As a close personal friend of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, it was my good fortune to assist in the numerous cases which came to his attention. In 1881, I published the story of our first meeting, and of the tumultuous adventure that followed. Yet, there is much I have never told the complete truth regarding the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and myself. I will attempt to do so now, with what memory I have left, and with the help of my notes on previous cases which I have already recorded.

Many astute scholars have remarked on discrepancies in my earlier stories and tried to prove my incompetence as Holmes' chronicler, through some odd notion of jealousy, I believe. Other students of my writings have suggested that perhaps the mangling of dates, names, and so on, was designed to protect the persons involved in these cases. Most readers, I believe, will be somewhat surprised to learn that the person I was in fact trying to protect was Holmes himself! With Holmes now safe where no man may find him, after years of tending bees on the Sussex Downs, I may speak freely. And as this story will never be published, I have no fear of upsetting any who may be affected by it. I write it merely as a matter of record, to faithfully record all of the adventures I shared with that great man, Sherlock Holmes.

I have already remarked in "A Study in Scarlet" how I had returned to London to recuperate from injuries suffered in the second Afghan war. In a search for lodgings, I happened to run into an old friend of mine, young Stamford, who had been a dresser under me at Barts. We talked, and as the conversation progressed, Stamford soon realized that he now had two acquaintances who were looking for cheap lodging. Mentioning this to me, I asked for an introduction to his colleague. It was at that moment I had unknowingly taken the first step towards my many faceted life with Sherlock Holmes.

My first meeting with Holmes was as I have previously described it, with Stamford and I entering into a wing of St. Bartholomew's Hospital at the precise moment Holmes discovered a reagent which was precipitated only by haemoglobin. Stamford had introduced us, "Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"How are you?" he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength for which I should hardly have given him credit. "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive."

"How on earth did you know that?" I asked in astonishment.

"Never mind," said he, chuckling to himself.

That is how my first meeting with Sherlock Holmes was originally published in the Strand magazine. But here is where I would surprise my readers. Holmes, the truth be told, was not an emotional man. He was not a man for chuckling, nor did he ever laugh, cry, or fly into fits of rage. I gave Holmes these qualities to help him seem more personable, and yes, as I am sure a scoffer would remark, to help the sales of my stories. I make no apologies, for it hurt no one, and in fact helped in more ways than most could ever imagine.

We met the next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No. 221B, Baker Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting. We concluded the bargain upon the spot, and at once entered into possession. The next day or two were filled with busily unpacking and laying out our possessions to the best advantage.

Holmes was not a difficult person to live with. In fact, he was quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be up after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out before I rose in the morning. Sometimes he spent his day at the chemical laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting rooms, and occasionally in long walks, which appeared to take him into the lowest portions of the city. Nothing could exceed his energy when the working fit was upon him, and he would sometimes not sleep for days on end. But now and again a reaction would seize him, and he would lie upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle from morning to night. On these occasions I had noticed a dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes, and in those early days of our relationship I suspected him of being addicted to the use of some narcotic. Loyal readers know what I have already revealed. Holmes was in fact taking a narcotic: a seven-per-cent solution of cocaine. What I have not revealed, and have been sworn to secrecy on, are the other ingredients in that solution. Taken as a whole, they provided Holmes with a necessary dietary supplement which he took on certain occasions.

Holmes became addicted to cocaine only temporarily, through a tragic mismanagement of the normal proportions. I feel a slight pang of guilt in revealing yet another of my friend's secrets, but I have a moral obligation to impart to the world what facts I know that may prepare them for the future. But I see I have strayed from my subject.

Holmes was what we call a vegetarian, a fact I kept hidden in order to draw attention away from Holmes' differences from other people. However, this was not the reason for his "hypodermic diet." Again I apologize, this time for the mystery I am only hinting at, but as a writer I have learned to build suspense until the best possible moment. Continue, dear reader, continue.

As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to his aims in life gradually deepened and increased. His very person and appearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His hair was short, save on the sides which he let grow thickly, and more than long enough to cover the tips of his ears. At first this annoyed me, and I found when he would wear the deerstalker hat given him by a colleague that his looks were much improved. His eyes were sharp and piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and squareness which mark the man of determination. His hands were invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe when I watched him manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments.

My life at that point was objectless, and as I recovered from my illness, I embraced the mystery which hung around my companion, and spent much of my time trying to unravel it. His past was shrouded in mystery, for he never spoke of it. With the modern world, his ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the naivest way who he might be and what he had done. My surprise reached a climax, however, when I found that he was ignorant of the Copernican Theory and of the composition of the Solar System. Now I know that Holmes knew much more about the Solar System than most men had ever dreamed of, but in those days he was not yet confident enough to trust me with any of his secrets. Of Carlyle, however, he may still be ignorant.

As the reader knows, I was eventually able to learn Holmes' profession. One rainy Thursday morning, I sat down at the breakfast table and picked up a magazine in order to while away the time. As I read, I came upon a marked article ambitiously titled "The Book of Life." It attempted to show how much an observant man might learn by an accurate and systematic examination of all that he came upon. It struck me as being a remarkable mixture of shrewdness and of absurdity, and I said so. Fortunately, Holmes was not upset, for he had written it. After listening to my disbelief on the subject, he proved his skill by remarking on our first meeting.

"You appeared to be surprised when I told you, on our first meeting, that you had come from Afghanistan."

"You were told, no doubt."

"Nothing of the sort. I knew you came from Afghanistan. From long habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind that I arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate steps. There were such steps, however. The train of reasoning ran, 'Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.' The whole train of thought did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you came from Afghanistan, and you were astonished."

That was my first experience with the extraordinary powers of logic and deduction at the hands of Sherlock Holmes. Minutes later, a telegram arrived. Originally, this had been a letter introducing what I call "A Study in Scarlet." In truth, that mystery followed the one which I am about to tell, and I still feel that it in no ways compared to this, my first adventure with Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes had finished reading the telegram, his eyes shining with the fire of inner thought which showed mental abstraction, though his face remained expressionless.

"Look at this, Watson, and tell me what you think." He tossed it across to me.

It read:

Wish to consult you upon strange death of William Sloane. If possible, come immediately to 22, Well Walk, Hampstead Heath, near Kenwood.

Yours truly,

Tobias Gregson."

"It seems interesting enough. Are you going?" I asked.

"Yes, I think a country journey would do us good."

"You wish me to come?"

"Yes, if you have nothing better to do. It is just now three, and I believe that if we hurry we can catch the 3:15 to Hampstead."

Arriving at the Hampstead Junction, we hailed a cab, and from there proceeded to number 22, Well Walk. The journey was not as long as it seemed to be, for Holmes never spoke. I tried to amuse myself by counting the signposts along the way, but eventually I grew bored. Holmes simply sat and stared straight ahead, lost in his own private reverie. Only once did we speak.

"The rain has stopped," I said.

Holmes turned toward the window, his concentration broken. He had been unaware of our surroundings. "Good. That will help our investigation." He then resumed his musings, and I forgave any attempt to open another conversation. As we neared our destination, Holmes stopped the cab a hundred yards or so from the house, insisting we finish our journey on foot.

It was a bright and cheerful house, separated from the road by a low hedge, and surrounded on either side by a tidy row of small yellow flowers. However, behind the house was a long, low stone wall, and behind that, the Hampstead Cemetery. It was a dismal place, as I suppose most cemeteries must be, and it gave off a depressing feel that the house ordinarily would not have had. Over the hedge and to my right, I could see a thin white sheet covering an object which I rightly assumed to be the body of the unfortunate victim. At the gate we were greeted by Inspector Gregson, a tall, white-faced, flaxen-haired man, and a stout looking constable. Assuming that Holmes would want to investigate the body immediately, I started across the yard.

"Watson, stop!" Holmes barked.

Immediately, I halted, not daring to move. A gentle tug on my shoulder made me step back, and I turned to look into Holmes' stern face.

"My apologies, Watson, I should have warned you. Pay careful heed to my instructions, for I cannot abide others convoluting the scene of a crime." He glanced at Inspector Gregson. "And from what I can see, I have my work cut out for me. Now, stay back and let me work."

He circled the yard, gazing at the ground, the sky, and the opposite houses. Having finished his scrutiny of the scene, he proceeded slowly across the yard to where the body lay, covered by a white sheet. His eyes were riveted to the ground. Twice he stopped, and once I heard him utter an exclamation of satisfaction. I was unable to see how my companion could hope to learn anything from it. Still, I had received such extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive faculties, that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal which was hidden from me.

Coming upon the sheet, he lifted it away from the body, and called to us.

"Gregson! Is the body here exactly as you found it?" Holmes asked, motioning us over.

"We only moved it enough for the purposes of our examination," he replied, as we crossed the yard. "The reason I called you, Mr. Holmes," he added, "is that the lady herself asked me to. Mrs. Sloane, that is. There are no marks of violence on the body, and the police coroner who was round earlier took one look at him and pronounced it a heart attack."

"Yes, yes, that should be sufficient," Holmes replied, seemingly oblivious to everything but the task before him.

The unfortunate corpse was a man who appeared to be about forty years of age, middle-sized, broad-shouldered, with thinning brown hair and a short, neatly trimmed moustache. He was dressed in dirty brown trousers, a light-coloured shirt, and slippers. He lay curled up, with his knees almost touching his chin, and upon his face was as peculiar an expression as I have ever seen. The right side of his face was perfectly normal, while the left side seemed twisted and warped, his mouth in a horrid half-grin.

As I watched, Holmes' nimble fingers were flying here, there, and everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eye wore the same far-away expression which I have already remarked upon. So swiftly was the examination made, that one would hardly have guessed the minuteness with which it was conducted. Finally, he opened the dead man's hands, and then jumped as if shocked, as close to astonishment as I had ever seen him.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked. Peering over his shoulder, I saw what he had found so astonishing. What looked to me like a small red leech, about an inch long and a fourth of an inch wide, rested on the wrist of the dead man's right hand.

"Oh, it's only a small worm, Mr. Holmes. I've heard they find them on their walks nearly every morning," Gregson scoffed, reaching down to pick it up.

"Stop!" Holmes barked again. Gregson stopped, his hand frozen less than an inch above the strange red leech. Suddenly, Holmes voice softened, as if apologetic, though it sounded to me if he were trying to control himself not to pick up the Inspector and toss him out into the lane.

"You know what a scientist I am, Gregson, and I must confess I've never seen this particular type of worm in this area before. I'd like to keep it, if you don't mind," he added, picking up the worm and dropping it into his pocket.

"Oh, of course," Gregson stammered. "Now, if you've finished your investigation, shall we go inside and speak to Mrs. Sloane?"

"Certainly," Holmes said, rising to his feet.

We were shown into the sitting room, where Mrs. Sloane was seated on the sofa waiting for us. She was a tall woman, with bronzed skin and long, straight brown hair. Her face was plain, though not unattractive, and she had the air of a woman accustomed to acting on her own if need be.

"Mr. Holmes?" she raised her head, her eyes red and still glistening with tears.

"Yes, Mrs. Sloane, I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate, Dr. Watson. Pray compose yourself, madam, and tell me why you think your husband's death was not, as the police believe, the result of a heart attack."

As Mrs. Sloane began her tale, Holmes leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and steepled his fingers in front of him. Unnerved by this unusual action, she paused, then took a breath and began her tale.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, for the last four years I have been married to Mr. William Sloane, a barrister. Our lives were happy and uneventful, until two months ago. William said he had been doing more than twice his normal business lately, and expected that he would soon become a judge. With this in mind, he bought us this small house near Heath End.

"You may imagine that I would have been quite comfortable here, with William making more money and myself getting a new house, but this last week, strange things began to happen. Last Tuesday night, I was lying in bed, unable to sleep, when William slipped out of bed and stepped into the hall. I thought he was merely going to the lavatory, so I didn't move. But in a few minutes he hadn't come back, so I put on my robe and went to go look for him. Our bedroom is upstairs, so I went to the top of the stairs and called his name, but no answer came. Lighting a candle, I went downstairs, thinking perhaps he had gone out for a walk. When I reached the front door, I heard voices outside. Putting my ear to the door, I could hear William talking to another man. I couldn't make out their conversation, but I did hear the word 'back-flap.'"

Holmes' forehead creased, though his eyes did not open.

"Pardon me, Mrs. Sloane, but are you certain that the phrase used was 'back-flap?'"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes."

"Hmmmm. And were you able to tell who said it?"

"It was the other man, the one William was talking to. He had an odd accent, too. I think he may have been a Cockney."

"Thank you, Mrs. Sloane. Pray continue. Your narrative fascinates me."

Gregson and I exchanged glances, for Holmes looked anything but fascinated.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, it was right then that I heard them exchange good-byes, so I ran upstairs as quietly as I could, blowing out the candle on the way, and got back into bed. A minute later William came back into the room. He told me that he had heard me moving about, and teased me for my curiosity. He said that he had only stepped out for a breath of fresh air, and had met a passing gentleman resting on our stoop. He laughed off my worries, but I could tell that he was unnerved that I had noticed his absence.

"Things soon returned to normal, and I had almost forgotten that eerie night, when two nights ago, the night before poor William's death, the same thing happened again. But this time, I waited a bit longer before climbing out of bed so William wouldn't become suspicious. I could hear no one on the stoop, but through a small side window I saw a small glowing light. Extinguishing my candle, I crept over to the window and peered out. About five yards away, I could make out my husband and another man, as they stood talking and smoking cigarettes in the moonlight."

Opening his eyes and leaning forward, Holmes spoke. "Could you describe the other man, Mrs. Sloane?"

"I'll do my best, Mr. Holmes. He was short, shorter than myself. I believe he was probably just under five feet tall, and he was very thin. I couldn't see his face, even in the moonlight, for he wore a flat, broad-brimmed hat which cast shadows on his face."

With a small murmur of satisfaction, Holmes again leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"Go on, Mrs. Sloane. Did anything else unusual happen that night?" I ventured, with a quizzical look at Holmes' apparent unconcern.

"Well," she began again, "it seemed to me that I saw them exchange something between them, then they shook hands and departed. Of course when I saw William coming I ran up the stairs again, but he didn't return immediately. I'm sure that I heard him moving about in the study, which is directly under our bedroom, but I can't imagine what he could have been doing. Soon he returned to bed, and I feigned ignorance of the entire affair. How I wish I had confronted him now! Mr. Holmes, you must find his murderer! No disrespect to your men, Mr. Gregson, but I'm certain there must be something, some sort of poison that they've missed! Please, Mr. Holmes, you must help me!"

She finally broke down in sobs, unable to continue. After Holmes assured her of his cooperation, Gregson and I made our apologies, and left Mrs. Sloane under the watchful eye of her sister, who had just arrived. Gregson said she had come to take her sister back home, in hopes that she would sooner recover from this terrible tragedy.

On the ride back to Baker Street, I could get nothing out of Holmes. He would only say "Tomorrow, Watson. I shall have the whole story come tomorrow morning." I did notice, however, he kept patting down his overcoat pocket, the one in which he had placed the worm.

It was nearly dark when we reached Baker Street, and before our cab had come to a full stop, Holmes had bounded out of the carriage, and dashed up the stairs to our rooms. After paying the cabby, a task it did not slip my notice he had left for me, I followed. I had barely reached the top of the stairs when once again, Holmes came bounding out the door and back down the stairs, carrying a small black case. I turned to ask him where he was going, but I never got the chance.

"I'm going to be late, Watson. Don't wait up. Mrs. Hudson! Ah, there you are. I'll need a small meal to take with me. No thank you, Ms. Hudson, just vegetables, if you please."

Sighing, I listened to Ms. Hudson, our landlady, clucking about Holmes not getting enough meat on his bones, then I pushed open the door and entered our apartment.

With nothing to do, I decided to try and read one of my favorite Poe mysteries, The Murder in the Rue Morgue. But when compared with Holmes, the character of Dupin seemed so shallow and superficial that I gave up the book in disgust. My bull pup nosed about my ankles, so I picked him up and put him in my lap, wondering if he had felt as abandoned today as I did now. The next thing I knew, it was early morning, and sunlight was streaming through the window. Groggily, I roused myself, ignoring the protestations of my body against spending the night in an armchair, and stood up.

"Holmes! Are you in? Hello? Holmes?"

No answer. I scratched my head, wondering where my friend could have been all night. As I brushed back a few errant strands of hair, a tiny growl caught my ear. Turning round, I saw my bull pup, sniffing and growling at something slowly moving across the hardwood floor. From where I stood, it looked like a small bug, and I stepped forward to crush it. Ignoring my approaching foot, my pup gave it a lick with his tongue, and let out the most terrifying yelp it has ever been my misfortune to hear. It only lasted for a second, but to me it felt like minutes, as I stood above him with my feet frozen to the floor. Then as suddenly as it had begun, he collapsed, curling his legs up under him as he breathed his last.

I stood aghast. As I bent over to make sure he was dead, I was suddenly grabbed and flung across the room like a toy, to land on the sofa nearly four yards away. Stunned, I flailed my arms about, hoping to nab my assailant with a lucky punch. Looking up into the face of my attacker, I gasped.

"Holmes!"

"I'm sorry about the rough treatment, Watson, but it was of the utmost importance. My negligence is really unexcusable. You might have been killed."

"Killed? What? How?" I stammered, unable to come to terms with this new situation.

"Look closely, Watson," he said, stretching out his hand to pull me up.

I peered at where he was pointing, and saw still clinging to the tongue of my poor bull pup, the mysterious red leech which Holmes had retrieved from the body of the dead man the previous day. In a flash of insight, I realized what had happened.

"You mean, that's what killed William Sloane? And my bull pup, too? Incredible!"

I was astonished. I had never heard of such a small creature able to bring instant death to anything it touched. As I spoke, Holmes had picked up a small glass jar, and filled it with a generous supply of alcohol.

"Yes, Watson, and it's fortunate for us, perhaps even for the rest of England, that I was called in on this case immediately."

Holmes paused, and turning his head from where he had been gazing at that repulsive leech, he looked at me, as if considering. Then, with an almost visible look of resignation, Holmes bent over, picked up the red leech, and dropped it into the jar of alcohol, tightly fastening the lid.

"Holmes," I said, with an air of more certainty than I felt I possessed at the time, "I realize that at times I'm not one of the brightest people in the world, but I know when something doesn't make sense. And something's deucedly wrong here! You've gone so far as to tell me that this small red leech is the cause of death for both a man and my poor dog, yet you pick up this same red leech with ease. Now, I believe I deserve an explanation," I huffed, sitting down onto the sofa and folding my arms.

Holmes stared at me, and with that same look of resignation which I have already mentioned, pulled over an armchair and sat down in front of me.

"Watson," he said, "what I am about to tell you, you must never tell another living soul, until you are certain that no man will ever see me again. It could make things very uncomfortable for me, and for the rest of the planet as well."

Holmes looked more solemn than I had ever seen him before, and it never occurred to me not to swear my complete and solemn obedience to him. But I am not a man who likes to give without getting in return.

"On one condition," I said.

"And that is?" Holmes asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I will follow your instructions to the letter, with one exception. If it is necessary to save a life, then..."

"Your medical oath serves you well, Doctor. Very well, I agree to your condition." He took a deep breath, and began.

"Watson, I am not like other men." At this, I began to make a snide remark, but stopped when I saw the look on his face.

"I am not from this planet. My true home lies hundreds of light-years away. If you walked for the rest of your life, and your children and grandchildren for the rest of theirs, you would be hardly any closer than when you started.

"My race is prized for our emphasis on peace, logic, and total suppression of emotions. Twenty-four years ago, I was assigned as a sort of 'cultural observer' for your planet. My ship, designed to carry me through space, was built in order to accommodate me for the rest of my natural life, which by your estimates would be at least two to three hundred years. My job was simple. Once I arrived at your planet I was to remain in orbit for some time, gather what information I could, and return home. This information would determine whether or not we should contact your race, and inform you that other forms of life exist in this galaxy.

"Upon entering orbit, my navigation became damaged, and I landed very near to where we visited yesterday on the Hampstead Heath. Fortunately, there had recently come a large snowstorm, and very few residents were able to leave their homes. In fact, there was only one, a government official named Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft is the only human I have ever met whose grasp of logic is equal to my own. In fact, combined with his knowledge of human emotions, he may even be my superior. But I digress.

"Mycroft believed that the world was not yet ready for knowledge of alien races, and after realizing my peaceful intent, he determined to help me blend successfully into society. He taught me the basics of your culture and language, and even gave me a name, as a tribute to his younger brother who had died when he was but three.

"He also taught me the ways of your world, both the good and the bad. My fascination with crime, which no longer exists on my world, combined with my natural powers of logic and deduction, made my choice of career an easy one.

"And now, Watson, you know the truth. Will you keep your promise?" Holmes paused, waiting for my response.

I was staggered. The implications of what I had been told were enormous. But although my mental power is not on a level with Holmes, I like to think of myself as a logical man, and I like to have proof before committing to anything, especially so fantastic a tale as this.

"Holmes," I said, "I have already promised to keep your secret, but I would still appreciate some proof. However, I hope you can explain several things to me first."

"Certainly, Watson. Please, ask."

"First of all, I would like to have the entirety of this case explained to me. I don't understand what has happened, and should be very happy if you could briefly give me the particulars."

"Of course. You were not present in my endeavors last night, and I can understand your confusion.

"Mr. Sloane, as you now know, was killed by this 'red leech,' as you call it. In truth, it is not a leech at all, but a creature from my home planet. A very durable creature, for it had to survive the crash of my ship, from which I myself barely escaped, and then being buried in the cemetery at Hampstead Heath, where Mycroft and I hid the wreckage of my ship. Somehow it survived, and was found by Mr. Sloane as he crossed his yard. To his misfortune, he picked it up, and it killed him.

"But they should all be gone now. Last night, I actually managed to get Mycroft out of the Diogenes Club and over to the cemetery. There, together with some highly-paid and well-trusted servants of the Crown, we dug up the remains of my ship, and uncovered a nest of the creatures. Apparently they had nested by the warm, still flickering emissions of my ship's power supply. Mycroft wanted to retain them for the scientists of this realm, but I persuaded him to destroy them. And now, as winter is upon us, the very few which escaped should be done in by the cold."

"But Holmes, what about the mysterious man who met Mr. Sloane in the middle of the night? Surely he must have some connection to this sordid business!"

"Connected, yes, Watson, but not involved. The description Mrs. Sloane gave me of his height, in connection with his odd hat, was most helpful. It was an exact description of Pete Mansfield, better known to the police and the criminal underworld as 'Tiny Pete,' a known blackmailer. I suspected it was blackmail when I noted the phrase that Mrs. Sloane heard through the door: 'back-flap.'"

"Oh, come now Holmes, that could have been anything!" I blurted, too wrapped up in the mystery for the moment to worry about Holmes' alien origin.

"Possibly, possibly, but remember Mr. William Sloane was a barrister."

"So? What has that got to do with it?"

"Legal barristers are not supposed to collect fees, Watson, you know that. They rely solely on 'voluntary honorariums' from their solicitors. Where was Mr. Sloane suddenly getting his extra money from? Obviously, I suspected he was involved in certain 'unsavory legal practices.' In fact, there is still a flap at the back of barristers' gowns into which, in bygone days, solicitors used to slip their fees. Thus, the 'back-flap.' And Pete, when I caught up with him last night, was only too glad to confirm my suspicions in exchange for my allowing him a temporary reprieve from the law. Knowing him as I do, however, I daresay his reprieve will not be nearly as long as he hopes.

It took a bit of doing to find him, though. I suppose he'd heard about the Sloane death from his sources, and so stayed away from his usual haunts. And that is the reason I didn't get back until this morning, almost to my eternal regret."

"What will you tell Mrs. Sloane?"

Holmes sat for a moment, thinking.

"I will tell her nothing. She has offered no fee, and I think it best that she puts this sordid business behind her. It can only cause her harm. If she should inquire further, I will write back and assure her of her husband's death by natural causes. After all, an inability to live after being poisoned is certainly natural enough."

"Yes, Holmes, why weren't you poisoned by that odd leech-like creature? I think it's time for some of that proof."

"You trust me, Watson? Knowing all you do?"

"Implicitly."

"And yet you still ask for proof?"

"I owe it to myself, not to mention Queen and country, Holmes."

"Very well. Do you have a needle handy, Watson?" he asked.

I nodded assent, and handed over my medical bag, which had been sitting beside my chair.

"Are you watching carefully, Watson?"

"Yes, of course." I answered hurriedly, not knowing what to expect, and worrying that if I knew, I might not want to see.

With quick precision Holmes jabbed his index finger with my needle, and held it up for my inspection. Since my introduction to Sherlock Holmes, I had seen and heard things I had never dreamed I would be a part of, but nothing had prepared me for this, not even my many years as a doctor.

On Holmes' fingertip a tiny pinprick of blood appeared. But not the healthy, red color of blood I was used to seeing. The blood that had flowed from his veins was instead a light, putrid green color. I gasped, in shock and utter amazement.

"You were wondering why the creature didn't poison me, Watson? A very simple explanation, if you already know the answer. While your blood is based on iron, mine is based on copper," Holmes explained. "I suppose you could say I left a bitter taste in its mouth." His eyes glinted with what seemed to me to be an ironic twinkle.

"Now, do you think you've managed enough proof, Watson?"

I nodded, unable to speak, then coughed.

"Unless you've got any more obvious secrets you feel you should share with me," I said jokingly.

As I expected, Holmes didn't laugh. He simply took off his deerstalker hat, which I suddenly realized he hadn't taken off since our abrupt encounter of this morning. As I stared, he brushed back the hair which normally hung just over his ears. Instead of the normal, rounded ears I expected to see, on either side of Holmes' head were two thin curved ears which came to sharp points at the top.