I feel that I, the author, should give some forewarning to the reader.

This is the second draft of my very first Sherlock Holmes fanfic, and the first fic I've written in a number of years. It has been beta-read by my most excellent beta, who goes by the moniker Thessaly, and is hopefully up to par in terms of convention and research. It is my attempt to reconcile the canon with the recent film, and while the Holmes of my imagination is Jeremy Brett, I have also tried to imbue him with some of the cavalierness and mania of Robert Downey Jr's portrayal.

Dedicated to Thessaly, who always has magnifying glass in hand, and to Weston Wynde, for setting the bar high.

Letter found in the Last Will and Testament of John H. Watson:

To Cox & Co et al,

I, John H. Watson, hereby instruct that the narratives, letters and journal contained in the envelope marked "Re: Withheld" should be released a minimum of thirty years after my death. A notarized letter of assent from the other concerned party is also enclosed. I leave it to the discretion of the honourable Mr. Frederick Cox Sr to assemble them for publication.

J.H. Watson, M.D.

Over the course of my long friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have recorded a great number of cases that had they ever seen the light of day, would wreak havoc on many a delicate reputation. After my fashion, I have either gone to great lengths to alter identities, or to refrain from publication until such time as it will not injure the persons or governments involved. However, in this particular instance, it is not the client whose reputation it has been incumbent upon me to protect, but rather that of Holmes himself. While he himself disdains social convention, even he has agreed that in this particular instance that the affair should remain secret until after both of us have departed from this life.

So it is from the shores of the afterlife that I convey this, the most singular and shocking story of Sherlock Holmes' career. I readily admit that even now, I am not in full possession of the facts, and it is down to Holmes to decide if he wants to make all of the details public. I do know that during the course of our attempt to resolve the disappearance of the railway shipment, my friend met with, for the second time, a tremendous defeat. Far from being humbled, he seemed to have been galvanized, and had keenly pursued his adversary ever since.

I had long been aware of his stoic attitude towards failure, and I found I was quite surprised by his behaviour. Holmes was rarely one to swear oaths of vengeance. Far be it for me to disclose the reason for his vehemence, but I may hint to the reader that it is in regards to the one Holmes has always referred to as "the woman". The publication of the rest of the details are at Holmes' discretion. In the interest of my friend's reputation, I have vowed to be circumspect in my own account.

As Holmes would say, I am committing a literary transgression by telling my story in the reverse. In my defense, the events require some forewarning. But I digress.

I have often observed that Sherlock Holmes is a creature of highly irregular habits. One of the most notable of these is his propensity for staying awake for days on end. Often during a case he will go seemingly superhuman lengths of time without sleep, and I have never yet seen his energy fail him in the service of his profession. When he was without a case he would alternate between listless days and sleepless nights.

It was not a rare occasion for me to leave him reading in front of the fire in the evening, and to come down in the morning and discover him in exactly the same attitude. Other times, he would stay awake into the far reaches of the night, his head bent over a monograph, his eyes red from his unceasing wakefulness. Only after a case did he seem to find some kind of healthy rhythm of sleep, and then only for a short time. Soon enough his insomnia would take hold again, and the entire row would wake at some ungodly hour to the sound of him bowing furiously on his Stradivarius. In that respect, forsaking my rooms had been something of a mercy, though I worried about the affect my absence would have on my friend.

Like so many brilliant minds, Sherlock Holmes was cursed with perception so heightened that it could whip up into what can only be called a mental frenzy, only to spiral down into the darkest depression. Left to his own devices, he resorted to morphine or cocaine as a means to moderate his mood, despite my constant warnings. The chemicals had only limited effect on him, but did appear to moderate his extremes. Work, he claimed, was the best cure. In my long acquaintance with Holmes, I have since come to the conclusion that a sane mind may be restful, but it does not allow for the kind of mental flexibility necessary for the higher art of lightning-fast deductive analysis.

To the casual observer, Holmes may have appeared to be an extreme eccentric, but I have formed the opinion that his soundness of mind was often questionable. He was impulsive, intractable, fearless, inscrutable, obsessive, reactive, self destructive, and sometimes positively manic. These combined elements might land any other man in an insane asylum. For Holmes, it was the perfect recipe for his occupation. It made the precipice of madness a tenable position. Without his art, he would have surely tumbled off, and sometimes it was a close thing. I did my best to anchor him.

That brisk morning in 1889, I decided on a whim to visit Baker Street. My ring met with no answer, so I used my key to open the door and made my way up to my old quarters. Crossing the threshold, I was forced to pick my way through the debris of books, cigarette ash and old newspapers. I was familiar with these hallmarks, and knew at once that cases had been thin on the ground for my friend.

I expected to find him languishing on the couch in drug induced haze, but was surprised to find him fast asleep, huddled in front of his chemistry set. It was clear he had been in the middle of some complex chemical experiment, as evidenced by the quantity of liquid boiling furiously above a Bunsen burner, and a number of shattered phials littering the desk. The liquid was giving off noxious fumes, so I hastened to the window and flung it open. Then I hurried back over to Holmes and quickly turned off the Bunsen burner. It took another two prods to wake him. He grunted and looked up at me with bleary eyes.

"Watson, you bounder, whatever did you turn off the burner for? I was on the verge of success."

Taking in the devastated equipment, I gathered that he had simply dozed off in the middle of his experiment and had attempted to continue conducting it from the nether realm of his subconscious.

"Holmes, you've been dreaming," I said, shaking my head. "Considering your sitting room is practically a tinder box, I'm surprised the whole row isn't ablaze. How could Mrs. Hudson could let you get in such a state? Or did she did she take one look at this place and die of apoplectic shock?"

Holmes unfolded his long frame from the chair and gave a great yawn, running his hands through his mussed hair. "Mrs. Hudson is in bed. I joined her in the kitchen for early morning tea, and she had a little...attack of malaise."

"You drugged her?" I said, quite appalled.

"'Drugged' is such a harsh word," he said mildly, going over to the sofa. He shifted some of the debris before sinking into it, letting his head roll back. "It was an act of kindness, really."

"Oh? For whom?" I said acidly. "I'm amazed your appearance didn't alert her immediately."

"Well, she was rather suspicious until the laudanum began to take effect."

"Holmes, for one who purports to uphold the cause of justice, you are dreadfully hypocritical. Some might say criminal. I do believe poisoning your landlady qualifies."

"A few drops of poppy is hardly poisoning," he said derisively. "It wouldn't do for me to be dragged off to the Yard just for sparing dear old Mrs. Hudson the fatal shock of seeing my messy sitting room. Besides, you are as much to blame as I."

"I? In what way am I responsible for your depravity?"

He turned an ironical eye on me. "Watson, you are my magnetic north. Without you, my moral compass spins."

I was somewhat mollified by this pronouncement. I had always done my best to exert some kind of grounding effect on him, but in truth there was little one could do in the face of Holmes' mercurial temperament.

"Holmes, you must take some rest. You are clearly exhausted," I said, well aware that he would ignore my advice. As expected, he waved a dismissive hand.

"Why bother? I am awake now." He yawned again, stretched and then began to pick glass out of the sleeve of his dressing gown.

I concluded that as Mrs. Hudson was unlikely to recover any time soon, breakfast was not forthcoming, so I went down stairs to retrieve the mail, and returned to find Holmes supplying himself with his customary morning pipe. I flipped through the mail, looking for the Times. In addition to the usual periodicals, there was a telegram. I passed it to Holmes and took the Times for myself.

"Are there any offerings this evening?" he inquired idly as he slit open the telegram.

"Tannhäuser at the Albert Hall, if you are so inclined."

"I may be, unless otherwise engaged," he gave the telegram a little flick. "It appears my services are wanted desperately at 84 Belgrave Mews by a Mr. Malcolm Dover. Would you like to accompany me, or would you prefer not to associate yourself with such a scoundrel?"

I heaved a sigh. "As if I could refuse, Holmes."

"You are the most stalwart of companions, Watson."

...

84 Belgrave Mews was one of a row of terraced houses, white washed with bay windows. We were shown in by a page, and were shortly met by the master of the house. Malcolm Dover was tall and wiry, with an tanned complexion and quick dark eyes. His air was very casual and relaxed, and he was dressed in finely tailored cream silk. At first glance, one might take him for a dandy, but there was a shrewdness beneath the charming exterior.

"Mr. Holmes?" his voice was an American drawl. He was a southerner, if my unpracticed ear did not deceive. The hall decor included various articles that confirmed my hypothesis: many sets of great longhorns adorned the walls, along with a large bullet-ridden Confederate flag, proudly displayed.

Holmes offered his hand. "Mr. Dover. This my colleague, Dr. Watson."

"Doctor," Dover said, shaking my hand.

Holmes tapped his lips with his forefinger. "I see you are very recently from America, Mr. Dover. Texas, I should say."

"Too right," said Dover with a laugh. "I was in Bowie County not two months ago. I'd heard you were something of a conjurer, Mr. Holmes. I would be mighty flattered if you'd deign to show me your trick."

"I think you will find the magic gone from it," Holmes chuckled. "But if it pleases you."

He paused for a moment and looked our host up and down.

"That you are yourself American is not difficult, of course. You are quite brown, but free of tropical insect bites, which suggests the winter desert climate of your late travels. There is also a faint whiff of cigar smoke in the air, brand El Paso Corona, which is not manufactured anywhere but its namesake and is quite distinctive. Lastly, your new snake-skin boots, while of good quality and quite expensive, are hardly worth the cost of shipping overseas and so must have been recently purchased in country."

Dover looked taken aback for a moment, but then recovered himself and smiled winningly. "Your powers were not exaggerated. You have given me a great deal more hope than I had a moment ago. Come along," he beckoned. "The drawing room's a better place for a yarn."

The three of us made our way into the drawing room. Our host offered the aforementioned cigars. I chose to abstain, but Holmes readily accepted. Dover dressed two coronas and passed one to my companion, who lit it before taking a seat. I elected to remain standing, and quickly fished out my notebook.

"Now, you have a matter of some urgency you wish to put before me," said Holmes as he took a deep drag and blew a few smoke rings. "Your telegram mentioned no specifics."

"I surely do, sir," said Dover, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his forehead. "Well, it is mighty far-fetched and much in your line, or so I hear tell. In any case, I run an importing business, the Himalayan Tea Company. A shipment by train was expected last night, but never came in."

"The train never came in?"

"That is just it, Mr. Holmes. The train has disappeared entirely. It came through Salisbury, but that was the last anyone heard of it. It was a London and South Western Railway special."

"Well, that is novel," Holmes said with a small chuckle. "One hears of train robberies, but this gives it an altogether new meaning."

"They used to be commonplace in my home state, but I ain't never heard of anyone making off with the whole train. We checked all the lines and switches, but no joy. On top of that, the engineer's gone missing."

Holmes's eyebrows shot up. To the untrained eye, it appeared he was exhibiting concern, but I knew his interest had been piqued by the scent of blood.

"That does make it rather more serious," he said as he leaned forward, his eyes taking on the tell-tale glitter. "Tell me, do you know the man's name?"

"The receipt says it was a man by the name of Peter Flanders."

"The engine's class and designation will also be necessary."

"It was a 415, number 544. The shipment was small, so we only engaged one boxcar and ordered it for Waterloo Bridge."

"What time was it due?"

"One o' clock in the morning. It was a very important shipment. Our most prized import, the Annapurna Purple Star, was among its contents. We have a monopoly on it, and the competition would dearly love to break it. The Star is worth its weight in gold."

"I see," Holmes said shortly. "You suspect the tea was the object of the theft."

"I can't think why else," Dover said, shrugging. "But I couldn't tell you why they took the train with them."

"I cannot help but wonder, why not go to the police with this matter?"

"Think of the embarrassment, Mr. Holmes. Matters that go before the police find their way into the press, and I'm at pains to shield my establishment."

"Very good, Mr. Dover." Holmes said, rising from his seat. "I think I have enough to be going on with. I will contact you with any developments. We will show ourselves out. Watson?"

I pocketed my notebook and followed Holmes out into the dusty street. As I hailed a cab, Holmes had lasped into a contemplative silence.

"I gather you've already read an answer into this." I said drolly as we got into the hansom.

"Several possibilities have occurred to me, as I am sure they have occurred to you."

"Something is troubling you."

"Does Dover's story not strike you as wanting in detail?"

"It is very bizarre, but I see no reason to doubt the man."

"Do you not? Oh, well." Holmes knocked the ceiling of the cab with his stick. "Take us to the London and South Western shipping office."

"Holmes..."

"I think, Watson," said Holmes with his maddeningly effervescent smile. "That we have time enough to make some inquiries and take dinner before Wagner."

...

Down by the Thames, gulls wheeled and cried. The cold wind blowing off the river was bracing and the chill penetrated my thick wool coat. Holmes, as usual, appeared impervious to the elements. I followed his long stride and we quickly made our way into the offices of the London and South Western Shipping Division.

"Sir," Holmes barked to the sleepy-looking clerk at the desk, who suddenly straightened to attention. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am investigating the loss of the property of one of your accounts. You do hold the account of the Himalayan Tea Company, correct?"

"Yes, sir," said the clerk stiffly. "Though information about our clients is strictly-"

Holmes cut him off with a sharp gesture."We are bound by the same confidence. I am employed by Mr. Malcolm Dover. We are attempting to trace a shipment that went missing after it was delivered to a special bound for London. I am aware that it arrived in Plymouth yesterday and was loaded on the train. I wish to know at what time the cargo was loaded."

"Well, I suppose it can be no harm to tell you that." The clerk pulled a thick portfolio out from under the counter, and began to leaf through it. "Let's see...the Himalayan Tea Company. Yes, I have it here. Plymouth wired that the cargo was unloaded directly from the clipper Queen of Makalu and on to the special at 11 o' clock in the morning."

"Very good." Holmes touched his hat. We turned and made our way back out to the street, hailed a hansom and directed the cabbie on to Simpson's.

...

I was half way through my pheasant, but found that watching Holmes push his mutton and potatoes around his plate in a continuous circuit had put me off my appetite. I would have berated him for ordering it in the first place in the hopes that it would induce him to eat, but long suffering experience had taught me the futility of my efforts. Like a hound after a fox, Holmes would only take his sustenance after the hunt was finished.

"How very curious," he remarked as he idly mashed one pea after another with his fork.

"What's curious?" I asked, somewhat irritated by his behaviour.

"You did not see the purpose of my inquiry?"

"I did not see it as pertinent."

"Of course it is pertinent," he said, shoving his plate away moodily. "I've only managed to plunge the matter further into obscurity."

"How so?"

"The shipment was loaded in the morning, and deliberately held back. Why delay it in Plymouth for thirteen hours, when it could be brought to London in half the time?" he put his fingers together and rested his chin upon them, surveying me. "Have you, in all your travels, ever heard of a tea theft before?"

"I must say, I have not," I said, chuckling. "Leastaways, not by rail. I can recall past instances of tea clippers being assaulted by Chinese pirates, but that has little bearing."

"Quite. Even for a very expensive tea, it strikes me as over-cautious to deliberately arrange for transport in the dead of night."

"Are you suggesting Mr. Dover was attempting to perpetrate some kind of mischief?"

"No client is beyond reproach, Watson," he chided gently.

"Holmes," I said, frowning. "If he is engaged in some kind of foul play, should we be aiding him?"

He lit a cigarette, took a few contemplative puffs, and then regarded me. "There is the engineer to consider, and involving the police now would be premature. We may need Dover's cooperation. If he is attempting to play us false, well..." he grinned deviously. "I will be quite pleased to clean my claws in him."

I gave him a sideways look. He clapped his hands and rose from the table.

"Come along, Watson. If we're to be on time, we must leave now."

...

The first half of the evening, Holmes was quite engaged with the performance. It was quite usual for my companion to allow music to consume him utterly, though it was not beyond him to walk out of a performance if it he felt the musician or musicians in question were not equal to it. Tonight's performance was exceptional, so I was rather surprised when during the third act, I noticed that his hand had stopped floating along to the libretto, and his eyes were open. Something had diverted his attention to a box to the far right of the theater. I followed his gaze to its occupant. It was difficult to tell in the dark, but it appeared to be a woman, clad in a gray taffeta gown. She was rising to leave. I felt a sudden jolt of recognition.

"Holmes!" I whispered urgently, pointing at the box. "Surely that is..."

I turned to my companion to register my surprise, but found that he too had disappeared.