Prompt from silvermouse - A mysterious object/creature/person turns up, and not even Mycroft knows anything about it.

The Mystery of the Monolith

Our hansom pulled up just short of a police barricade on Vaughn Lane near the northern edge of London proper. It was a singularly middle class neighborhood with typical middle class family homes and nothing in particular to remark upon save for three constables with rifles standing guard in front of a pair of sawhorses painted bright yellow with black stripes. Holmes and I climbed down and were immediately accosted by the sergeant in charge of the barricade. I noticed the man had a bandage wrapped round his head under his helmet.

"I'll have to ask you gentlemen to return to your cab, sirs," said the sergeant sternly, yet politely.

"I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate, Dr. Watson," said Holmes in his usual dignified manner. "My brother, Mycroft Holmes has sent for us."

"Is that so, Mr. Holmes?" demanded the sergeant with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

"Here is the telegram he sent," Holmes replied, unruffled. He pulled the paper from his pocket and showed it to the sergeant. "You may read it yourself, if you like."

The sergeant glanced over the message and looked up at us, assessing the validity of the summons.

"Constable Reams," the sergeant said over his shoulder without looking away. "Go and find Mr. Holmes. Request he come here."

"He's right in front of you, Sergeant Willis," said Constable Reams.

Sergeant Willis closed his eyes for a moment, his lips moving slightly as he counted to ten, or so I thought. Finally he said, "Go and find Mr. Mycroft Holmes and request that he come here to confirm the identity of these men."

A few minutes elapsed before the tall, broad figure of the elder Holmes arrived, accompanied by Constable Reams who seemed strangely distracted. By the time the pair reached us Mycroft was puffing and blowing from the exertion of walking down the lane to where we stood.

"Sherlock," he wheezed. "I see you got my telegram."

"Of course," replied my friend.

"It's quite alright, Sergeant Baker," said Mycroft.

"Willis, sir," said the sergeant through his teeth.

"Really? Mycroft asked, looking puzzled.

"Yes, sir," Sergeant Willis said with a sigh.

"I do beg your pardon," said Mycroft with another puzzled look. "This gentleman really is my brother and his associate is Dr. Watson. Allow them to pass, if you will."

"On your authority, sir?" Sergeant Baker asked evenly.

Mycroft fixed him with a withering gaze before replying, "Of course on my authority, Ba… Willis. Allow them to pass."

Sergeant Willis was not overly impressed by Mycroft's withering gaze, but he waved to his men to stand aside.

"Insufferable jobsworth!" grumbled Mycroft as soon as we had left the sergeant and his constables behind. "Been butting in on every aspect of this investigation. 'You shouldn't touch that, sir.' 'That's what I did, sir.' 'Should I call an ambulance, sir?' I believe his piles are troubling him. Makes the man crank, if you understand me."

"I should think it was his corns, brother," Sherlock said with a glance back. "His piles, I think, are quite under control at the moment."

"It might have something to do with that head wound of his," I said.

"Perhaps," Mycroft replied, sounding as though he really did not care. "We've more important business to attend."

"And what is this business?" asked Sherlock.

"Something I can't explain," Mycroft replied and turned between a pair of buildings. "This is it."

Holmes and I stopped in our tracks at sight of the thing. I have no way of knowing what passed through Holmes' mind at that moment, but astonishment was all I experienced. Standing on the cobbles before us was what appeared to be a perfectly smooth black block, roughly twice the height of a man, some six feet wide and perhaps two feet thick. I could not tell if it were stone, metal or some other substance. It simply stood there between the buildings as if it had always been there and always would be.

"What is it?" I asked, awe coloring my voice.

"I do not know," Mycroft said, frowning. "That is why I sent for you two. I... I did send for you, didn't I?"

"Where did it come from?" Sherlock asked without responding to that last. "And why does it look as though there was a rugby scrum in this lane?"

"Again, I do not know," said Mycroft. "The residents heard nothing. They saw nothing. They felt nothing. It was discovered by the local postman while making his rounds. He was discovered by Sergeant Baker… Sergeant Willis thrashing his mail bag on the ground and screeching like a baboon."

"How extraordinary," I said. "Is that how Sergeant Willis was injured?"

"No," Mycroft replied, looking uneasy. "We found the pair of them screeching like baboons and they attacked us. Seems something overcame their better sense. A crack on the head soon set Baker right."

"Willis," Sherlock corrected his brother.

"Shouldn't he be in hospital under observation?" I asked.

"He'll be alright for now," said Mycroft. "I have my reasons, though."

"Why have you blocked off the streets?" I asked.

"Just a precaution for the moment, Doctor," Mycroft said evenly.

"What have you done so far?" asked Sherlock.

"I've taken measurements," Mycroft said, handing Sherlock a notepad. "Some rough calculations of weight based on its volume. I included several kinds of stone and metal in those calculations."

"Why not wood?" Sherlock asked.

"There is no sign of wood grain," the elder Holmes said.

"Does anyone else feel some sort of vibration?" I asked.

"Yes," Mycroft said. "It's very subtle. I noticed it when I first walked up to the thing, Doctor."

"There's also a quiet hum," Sherlock said, still reading through his brother's notes. "What did you feel when you touched it, Mycroft?"

"An odd notion." Mycroft rubbed his chin and looked down.

"I should think touching it would be among the first experiments one would try," Sherlock said, glancing at his brother.

"Oh, it was," said Mycroft. "I didn't mean the notion of touching the thing was odd. I meant that when I did touch it, I had an odd notion."

"And what was that?" I asked, very curious. Mycroft seemed the last person on Earth who would have an odd notion. Even less likely than Sherlock.

"I had the idea that I should pick up a bone and start smashing things with it," Mycroft admitted after a brief pause. "Oddest thing that has ever gone through my mind."

"And what did you do?" Sherlock asked him.

"Well, there were no bones lying about so I did nothing," Mycroft replied testily. "Didn't stop Sergeant Baker and the postman, though. Poor chaps. Well, what do you make of it all, brother?"

"Your mathematics seem correct," Sherlock said, apparently ignoring his brother's repeated mistake. "I note, though, that the… monolith, I suppose we could call it, has not displaced any of the cobblestones upon which it sits. Even especially old and well seated cobbles would be disturbed or dislodged to some extent if it were made of granite or even iron."

"Has anyone tried to push it over?" I asked.

"No, Doctor," said Mycroft. "I felt it unwise to tamper with it until we had a better understanding of its nature."

"Who would deposit it here?" I wondered aloud. "And why?"

I pushed past the two Holmeses and stepped up to the thing. It really was quite smooth and very black. I felt myself, somehow, drawn to it. It was as if it called to me, asking me to place my hand upon its surface. And that's just what I did. My fingers felt only a slickness under them. It was not the sort of feeling you might have touching an oil coated surface, or even polished glass. It was slick exactly the way sand paper isn't. And as my eyes lingered upon that utter blackness I imagined I saw pinpoints of light, very faintly. The longer I looked the more real and defined they became. Whole vistas of stars blossomed before my eyes. Galaxies swirled and danced before me. And I suddenly felt I must find a bone and begin smashing things with it.

I woke to find both Holmes brothers pinning me against a wall, prying my cane from my grip.

"Watson!" shouted Sherlock. His hat was off and a knot was rising from his scalp. "Stop it, Watson!"

"What were you thinking, man?" demanded Mycroft. "You nearly killed us."

"I what?" I asked, bewildered. "I saw stars. It was filled with stars."

"And then you had the urge to smash things with a bone?" Mycroft asked, his eyes wide.

"Yes," I said, sheepishly.

"Mycroft, I suggest you contact a construction company," said Sherlock, releasing me. "One that deals in heavy stone slabs. They should have the equipment necessary to move the monolith."

"Move it?" I wondered.

"Can't have it sitting here blocking traffic or causing curious passersby to start beating each other with clubs, can we?" Holmes said, rubbing his head.

And so the monolith was moved. Several of the stone masons were severely injured when they failed to heed Mycroft's warning and did not wear gloves. Three were sent to hospital with cranial fractures and a fourth with a broken arm. The remainder were placed under arrest until they calmed down enough to complete their work. I don't know where the monolith is now. Mycroft says it is safely locked away within a place known only as Warehouse 12.

The End

AN: I'm not all that satisfied with this one, but I think I'm starting to run out of ideas. Sorry to disappoint.

AN: I'm returning to work on the 20th and this might be the last of my stories for a while. I will try to continue, but I may simply be too tired to do so after my shift is over with.