Ficlets

Holmes sat motionless in depressive introspection. That was something that Poe was quite familiar with himself. “Holmes,” said Poe as he tapped the sleuth from behind, startling him from his trance.

“Poe! You nearly scared me half to death! You’re lucky that I didn’t kill you by automatic reflex,” Sherlock exclaimed.

“There’s something that disturbs my thoughts,” Poe continued uninterrupted. ” When I was rescued, my horrible assailant, the discorporate Mr. Wells, had been grotesquely dispatched. What sort of supremely sinister creature is so much more demoniacal that it bested the monster at it’s own game?”

“Morlocks, of course.”

“But that’s impossible. They don’t exist. They are fiction. And even if they did, how did they get there then?”

“If it’s all the same to you, we’ll leave the poetry to you and the thinking to me. After all, I wouldn’t want you to damage your morose mind. The answer is elementary. You brought them.”

“But I was dead at the time!”

“Very well, then. You will bring them.”