Author's Note: Technically, this is a crossover, but I couldn't find a match on FFN for H.G. Wells in general, just specific stories, and 'The Diamond Maker' sadly wasn't among them. Not that I blame anyone, as it's one of Wells's dullest tales in terms of action; whereas Doyle's 'The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone' has plenty of drama, but is the worst written of the Holmes canon! Clearly, these two stories had something to offer each other...


The Adventure of the King's Ransom

From the private journal of Doctor John H. Watson, M.D.

December 5th, 1893

It feels most strange, and not a little macabre, to be taking up my pen once again, only six months after promising myself that I should never undertake to document another of Sherlock Holmes's cases. Time, alas, does not halt or even slow for the convenience of the bereaved. Another Christmas crawls on apace, and the editor of the Strand has begun to look unconsciously hopeful whenever we meet, poor fellow. I will readily admit that his hesitant suggestion last year that the Baskerville mystery would make an excellent serial has much to recommend it... but God help me, I cannot do it. Let 'The Final Problem' truly be the final chapter, and let me lay my friend at last to rest.

Yet Life, with all of her impish tricks and fancies, thrusts rudely in upon morbid reflection, and prompts me to record certain recent events, if only for the sake of posterity. Perhaps, when sufficient time has passed... although I rather think not. The public has no need or desire for 'The Adventures of John Watson'. My dearest Mary disagrees, naturally, the warmth in her beautiful eyes and at the corners of her mouth daring me to contradict her whenever the old, familiar melancholy casts its shadow. A fool her husband may be, but not so great a fool as that! In any case, I find myself with increasingly little time for introspection as the happy date draws near.

Perhaps, dear posterity, you yourself have happened upon this bundle of pages, yellowing away at the back of some old, forgotten cabinet drawer. Do as you wish with it, I pray you. Destroy it, publish it, or even tell it to round-eyed bairns at your knee – remembering to embellish shamelessly, of course! Your late godfather (for so I always meant him to be, and so he shall be) would doubtless shake his head and sigh, but the blessed man never did quite comprehend that stories are alive, and meant to grow in the retelling. I confess, I find it comforting to think that even this 'over-romanticised account of analytical reasoning' might do the same.

~0~

I remember mercifully little of the first few months after my return from Switzerland. Looking back, it mostly seems a fog of black crêpe and offensively cheerful bouquets, although details jut out here and there, as the jagged edge of a broken tooth might make itself felt amid the agony of an abscess. Mary's hands in mine, ice cold even through two pairs of gloves; the Irregulars perched stiffly on an unfamiliar sofa in the Baker Street sitting room, staring as one at the new carpet, unmarked by chemical stains or scorch marks from the fire set by Moriarty's thugs; Lestrade's cold mug of tea, untouched, turning around and around in his hands; streaks of grey in Mycroft's hair, standing beside an empty casket...

But I digress. And perhaps it is a hopeful sign that my memories of that dreadful season tend towards those dear ones who – I must confess it – kept me from meeting a much less noble fate than Holmes's, until I began, gradually, to take a genuine interest in the world beyond my door again. Thankfully, my practice had not suffered overmuch from my absence, Mycroft having made arrangements with several of my medical colleagues. One young man in particular, Albert Hayward, was eager to be taken on full-time as a junior partner, which, after some hesitation (and the gentle but firm insistence of my wife), I accepted. Mary was rather less diplomatic, however, when I came home one evening in August with the news that I would now be working part time as a surgeon for New Scotland Yard.

From the very beginning, Lestrade had refused to let me become a complete hermit, dropping by at least one evening a week. I regret that I failed to appreciate these painfully awkward visits at first, until at last it dawned on me one torrential night how very far Kensington was out of my colleague's usual way home. I don't even recall begging his pardon... but after that, I did succeed in bestirring myself now and then to return the gesture, and the relief in the man's eyes at the change in my habits, however slight, seemed amends enough at the time. My close intimacy with Holmes had nurtured a deep interest in crime, which grief alone could not erase, and Lestrade was perfectly willing to talk over his more recent cases with me. A few I had already read of in the papers, which I half-heartedly attempted to solve using Holmes's methods, while acknowledging in frustration that the papers had probably been denied a good portion of the facts necessary for sound deduction. Lestrade confirmed my hypothesis with a sympathetic chuckle, and occasionally rewarded my curiosity with the missing details. The cunning blighter even sought my professional opinion on several ongoing investigations, which is how I found myself breathing the frigid, sickly air of the morgue once again, vowing to myself it would be for the last time. As Holmes might have said, that was one of my more erroneous conclusions.

Working at the Yard had its challenges, of course, and I bless every one of my colleagues who helped to make the transition much smoother than it might have been, whatever their personal reservations were on the matter. Gregson, I feel sure, frequently voiced his doubts to Lestrade as to the wisdom of allowing me the run of a professional law institution, one which held so many powerful memories. Nevertheless, his attitude towards me remained as courteous as ever. I in turn, sensible of the risks my friends were taking over my mental state, seized every opportunity to prove that their faith in me had not been misplaced – perhaps a little too zealously in the beginning. By the end of the first month, I was up before the superintendent for a severe reprimand, after Lestrade had roused me from slumber at the end of my fifth double shift; and I believe that this, more than anything else, helped to endear me to my fellow Yarders. As Constable Furley remarked with a grin on my way out: "Cheer up, Doctor, we've all been there! Better the brass than the missus, eh?" Cheeky young pup... but I couldn't deny it.

It was not long after this that the first of the events which I have to relate were set into motion. I was on the point of closing up the morgue one November evening, when a dreadful commotion suddenly broke out on the upper floor, which I credited at first to some inebriate who objected to sobering up at Her Majesty's pleasure. As I donned hat and coat, however, Lestrade put his head around the door and apologetically asked if I would bring my Gladstone up for the man in Cell Five.

"I'm glad I caught you before you left, Doctor, he's in a right old mess!"

"Pub brawl?"

"Not unless the pub was burning down around him!" Lestrade snorted, and led the way upstairs.

And indeed, when the cell was opened, my own first impression was that the new arrival had been rescued from a fire; what remained of his clothes were tattered and scorched, and the acrid stink of smoke and burnt hair filled the tiny room. The poor devil was thrashing about on the cot in obvious agony, raving incoherently at the two cell constables attempting to restrain him.

"Why wasn't this man taken straight to hospital?" I demanded, hastily preparing a syringe of morphine.

"The local hospitals were all full up, Doctor," Lestrade said apologetically. "Well, you know what it's like this time of year! This was the nearest, cleanest bed for miles, and since we have our own surgeons..."

"True," I sighed, advancing with the syringe. "All right, hold his arm, Lestrade, as still as you can."

~0~

With my new patient in a somewhat calmer state, I did what I could to make him more comfortable. Now that there was time to properly observe as I worked, I couldn't help but note that the poor man's injuries told a slightly different story to my initial assumption. Although most of the exposed skin was badly burned, the very worst burns were along his palms and forearms, in addition to numerous cuts and scrapes, while the skin of his face was relatively unscathed besides the ears and brow – almost as if he had been attempting to shield his face from... some kind of explosion!

"I'm impressed, Doctor." I hadn't realised I'd spoken aloud until Lestrade answered me, having put his head back around the cell door momentarily to check on my progress. "That's exactly what happened to him. And if eyewitnesses are to be believed, he's the one who caused the ruddy blast in the first place!"

"He had the devil's own luck, then," I marvelled, delicately binding another dressing in place. "Whatever was he trying to do?"

"Ahhh!" I almost dropped the roll of gauze at my patient's sudden outburst, his voice hoarse with pain. "Ahh... w-what, indeed?" came another rusty croak, red-veined eyes bulging up at me from the pinched, pale face. Mottled hands clutched at my overcoat, which I tried vainly to loosen before giving up for fear of causing him further injury. "Y-you, sir... could not... imagine..."

"Calmly, my good man, you're safe now," I said, gently but firmly. "You must rest, you've had quite the ordeal."

"Rest!" he cried. "Rest, when all is...!" A bout of coughing seized him, releasing my coat unconsciously as he fought for breath.

Lestrade called for water, and helped the prisoner to drink – with something akin to my own bedside manner, I was pleased to note – whilst I took the opportunity to refill the syringe. The man had barely taken his gaze from me, however, and shook his head as I returned. "Please... no more... I beg you..."

"You're still in a great deal of pain, sir," I said in concern. "Will you not let me do what I can?" I wouldn't have denied even Holmes the needle in such a state! Thank God he never had come home looking like this...

An odd little smile tugged at his cracked lips. "If you speak... in earnest, Doctor... then send these poor fools away. It will be a comfort... to tell someone..."

I shared a wondering glance with Lestrade. "You want me to hear your statement?"

"None other."

Lestrade frowned, hearing the implacable note amid the rasp. "Well, I suppose it couldn't do any harm," he said slowly. "You do realise, sir, that this is no confessional, but a prison cell? Doctor Watson is bound by his office to report everything you might tell him in confidence."

"I know it... No doubt you think it... absurd..." He gave a faint huff of laughter, which became another paroxysm of coughing. "It is absurd..." he gasped once the spasms had subsided. "Even your doctor will not believe... what I tell him... so it is safe enough."

"Well, I cannot prevent you from speaking," I answered dubiously, silently cursing the oath which forbade me to disregard my patient's wish to remain lucid. "If you will not rest easy until you have unburdened yourself to me... then by all means, do so."