The Baker Street Record
A/N: Presenting: an epic Sherlock Holmes/House of Leaves crossover. This was written for Part III of the Sherlock Holmes kinkmeme over at sherlockkink. It was a long and wonderfully arduous process and certainly the most rigorous exercise in dual pastiche (not to mention HTML) that I've ever engaged in. The original prompt was made by buriedbooks in Part II, then
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The bizarre incident involving Gladstone had a profound effect on both me and my companion, though it was a slow, ugly thing that grew between us almost imperceptibly and would go on to threaten the very foundations of our heretofore enduring friendship. The dog was miraculously unharmed, soon recovered and safely returned to our rooms. Holmes immediately wanted to run experiments on him, but I wouldn’t have it, and insisted Gladstone now reside permanently with me, away from the awful door. Holmes had time to make his usual claim that Gladstone “didn’t mind” before I managed to relocate him, but even I had to admit that he seemed relatively untraumatized by his other-worldly experience. This however did not soften my conviction that the phenomenon was an evil one, and was not to be trifled with; I wanted nothing more to do with it.
Even then I knew, however, that Holmes would never let me live in the blissful ignorance I desired. I stayed in my room for almost the entire day following the incident, saw nor heard no sign of him, until I could no longer bear it, and finally I burst into his room without knocking, fearing to find him gone, that awful door hanging open-
The room was blue with smoke. He looked up at me, mildly surprised, as it appeared I had stirred him in the midst of what he would have referred to as a three-pipe problem.
I took a moment to steady myself. He of course knew exactly why I was there and what was forefront on my mind-it was the same for both of us.
“Curious, Watson,” he said, as though we had been conversing all the while. “You of course saw and heard how Gladstone went in and within moments found himself on the sidewalk outside, unscathed and seemingly unaffected by his transportation. Since your rushed efforts to remove him from my sight prevented me from giving him a more thorough examination, perhaps to see if there was any telltale residue or marking on his paws, I have been left only to speculate. Given the dog’s carefree response I feel it is safe to assume, or at least conjecture, that he reached his destination in a way that might have seemed natural to him, as though the path were directed exactly and unalarmingly to the outside world below. However when I myself ventured inside, I found no indication of this; there was no decline in angle, no light or noise to be picked up from within, no outside air-as I mentioned, it was quite alarmingly cold, in fact; too cold for September. This brings to my mind a number of possibilities, two in particular-that Gladstone somehow discovered an alternative pathway which led him to his place outside, which seems to me, for the moment, unlikely. Or that the interior is inconsistent.”
“How could that be?” I demanded, keeping my eyes warily on the door, as though at any moment it would swing open like a gaping mouth, waiting to devour us.
“I do not know.” Holmes smoked his pipe absently, following my gaze, though in a rather more casual fashion. “But I think it would be in our best interest to investigate this further.”
“Holmes-” I protested, but he caught me quickly before I could proceed.
“Watson,” he said harshly. “This is a singular event. It would be irredeemably foolish for us to ignore it.”
“Holmes,” I insisted, beginning to lose my patience. “This-this kind of thing doesn’t happen.”
“And yet,” he said, his words sharp and clear, his eyes cutting into me. I felt momentarily frozen. Already I knew; I knew I had lost him to the mystery. This was something he could not let by.
Helpless, I searched for pragmatism, for logic, the comforting tools Holmes usually employed. “Is there… Do you have any reasonable explanation in mind for this?”
“None.” Holmes softened, not out of sympathy but deliberation. He turned away. “It is like nothing else I have ever encountered.”
“All the more reason to leave it alone!”
“Wrong!” Again he turned to me and his mood swung back to his curt and fiery defense against my reluctance. “All the more reason to investigate. The impossible has quite palpably occurred, Watson, is there, is visible to our naked eyes. We cannot, must not ignore this.”
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