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There. Finally. Damp sheets moved to one side to dry as I set my pen down for the first time in hours. The rabbit purred in contentment at its finished draft, but I barely glanced away from the careful movements working the cramps out of my fingers. Holmes would never let me publish a case so recent and well-known. I would have to put it away with the others when I finished, but I thoroughly enjoyed a day of writing. A short break would let me start editing the draft.
Or let me start drafting another one. A low chortle carried from the next room, then small ears peeked around the corner from the landing. Beady eyes widened when I glanced up. Before I could do more than grin, the creature bolted much faster than I could hope to match.
It took a route I could intercept, however. The rabbit on my desk settled in for a nap while I stationed myself behind the other door, and a small reddish-brown blur ran through Holmes’ room and directly into my hand. The creature must not have found the nest yet. Usually the older ones prevented such ineffective tactics.
No matter. Not all of them wanted to be chased, after all, and I did not even reach my desk before the creature started telling me the case it wanted written.
Reference tome, I corrected immediately. Not a case. The animal started dividing magical creatures into categories, then providing facts about the various beings that fell under each category. A small stack of clean sheets let me start writing. Nicolas may want the reference for his library, but even if he did not, I always enjoyed the periods with so many ideas that I struggled to keep up. Whether cases or a reference manual of the magical realm, I wanted to write.
“…while not as proficient at metalworking due to their size, jotunn will always be drawn to the aftermath of a battle in search of metal and other items they can reuse…”
“Move!”
Blood. Terror. War. Dead and dying from both sides scattered the battlefield, and I did not have enough supplies to treat everyone. Even the aid of a nearby battalion, one close enough they had come to help but too far away to arrive in time for the battle itself, would not make a significant difference in the casualty numbers. Yet another example of poor tactics and poorer communication throughout this ill-thought war.
Though I usually preferred the ones that did not hit so close to home. A firm shake tossed the memory aside to keep writing. I was in London, not Afghanistan, and no matter how many lives they had saved that day, I need not watch for the jotunn coming to scavenge the battlefield and staying to help treat the injured. The rabbit changed topics, then bounced back up to add a bit in the section about humans.
“…knowledgeable humans must beware the unknowledgeable, lest they find themselves unduly confined…”
“Sherlock knows about them, too?”
“No,” I said firmly, “and you will not tell him. You know as well as I do what happens to an author locked in Bedlam.”
She did, her expression confirmed, but she also did not believe that of Holmes. “He would not lock you away, John.”
“He has already announced he would.” Shock returned at the declaration, but I made no effort to soften my words. She could not trust him with this. “You remember how much he dislikes the entire Christmas season?” She nodded, silently watching me. “He applied a stronger version of that opinion to the magical our second December. One of the Irregulars was a child of the magical realm, and those children talked of nothing else until Holmes decided to do more than ignore the topic. Only my intervention prevented someone from waking up in a cell.”
“But that was years ago—”
“His opinion has not changed,” I cut her off. I had no wish to scare her this soon after learning the full story, but between scaring her and losing her— “Do not acknowledge, chase, or write your poems in his presence, and instruct your rabbits to hide from him at all costs.”
No. Holmes had discovered the magical years ago. I would keep watch, but he no longer posed an imminent threat. Why did a simple reference tome spark so many old memories?
I had no idea. A firm order made the rabbit change sections once more, and the eager story shifted to various facts about the Creatures of Creativity. I opened the window to let in a cool breeze. The animals loved to talk about themselves. This topic should be safe enough.
“…a Creature of Creativity usually lets another knowledgeable human handle the initial introduction, but they never linger for long. Rabbits start running, canaries start flying, and all the others initiate their individual games the moment the human has a general idea of how the process works. Most humans consider the introduction a great honor…”
“What is it?” Harry turned around at my double take, then gave me a wide grin. “You did not tell me you had started writing!”
“What does writing have to do with a rabbit loose in your bedroom?”
“I get to see your first?!”
I could not tear my gaze from the young doe staring me down. “You’re not making sense, Harry. Why is a rabbit in your bedroom?”
“It’s here for you,” he replied, still nearly bouncing in excitement. “Mr. Holston calls them ‘plot bunnies,’ because they bring authors stories. When it gets your attention, it’s ready to speak, but you have to catch it first.”
“How do I catch it?”
He gave a half shrug, still grinning at me. “Mr. Holston mentioned chasing them.”
The animal moved restlessly, cutting off my incredulous question, and it gave me barely a moment to refocus before it took off down the hall.
“After it, Johnny!” His delighted whoop nearly echoed off the walls as I reflexively gave chase. “My brother’s an author!”
Or not. I aimed a scowl at the creature but resumed where I had left off. If the rabbit’s every sentence sent me hopping through time, I doubted I would get very far with its story. My desire to write did not include a desire to relive years long past.
I would try for a few more minutes, however. I did not often catch such a mature ‘plot bunny,’ as Harry had called them, and I always enjoyed the experience of a completed story idea that only needed to be written. A silent suggestion took us to yet another topic.
“…Captain of the sailing ship that land dwellers see as the moon itself, Moanne travels the winds to supplement the Polar Line. He retrieves stranded travelers and appointments both, but watch the lunar calendar if you hope to ride. Moanne takes a full day off every new moon…”
“…I was investigating the light.” One hand referenced my path, but I skipped the details as the pieces finally clicked. A glowing man that captained a ferry, whose day off was the new moon. “Nicolas once mentioned another method of magical transport,” I continued, “one with more diversity than the train on a less rigid schedule, but I’m sorry to say I don’t recall the driver’s name.” I stopped some ten feet away, unhesitatingly meeting his kind gaze. “Are you the moon?”
The man in the moon, more specifically, but I did not need to elaborate. Surprised delight somehow widened his already cheek-splitting grin. “I am indeed. Name’s Moanne. A pleasure to meet you.”
“And you as well.” His silent invitation let me join him on the grass. “Even Nicolas’ library did not have much about you. I suppose you took your free day in London to get off the trade routes?”
“That, too,” he agreed, “but I mostly came to enjoy your current weather. I think I like watching the stars from the ground more than from my ship. They twinkle more down here.”
“Watson?”
“I have very little information for you,” Nicolas shrugged. “His ship can go anywhere the moonlight touches, and I know he charges a fee comparable to the Polar Line’s rates, but we have not crossed paths in ages. What little I knew when he first built his ship no longer applies.”
Footsteps approached behind me, but I ignored them even when Holmes leaned over my shoulder. He would undoubtedly read this eventually. I had no reason to stop him now.
“…You will never find a magical more bluntly gruff than a dwarf. Birthed from the tales of miners deep in the rock, a dwarf never tires of bickering arguments no matter their sincerity, and more than one legend believes them capable of scowling the newly mined ore into their carts…”
“Finally.” The heavy sigh of relief twitched several leaves. “My name is Kukrin. Think I broke me ankle on a branch. Would ye tell the keeper ta send someone out? I can’t get off tha ground to take myself.”
“Watson, can you hear me?”
“Ye might like tha bridge further downstream,” he finally said. “Tha other side contains yer greatest desire, provided ye word your request carefully.”
Footsteps retreated, then rustling carried as if he dug through his desk. I merely turned the page to a new section.
“…small, winged guardians. More discreet than a nisse, sylph specialize in cloaking magic, though they can still defeat even a troll given enough time and some teamwork…”
“Go around!”
Leon charged straight on, his own bursts of magic protecting my path as I ducked around the edge of the alley. An opening put another bullet in its hip, but my next shot produced an explosion—thankfully just in front of my barrel rather than in it—that sent me back several feet. Whatever magic he had imbued in these bullets, my very human revolver could not fire two so closely together. I would have to be more careful.
“You have a patient, Watson.”
Explosions. Screaming. A loud roar. Enemies and allies alike screamed in terror as two fighting trolls wandered into the skirmish. Our battle abruptly ended as the unknowledgeable humans got a crash course in the magical realm from their neighbors, but I ducked around the panicking cavalry to line up a shot. My non-magical bullets would never penetrate their hide. I would have to aim for—
A thick, iron box slammed into the table beside me, snapping me out of the memory and abruptly breaking my connection. The animal’s short screech became a low keen, then three heavy books weighed the box down. Why had he—
Pain!
Agony exploded in my head as I turned to face him, and I reflexively grabbed my desk when the room continued the movement. Why did my head hurt?
“Watson?”
And why did the room insist on tilting this way and that? I barely noticed him kneel beside me as I braced my elbows against the desk to hide my face. Closing my eyes eliminated the visual difficulties but did nothing for the hammer beating against the inside of my skull. Deep breaths tried to breathe through the pain.
“Watson, can you hear me?”
Yes. I could not respond, however. An attempt to wave ended when he grabbed my wrist.
“Your heart rate is elevated.” Concern bled through the words when I still could not look at him. “Headache. Lightheaded. Does the room feel warm to you?”
Extremely, but the word died before reaching audible. I had opened the window earlier. The room should not feel so warm when the outside temperature hovered below fifty.
“You have a fever,” Holmes confirmed. “You were staring through your papers when I entered, and every attempt to gain your attention failed even after you resumed writing. I confined the rabbit when I noted the physical symptoms. What did you do today?”
Drafted the case. Started writing this encyclopedia. A gesture referenced the stack of papers weighted against the breeze, but I needed another minute before I could look up.
Keen eyes easily deduced my every thought despite the worry he failed to hide, but the roving scan clearly could not pinpoint the cause of my symptoms. His grip tightened on my wrist when another round of vertigo made me grab the desk.
“Wh—” The question cut off behind a flinch. I swallowed, then tried again. My pounding head refused to let me put the symptoms together myself. “What does…look like?”
Or speak above a whisper, but enough words reached audible for him to understand the question. The back of his hand checked my fever before he replied.
“Poison, but I do not know how. You have not left the flat all day?”
“No.” I had even skipped luncheon, based on the clock reading three hours past noon, but a low whine caught my attention. Could that rabbit—
“Go check your wardrobe.”
Confusion stared for only a moment before realization sent him darting into his bedroom. Less than ten seconds returned with two small vials, one containing significantly more than the other.
“It spilled one of my poisons,” he confirmed, displaying the half-empty vial. “Drink.”
He handed me the full vial, but the pounding in my head prevented me from drinking from such a small container. He dumped the contents into a cup along with a bit of water. Two large swallows nearly gagged at the taste, and a wordless request refilled my cup to let me continue sipping.
Though I also leaned back against the desk. My head pounded to the beat of my rapid pulse, and every stab of pain made me flinch. I would have moved to the settee if I could stand without making the room spin around me.
“The rabbit got the poison on its fur,” he deduced aloud, kneeling in front of me again though he kept his volume low in deference to my headache. “Those drops would have transferred to you when you caught the creature, but this poison should not have made you stare through your papers.” What else is wrong?
He did not have to voice the question for me to hear it, but I did not answer. Could not, when the lightheadedness increased to make me ground myself between desk and chair. Only my grip on the desk kept me from sliding to the floor.
“Watson?”
Fine. I was fine. Or I would be in a moment, once that antidote took effect. A gesture brushed away the question only to intercept his hand with my wrist. He immediately resumed tabbing my pulse.
“Has the antidote helped?”
Yes. Some. Just not completely. A low hum said as much, though he still studied me when I finally looked up.
And up. And up. I had apparently hit the ground after all, as I now sat on the floor with my back against the desk. Relief flickered into view when I made eye contact.
“Can you hear me now?”
Yes. Another hum took the place of a nod, however. Clumsy efforts to return to my chair succeeded only because Holmes steadied me off the floor, and I adjusted to rest my chin on my arm and still be able to drink. At least Holmes’ antidote gradually killed the headache. I would be fine in a minute.
“Why were you staring through your papers?”
Because that blasted creature had gone where it should not have. I made no effort to reword the irritated grumble. “Poisonous plot bunny.”
Heavy silence answered the grumble, and a glance found utter confusion. Right. I might not have explained that to him yet. A slow count of ten and another sip of water finally let me push myself mostly upright with minimal pain.
“You know how the canaries sing the tunes you write?” He nodded, though I needed a few seconds to continue. “Rabbits don’t speak, yet they still tell me the story. The telepathic variant means the symptoms transfer that way, too. Mild confusion blurred the lines between reality, the plot conveyed by the rabbit, and the memories those facts resembled.”
Concern glanced between me and the rabbit still trying to escape Holmes’ box.
“Does that mean the problem will return?”
Yes, if I intended to resume writing. I refused to go near that rabbit now, however, and the resolve finally stilled the creature’s struggling. I staggered to my feet, intending to retrieve my amulet from the mantle.
“Watson!”
Only to stumble beneath another wave of vertigo. Holmes lunged forward to grab my arm, quickly steadying me back into my chair.
“What do you need?”
“My amulet.” A wave referenced its spot around the headache trying to return with the attempt to stand, and Holmes crossed the room though his attention never left me. Several seconds let the pain fade once more before I activated the amulet’s primary gem to send a message.
“Rabbit got into poison,” I tapped quickly. “I am fine. Do you know of a magical nearby that can help? A lutin would probably be best.”
Lutins specialized in cleaning and fixing things. In the absence of Nicolas’ magic, the born helpers would know how to handle a poisonous rabbit. Nicolas replied in less than five seconds.
“Yes. He is on his way now. Do you need a doctor?”
I rolled my eyes but quickly wiped the message clear. Nicolas could hover worse than Holmes sometimes. “Holmes had the antidote.”
“A lutin will be here soon,” I confirmed as the amulet thumped the desk. “Go tell Mrs. Hudson to let him in?”
He eyed me as if still worried about possible symptoms but disappeared down the stairs. I used the opportunity to reach the settee without Holmes hovering. Killing the pain in my head did not halt the lightheaded pressure of such a headache, and my desk chair would never be comfortable enough to truly relax. I sank into the cushion just as Holmes returned to the sitting room.
“Watson?”
And noted the unsteadiness I tried to hide, naturally. He should not be so worried about a headache. He knew better than I which poison the rabbit had found, but the instant offer of the antidote also knew a comprehensive list of symptoms and durations. Even the rabbit’s telepathic capabilities would not change the physical progression that much.
Perhaps our next magical lesson would involve the interactions between non magical products and magical beings. I started searching for ways to distract him until the lutin arrived.