And finally, at last, that, that is how John Watson and Sherlock Holmes first got romantically involved, if you must know.

Now excuse us while we go sit in the corner and have a nervous breakdown. Thank you.


Look at that. Did you see what I did there? Did you? I told you a nice long story about two silly kids and then I didn't bother to tell you I was telling you the story.

But you knew, didn't you? I know you knew. Sure, I said "we" all the time, as if—what? Did I think I was going to throw you off? And if I did, why did I want to? And if I managed to throw you off, how did that make you fee—

Damn it! I'll stop. I'm stopping. There. I've stopped.

Occupational hazard, all those self-referencing questions, all that circular logic. I used to be a therapist, did I mention that?

Anyway, okay. Fine. Let's start again. Yes. I'll be brief.

I am dead. I am a skull. I live at 221B Baker Street. And I just told you a story about how my problem child and his hero finally got together. It's a lovely story in parts, isn't it? A touch of angst to keep things real. Some humpy-bumpy to keep you interested. I love sharing the story, but this? This was just the beginning. Now I've got now to deal with, and I've got so much more that I want to tell.

Will you listen?


What I need you to do then, is to put this story down, tuck it in, say goodnight to it, and move along with me now to my tale: Skullduggery. And then I need your opinion on a few things.

Well, on everything, really.