Sherlock Holmes returns in five new investigations that bridge the gap between the grim and the absurd. A struggle against the hangmanâs noose, a vanished victim, and a descent into the whimsical "oddness" of the criminal mind await.
In this collection of short stories, the line between desperate tragedy and bizarre fate is thinner than ever.
Sherlock Holmes meets Atropos
Holmes is making his way home in a sudden fog. He doesnât make it. A story of revenge, regret, loss and ultimate struggle for sanity.
Holmes Run
Holmes is accused of murder, he must find who the real culprits are before his is tracked down and sentence to hang. Even Watson has been persuaded of his guilt.
No Rats Need Apply
Holmes and Watson come face to face with the legendary Giant Rat of Sumatra in their own town of London. An adventure of explosions and danger. Will anyone believe them?
Sherlockâs Wet Wednesday
On a miserable and damp evening, Holmes is bored and restless and Watson would rather be left to read his paper. Holmes relates one of his more unusual tales from a time before his Boswell had joined him.
Sherlock Holmes returns in five new investigations that bridge the gap between the grim and the absurd. A struggle against the hangmanâs noose, a vanished victim, and a descent into the whimsical "oddness" of the criminal mind await.
In this collection of short stories, the line between desperate tragedy and bizarre fate is thinner than ever.
Sherlock Holmes meets Atropos
Holmes is making his way home in a sudden fog. He doesnât make it. A story of revenge, regret, loss and ultimate struggle for sanity.
Holmes Run
Holmes is accused of murder, he must find who the real culprits are before his is tracked down and sentence to hang. Even Watson has been persuaded of his guilt.
No Rats Need Apply
Holmes and Watson come face to face with the legendary Giant Rat of Sumatra in their own town of London. An adventure of explosions and danger. Will anyone believe them?
Sherlockâs Wet Wednesday
On a miserable and damp evening, Holmes is bored and restless and Watson would rather be left to read his paper. Holmes relates one of his more unusual tales from a time before his Boswell had joined him.
London, 1899.
The great city, having produced one of its most famous and intensely suffocating fogs, appeared not so much as his home, but rather as some sinister beast, its ghostly tendrils reaching out to entrap him. Ominous shadows cast by the faint murky glow of the streetlamps seemed to follow him menacingly, only to be swallowed up whenever he turned, disappearing into the desolate void.
These disagreeable apparitions intensified his sensation of being completely cut off from the rest of the world, as if cocooned in a very small and dangerous universe all of his own.
As a shiver ran down his spine, he berated himself for being ridiculous and irrational; he had walked home in the fog many times before. However, on this occasion there was some slight cause for concern.
Though not a man usually given to wild fancies, he had the distinct impression he was being followed.In fact, he knew he was.
Not for the first time he regretted not having his good friend by his side. Wishing to keep his own council on the matter in hand, for now; he was alone.
However, just at this moment, the absence of his friend was most keenly felt. For having been detained much longer than anticipated, he now found himself in a potentially lethal situation.
Instinctively knowing his way around London had been advantageous to him in the past, and tonight was no exception. Being unable to see more than a few feet in any direction presented no major inconvenience in itself; it was the company he could do without.
Those following him were well versed in the art, for they were moving so quietly he could barely hear them; just an occasional footstep, nothing more. It was instinct that told him he was in danger, and he had been around long enough to trust those instincts.
It would be pointless trying to get a cab, none would be moving about in this peasouper, and this had now escalated to more than a mere inconvenience.
He had made many enemies both domestic and foreign over the years, and it would not surprise him if someone attacked him in the shelter of a night such as this. But he was a cautious fellow; he had his revolver with him. Still, one had to be able to see what one was aiming at. He derived some comfort from the knowledge that his pursuers would be similarly inconvenienced.
Suddenly, in the eerie silence he heard the sounds of a four-wheeler fast approaching. The driver, he conjectured, must have nerves of steel. It could mean only one thing.
Although there were few places for concealment, he shrank back into the nearest doorway and crouched down, waiting, revolver drawn.
It was then he heard clearly the footsteps he was only half certain he had heard before, and although it was difficult to pinpoint their precise location, it was evident they meant to encircle him.
He believed he could discern four separate pairs of feet. This had apparently been well planned, though no doubt complicated by the sudden fog.
They were now too close for him to break cover and make a run for it; he would inevitably make some noise thus giving away his position. However, if he stayed where he was, they would come upon him in very short order in any case. He was running out of options.
He looked up at the ornate doorway in which he now found himself. A private house, indistinguishable from its fellows in this row of terraces, save for the light in the uppermost window, the glow from a single candle.
As he contemplated his next move, he noted that the four-wheeler had stopped very close by.
Desperately so.
He could hear the sound of muffled voices, and although he could not make out what they were actually saying, he thought he could deduce it readily enough.
The walkers were closing in still further, obviously not entirely sure of his exact position, but certain he was close. With extreme caution he took from his inside coat pocket, the set of skeleton keys that he always carried with him.
Being very careful to make no sound, he began trying each key in the lock, hoping he could find the correct one quickly, but most importantly, quietly. His hiding place could easily become his place of execution if he wasnât very, very careful.
The footsteps were uncomfortably close now.
Controlling his anxiety, which would only cause him to rattle the keys, and after what seemed like a lifetime, he finally found the one necessary to open the door. If he made any sound at all opening the door, they would be on him in an instant. He was completely surrounded and now very grateful for the fog.
As he paused to listen, his desperation increased; they were closer still. Salty moisture gathered in his eyebrows, and he silently cursed as it trickled into his vision, causing him to blink repeatedly at this most delicate moment. He positively ground his teeth, as despite the cold, a rivulet of warm sweat slowly rolled down his nose pooling into a large droplet as it mingled with the already prodigious and cold globule of condensation in residence.
With an inward philosophical sigh as to the absurdity of the human body, he very gently turned the key.
He hoped that the hinges of the door had been oiled recently. Perhaps in future he should carry a small can of oil as well.
Very cautiously he began to open the door. There was a slight creak.
He froze.
Yes, definitely a can of oil in future.
As even more perspiration rolled down his cheeks, he strained to listen; it didnât appear that his pursuers had heard.
Again he tried to open the door silently; this time persisting when the door creaked; he had run out of time.
He crawled through the small gap he had made and closed the door, immediately relocking it.Sitting on the floor with his ear pressed against the door he was breathless with apprehension.
Sounds of four men gathering outside reached him. They were most annoyed.
âWe had him trapped, he couldnât have got away,â said one to his companions.
Another replied. ââe could easily have slipped by us.â
âNo âe couldnâ, we âad âim boxed in.â said a third man. âA rat couldnâ a got through wiâout us knowinâ.â
From his hiding place he heard the four-wheeler pull up just outside and someone step down to the pavement.
âWell?â asked a deep demanding voice.
âWe havenât got him yet sir,â one replied, nervously. âWe werenât expecting this damn fog.â
âIâm not interested in your pathetic excuses. Just find him and bring him to me. Alive.â
He couldnât risk a look at this manâs face, he darenât move in case they heard him. He hardly dared to breathe. He hoped whoever it was that was still awake upstairs did not hear the voices in the street and come down to investigate. That would be very tiresome. Again he turned his mind to the conversation outside.
âI donât care how you do it, just find him. Even if you have to search every house.â There was such coldness in the manâs tone that he didnât envy his pursuers if they failed, and he would do all in his power to ensure that they did.
He heard someone climb up into the four-wheeler and immediately it moved off, the sound of the horseâs hooves very distinct in the still of the early morning.
Concentrating hard, he listened as the four men mumbled quietly to themselves, but could not catch much of what was said, except that they were very unhappy with their present situation.
He nearly jumped as someone rattled the knob of the door he was leaning against. The man applied a little force. Then spoke to his friends.
âThis âunâs locked fast.â
âWe canât search the houses anyway,â said a man with an educated voice. âWeâd wake up half the neighbourhood.â
He could hear them shuffling around just outside. The educated man continued. âLook, he must be nearby. You stay here, the rest of you spread out down the street; weâll flush him out. If heâs escaped in the fog, weâll get him later; heâll have to return to Baker Street eventually.â
He could hear three sets of footsteps moving off. One of his pursuers remained behind as ordered. He would just have to sit there until they finally gave up.
âWhat are you doing in my house?â Startled, he couldnât help but jump a little as he turned to find a rather large and aggressive-looking middle-aged woman barking this question at him.
âPlease madam, I beg you to keep your voice down,â he pleaded in a hushed tone.
âKeep my voice down,â she bellowed, âin my own house?â She was very obviously indignant in the extreme and he could already hear running feet coming towards the house. He had been discovered.
âExcuse me madam, might I make use of your back door?â
âWho the devil are you sir?â her voice growing stronger and louder and more indignant by the second. He could now see the very large candlestick she carried, for she raised it up threateningly, âand just what are you doing in my house?! I have quite enough trouble sleeping without strange men breaking in,â⌠she was abruptly interrupted by the sound of pounding upon her front door.
âI most humbly apologise and bid you a hasty goodnight,â he was already running to what he hoped would be the rear exit of the house and he could hear the sound of splintering wood behind him.
Amanda Knightâs dynamic, four-story collection is one of the most intense reads in the current steady trickle of MX Publishing's Holmes adventures. Knight excavates the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyleâs literary universe and pulls Sherlock Holmes into tales that test the limits of his intellect, his body, and his heart. Overall, the work begs the argument that the worldâs most famously selfâcontained, consulting detective is not only capable of emotional depth, but that his humanity is the missing piece in the Holmesian canon.
That is clearly shown in the bookâs gravitational center - a bruising novella, âSherlock Holmes Meets: Atropos.â The novella begins in familiar territory - foggy London, a shadowed pursuit in full deductive flight, but Knight wastes no time wrenching the hero into a darker, more intimate narrative that treads into physical trials and beyond Holmes' traditional love interest, Irene Adler.
Sherlock is abducted, beaten, and imprisoned in a stone cell alongside Charlotte Grahame, a young woman whose presence becomes the emotional axis of the story. Their relationshipâtentative, intelligent, and quietly transformativeâgives the story its pulse.
There is a yin-yang balance in the author's use of Rebecca Moriarty, widow of Holmes' nemesis. The struggle to balance good and evil knocks the hero into a free fall. The best part about "Atropos" is Knight's willingness to let Holmes break. Readers will see his defenses slowly wear, and marvel at how Charlotteâs steadiness becomes a lifeline. Captivity strips him down to something at which Doyle's tales only hint - a man terrified of needing anyone.
Knight's stylish prose respects Doyleâs diction and pacing, but she expands the protagonist's emotional register. As a result, Holmes almost seems from our era than the Victorian. He displays moral ambiguity, rage, missteps, even lethal force, which deepens the novella's thematic reach to show justice, consequence, and the cost of survival. In short, Knight reinterprets the original to imagine what Doyle did not â a Holmes who feels, suffers, and survives not through intellect alone, but through the fragile, necessary connections he spends his life trying to avoid.
In comparison, the other stories, âHolmesâ Run,â âNo Rats Need Apply,â and âThe Singular Case of the Farquhar Ruby,â are akin to palate cleansers. They are light, puzzleâdriven, and structurally tighter, with the classic Holmes wit. They provide a cohesion that raises The Incredible Adventures of Sherlock Holmes beyond a simple anthology.