Fic for scfrankles: Everything is Watson
Title: Everything is Watson
Recipient: scfrankles
Author: gardnerhill
Verse: Lego Hound of the Baskervilles (Tuzarsfilm) - which can be found here / The Lego Movie
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson; Lucy Wyldstyle (The Lego Movie); Batman; several other Lego characters
Word Count: 2900
Rating: G
Warnings: Crack, with startling moments of sweetness (rather like the Lego Holmes film).
Summary: Watson is still recuperating from his last adventure - he’s not so sure he wants to be The Special.
Also on AO3: Everything is Watson
Sherlock Holmes and I left Baskerville Hall in Sir Henry’s shaken but capable hands. Both of us were silent for much of the train trip from Dartmoor to London. I was in considerable pain from my gunshot injury, and Holmes was morose.
While it was true that Holmes had solved the case and helped bring a criminal to justice, there was little satisfaction in those facts for either of us. The horrific denouement - violence, terror, death - had ended with Sir Henry Baskerville taking his rightful place as lord of the manor, and Beryl Stapleton a young widow freed from her brute of a husband, but the cost had been high for everyone involved. Sir Henry’s nerves were all but shattered by the attack, first by the vicious starved mastiff and then by its armed master; Beryl had been abused and then imprisoned by her treacherous spouse; Holmes and I had witnessed the death of Selden the convict, terrified that we’d witnessed the loss of our charge; Holmes had been nearly slain, twice, by the villain; and the adventure had cost me a bloodletting whilst saving Holmes from the first attempt on his life. Barrymore’s timely shot at Jack Stapleton had sent him into the Mire and to his death, which must surely weigh heavily upon the man; he had saved Holmes’ life for the second time within the hour, but no decent man takes a human life without a severe toll to his spirit no matter how justified or defensive the act was. The manor house we left behind more resembled a solemn hospital at the moment; I hoped Mortimer and Sir Henry would remain close, and the shared ordeal that Sir Henry and Beryl had undergone would help unite them.
But most of all, on that train trip home I mulled over the precious words that Holmes had said to me in the hall - his thanks for my risking my life to save his, for my patience with him, and most of all simply for being his friend. “I don’t know if I deserve a friend like you,” he had said. I cast a surreptitious look at Holmes, who seemed buried in a copy of the Times, catching up on London news. I smiled sadly and one hand stole to my neatly-stitched new wound, pondering those rare words. Perhaps it was the shock of realising how close he had come to losing me that had galvanised him into such an intimate confession.
In summation, then: We were both weary, our nerves strained from the fear we had lived and the terror we had witnessed, and I was in a good deal of pain from my “scratch,” which had grazed my ribs and taken some flesh with it (even if Dr. Mortimer had done a splendid job of stitching me together).
So neither of us was in the best of moods when a strange young woman arrayed in black men’s clothes accosted us as we approached our door at Baker Street. Her voice was low, intense and dramatic. “You must come with me at once if you are to save London!”
I am afraid both of us gaped in an ungentlemanly fashion for a moment at the forward woman - her outlandish outfit, the startling streak of violet and blue in her glossy black hair (which for some reason was mirrored in her clothes), the commanding tone.
Sherlock Holmes addressed her, waving his hand in a gallant manner. “Madame, my colleague and I have just completed a grueling trip and a most puzzling mystery. If you seek my assistance-“
“No, not you,” she said impatiently. “The one in the bowler hat. The special one.”
Holmes gaped at her. I must have been staring at her with the same expression as she turned to focus her attention fully upon me.
“You are Doctor John H. Watson, are you not?” Her eyes fixed mine with a determined gaze I normally associated with men.
“That is correct, Miss. May I have the honour of knowing -“
“There’s no more time to talk! We have to go now! I’ll explain on the way!” She lifted her fingers to her mouth and whistled like a street-urchin.
An enormous contraption that looked like a large carriage but with no horses pulling it swooped into view with a roar and screech of noise that a train would envy.
Lucy seized my wrist, and leaped into the horseless carriage - where by sheer dint of my surprise and her powerful grip, I was dragged in with her. Holmes’ cry was instantly muffled by the door slamming shut.
I fell back against a seat and bit back a cry of pain as I wrenched my stitched side. To my horror we were racing through the streets of London like an unbraked train. I gripped the seat’s arms, awaiting the inevitable derailment or crash that would bring my death.
“Sorry about the drama, but we really are pressed for time.”
I blinked and stared in disbelief at the young woman in black who sat in a seat beside me and talked as calmly as if we were in a parlour and not in a mad vehicle. “What is this?” I tried to sound stern but my voice was more of a breathless squeak. “Why have you kidnapped me? Who are you?”
“You can call me Lucy, if you like, Dr. Watson.” She made a little face, as if she disliked her own name. “There’s little time to explain. A madman is planning to blow up Big Ben and you are the only one who can stop him.”
I looked away once again from the careening, nausea-inspiring view outside to face this new insanity. “Excuse me? Exactly why am I the only one who can do so? What makes me the sole person to take on this intruder?”
She beamed at me. Her response sounded like a quote from an old book. “Because only one who is brave, true, steadfast, and loyal can defeat Mr. Maximillian!”
No doubt this Mr. Maximillian was the nefarious threat from which I was expected to save London. As for the rest of her statement, it caused me to laugh - and judging from her startled look she had not been expecting that.
“Miss,” I said as casually as I could whilst riding a mad runaway train-car. “You have just described the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, to a man. As well as any number of regiments, up to and including the Palace Guard. Many Parliamentarians, and their constituents. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, and a number of his men.” I glared at her. “And Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the best and wisest man in this city.”
She still looked taken aback. Had she expected me to be flattered or full of conceit about my uniqueness? “But…but…The Prophecy!”
“The Prophecy.” I could see the phrase in my mind’s eye right down to the capitalization - no doubt yet another parchment full of horror and dire warnings. My temper, not the sweetest when I was well-rested and free of pain, was put to severe test as I replied evenly, “Miss Lucy. I had had my fill of dangerous old fairy tales and supernatural threats for one month, I assure you. I’m very sure that any number of people can stop this madman. In fact, it will most likely be easier to defeat him with a squad of men than with one champion knight.”
I was almost flung out of my seat as the runaway car screeched to a halt. (Another thump and muffled yell from outside lifted my heart despite the bizarre situation.) We were now within sight of the Parliamentary buildings, presided over by St. Stephen’s Clock Tower - better known by the name of its great bell, Big Ben.
Lucy faced me, hands on hips, a piqued look on her face. “A squad? Who told you about the squad? All right, guys, come out!”
The seats of the car opened up, and with a yelp I leaped back to see people emerge from under them like trap-doors: a heavy-set man in a fur waistcoat and horned helm brandishing a battleaxe, a bespectacled woman in khaki shirt and trousers and wearing a pith helmet, and a cowled and masked figure who looked like an escapee from Bram Stoker’s lurid novel.
“Dr. Watson.” Lucy gestured at one of the bizarre people in the car. “This is Olaf, Viking chief.”
The horned man grinned hideously at me and waved his axe. “Ja ja, Laege Vatson, ve get dat mattman.”
Miss Wildmon indicated the bespectacled woman in khaki. “Dr. Helen Berkowicz, paleontologist.”
“Great day for digging fossils, Doc!” the woman brayed in an American accent, and waved a large bone. I had no idea how that skill would help us against a bomber.
Lucy gestured at the tall cowled and masked man. “And this is Batman.”
In a car full of impossibilities I took on the one about which I knew something. I looked the cowled snarling man up and down. “You don’t look like any officer’s batman I’ve ever seen. What Army regiment permits that ridiculous outfit?”
“I am the Army this city needs,” the masked man growled.
Ah, a lunatic. Perhaps it made sense to attack a madman with another madman. “Fine, let’s capture this Maximillian fellow and get you both back to Bedlam for tea.” I fumbled with the handle of the door and succeeded in opening it. “Come in, my dear fellow.”
Lucy Wildmon and the other people gaped as Sherlock Holmes let himself into the stopped car from the outside. As I’d suspected, it had been his cry I’d heard when we’d stopped. “Thank you, Watson. Clinging to the back of this conveyance during that ride is not for the faint-hearted.”
I clasped his hand and beamed at him, feeling immensely better at having been proved right. “I’d hoped you’d risk this insane carriage.” If I’d seen Holmes snatched away before my eyes I’d have done exactly the same thing, wound or no wound. Of course he’d follow me.
Sherlock Holmes took one long look around the interior of the car - from Lucy Wildmon around to the disgruntled batman. “A rather ragged army to take on one dangerous fellow, is it not?”
“Apparently there’s a Prophecy about me, Holmes,” I added wryly, stressing the word. “That’s why I was kidnapped.”
“Oh good Lord.” Holmes rested his face in his hand for a moment. “Haven’t we had quite enough of romantic fiction for one case?”
“My thoughts exactly, old man.” I patted his shoulder and shot a glare at Miss Wildmon. “A single hero, or even a rag-tag band of heroes, is vastly overrated.” I looked at all the members of our mismatched group again.
I stroked my chin and thought of what we were up against in the clock tower. A villain from a dramatic story, a hero following the protocols of same.
What a good thing I had spent so much time writing romantic fiction and embellishing the truth in like manner.
I turned to Holmes. “Let me suggest a plan of action.”
Holmes’ instant nod and “Tell us, Captain” - giving my old Army rank before this crew - made me swell with a fierce pride that he trusted me in this matter.
And I told them all.
***
It was quite possibly the most anticlimactic assault on a megalomaniac ever recorded in Victorian times.
After leaving the insane carriage, I proceeded to the base of Big Ben by myself. The Prophecy had declared that only one solitary hero could bring down Maximillian; therefore, if he was a self-respecting villain he’d know all about this prophecy as well and would be expecting me for our duel.
The entrance to the Tower was unlocked; I made my way inside and began to climb the stairs to the bell and the clock-faces to confront him. I was neither halted nor hindered by anyone; Mr. Maximillian was indeed a lone agent - not one henchman was present. Professor Moriarty would have had this fellow shot and his name chiseled off the Villains’ List for plain incompetence.
Mr. Maximillian was very much dressed for the part, as if he’d been preparing to take on that ridiculously-cloaked batman. He was a tall bald man dressed in red and cloaked in black, with a long black beard - Quixote’s Enchanter brought to life. Wreaths and strings of dynamite festooned the inside of the Tower, with wires leading from everywhere back to the madman. His eyes glowed red like the demonic Hound’s - the Hound that had been a starved, vicious dog daubed with phosphor paint, I reminded myself firmly, and made myself glare into those frightening orbs.
“So. Doctor John Watson.” The bass-voiced gloating would have been perfect for a wicked vizier in a Christmas pantomime production of Aladdin. I had to admit he was taking his role very seriously, and reminded myself to do the same. “We meet at last.”
“Mr. Maximillian.” I addressed him with the same iron tone, thinking of how Holmes must have confronted Moriarty at Reichenbach. “You see yourself as a new Guy Fawkes, do you not?”
“A Guy Fawkes who will actually succeed this time. I assure you, Doctor, that it will all come down, unless my demands are met.”
“Tell me of these demands.”
The gloating look on his face was my reward; I’d called it exactly. I forced myself to keep a sternly heroic look on my own face instead of the triumphant grin I wished to display; it was my job as The Hero to keep The Villain occupied.
And occupied Maximillian was. He had a list, and was happy to share. There were all sorts of impossibilities on that list - England’s immediate withdrawal from over a hundred far-flung countries, free rule by the people who lived there, an end to child labour in factories, women’s suffrage - changes that would destroy the Empire and do terrible things to the price of tea if they could be carried out. I listened to Maximillian’s demands with fear and determination on my face, and blessed my long experience of providing a mute sounding-board for a consulting detective who also loved the sound of his own voice.
I listened to the villain for a long time. It was certainly long enough for Olaf and the batman to quickly and silently cut all the dynamite wires from below, using a battleaxe and some bizarre bat-shaped throwing-knives. And it was also long enough for Dr. Berkowicz to climb to the roof of the clocktower and coldcock the madman from above with a perfectly-flung dinosaur bone. By the time Mr. Maximillian regained consciousness his hands were bound behind him with wiring, the rest of his explosives had been disarmed, and Scotland Yard was coming up the stairs, led by Holmes, to arrest him.
Lestrade pumped my hand. “England can never repay -“
“Splendid,” I said tersely, and disengaged from the painful arm-shake that was doing my recent injury no favours. Holmes pressed my lost walking-stick into my hand and I gave him a grateful look.
The rest of our team was safe. The cowled bat-fellow stood in the rafters high above and scowled down at us all for no reason, so we ignored him. The lady scientist sat on the top step earnestly explaining to the enthralled Viking that the remains of prehistoric lizards could very well have been the source of his ancestors’ legends about dragons and sea-monsters; it was good to see that two members of our bizarre group had found common ground.
And Miss Lucy Wildmon faced me, eyes shining, her voice cooingly worshipful. “Oh, Dr. Watson, the Prophecy was right. You were wonderf-“
“Send the medal round to Baker Street. Holmes and I have had a long day.” I didn’t even look at her - as inexcusably rude of me as my terse response, but frankly I did not care. I gripped my stick and rested my other hand on Holmes’ shoulder for the descent.
Getting down the stairs and out onto the street was a painful ordeal. Holmes, bless him, said nothing save to flag down a proper horse-drawn cab for our return. The motion jarred me but the sensible pace was a comfort after the wild ride.
Holmes did not speak again until we once more approached dear old Baker Street. “Watson, I’m quite sure that the only hero’s welcome you desire is a cup of tea, Mrs. Hudson’s splendid kidney pie, and a proper wash.”
“Brilliant deduction, old man,” I murmured, smiling through the pain. “The same will do you good as well. I may need some help washing tonight, as I’m afraid a proper bath will be out of the question for at least a week.”
A warm hand rested on my shoulder. “You need not even ask, dear fellow. I also find a snifter of brandy is a capital addition to one’s evening toilet.”
He was right on all counts, as he usually was. The burn of the brandy did wonders for the pain in my side whilst Holmes sponged my back, carefully skirting my 16 new stitches. I was full of good home-cooked food and fragrant tea. We were home; we were safe; and between us, we had defeated two villainous men in as many days, with the help of our friends and associates.
Everything was, indeed, awesome.
THE END
End Notes: Below are some visual images of our dramatis personae:
Watson and Holmes (Sherlock Holmes and the Hound of the Baskervilles)
Lucy “Wildmon” (Wyldstyle) (The Lego Movie)
Olaf the Viking
Dr. Berkowicz, Paleontologist
Batman
Mr. Maximillian
Recipient: scfrankles
Author: gardnerhill
Verse: Lego Hound of the Baskervilles (Tuzarsfilm) - which can be found here / The Lego Movie
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson; Lucy Wyldstyle (The Lego Movie); Batman; several other Lego characters
Word Count: 2900
Rating: G
Warnings: Crack, with startling moments of sweetness (rather like the Lego Holmes film).
Summary: Watson is still recuperating from his last adventure - he’s not so sure he wants to be The Special.
Also on AO3: Everything is Watson
Sherlock Holmes and I left Baskerville Hall in Sir Henry’s shaken but capable hands. Both of us were silent for much of the train trip from Dartmoor to London. I was in considerable pain from my gunshot injury, and Holmes was morose.
While it was true that Holmes had solved the case and helped bring a criminal to justice, there was little satisfaction in those facts for either of us. The horrific denouement - violence, terror, death - had ended with Sir Henry Baskerville taking his rightful place as lord of the manor, and Beryl Stapleton a young widow freed from her brute of a husband, but the cost had been high for everyone involved. Sir Henry’s nerves were all but shattered by the attack, first by the vicious starved mastiff and then by its armed master; Beryl had been abused and then imprisoned by her treacherous spouse; Holmes and I had witnessed the death of Selden the convict, terrified that we’d witnessed the loss of our charge; Holmes had been nearly slain, twice, by the villain; and the adventure had cost me a bloodletting whilst saving Holmes from the first attempt on his life. Barrymore’s timely shot at Jack Stapleton had sent him into the Mire and to his death, which must surely weigh heavily upon the man; he had saved Holmes’ life for the second time within the hour, but no decent man takes a human life without a severe toll to his spirit no matter how justified or defensive the act was. The manor house we left behind more resembled a solemn hospital at the moment; I hoped Mortimer and Sir Henry would remain close, and the shared ordeal that Sir Henry and Beryl had undergone would help unite them.
But most of all, on that train trip home I mulled over the precious words that Holmes had said to me in the hall - his thanks for my risking my life to save his, for my patience with him, and most of all simply for being his friend. “I don’t know if I deserve a friend like you,” he had said. I cast a surreptitious look at Holmes, who seemed buried in a copy of the Times, catching up on London news. I smiled sadly and one hand stole to my neatly-stitched new wound, pondering those rare words. Perhaps it was the shock of realising how close he had come to losing me that had galvanised him into such an intimate confession.
In summation, then: We were both weary, our nerves strained from the fear we had lived and the terror we had witnessed, and I was in a good deal of pain from my “scratch,” which had grazed my ribs and taken some flesh with it (even if Dr. Mortimer had done a splendid job of stitching me together).
So neither of us was in the best of moods when a strange young woman arrayed in black men’s clothes accosted us as we approached our door at Baker Street. Her voice was low, intense and dramatic. “You must come with me at once if you are to save London!”
I am afraid both of us gaped in an ungentlemanly fashion for a moment at the forward woman - her outlandish outfit, the startling streak of violet and blue in her glossy black hair (which for some reason was mirrored in her clothes), the commanding tone.
Sherlock Holmes addressed her, waving his hand in a gallant manner. “Madame, my colleague and I have just completed a grueling trip and a most puzzling mystery. If you seek my assistance-“
“No, not you,” she said impatiently. “The one in the bowler hat. The special one.”
Holmes gaped at her. I must have been staring at her with the same expression as she turned to focus her attention fully upon me.
“You are Doctor John H. Watson, are you not?” Her eyes fixed mine with a determined gaze I normally associated with men.
“That is correct, Miss. May I have the honour of knowing -“
“There’s no more time to talk! We have to go now! I’ll explain on the way!” She lifted her fingers to her mouth and whistled like a street-urchin.
An enormous contraption that looked like a large carriage but with no horses pulling it swooped into view with a roar and screech of noise that a train would envy.
Lucy seized my wrist, and leaped into the horseless carriage - where by sheer dint of my surprise and her powerful grip, I was dragged in with her. Holmes’ cry was instantly muffled by the door slamming shut.
I fell back against a seat and bit back a cry of pain as I wrenched my stitched side. To my horror we were racing through the streets of London like an unbraked train. I gripped the seat’s arms, awaiting the inevitable derailment or crash that would bring my death.
“Sorry about the drama, but we really are pressed for time.”
I blinked and stared in disbelief at the young woman in black who sat in a seat beside me and talked as calmly as if we were in a parlour and not in a mad vehicle. “What is this?” I tried to sound stern but my voice was more of a breathless squeak. “Why have you kidnapped me? Who are you?”
“You can call me Lucy, if you like, Dr. Watson.” She made a little face, as if she disliked her own name. “There’s little time to explain. A madman is planning to blow up Big Ben and you are the only one who can stop him.”
I looked away once again from the careening, nausea-inspiring view outside to face this new insanity. “Excuse me? Exactly why am I the only one who can do so? What makes me the sole person to take on this intruder?”
She beamed at me. Her response sounded like a quote from an old book. “Because only one who is brave, true, steadfast, and loyal can defeat Mr. Maximillian!”
No doubt this Mr. Maximillian was the nefarious threat from which I was expected to save London. As for the rest of her statement, it caused me to laugh - and judging from her startled look she had not been expecting that.
“Miss,” I said as casually as I could whilst riding a mad runaway train-car. “You have just described the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, to a man. As well as any number of regiments, up to and including the Palace Guard. Many Parliamentarians, and their constituents. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, and a number of his men.” I glared at her. “And Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the best and wisest man in this city.”
She still looked taken aback. Had she expected me to be flattered or full of conceit about my uniqueness? “But…but…The Prophecy!”
“The Prophecy.” I could see the phrase in my mind’s eye right down to the capitalization - no doubt yet another parchment full of horror and dire warnings. My temper, not the sweetest when I was well-rested and free of pain, was put to severe test as I replied evenly, “Miss Lucy. I had had my fill of dangerous old fairy tales and supernatural threats for one month, I assure you. I’m very sure that any number of people can stop this madman. In fact, it will most likely be easier to defeat him with a squad of men than with one champion knight.”
I was almost flung out of my seat as the runaway car screeched to a halt. (Another thump and muffled yell from outside lifted my heart despite the bizarre situation.) We were now within sight of the Parliamentary buildings, presided over by St. Stephen’s Clock Tower - better known by the name of its great bell, Big Ben.
Lucy faced me, hands on hips, a piqued look on her face. “A squad? Who told you about the squad? All right, guys, come out!”
The seats of the car opened up, and with a yelp I leaped back to see people emerge from under them like trap-doors: a heavy-set man in a fur waistcoat and horned helm brandishing a battleaxe, a bespectacled woman in khaki shirt and trousers and wearing a pith helmet, and a cowled and masked figure who looked like an escapee from Bram Stoker’s lurid novel.
“Dr. Watson.” Lucy gestured at one of the bizarre people in the car. “This is Olaf, Viking chief.”
The horned man grinned hideously at me and waved his axe. “Ja ja, Laege Vatson, ve get dat mattman.”
Miss Wildmon indicated the bespectacled woman in khaki. “Dr. Helen Berkowicz, paleontologist.”
“Great day for digging fossils, Doc!” the woman brayed in an American accent, and waved a large bone. I had no idea how that skill would help us against a bomber.
Lucy gestured at the tall cowled and masked man. “And this is Batman.”
In a car full of impossibilities I took on the one about which I knew something. I looked the cowled snarling man up and down. “You don’t look like any officer’s batman I’ve ever seen. What Army regiment permits that ridiculous outfit?”
“I am the Army this city needs,” the masked man growled.
Ah, a lunatic. Perhaps it made sense to attack a madman with another madman. “Fine, let’s capture this Maximillian fellow and get you both back to Bedlam for tea.” I fumbled with the handle of the door and succeeded in opening it. “Come in, my dear fellow.”
Lucy Wildmon and the other people gaped as Sherlock Holmes let himself into the stopped car from the outside. As I’d suspected, it had been his cry I’d heard when we’d stopped. “Thank you, Watson. Clinging to the back of this conveyance during that ride is not for the faint-hearted.”
I clasped his hand and beamed at him, feeling immensely better at having been proved right. “I’d hoped you’d risk this insane carriage.” If I’d seen Holmes snatched away before my eyes I’d have done exactly the same thing, wound or no wound. Of course he’d follow me.
Sherlock Holmes took one long look around the interior of the car - from Lucy Wildmon around to the disgruntled batman. “A rather ragged army to take on one dangerous fellow, is it not?”
“Apparently there’s a Prophecy about me, Holmes,” I added wryly, stressing the word. “That’s why I was kidnapped.”
“Oh good Lord.” Holmes rested his face in his hand for a moment. “Haven’t we had quite enough of romantic fiction for one case?”
“My thoughts exactly, old man.” I patted his shoulder and shot a glare at Miss Wildmon. “A single hero, or even a rag-tag band of heroes, is vastly overrated.” I looked at all the members of our mismatched group again.
I stroked my chin and thought of what we were up against in the clock tower. A villain from a dramatic story, a hero following the protocols of same.
What a good thing I had spent so much time writing romantic fiction and embellishing the truth in like manner.
I turned to Holmes. “Let me suggest a plan of action.”
Holmes’ instant nod and “Tell us, Captain” - giving my old Army rank before this crew - made me swell with a fierce pride that he trusted me in this matter.
And I told them all.
***
It was quite possibly the most anticlimactic assault on a megalomaniac ever recorded in Victorian times.
After leaving the insane carriage, I proceeded to the base of Big Ben by myself. The Prophecy had declared that only one solitary hero could bring down Maximillian; therefore, if he was a self-respecting villain he’d know all about this prophecy as well and would be expecting me for our duel.
The entrance to the Tower was unlocked; I made my way inside and began to climb the stairs to the bell and the clock-faces to confront him. I was neither halted nor hindered by anyone; Mr. Maximillian was indeed a lone agent - not one henchman was present. Professor Moriarty would have had this fellow shot and his name chiseled off the Villains’ List for plain incompetence.
Mr. Maximillian was very much dressed for the part, as if he’d been preparing to take on that ridiculously-cloaked batman. He was a tall bald man dressed in red and cloaked in black, with a long black beard - Quixote’s Enchanter brought to life. Wreaths and strings of dynamite festooned the inside of the Tower, with wires leading from everywhere back to the madman. His eyes glowed red like the demonic Hound’s - the Hound that had been a starved, vicious dog daubed with phosphor paint, I reminded myself firmly, and made myself glare into those frightening orbs.
“So. Doctor John Watson.” The bass-voiced gloating would have been perfect for a wicked vizier in a Christmas pantomime production of Aladdin. I had to admit he was taking his role very seriously, and reminded myself to do the same. “We meet at last.”
“Mr. Maximillian.” I addressed him with the same iron tone, thinking of how Holmes must have confronted Moriarty at Reichenbach. “You see yourself as a new Guy Fawkes, do you not?”
“A Guy Fawkes who will actually succeed this time. I assure you, Doctor, that it will all come down, unless my demands are met.”
“Tell me of these demands.”
The gloating look on his face was my reward; I’d called it exactly. I forced myself to keep a sternly heroic look on my own face instead of the triumphant grin I wished to display; it was my job as The Hero to keep The Villain occupied.
And occupied Maximillian was. He had a list, and was happy to share. There were all sorts of impossibilities on that list - England’s immediate withdrawal from over a hundred far-flung countries, free rule by the people who lived there, an end to child labour in factories, women’s suffrage - changes that would destroy the Empire and do terrible things to the price of tea if they could be carried out. I listened to Maximillian’s demands with fear and determination on my face, and blessed my long experience of providing a mute sounding-board for a consulting detective who also loved the sound of his own voice.
I listened to the villain for a long time. It was certainly long enough for Olaf and the batman to quickly and silently cut all the dynamite wires from below, using a battleaxe and some bizarre bat-shaped throwing-knives. And it was also long enough for Dr. Berkowicz to climb to the roof of the clocktower and coldcock the madman from above with a perfectly-flung dinosaur bone. By the time Mr. Maximillian regained consciousness his hands were bound behind him with wiring, the rest of his explosives had been disarmed, and Scotland Yard was coming up the stairs, led by Holmes, to arrest him.
Lestrade pumped my hand. “England can never repay -“
“Splendid,” I said tersely, and disengaged from the painful arm-shake that was doing my recent injury no favours. Holmes pressed my lost walking-stick into my hand and I gave him a grateful look.
The rest of our team was safe. The cowled bat-fellow stood in the rafters high above and scowled down at us all for no reason, so we ignored him. The lady scientist sat on the top step earnestly explaining to the enthralled Viking that the remains of prehistoric lizards could very well have been the source of his ancestors’ legends about dragons and sea-monsters; it was good to see that two members of our bizarre group had found common ground.
And Miss Lucy Wildmon faced me, eyes shining, her voice cooingly worshipful. “Oh, Dr. Watson, the Prophecy was right. You were wonderf-“
“Send the medal round to Baker Street. Holmes and I have had a long day.” I didn’t even look at her - as inexcusably rude of me as my terse response, but frankly I did not care. I gripped my stick and rested my other hand on Holmes’ shoulder for the descent.
Getting down the stairs and out onto the street was a painful ordeal. Holmes, bless him, said nothing save to flag down a proper horse-drawn cab for our return. The motion jarred me but the sensible pace was a comfort after the wild ride.
Holmes did not speak again until we once more approached dear old Baker Street. “Watson, I’m quite sure that the only hero’s welcome you desire is a cup of tea, Mrs. Hudson’s splendid kidney pie, and a proper wash.”
“Brilliant deduction, old man,” I murmured, smiling through the pain. “The same will do you good as well. I may need some help washing tonight, as I’m afraid a proper bath will be out of the question for at least a week.”
A warm hand rested on my shoulder. “You need not even ask, dear fellow. I also find a snifter of brandy is a capital addition to one’s evening toilet.”
He was right on all counts, as he usually was. The burn of the brandy did wonders for the pain in my side whilst Holmes sponged my back, carefully skirting my 16 new stitches. I was full of good home-cooked food and fragrant tea. We were home; we were safe; and between us, we had defeated two villainous men in as many days, with the help of our friends and associates.
Everything was, indeed, awesome.
THE END
End Notes: Below are some visual images of our dramatis personae:
Watson and Holmes (Sherlock Holmes and the Hound of the Baskervilles)
Lucy “Wildmon” (Wyldstyle) (The Lego Movie)
Olaf the Viking
Dr. Berkowicz, Paleontologist
Batman
Mr. Maximillian