imagination?"

Scottie reached over and put a sympathetic hand on John's shoulder. "Ah, yes," the boy sighed. "The man did have an imaginative thought that one time. Unfortunately, it has long since died of loneliness."

John scowled and shrugged off the boy's hand. "I do too have an imagination," the doctor grunted.

"Really?" Sherlock questioned. "Since when?"

"He hasn't had an imaginative thought in years," Scottie murmured softly and turned his gast back out the window. "Not since… the war…"

"Perhaps since I convinced the reading public that an unprincipled drug addict is some kind of gentlemen hero!" John huffed, glaring daggers at the back of Scottie's head.

"Yes, now that you come to mention it, that WAS quite impressive," Sherlock admitted. The detective glanced down for a moment before saying "You may, however, rest assured there are no ghosts in this world. Or undead," he added quickly, looking to Scottie pointedly.

The three of them sat in silence for the following half minute or so before Scottie asked "Okay, but let's suppose for just a moment that there was a zombie apocalypse..."

"Let's not," Sherlock quickly shut down that idea and leaned back, letting his eyes close.

TO BE CONTINUED...