Date: February 10th, 2020 3:35 PM
The deeper truth about Sherlock Holmes is never discussed in polite society. We've cloaked the sacrifice that man embodied in the thin gossamer of detective stories and curious tales. We don't talk about the deadly game of cat and mouse he engaged in for more than four decades in defense of everything we hold dear as members of a safe society, protected beneath layers of decorum, our untroubled consciences dining on the succulence of a civilization tended by men of shadow and violence. So laugh at the idea of a "hound of baskervilles"; make light of the "musgrave ritual"; question the plausibility of a "sussex vampire." I saw Holmes' body in the 1890s, when he was still active. It was scarred terrible from head to toe. This was in Brighton, before the explorations of the Mandastry Ball. I looked at him across the expanse of the cold flat we were sharing, a staging house for the coming expedition, our crew moving about in various moments of preparation, little talk and all action, the room fogged in pipe smoke and thin wafting tendrils from the meager fire in the corner stove. "Where did all this come from, Holmes?" He stared at me blankly then snapped the reply "in defense of country" and returned to his activity, girding himself for war, the segmented armor settling into his skin, lights coming on across its framework, glowing blue and emanating the faintest humming noise, subtle indication of the power within. "CEREBROS, activate" and he began to grow large.