Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Rumour is information distilled so finely that it can filter through anything. It does not need doors and windows — sometimes it does not need people. It can exist free and wild, running from ear to ear without ever touching lips.”

Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

In Ankh-Morpork, a peculiar sense of excitement hung in the air above the busy streets. This was not the regular bustle of the city or the healthy uneasiness that came with living in a metropolis that had legalised both thievery and assassinations. No, this was something completely new.

There was a rumour going around that change would be coming for the city very soon.

The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, Lord Havelock Vetinari, was growing old. While still holding himself regal and proud, he was no longer standing quite as tall as he had ten years ago. His severe dark hair was now more silver than black and seemed very eager to gain as much distance as possible from the rest of the face, receding higher and higher up the man’s forehead.

At least that was what the rumours claimed.

The city’s inhabitants - out of a rare sense of self-preservation - said no such thing, of course. You never knew who could be listening. But rumours did not need any spoken word to travel. Instead, their meaning was conveyed solely through raised eyebrows, pointed nods and meaningful looks.

Sometimes he looks a bit tired - people did not say.

He must be thinking about succession - no one dared to utter.

EVEN THE MOST POWERFUL TYRANTS CANNOT STAY IN POWER FOREVER, reasoned exactly one un-person.

This was a rather rare issue for the city. Usually the succession of Ankh-Morpork’s Patricians was decided with some well-placed poison, the glint of an axe or - on more than one occasion – the strategic application of one or more dragons. Old age and the official negotiation of a possible successor rarely factored into the process.

But Ankh-Morpork had always been a city that was eager to embrace change.¹ And so everyone was waiting impatiently to see how this one would play out.

1. That was, if your understanding of an embrace included complaints, century-long grudges, pitchforks and knives. ^{[ ▲ ]}

Chapter Text

A dark little attic chamber somewhere deep within the old city centre was buzzing with excitement. It was a cramped little space, barely fitting a desk and chair, mostly due to the stacks and stacks of cloth-covered boxes that filled up all remaining space.

A solitary figure was stooping over the cluttered desk, surrounded by heaps of dusty books, ominously fuming alchemy glassware and jars full of an unidentifiable brown sludge that filled the entire room with the cloyingly sweet stench of overly ripe fruit and vinegar.

But the man did not appear bothered by the mess or the smell. He rifled through a precariously leaning mountain of papers until he got hold of a small leather-bound journal. With jittery fingers he began leafing through it, brushing through the names that filled the pages, wrinkling his nose at every umlaut that dared to taint the grubby paper.

Now and then he would pause, fish for an envelope amid the chaos on his desk and note down name and address in surprisingly neat handwriting. Once he had finished the final letter, he pushed himself up and strode across the room, approaching the window and squinting down at the crowded street below.

It was a busy afternoon, dwarfs, humans, golems and trolls were all pushing along the well-trodden cobblestone side by side. There was laughter and shouting, dogs barking and children screeching with excitement. But he could barely hear any of it, so loud was the gallop of his heartbeat in his own ears and the hum of anticipation as he opened the window. The air smelled like rain, roasted rat, and cabbage.

It was time.

The game was afoot!

Chapter Text

The brisk air of the Ramtop mountains was trembling with the hum of countless tiny wings. Several thousand fuzzy little insects soared through the sky like a cloud on a mission, swift and purposeful.

Sherlock Holmes breathed in as one of them, dipping from one tiny mind to the next like a swimmer diving from wave to wave or a hawk ascending on an updraught. Underneath them, the world was shining in peculiar colours. Wild flowers were blooming in impossible shades of purple. Grass, bushes and trees were bobbing back and forth with the gentle wind and a distant stream was murmuring and gurgling on its way down the mountain.

The wind shifted and his attention was drawn further ahead, jumping from bee to bee as the group adjusted its course and they continued to navigate through the peaceful quiet of the Kingdom of Lancre. Their destination was near impossible to describe with mere words. It only existed in the excited press of tiny bodies against each other, swaying from one side to another in a perfectly timed dance that seemed more descriptive than any sentence, equation, or map.

It was direct, an honest and simple way of communication, with no room for intrigue or double meanings.

A sudden movement somewhere above them temporarily distracted Holmes, startling one little bee out of formation as his attention was drawn upwards.

Something was flying far above them. That fact alone was not particularly uncommon out here, so far from the larger settlements. But something about the way it was flying was peculiar enough to tug on his curiosity and dislodge his thoughts from the single-minded pull of the hive.

Sadly, a bee’s eyes were not made for bird-watching.

For a moment, he played with the idea of simply brushing his mind further up and up until his thoughts would be able to meld with whoever was gliding in circles up there. But it was generally frowned upon to borrow the mind of another being without any preparation and Watson would never let him hear the end of it if he managed to lose himself in some wayward animal’s mind so close to dinnertime.

Instead, he slowly released his mental grip on the insect that he had been holding onto and allowed his thoughts to glide back through space. Like water droplets running down an incline, they poured past trees and shrubbery, past flowers, scattered houses and luscious gardens, until they finally all pooled back into a motionless figure that was sitting slumped over in a wooden garden chair.

With a groan, he regained control of his limbs and became aware of the unfortunate crick in his neck and the ache in his knees and lower back. He was sitting in front of a quaint little cottage, surrounded by flowers, vegetable patches, an old oak and several wooden bee hives. Despite the familiarity of his surroundings, it took him a couple of moments to regain his bearings before he directed his own gaze upwards. He spotted the circling bird almost immediately.

A sparrowhawk, well fed and healthy by the look of it. But the way it was holding itself in the air ... as if there was some added weight or something balancing on its back ...

Hastily he pushed himself to his feet, the bees and their secret destination long forgotten in the wake of a new mystery.

“Watson?” he hollered, as he made his way to the door of the house on creaking legs and wobbly knees. “Watson! I need your sharp senses and my binoculars! Quick!”

Chapter Text

“You have to listen to this, Lucy!” croaked a hoarse voice from the other room.

The pale woman who was currently in the process of dissolving an absurd amount of honey in a fresh cup of tea let out a disbelieving snort when she heard the shout.

“Didn’t you just promise that you were going to try to sleep now?” she questioned over her shoulder. The answering groan would have been barely audible to human ears.

With a sigh, she crossed through the kitchen and into the adjacent bedroom with the teacup in hand.

The room was shrouded in darkness, all windows had been covered with heavy curtains and only a couple of candles brightened the space - but Lucy did not need them to find her way.

On the bed, a pile of blankets was sitting propped up against the headboard. It was holding a newspaper.

She offered the tea in the general direction of the blanket bundle.

“Here you go! Are you still feeling cold?”

The tousled head of a young woman poked out between the covers and nodded miserably. She took the tea with a husky thanks and took a cautious sip, before slumping back into her improvised cocoon.

Lucy sat down by her side and gave her partner a critical once over. Anya was not looking well. She was paler than usual, her eyes were glassy and bloodshot and she could not stop shivering, even though they had covered her in all the blankets, shawls, wraps and coats that their combined wardrobes could offer. To someone like Lucy, who did not have much previous experience dealing with human ailments, the whole situation was thoroughly terrifying. Still, she tried to keep a brave face for Anya’s sake.

“Oh Lucinda, don’t look at me like that! I’m going to be alright!” Anya gave her an unconvincing smile. “Anyway, you need to read this story that I just found”, she rasped while shaking out the crumpled up newspaper.

“ ‘Postmaster by day, Bat by night? - Jack d’Hiver from the Isle of Gods is convinced: Moist von Lipwig, Postmaster General and Deputy Chairman of the Bank of Ankh-Morpork is secretly a vampire.

D’Hiver, a loyal reader of the Ankh-Morpork Times, explained his hypothesis to us in a series of letters. According to him, the common assumption that vampires avoid the sun lest they turn into dust is incorrect. Instead, they prefer to dwell in the shadows solely because of their skin’s propensity to glitter and shine when hit by direct sunlight. The postmaster, he reasons, has turned to wearing a suit so golden and reflective that it manages to mask his skin and thus keep his true nature hidden. Otto Chriek, the Times’ head iconographer and resident vampire expert, is not convinced by this theory.’ ”

Lucy cracked a smile at the wildness of that claim. “Well, vampires are known for ridiculous names, but naming a child Moist von Lipwig would be a bit too cruel, even for us.” She patted the blanket pile before prying the newspaper from unresisting hands. “But now you really should get some rest, Love.”

With a sigh, she rose once again and carried the paper over to a rickety table on the other side of the room where she left it atop a pile of unopened letters. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose at the stuffy, almost sour smell of their chambers. Maybe she could air them out a little once Anya was asleep and it was dark outside.

Over in the bed, the other woman sniffled miserably.

Hopefully this illness would be passing soon.

Chapter Text

“Remind me again how many cases of this mysterious malady have been reported so far.”

The Commander of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, Angua von Überwald, was reasonably certain that the Patrician already knew the exact answer to that question.

Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson, on the other hand, answered as earnestly as only he could. “Four cases last week, and another seventeen in the last couple of days. Similar symptoms for all patients.” A troubled wrinkle began forming between his eyebrows.

“So far, no deaths have been reported, but no one has recovered yet, either.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the Oblong Office as they pondered the implications. It was just the three of them in there, the Patrician sitting behind his massive desk and Angua and Carrot standing in front of it. The Commander could feel sweat forming on her forehead and it was not just because of the thick, warm air that had been wafting through the city for days now.

“And there is no way that they could have contracted the ailment from one another?” inquired Vetinari.

Captain Carrot shook his head. “They live all over the city and it is very unlikely that they have met before.”

“Curious.” The Patrician’s sharp gaze snapped over to Angua. “I assume that there is an investigation into this, commander?”

She suppressed a growl and stood up even straighter. “I have my best people looking ... and sniffing ... into the matter.”

Vetinari nodded, his demeanour still thoughtful and his fingers dancing over the neat stacks of paper that filled his desk. “I understand that this might be a somewhat unusual matter for the Watch”, he acknowledged casually. Too casually. “A matter that might be aided by consulting an external expert of sorts.”

Angua hesitated, not quite sure what the man was trying to suggest. She usually prided herself on having a good feeling for what the Patrician was thinking and did not appreciate being kept in the dark. Thankfully, a neatly folded page of the Ankh-Morpork Times had been placed on top of one of the Patrician’s many paper piles. Someone had even been thoughtful enough to turn it around just so it could be easily read from the other side of the desk. She only had to read the title of the displayed column for her eyebrows to shoot into her hairline.

‘The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.’

“You really want us to bother the old man over this strange illness?”

The Patrician raised an eyebrow. “I think it prudent to show our full commitment to solving this matter in a timely manner.”

“But Holmes ...”, the commander spluttered. “I wasn’t even aware that he was still out investigating. He seemed to be around retirement age even 20 years ago.”

“I have been assured that just last month, Doctor Watson and he assisted the Queen of Sto-Lat in a rather delicate affair. It seems old age has been gentle on him.”

“Well, I heard that he is a part time detective, part-time witch”, Angua muttered sceptically. “That would explain it.”

Next to her, Carrot had finally caught on. “Holmes, as in Sherlock Holmes? I have read his stories in the paper! It is said that he can distinguish between 140 different types of dwarf bread just from the crumbs they leave behind!”

“Well, I doubt that these people have fallen ill because of battle muffins or combat pretzels”, Angua griped halfheartedly.

“Nevertheless, Holmes could add some valuable perspective to this mystery”, the Patrician cautioned.

It was clear to the commander, that she would be easily overruled on the matter. “I will see if we can get ahold of this Mister Holmes then”, she surrendered reluctantly.

Vetinari’s face did not so much as twitch, but he exuded a distinct air of satisfaction that Angua could not help but detest. “No need for that. I have already taken the liberty of sending your Corporal Swires and his hawk to Lancre with a missive!”

Chapter Text

The older gentleman who was currently making his way towards the city via steam locomotive had gone by many names throughout his long life. But for almost 20 years he had been simply known as Old Man Holmes to his few neighbours in the Lancre mountains.

An eccentric old bloke, a passionate bee keeper and a bit too curious for his own good but mostly harmless, was how they would describe him.

As a younger man, he could have never committed to staying in one place for such a long period of time. His early life had been shaped just as much by his restlessness as it had been by his bright mind and his interest in crime.

When he was still a boy he had once considered joining the Assassin’s Guild, but after some thorough discussions with some of its members he had decided that despite his general interest in many of the topics that the guild taught, the actual profession would not be for him.

Similarly, he had at one point joined the wizards of Unseen University for a semester¹, but he soon found out that he lacked the academic ambition needed to make it far within the institution and found many of the subjects dreadfully boring.

It had been the Guild of Alchemists that drew him in next, and he stayed with them for nearly ten years. But while he learned much and felt very at home there, he eventually decided that he could utilise his newfound skill more effectively outside the guild halls.²

It was at that point that he had decided to take up business as a private detective. When he went looking for rooms that could accommodate this new venture, he had stumbled upon an elderly lady that was renting out part of her townhouse in the centre of Ankh-Morpork.

Mrs Hudson was what some might have called a City Witch. Holmes would simply describe her as mischievous but caring, resourceful and wise. And while she did not officially take him on as her apprentice, he nevertheless learned many useful skills from her over the many decades of their acquaintance.

All of that had naturally been long before he met his dear companion.

His dear Watson, who was now staring at him in fond exasperation.

“Please Holmes, could you try not to fall out of that window, at least not while we are still going at that dreadful speed? It would make for such an undignified end.”

Holmes reluctantly followed the request, staring at the scenery that flew by them and the wisps of smoke that trailed behind the engine from inside the carriage instead.

“This is such a marvellous piece of engineering!”

“That it is. I am certain you can have a closer look at it once it is standing still!”

Watson had spread the latest issue of the Ankh-Morpork Times in front of them and had been studying it carefully for quite some time now, his bushy eyebrows drawn into one worried line.

Holmes nodded at the paper. “So what are your thoughts on the case that awaits us, Doctor Watson?”

The other man hummed. “An illness that does not seem to spread from person to person and that has a truly baffling blend of symptoms ... I have heard of somewhat similar conditions, but not a single one of them could explain it all.” He gave the detective an imploring look. “This could turn out quite tricky, I fear.”

Holmes squeezed his companion’s knee reassuringly. “Fret not, dear boy. I am confident that we will make it back just in time!”

1. A youthful fancy that had been mostly fuelled by his firm conviction that Sherlock Holmes would make for a terrific wizard name. ^{[ ▲ ]}
2. And maybe find an occupation that would allow him to keep a full set of eyebrows at all times. ^{[ ▲ ]}

Chapter Text

The great city of Ankh-Morpork greeted them with an atmosphere so humid and warm that you could have cut it with a knife.

Right after their arrival¹, Holmes and Watson had been fetched by two officials of the City Watch and brought to see the most recent case of the mysterious sickness.

They were led to a neighbourhood in the north of the city, where the cobbled streets were narrow and bustling with life. The lodging house that they finally stopped at was tall and a bit lopsided, housing a wild mix of inhabitants that were crowding in the corridor by the room that the most recent patient lived in.

While Watson went right inside to see the young man who had taken ill, Holmes stayed outside for the time being, mustering the many concerned faces with professional curiosity.

They were on the third floor of the building, with only one rickety wooden staircase leading to rooms even further up. The air in the stairwell was stuffy and full of dust.

“Oleg has been poorly for at least three days now”, reported a stout woman with tired, red-rimmed eyes.

“But for a while we were still hoping that it might just be a common cold”, a dwarf that was leaning against the banister of the stairs added empathetically.

“This morning my brother’s skin felt so cold that for a moment I feared that he did not make the night. I think his fingers were turning purple.” A tall lad stood by the door with his arms crossed, as if he was a guard keeping out any danger. “We are really glad that you are here now, Mr Holmes. Oleg and I sometimes read the stories about you in the Times.”

“Oh yes”, another man, maybe ten years older than the brother, piped up. “Better to have someone from the outside looking into this. I heard that they have werewolves on the Watch, and zombies and vampires. Can you believe it? These are not the sort of people you should trust with a matter like this!” He scratched absentmindedly at one of his arms while staring at them with wide eyes and a smarmy expression. Even his ridiculous attempt at a mustache seemed sleazy.

Holmes exchanged a quick glance with Commander Angua, who had stayed out on the corridor with him. She raised a sardonic eyebrow but kept quiet.

“Oh, just ignore Dewynter. He is a knobhead, nothing more”, appeased the woman. “But what do you think about this illness, Mr Holmes? Surely there must be a way to help poor Oleg!”

“I am sure that if there is a way to help him, then my companion Doctor Watson will find it!” he answered with conviction.

1. Or at least right after a brief detour to marvel at their means of transportation. ^{[ ▲ ]}

Chapter Text

The brothers’ small chamber was messy and dark. Dirty clothes were spread all over the space, dust and dirt covered the floor, there was a stack of unopened letters on the bedside table and insects were humming up in the rafters.

Watson was kneeling by the side of the bed, a thermometer in hand, his sleeves rolled up and his face clouded in troubled shadows. There was little to be seen of the bed’s occupant beneath a heap of blankets save for a shock of blond hair and a pale hand.

Once he was done with his examination, Watson joined Holmes and Captain Carrot on the other side of the room.

“What is your verdict?” asked the detective.

“Very concerning”, came the quiet reply. “His temperature is far too low and his colour really has me worried. He also told me that he is terribly hungry at all times, that he has grown exceedingly sensitive to light and gets easily bothered by strong smells.” He lowered his voice even more, so that both Carrot and Holmes needed to lean in to catch his words.

“Many of these symptoms I would usually attribute to some sort of ... undead condition. But I have never seen all of them occur at once. Additionally, if he were to undergo some sort of vampire or lycanthropic transformation, the process would be long over by now.” He swatted at a mosquito that dared to land on the exposed skin of his arm. “His brother is looking a little peaky too, but he reassured me that he was feeling alright. Apparently he has been working long nights in the factory and hasn’t been home much.” He sighed. “It also seems unlikely for this to be some kind of common poison. But the world is a wide and curious place and I would never presume to recognise all its illnesses and toxins.”

Holmes nodded gravely before turning to Carrot, who was towering above both of them. “What do you think, Captain? Do you know of any dwarfen ailments that could present in this fashion?”

The watchman blinked down at Holmes, bemused. “No, I am afraid I cannot think of any. But how did you know that, Mr Holmes, about me being a dwarf?”

“Oh, it is quite elementary, if you know what to look out for.” The detective made a vague hand gesture encompassing all of Carrot’s ... Carrotness. “The name is a bit of a giveaway, but there is also the craftsmanship of your boots and the fact that you are wearing a state-of-the-art battle bread next to your sword. You are clearly a dwarf by nurture, if not by nature or trade.”

Watson rolled his eyes at the display of Holmes’ deductions, but Carrots eyes were glowing with pure adoration. “That was absolutely stunning”, he marvelled before dimming a little, his eyes flitting over to the other side of the room. “So we still don’t know what ails poor Oleg?”

Holmes nodded. “It might very well be that we are faced with an ailment that is completely new and of an unnatural origin.” He took one last look at the still figure in the bed before striding toward the door with purpose. “I will have to make a few more inquiries.”

Chapter Text

The sky over Ankh-Morpork was slowly turning dark, which brought some relief from the ever present heat but sadly also greatly exacerbated the issue of mosquitos and flies out in the streets.

While the river Ankh could be broadly considered a body of standing water¹, it was not necessarily your typical breeding ground for a lot of insects.²

But because of the almost tropical weather of the last couple of weeks, puddles of rainwater had formed on top of the murky river sludge, which quickly became an optimal breeding ground for all shapes and colours of pests.

Carrot and Angua were walking along the buzzing riverside on their way home from the Pseudopolis Yard Watch House.

“He even deduced that I was a dwarf. Just by looking at me. It seems the stories that Doctor Watson writes about him for the Times really are all true!”

Angua gave a disbelieving shake of her head. “I was looking through the papers too and either the good doctor has been bested by the math of his own stories or they both are nearing almost 90 years of age.” Her eyes narrowed as she thought about it some more. “And I could swear that they don’t look a day over 70.”

“I was wondering about that too”, mused Carrot. “There was talk about it in the breakroom. Speculations. Some think he might be a werewolf or a vampire! That would explain his age!”

She snorted. “Holmes? A werewolf? No.”

Carrot risked a glance at the moon that was just starting to creep up over the roofs of the city and decided to trust her nose on this matter.

They turned around a corner when Angua suddenly stopped in her tracks, her forehead furrowing as she sniffed the air.

“What is it?”

“There is this weird smell. I could smell it in Oleg’s room as well.” She let out a growl and suddenly broke into a run. All Carrot could do was to follow fast on her heels.

He trusted her nose on that matter as well.

1. As in, you could cut out a cube of it, plop it onto your desk and it would take approximately half an hour for the first drops to slowly ooze down the tabletop. ^{[ ▲ ]}
2. Due to the fact that even insects usually had some standards. ^{[ ▲ ]}

Chapter Text

“I’ve got it!”

Far away from the city, on top of Cori Celesti, the tallest mountain of the Discworld, a victorious cry echoed through the massive halls of Dunmanifestin, home of the Gods.

Excited murmur ran through the crowd of assembled gods and goddesses.

In their middle, a massive model of Ankh-Morpork stretched out like a well-loved family board game.¹

All eyes were on Errata, who had uttered the outcry.² She seemed to bask in the attention as she crooned.

“It is the letters! It must be! The envelopes were identical and there was at least one letter with each victim!”

The murmur intensified, carrying both approval and denial in equal parts.

“But to what end?” snarled Seven-Handed Sek.

“Political intrigue, of course. Someone is trying to take on the rank of Patrician in the very near future”, Errata explained smugly.

“Do you want to make the call?” asked The Lady politely.

“Yes!” the goddess declared with confidence. “I accuse Vetinari’s political rivals, at the Post Office, using a letter full of poison!”

“Very well!”

In their midst, a golden envelope appeared, snatched out of the air immediately by impatient fingers.

Errata flipped it open and read the words that had been hidden inside.

Her face fell.

With a pout, she shoved the words back into the envelope and resealed it. One of the onlookers sniggered.

“My turn!” Blind Io made a grab for the dice and the game went on.

1. The city buildings had been shaped by many years of handling and all the game tiles were somewhat rounded at the edges with time. There also was at least one figurine that showed a set of astonishingly deep bite marks and a couple of rarely used cards that had been stuck together like this for years. ^{[ ▲ ]}
2. All eyes were quite the substantial number under these circumstances, since Blind Io had joined the activities on this day and possessed at least a hundred of them, surrounding him like a halo of gently floating marbles. ^{[ ▲ ]}

Chapter Text

“It is the letters, Watson! Just look at this one! The stamps are identical and so is the handwriting!”

The doctor looked up from where he was leaning over his latest patient, Mrs Mills, an elderly lady whose face had taken about the same colour as her sickly grey bedroom walls. Holmes was standing by the mantlepiece, holding up an inconspicuous looking envelope with a pair of pliers and studying it intently.

As he made his way across the room to join his detective, Watson wrinkled his nose the closer he got.

“Oh, be careful with that, Holmes. It absolutely reeks!”

If anything, the observation just managed to excite the other man even more.

“Does it now? Oh, this is interesting, very interesting! I need to get my hands on some alchemy supplies. This warrants some further investigation!”

It was a generic paper envelope, with the name and address of Mrs Celia Mills scrawled on the front in a neat hand. The stamp was a simple depiction of Lord Vetinari’s hawkish profile. It really did not look overly suspicious, though they both knew intimately that looks could be deceiving.

There was a bit of a commotion from the direction of the doorway and as they both turned around at the noise, they were met with several pairs of frightened big eyes blinking at them from curious little faces. A group of children were peering in from the corridor, their gazes flickering back and forth between their strange guests and the sick Mrs Mills. They were a colourful bunch; a few of them seemed to be human, but there were also at least two dwarfs and one young troll that towered over all of them. Behind them, a second woman stood, her hair and face similar to those of their patient and her arms crossed tightly across her chest. 

After Watson had done all that he could for Mrs Mills, they learned that the other woman was her sister, a Mrs Pickle. They sat down with her in the home’s little kitchen, away from any curious onlookers.

“Celia only fell ill the day before last”, Mrs Pickle explained with a disdainful sniff. “Told her for weeks that this would happen. I heard that this is some exotic disease from Uberwald. Those who are from over there are immune to it, but they are spreading it to us innocent city dwellers!” She sneered. “I don’t have anything against those strays that she keeps taking in, I really don’t, but I do believe that they would be better off among their own kind.”

“Mrs Pickle!” Carrot admonished from across the room, his earnest voice dripping with shocked disapproval. “Where ever would you get this sort of rubbish from? I doubt that they are writing stuff like this in the Times.”

“Of course they don’t”, she hissed back. “But we all know that some of their staff might be a bit more Uberwaldian than they would like the general public to know!”

She lowered her voice conspiratorially for that last part, as if she were conveying some dark secret, and not - say - the well-known fact, that the Times head iconographer occasionally and very publicly turned into a small pile of ash under the bright flash of his own picture box. 

She inspected detective and doctor shrewdly. “You are not from Uberwald, are you?”

Watson gave her a good-natured smile that did not quite reach his eyes and the tight line of his brows. “Of course not, Mrs Pickle. I was born in Sto Lat and we both live up in Lancre now!”

Holmes, on the other hand, did not even grace her with so much as one last look or a brief farewell before he sprang to his feet and began pulling on his hat and coat. “Come now, Watson! The night is young and I have a few old acquaintances at the Alchemist’s Guild to call upon!”

Chapter Text

Unbeknown to both Mrs Pickle and Captain Carrot, Doctor Watson had not been completely truthful in his answer.

It was true that he had spent his rather sheltered youth in a peaceful neighbourhood of Sto Lat as the son of Borogravian parents. But he had also grown into a young man full of misplaced pride and vigour and had joined the Royal Borogravian Fusiliers in their war in the dreadful forests of Uberwald. And while it had done a lot to make him into the man that he was nowadays, it was not a time that he remembered fondly or proudly.

The best thing that could be said about those dark years was, that there was nothing quite as effective at curing youthful hubris as facing the beastly Lords of the Land with nothing but an army-issue sword and an ill-fitting uniform.

Out in these cursed woods there had been no hiding in the shadows, because the smell of your fear shone like a beacon in the dark to the werewolves that lorded over the region. Their claws and teeth could cut through any defence, and they were far faster than any mere human could hope to run.

Watson had always assumed that he had not been meant to survive that faithful night that changed his life forever. Maybe his tormentors would have kept him alive for a couple more hours or at most one or two more days to the general entertainment of the clan.

But the wolves had not expected him to manage the long crawl through mud and undergrowth, bleeding and feverish, before a stray member of his unit had stumbled upon his torn-apart body.
He probably still would have died before the next morning, if it had not been for Igor. The skilled fingers of the surgeon had saved both his life and his arm, though there was little that could be done to stop the infection that had already taken hold of his body.

Watson did not remember much of these first few days, just the tight embrace of fever and pain, the burn of the moonlight on his tired face and the hunger that cut through the delirium like the teeth of his tormentors.
He had not been able to rejoin his regiment afterwards, but since he had shown some interest in the healing craft, after it had literally sewn his body back into one piece, his saviour had sent him off to one of his cousins who was working as an independent surgeon in Pseudopolis and was happy to share his knowledge without holding onto any family secrecy.

“Just ask around for Igor and tell him that I sent you.”

During his years in Pseudopolis, Watson had learned much about medicine, regained full use of his scarred arm and helped in the stitching up of countless bodies, no matter in what shape they came to the operating table. But none of it managed to smooth over the deep gouges that the attack had left on his mind and the longer he stayed, the closer he felt like drowning in the sluggish repetitiveness of everyday life, unable to move on and find new purpose in his survival.

“I have an acquaintance in Ankh-Morpork. Maybe he can help you find the path that is right for you”, the Pseudopolis Igor had suggested one day.

“Let me guess, I will just go there and ask for Igor?”

“Correct. Last I heard, he was employed at Stamford Lane.”

This was where he was finally guided to the path that would define the rest of his life. While the Igor at Stamford Lane did not have much use for Watson’s newly acquired surgical skills, he knew of someone else who might appreciate his specialist assistance.

“If it is adventure that you seek, then I know of someone who might aid with that. He consulted me quite a few times in the last months, though never regarding injuries of his own.”

Watson had not been able to suppress his sigh of disappointment at being sent away once again. “So where do I have to ask for Igor now?”

“An Igor? Him? Oh no. His name is Sherlock Holmes!”

Chapter Text

“Something. Is. Missing!”

The frustrated growl served as a rude wake-up call, startling Watson out of his slumber so abruptly that he almost fell out of the armchair that he had fallen asleep in late last night. He blinked owlishly at the surrounding chamber, barely listening to the continued stream of expletives and complaints from his dear detective across the room.

They were in one of the old laboratories of the Alchemists Guild.¹

“The envelope is empty, and there are no traces of any common poisons to be found inside or out. Paper and ink are standard fare. I even tested the stamp.”

It did not sound like the investigation was going particularly well. Watson peeled away the coat - Holmes’ coat - that someone must have placed over his sleeping form during the night and slowly rose to his feet, stretching out his creaking bones.

Holmes had set up a variety of complicated looking glass bulbs, test tubes and burners on the workbench in the middle of the space. Some were filled with bubbling liquids, others were quietly fuming in vibrant colours. There even was a mortar with what looked to be parts of the stamp cut into tiny scraps and then ground into a fine powder.

The doctor approached his agitated companion and gently pulled the man into a one-armed embrace. After a moment of resistance, the taller man practically melted into the soothing touch.

After more than a day without any rest, Holmes looked about as grey and exhausted as you would expect from a man of his age with no respect for a good night of sleep. These kinds of antics had not done his health any good 50 years ago, and they were certainly not good for him now. But Watson also knew that there was little he could say to get the other man some rest while this mystery remained unsolved.

He wrinkled his nose at the cacophony of smells that swirled through the room. The weird, sickly sweet scent that he had noticed the day before still hung somewhere around them. He picked up the mortar of ground up stamp, gave it a cautious sniff and recoiled.

“This might not be toxic”, he wheezed, his grip on the detective’s shoulder tightening momentarily. “But it does not smell like normal stamps do, that much I can tell you.”

“You are certain that something is wrong with it?”

“Absolutely!”

He could feel the buzz of excitement under Holmes’ skin as the detective sprung into action once again.

“Then the Consultant must consult another expert. We need to visit the Post Office next!”

1. Old in Alchemists Guild terms meant about 8 months old, due to the inexplicable tendency of the guild houses to end up in flames at least once per year. ^{[ ▲ ]}

Chapter Text

“So, how are you holding up, Reg?”

Commander Angua and Sergeant Reg Shoes walked the familiar cobblestone streets of Ankh-Morpork side by side. Around them, the city was still in the process of waking up. The stink of the night was slowly pushed out by the burnt smell of food being forgotten over the fire, the odour of people emptying out their chamber pots into the general direction of the river and the steam and vapours of various factories as they slowly resumed their work for the day. At least the buzzing clouds of insects that were still plaguing the streets were slowly receding, now that the sun was rising above the roofs.

“Oh, there is the usual wear and tear, but I really can’t complain. Haven’t lost a single finger in over a month.” The sergeant wriggled his fingers in all their greenish-grey glory as if to demonstrate.

Reg was not just a skilled watchman. He also happened to have died more than half a century ago. But he never had let that stop him.

“Ah ... yes.” Angua’s eyes were drawn to the posters that had appeared on walls and lamp posts over the last couple of nights. Posters that loudly demanded for any Uberwaldian and undead people to be expelled from the city immediately. “You see, I was more thinking about all those rumours that have been spreading around here for the last week.”

This morning alone, several of the city’s lesser known newspapers had published incensed reader letters spouting bigotry and hate from the comfort of faceless anonymity.

‘Our steadfast supporter Emily W. reports that she saw her Uberwaldian neighbour cough nine days ago, which surely must have been the original source of the mysterious illness sweeping through the city now.’ or ‘Jolly Winterbeard, one of our most constant readers, encourages all dwarfs to avoid any businesses that involve those of the undead persuasion until this matter is resolved’.

It added a tension to the city that made Angua twitchy - Ankh-Morpork in its natural state already dealt with plenty of tension - it really did not need any extra.

“Oh, I have dealt with worse”, responded the zombie.¹ Reg rolled his shoulders and stretched his back, which in his case involved the tightening and loosening of a couple of stitches and a few unsavoury noises.

“And I believe that this Holmes fella is going to have this case solved in no time. I still remember how he used to prance ‘round the city when he was younger. There was no crime he couldn’t solve.”

“Yes, I was thinking about him too. Saw him coming out of the Alchemist’s Guild this morning, looking nearly as grey as you. Almost makes you wonder if he turned into a zombie and just forgot to tell anyone about it.”

Reg shook his head before reattaching it to his neck with a squelch.

“Seems plenty alive to me, that man.”

They were just about to round the corner and approach Pseudopolis Yard, when they were drawn to a halt by the clattering uniform of a young constable who was running in their direction at full speed, sweat-drenched and wide eyed.

“Has someone else fallen ill?”, asked Angua, a heavy knot tightening in her stomach.

“Don’t know about any illness”, gasped the constable, panting for breath. “But someone sure is dead!”

1. A sentiment that was voiced quite frequently by those who had had the displeasure of dying before. ^{[ ▲ ]}

Chapter Text

It was only natural that a post office in the early morning hours was quite the chaotic place - but it just so happened that it could be turned infinitely more disorganised by a bleary-eyed detective waving around an empty envelope and demanding to speak to whoever had designed the stamp.

It took almost ten minutes of excited squabbling until they had been guided into a marginally calmer corner of the large hall. They had also been joined by Postmaster Moist von Lipwig, who looked almost as tired as Holmes, though also at least 40 years his junior and a Mr Stanley Howler. A younger, somewhat twitchy fellow, who was currently studying the stinky stamp with an enormous magnification glass.

Apparently, Lipwig was in the process of training the younger man to take over most of his day-to-day tasks in the post office. From the general looks of it, it was an uphill battle.

“I am absolutely certain that this is a forgery”, Stanley exclaimed, glaring at the offending piece of paper through his lens. “It’s missing the dotted marks in the Patrician’s hairline and the stripes along the border. The nose is all wrong too. We really need to implement more safety marks in these stamps. It’s absolutely unacceptable that these were not caught before delivery.” He glanced to the side at Lipwig. “I guess we will get the opportunity to design a new stamp set soon enough, anyway.”

The postmaster cleared his throat. “Well, there you have it, gentlemen. Forgeries. It happens occasionally in this line of work, I am afraid. Is there anything else that we can assist you with?”

Holmes rummaged in the inner pocket of his coat and produced a slightly crumpled list of names.

“These are all the people who have fallen ill so far.” He thrust the paper into Lipwig’s unresisting hands.

“Can you tell me anything about them? Anything that they have in common? Maybe they all happen to be of Überwaldian descent?”

“Come now, Holmes. Surely you don’t believe those wretched rumours!” Watson cried out indignantly by his side.

“Of course not, my dear man”, he added a little softer, before turning back to the subject of his interrogation. “But someone is keenly intent on making us believe that the stories were true.”

The postmaster stared down at the list with a puzzled expression. “Surely you cannot expect me to know all Überwaldian people in Ankh-Morpork, just because I happen to be born there myself?”

“What?” Holmes blinked up at him in a moment of genuine surprise. “No, no! You are a postman, are you not? Surely a postman must have some knowledge about the people of his city.”

Lipwig spluttered. “Well, I don’t do much of the delivering myself, you see.”

But at Holmes’ imploring look he raised his voice, and quickly they were surrounded by several of the office’s delivery men and women who were bound to have a better understanding of the city’s inhabitants.

“From what I can see, none of these people are from Uberwald, sir”, muttered one after squinting at the list for a moment.

“But their neighbours and families sure are!” another voice piped up.

The detective whirled around to the woman who had spoken, his arms flailing with excitement. “How do you mean?”

“Well, you see, for example, this Miss Anya Saunders? She is sharing rooms with her dear friend Lucinda who is a Black Ribboner that hails from Unterschmalzingen and only moved to the city a couple of years ago. And Mrs Mills here fosters plenty of children, many of them from Uberwald as well.”

“And the house where Oleg lives is renting out a variety of rooms to all sorts of people”, Holmes mused, his eyes sparkling.

“Oh yes, I can think of at least three people who are undead living in that place”, another postman chimed in eagerly.

Watson’s forehead crinkled as he thought. “So, is the culprit targeting the victims specifically, or are they just exceptionally bad at taking aim?”

Before they could continue that train of thought, the post office’s doors flew open once more.

“Mr Sherlock Holmes? The commander sent me to fetch you. There has been a murder!”

Chapter Text

They found themselves in the stairwell of the lodging house once again, but instead of guarding his brother’s door, this time young Morten was lying motionless on the floor just in front of the stairs. It did not need a doctor’s examination to determine that the lad was dead. His skin was sickly grey and as cold as stone and his only injury was a dart that had been lodged deeply into his side.

As they pushed through the mass of neighbours that observed the proceedings with a visible mix of horror and interest, Holmes kept an appropriately sombre face, but Watson could see the countless question simmering right underneath the surface.

The detective knelt down next to the still form, magnification glass at the ready, and quickly beckoned Watson to join him.

“I think our criminal just made a significant blunder”, he whispered, the words almost inaudible.

He continued investigating the wound, before wrapping his hand in a handkerchief and moving to remove the bolt that had caused the young man’s death.

“Let me”, Watson interjected quickly. Holmes allowed it without argument and the doctor pulled the dart from the cold flesh with sure fingers, holding it up into the air for Holmes’ inspection.

“What do you say about the rest of his presentation, doctor?”

“He looks very similar to the other patients we’ve visited so far, as you undoubtedly noticed yourself.” He squinted down at the small weapon. “And there is very little blood. If there was some kind of poison on or in the bolt, it must have been exceptionally potent and the death almost instant.”

Holmes nodded grimly before freezing in place, his face going lax. He shot to his feet.

“I require a moment of absolute silence!” he bellowed, startling all onlookers into a moment of stunned quiet.

“What do you hear, Watson?” he whispered urgently.

The doctor furrowed his brow at the unexpected question.

The room was silent, though he could still hear the bustling of the street far below them … but there was something else, a somewhat peculiar buzzing noise coming from somewhere within the building.

“Something is humming”, exclaimed Angua.

“Where from?” Holmes demanded.

“Upstairs”, Watson answered with conviction.

All eyes wandered to the rickety stairs that led up to the attic.

“That’s Dewynter’s room”, whispered a dwarf from the crowd.

“Dewynter? He does not happen to be the unpleasant little man with the regrettable facial hair who talked to us last time we were here?” Holmes was already approaching the stairs with confident steps, though Angua managed to reach them before him.

“Aye, that is him alright.”

The closer they got to the attic, the louder the humming grew.

Both Angua and Watson cringed away at the wall of sourly sweet smell that rolled their way as soon as the door was opened.

The small room was narrow and hot. The windows were shut firmly and covered with several layers of stained curtains. Most of the space was taken up by a desk that was almost breaking under the weight of dusty tomes, glassware and storage containers.

But the noise originated from a structure behind the desk. Boxy shapes had been stacked on top of each other and covered with several blankets. The buzzing ... it sent an unpleasant crawling sensation down Watson's back, quickly chased by a feeling of foreboding. He exchanged a quick glance with Angua, before turning to the detective by the door.

“If you could please wait downstairs, my love!” His voice did not allow for any argument. “Try to figure out where this Dewynter fellow would go, now that his operation has been uncovered.”

Holmes hesitated for just a moment, before his shoulders sank, and he agreed with a sigh.

“Look out for some kind of antidote”, he advised. “Dewynter must have kept it around if he didn’t want to fall victim to his own invention!”

As soon as the door was securely shut, Angua approached the humming shapes with trepidation in her steps. She extended a hand and pulled the cloth aside in one swoop.

The noise intensified. Under the blankets there were stacks of crates, boxes and jars, all of them open to the air with nothing but a fine mesh to cover their openings and prevent their buzzing cargo from escaping. A good bunch of them were already empty. 

Soon Holmes and Watson reconvened downstairs, while the commander was busy getting ahold of any undead watchman or -woman to handle the countless boxes and crates full of unhappy mosquitos in the attic.

“Dewynter created an illness supposed to mimic several undead traits”, Watson recounted grimly. “He must have got his hands on some vampire venom and lycanthrope blood and thrown in a few traits of his own.”

Holmes nodded. “And then he managed to spread a diluted version of the malady with the assistance of his little insect companions.”

“He further ensured that a sufficient number of the infectious mosquitos would find their way to his targets by sending those foul smelling letters ahead of their release. I recognised the stench up there.”

“So what would he do next?” Holmes tapped his chin with a pale bony finger as he pondered the problem. “Poor Morten must have caught wind of the plot and foolishly confronted the culprit by himself. I presume he was hit with a much more potent mix of Dewynter’s concoction.”

“If the man is clever, he will be long out of the city by now.”

But Holmes shook his head. “That may very well be true, but fanaticism has the tendency to burn through every clever thought that a person may possess. He will run - but not away!”

Angua joined them, her expression still worried. “So where would he go?”

“He would try to finish his mission, whatever that may - oh”, he trailed off, his eyes lighting up with sudden horror.

“What is it?” urged Angua.

“The postmaster!” cried Holmes, his feet already carrying him towards the door.

“Lipwig? What about him?”

“He will be the final target. Quick now, commander.” He ran out onto the street as fast as his old legs could carry him. “Someone’s got to warn the man!”

Chapter Text

“If you come any closer, I am shooting Lipwig!”

The words echoed off the tall walls of the entry hall, washing together into shrill dissonance.

Compared to earlier, the post office was eerily empty when they entered it a second time that day. There were only two figures standing halfway down the massive staircase. One of them was Lipwig, looking much more awake than he had earlier today but also understandably terrified.

The other man was the shorter and even more frazzled-looking Mr Dewynter. His hair stood out in all directions, his strange little beard appeared to have developed a mind of its own and seemed decidedly lopsided. But despite his harried looks, he was also holding a small crossbow pressed to the postmaster’s side and there was a rather worrying glint of complete detachment from sense and reality in his beady eyes.

Angua, who had stuck to their side, knowing full well that the two older gentlemen would run head-on into danger if left to their own devices, lifted her hands placatingly.

“Please step away from the postmaster, Mr Dewynter! There does not need to be any more bloodshed!”

His wild gaze swivelled, focussing on the commander and instantly filling with even more disgust. “Don’t talk to me, beast! I know what you are!” He increased his pressure on the crossbow, his fingers flexing. “A werewolf in the watch! You know nothing about me or my cause.”

Holmes raised his voice. “Well, while I can only speculate at the exact nature of your noble cause, I am reasonably certain that you did not mean to kill young Morten. After all, the poor chap was perfectly human from what I could glean, and I doubt he ever set a foot into Überwald!”

The criminal’s face went on an elaborate journey of emotions before settling back into hatred and bitterness. “He attacked me first! I had to protect myself”, he sneered weakly, his fingers still moving against the trigger lever of his weapon.

“But why come after me next?” babbled the postmaster in his grip.

“I won’t have an Uberwaldian taking charge of this city! Next thing we know, it is going to be all Vampires and Zombies and Igors”, Dewynter spat out, his eyes snapping back to Lipwig. “The city is already going to the dogs. Someone had to take action before there was nothing worth saving.”

“I still don’t understand why you are going after me, of all the people!” Lipwig insisted, sounding distraught. “I have never been to those blasted lands!”

Watson could feel Holmes grow still beside him. It would be barely visible to an untrained eye, but he had known his detective for decades now. Holmes had been caught off-guard.

Dewynter let out an ugly snort, trying to cover up his own surprise. “You are named after an Uberwaldian city, what are you even talking about, man?”

“Moist von Lipwig? Surely you cannot believe that is his genuine name?” Holmes had regained his voice and apparently decided to join in on the ruse. And while Watson could sense that both Lipwig and Holmes were lying, he had to admit that they were both mightily good at it. Holmes spoke with a faux-casualness and disdain that reminded him a lot of their younger days, when dramatically confronting criminals had been much more commonplace in their day-to-day business.

“I looked into it and found old records under that name”, Dewynter insisted, but the first tendrils of doubt were beginning to slither into his demeanor.

“Then surely you must have also found records of at least ten other aliases that I have been known to take advantage of”, Lipwig countered dismissively. “Did you also stumble across Albert Spangler by any chance? Edwin Streep? Vincentius Norton? Lipwig just was the one that I was stuck with after this old business with the post office and the clacks towers.”

The hand holding the crossbow started wavering.

“I don’t believe even the bitterest of mothers would stoop so low as to name her son ‘Moist’”, Lipwig continued. “Could you imagine the amount of ridicule I would have endured at school if that was my name?”

“You already killed one perfectly innocent human today”, Holmes reminded Dewynter with a grave expression. “There is no reason to kill a second one!”

The good news was that Holmes’ words seemed to have the desired effect. The criminal drew the crossbow away from Lipwig and roughly pushed the man down the last couple of steps, where he immediately collapsed into a nervous heap of emotion, all his previous bravado immediately lost.

In less fortunate news, Dewynter raised the weapon and aimed it right at Holmes instead, his face drawn into a grimace that was equal parts furious and helpless.

“I would gladly shoot you in his stead”, he spat. “But I heard the word on the street! I know that you are one of them! The sickness wouldn’t do anything to you!” He swung the crossbow to the side and fired -

- right at Watson.

The dart hit with a dull thud right into the meat of his thigh. He grunted at the impact, eyes widening slightly as a sharp, icy cold pain immediately spread up his leg from the impact site.

Holmes’ eyes were blazing with fury as he pushed past Angua and towards Dewynter. “That was a very foolish thing to do, you miserable wretch”, he growled.

For an older gentleman¹, Holmes had a definite talent for looming threateningly if he needed to. Dewynter dropped his now useless crossbow with a clatter, his wide eyes fixed on the detective, who seemed to be growing taller and darker with every step that he took. “No matter what you may have heard about me, I can assure you that if you had actually managed to kill my Watson, I would gladly throttle you with my bare hands!”

The smaller man stuttered. “If I had killed him?”

Behind the detective, a massive beast emerged, right where Watson had stood just moments ago. It was a majestic creature, covered in pale grey fur and snarling in Dewynter’s direction, revealing a set of long sharp teeth.

“When it comes to gossip it is usually much more informative to look out for those that the rumours fail to mention!” Holmes rumbled.

The beast lunged!

1. Who was in fact perfectly human, despite what all the rumours claimed about him, thank you very much. ^{[ ▲ ]}

Chapter Text

“It’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” complained Errata, still pouting after her earlier loss.

Around them the crowd of curious godly onlookers slowly dispersed, now that the general excitement seemed to be over. Game nights were always the busiest up on Cori Celesti.

Fate rolled his eyes at the complaint but said nothing as he began sorting out the cards.

“I liked the dramaticsss. And the final transssformation”, hissed Offler the crocodile god while he eyed the remaining game pieces with interest and appetite.  “I alwaysss love a good confrontation.”

“It still leaves one last question to ponder, doesn’t it?” Anoia mused from the other side of the game board.

“And what would zzzthat be?”

The goddess leant forward, peering down at the city in open curiosity.

“What is up with this Sherlock Holmes fellow?”

Chapter Text

They were back on the train, sitting across from each other in the comfortable afterglow of yet another case solved, when Watson finally posed the question that had been burning in the back of his mind for a while now.“So what was it all about, in the end? Why such a convoluted plot, and why only infect when he could easily have killed all his victims? Except for poor Morten everyone is going to recover with some time and the right treatment.”

“Oh”, Holmes exclaimed, his eyes wide in astonishment. “My apologies, I thought it was quite obvious.” At Watson’s wry look he quickly continued. “It was never about the victims, you see. They were only ever meant as fertile soil for rumour and prejudice to fester upon. No ... I suspect in a couple of weeks, Vetinari is going to endorse a certain Mr Moist von Lipwig to take over the title of Patrician of Ankh-Morpork - something that Dewynter wanted to prevent at any cost.”

Watson’s lips twitched upwards at the ridiculous name, before his expression turned somber again. “While this would explain Lord Vetinari’s interest in having this matter resolved, I still don’t quite see how this spectacle was meant to discredit the postmaster.”

“He is a curious fellow, that Mr Lipwig.” Holmes leant forward in his seat, taking one of the doctor’s hands and holding it gently. “I have been keeping an eye on him for a while now. He seemed to have been a bit distracted while we were in town, but I think he is quite the magician when it comes to disguises and charming people. From what I have gathered he lived quite the colourful life before he was started on his career as a civil servant. A conman, thief and forger. Not everything he told Dewynter was a lie. He has gone by many names and even more faces.”

Watson frowned at that revelation. “Well, he seemed quite the agreeable chap when we met him. I assume he made some amendments to get where he is now and escape prosecution.” He gave the other man a wry smile. “This is Ankh-Morpork we are talking about here, after all. I reckon people would be secretly disappointed, if their future Patrician wasn’t at least a little bit of a crook.”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Holmes. “That is why Dewynter could not hope to damage Lipwig’s reputation with the truth alone. It is why he had to resort to baseless rumours instead to undermine his position.” He sneered. “Imagine having such an eclectic past and the most objectionable thing that people can find with you is the place you happen to be born in. It may seem like a risky plan but the smallest rumour can destroy a man’s reputation in moments if it is played just right. A big crowd is easily steered as long as you lean into the biases that they already possess and there is a healthy dose of fear involved.” He squeezed his companions hand. “I am certain that the plan could have worked if not for Morten’s intervention.”

“Well, even if that was Dewynter’s plan all along, he went a bit too fancy with it, don’t you think?” Watson countered. “He could have easily done some real damage to me by going with something more traditional like silver or fire.”

Holmes face hardened instantly and one of his hands ghosted in the direction of where he knew the almost healed puncture wound to be hidden beneath layers of clothes. Watson simply captured the digits and returned them to their clasped hands with a doting smile.

“Instead he tried to be clever. As if he could ever outsmart the great Sherlock Holmes. The forged stamps? And don’t get me started on those wretched insects!”

“Well, everyone needs a pastime to keep their mind busy, I suppose.” Holmes sighed contentedly. “As it happens, I did want to talk to you about adding just one more bee hive behind the house ...”

Chapter Text

Night greeted them by the time they finally made it back to their cosy cottage up in the mountains of Lancre. Side by side they walked up the narrow path, surrounded by the familiar crunch of leaves underneath their feet, the soothing hum of the bee hives and the luscious smells of a well-cared-for garden.

Above them, the stars twinkled merrily between wispy clouds and the moon - almost full at this time of month - bathed the scenery in a silvery glow.

Whenever they returned from one of their trips Watson felt a brief spike of fear, the faint worry that his Holmes might give up on their idyllic existence up here and return to the excitement that only the biggest of cities could offer. But standing here, amid the fruits of their labour and the products of their partnership, he knew that this was where they both belonged, for better or worse.

“Don’t go thinking that you have had the last word on those bees just yet”, he warned with a small smile, while they peeled out of their coats.

“I would not dream of it”, the other man answered fondly. “Though I do believe that I can convince you of their merit with time!” He dropped a fleeting kiss onto Watson’s grey hair, before he took both of their coats and carried them off to their place on the coat rack.

Hours later both the cottage and the lands surrounding it were bathed in darkness. A solitary, tall figure returned to the garden, holding a tray with a candle, two mugs and a pot of tea. He confidently strode toward a small table by the old oak tree.

“I must apologize for the wait. I had an eventful couple of days and we just managed to journey back in time for our meeting.”

NO APOLOGY NECESSARY, the figure that was expecting him by the tree replied. I KNEW YOU WOULD ARRIVE EVENTUALLY.

They sat down across from each other, the pale moonlight painting the outline of leaves and twigs across Holmes’ angular face. The other figure sat with their face hidden in shadows. Against the trunk of the tree, someone had leant a scythe.

“I have quite a few curious stories to tell, old friend!” Holmes placed candle and tea on the table before rubbing his hands in anticipation.

I LOOK FORWARD TO HEARING IT ALL, AS ALWAYS, the other being answered earnestly. SO WHAT WILL BE OUR GAME TONIGHT?

The detective tapped his chin before nodding decisively. “I was thinking of Thud.”

VERY WELL.

Out of sheer nothingness a game set was procured and they did the set up in absolute silence, the gentle clattering of the figurines on the wooden game board the only sounds that cut through the quiet of the garden. Even the nature around them seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.

WHAT WILL WE BE PLAYING FOR THIS TIME?

“Let’s see. How about ... another decade, maybe?” Holmes offered easily, but there was an almost invisible tightening around his eyes, a moment of tension that lasted just a blink.

AS YOU WISH!

Inside the cottage, standing hidden in one of the dark windows, another pair of eyes observed the peculiar meeting, completely unbothered by the darkness that shrouded them. Watson did not draw attention to himself, instead he simply observed the game that unfolded. Ready to spring into action and be by his dear boy’s side if the need ever arose.

But there would be no need for his intervention tonight.

Holmes always won.