I can't do it anymore, Watson. My brain has deserted me. You need to take the case. Lestrade will fill you in on the details.
Holmes did not wait for my reply. He locked the door behind him. A little later the monotonous tunes from his Model 15 Moog synthesiser drifted through the walls. He had rescued the machine from the raid on Moriarty's Cambridge flat.
Mrs Hudson brought the tea, one cup only. She knew. He is thinking of the Professor again, isn't he, she said in her conspiratorial voice. Poor Mr Holmes.
I leafed through Lestrade's folder on Sherlock's desk. The murder was gruesome, and there was no clue why the Bishop had visited the Jefferson Club that night.
A case! My case! I could feel the excitement of the hunt rising within me. In the printed story I would make it Holmes's work, of course, but this was mine to do.
Holmes by now had put his variations of Cohen's Joan of Arc into loop. It would be a tiring night.









