The Storykeeper

Chapter One: A Strange Comes to Call

"I am inclined to think—" Watson began. He was a middle-sized, strongly built man with a square jaw, thick neck and greying moustache. A former army surgeon, he had a weak leg and a weaker bank account. If it wasn't for the company he kept, the doctor would surely have faded into obscurity, along with the likes of other fictional Victorian gentlemen such as Samuel Prodder and Ovid Vere.

"I should do so," Sherlock Holmes remarked impatiently. He mildly resembled Benedict Cumberbatch's famous BBC portrayal, but the book version was taller, leaner, neater and a touch steelier - with a hawk-like nose, piercing grey eyes, and squarish chin that marked him as a man of determination.

"Really, Holmes, you are a little trying at times."

Holmes was too much absorbed with his own thoughts to give any immediate answer to the remonstrance. He leaned upon his hand, with his untasted breakfast before him, and stared at the slip of paper which he had just drawn from its envelope. Then he took the envelope itself, held it up to the light, and very carefully studied both the exterior and the flap. "It is - "

BOOM.

The tall cupboard, just to the right of them, exploded. The force shook the floor, rattling the window panes and violently clinking various chemical instruments that cluttered the table-top and mantle. The surrounding papers – including the one that Holmes' had been holding – scattered in the air. A second later, the carved cuckoo clock dislodged from the wall and came crashing down with a definitive smash.

If the cupboard had not exploded so spectacularly, a very different chain of events would have followed. Holmes would have deduced that the letter he received was a cipher message from one Fred Porlock, a petty criminal and agent of the nefarious Professor Moriarty. (Porlock's identity has since been a matter of scholarly debate, with popular theories suggesting he is in actuality Holmes' brother Mycroft, or even Moriarty himself). The rest of the plot leads them to the mystery of the "Valley of Fear" and the murder of a man called John Douglas. To be honest, it is not as good as, say, "The Hound of the Baskervilles".

Anyway, none of that matters because the cupboard did explode. Which means that both Holmes and Watson were completely distracted by what was, even in the world of fictitious Victorian detectives, a rather remarkable occurrence.

They both leapt up in alarm. Holmes recovered himself quicker and reached to open the cupboard. Before he could, however, the door flew open and out tumbled a young woman in the most peculiar apparel.

At least, Watson thought that she was a woman. She didn't really look like one. She didn't conform to what he called the "angelic fashion of women"; that calm, bright placidity he had always admired in the fairer sex. No, this woman was too contrary; from her tangled dark hair, cropped short at the neck, to the scarlet trousers – trousers!– she wore and the cartoon mouse that decorated her undershirt in plain view. She was, at once, childish and masculine, scandalous and absurd.

"Remarkable," pronounced Holmes.

Watson frowned. That was not the word he would have used.

The woman emitted a low groan and rolled into a sitting position. Her features suggested she was a foreigner, though her pallor suggested she had been in the country long enough to experience the British winter. A visitor from abroad would, perhaps, explain some of her oddity, although as a traveller himself Watson couldn't quite imagine anywhere with such peculiar customs.

He crouched down beside her.

"I'm a doctor, please allow me to help."

"Oh no," she waved away his concern. He was astonished the find that she had an English accent. "It's just a touch of motion sickness, I'll be fine in a moment. Haven't had a landing like that since I was a rookie."

"I see," said Watson slowly, feeling that their short interaction was enough to confirm his original suspicion that she must be quite mad.

He turned to his friend, to try and quietly indicate as such, but Holmes, supremely unhelpful at the best of times, had apparently transferred his interest to the cupboard, which he was now thoroughly inspecting.

"Holmes," said Watson.

Holmes was tapping along the backboard of the cupboard.

"Holmes."

"Hmm?"

"Perhaps you should pay attention to this..." he struggled for a moment before politeness won out, "young lady?"

"Thalia," the stranger inserted. "My name is Thalia Opus."

"Dr. John Watson," said Watson, "and this is Sherlock Holmes."

"I know."

It was then that Thalia wondered why she was introducing herself at all. Something about narrative convention. She shook it off briskly, staggering to her feet. Both men watched her with fascination and, in Watson's case, bemusement.

"Has anything unusual happened?" she demanded – just as Watson said, "who are you?" and Holmes asked, "how did you get here?"

"Anything unusual?" repeated Watson, "you just fell out of our linen cupboard!"

"Yes, besides that." She looked between them inquiringly. They stared back. "Okay, that's good – "

A shriek rang out from downstairs, loud and alarmed. It was caused by two things. The first, a desire by the author to create suspense and so, to try and achieve this, events sometimes happen very rapidly, one after another, in a highly improbable, but hopefully entertaining fashion. The second is that Mrs Hudson, returning from Church Street Market, had just seen an enormous dragon flying overhead.

Thalia rushed down two flights of stairs, charging out of the door to where Mrs Hudson, surrounded by the shopping had spilt all over the ground, was pointing up at the sky. A moment later, Holmes and Watson arrived just in time to catch the shadow of the beast as it disappeared over The Regent's Park.

"What the deuce was that?" Watson cried.

"Dragon!" wheezed Mrs. Hudson.

"Did it say anything?" said Thalia.

"Pardon?" The Housekeeper looked as if she might faint. She leaned on Watson for support.

Thalia tugged open the bag slung around her shoulders and pulled out a weighty dog-eared tomb. "I should have got a kindle version," she muttered, "of course, electronics aren't exactly reliable in most periods."

"Is she alright?" Mrs. Hudson whispered to Holmes and Watson.

"D for dragon... D for dragon... here we go, what did it look like?"

"It was sort of... dark. Big. Frightening."

"That rules out Mushu."

"Pardon?"

"Never mind."

Thalia scanned the page, nodded to herself and stowed the book back into her bag, zipping it hastily. "Bye then – ah, you ought to return to your usual business, investigate whatever case you are on – everything is fine! Totally normal!"

She gave them a cheery wave before running down the road and across the street – almost being hit by an oncoming apple cart but managing to dodge past it just in time.

"Should we follow her?"

Holmes thoughtfully shook his head. "No, no, I think not."

He headed back inside the house and up the stairs. Watson remained a moment to reassure Mrs Hudson and help her salvage what she could of the groceries. Then he took one last long look in the direction that the strange woman had disappeared before also returning to 221B Baker Street.