The Transformations of Dr. Watson

''Introduction'' A damp, late autumn evening in 1895 enveloped London as my hansom cab carried me to Blackwood Manor on the outskirts of the city. An urgent summons to a suddenly deceased old man, Mr. Silas Blackwood. As a doctor, I was to officially confirm the death. <img src="28.png"> I had been to this mansion a couple of times before, consulting Sir Blackwood as his physician. He suffered from gout. Besides him, his son Alister, his seven-year-old niece Lily, the butler, and the cook also resided in the house. [[Next|1]]

Entering the dimness of the room, I almost tripped over a shadow that darted across the floor. A black cat… A bad omen, I thought. [[Next|3]]

"Shoo, Kitty! Always getting underfoot," the butler said irritably. The deceased lay in bed. His face was pale and serene. I leaned over him. I felt for his pulse… Besides the usual smell of old linen, my nose detected a faint, bitter, earthy aroma, familiar yet elusive. <img src="27.png"> This scent seemed familiar, but I couldn't recall what it signified. My gaze fell upon the bedside table: a half-drunk teacup. "I'd like to take samples of the tea and tea leaves. For analysis," I stated firmly. <img src="38.png"> Alister turned pale. "Just regular tea... Father drinks it before bed." Cavendish stood silently behind us. While I filled out the death certificate, Alister and the butler left. I was alone with the deceased. Suddenly, the flames of the gas lamps in the chandelier above dimmed, plunging the room into darkness. I called for the butler, but no one answered. Then, soft footsteps… "Who's there?" I asked. In response, there was only a rustle, and then — a crushing blow to the head. I immediately lost consciousness. [[Next|4]]

I regained consciousness!... My head throbbed, not with pain, but with a chaos of strange sensations. The world around me hadn't just changed – it had turned inside out. The floor, which had once just been a floor, now seemed an immense space. Thousands of scents assailed me – the smell of book dust, old man's urine, the scent of polished parquet, and... something else, bitter... and dangerous. <img src="12.png"> I tried to move, to raise my hand to my temple, but instead of my usual fingers, I saw paws covered in soft, black fur. A strange, low rumble escaped my chest – a purr! Terror pierced me to the bone. I tried to scream, to call for help, but only a piercing, utterly inhuman "Meow!" escaped my throat. No! This can't be! I am John Watson! But my body... it was gone. I was a prisoner, trapped inside this small, meowing creature. It was a shock, deeper than any wound. I was a cat. Kitty. Meow-w-w! [[Next|5]]

I was in Mr. Blackwood’s bedroom, trapped in the body of a black cat named Kitty. I hadn’t yet recovered from the shock when the door burst open. The butler and Alistair entered, carrying a candlestick. “Why has the chandelier gone out?” asked Alistair. “Perhaps a gas supply issue?” the butler replied. Their faces twisted in horror at the sight of my lifeless body on the floor. “Oh God! What’s happened to the doctor?” Alistair cried. <img src="18.png"> “His head is injured. There’s blood. Maybe he tripped in the dark… fell and hit his head?” the butler whispered, his usually calm face turned pale. Soon, a local physician arrived. He examined my unconscious body swiftly. From my low feline perspective, I observed everything, perched near the skirting board. My nose caught a sharp scent—ammonia and horse manure. The doctor had evidently stepped into something unpleasant on the street in his haste. “Coma. Deep coma,” he declared. “Do not move him. He needs complete rest.” “Well, then he’ll have to stay here, doctor,” said Alistair with apparent concern, though there was a subtle note of relief in his voice. “My room is occupied, but there’s a spare one upstairs—far from the noise. We’ll move him there.” <img src="22.png"> My lifeless body was gently carried to a vacant room. I, in the form of Kitty, followed them like a shadow, slipping through the darkness. A messenger was promptly sent to London—to Holmes. Soon, I found myself in the new room, where my own motionless body lay on a wide bed. I still didn’t know who had struck me. It could have been Alistair. Or the butler. Or someone else I had failed to notice. What will you do in the body of a cat? – Follow Alistair — [[Next|6]] – Follow the butler — [[Next|7]]

My soft feline paws slid silently across the carpet. I slipped out of the room just in time to see Alistair hurrying down the corridor toward the drawing room. I followed him. <img src="33.png"> Suddenly, a faint rustle… A mouse! The cat’s instincts surged—stronger than reason. My body dropped low, muscles tensed, ready to pounce. A grey mouse crept silently along the base of the wall. My eyes locked onto it in the dark. – Force yourself to ignore the instinct and keep following Alistair — [[Next|10]] – Pounce on the mouse — [[Next|8]]

I followed the butler. Perhaps it was the scent of tobacco and herring that drew me. His steps were heavy, yet silent, as he led me through the winding halls of the old house. My sharp, feline senses picked up every draft, every shift in the shadows, every odor. Soon, I realized where we were headed. Through a half-open door came the familiar aroma of fresh bread, roasted meat, and other savory delights. The kitchen. The butler stepped inside, and I slipped in behind him. The cook—a stout woman with red, work-worn hands—stood by the massive stove. <img src="42.png"> Nearby, little Lily perched on a stool, nibbling a biscuit. <img src="39.png"> “What dreadful news, Mrs. Dorothy,” the butler said with a tone of false sorrow. “Dr. Watson... he fell and struck his head. Lost consciousness. He’s resting upstairs. Dr. MacGregor advised not to move him.” My feline eyes immediately caught the cook’s reaction. She gasped, truly shocked and worried. <img src="7.png"> “Poor man!” she breathed, setting down her ladle. “Fell, you say?” Lily stopped chewing. Her wide blue eyes, full of serious curiosity, fixed on the butler. I froze, indignation burning inside me. Fell? Hit his head? Lies. The butler was lying, and clearly. Beyond the tempting kitchen smells, my nose caught something else—a faint whiff of fear coming from the butler. And something more unsettling: the scent of raw meat and blood clung to him, triggering a deep, primal unease. Was it from his clothes? My helplessness in this small body was nearly unbearable. I had to act. [[Next|9]]

Instinct. It surged over me like a wave, drowning all human thought. My muscles coiled. My heart raced—not with fear, but with pure, primal excitement. My vision narrowed to the trembling shape of prey. I leapt. Precise. Elastic. Perfect. My paws closed around it. I felt the warm, twitching little body under my claws. A hunter’s triumph—pure and terrible—rose inside me. It was revolting... and yet thrilling. My mind reeled, but my feline body exulted. [[Next|9]]

Morning came grey and dreary—just like the mood that hung over the estate. I, Kitty, curled beneath an armchair in the drawing room, watching the first pale rays of light creep through the tall windows. <img src="6.png"> My sharp ears picked up the distant rumble of a carriage approaching along the gravel path. The front door opened. I glimpsed the edges of trousers and the hem of a tailored coat—but the scent gave him away instantly: Sherlock Holmes. <img src="48.png"> My tiny feline heart raced. If only I could speak! If only I could somehow show him what I knew! Cavendish, the butler, greeted him and led him into the drawing room. He smelled of beer and fried eggs. But beneath it, his sweat carried fear... and deceit. Alistair appeared next, reeking of nervous sweat and false calm. [[Next|46]]

Entering the drawing room, Alistair quickly dragged a chair over to the tall carved cabinet. Nervously rummaging in his pocket, he took out something small and placed it on top. <img src="47.png"> His face showed both fear and relief. He had just hidden something important. My cat nose picked up a faint metallic tang, mingled with the scent of old wood. Alistair left the room at once, leaving me alone with this new mystery. The cabinet was far too high for me to reach. [[Next|9]]

I crouched beneath the sofa, watching. Holmes began with Alistair. Snatches of words reached me: "heart attack," "tea," "nothing unusual." Alistair spoke too quickly. The scent of his fear thickened, especially when Holmes returned once more to the matter of his walking stick. <img src="50.png"> "Your cane is shorter than it should be. I noticed you have to bend quite far when using it for support," Holmes remarked. I heard Alistair’s voice tremble. "I… I had another cane, but… I must have misplaced it. This one… it belonged to my father..." A wave of unease and deceit poured from him. He shifted nervously in his chair. [[Next|12]]

Then Holmes turned to Cavendish. The butler spoke in measured tones, but the scent of bitterness and secrecy clung to him. <img src="24.png"> He mentioned: "tea," "Alistair took the tea to his father himself," "Dorothy was stealing supplies," "I’ve worked in this house for twenty-three years," "Sir Blackwood changed his will three days ago." At the word "will," the tension in the room deepened. The butler looked aggrieved and guarded. [[Next|13]]

<img src="7.png"> Dorothy came in last, trailing scents of yeast, spices, and a faint whiff of irritation. Her voice was loud and sharp: "Lies!" "Stingy old man!" "Wanted to sack me!" "Over nothing!" She gestured emphatically, her aroma a mix of outrage and long-harbored resentment. [[Next|14]]

Soon, Holmes uncovered that the deceased had summoned a notary just days prior, to revise his will. Alistair claimed that his father kept the document in his writing desk, and that only Sir Blackwood had the key. No one knew where he had hidden it. <img src="6.png"> Without hesitation, the detective approached the desk, slipped a knife beneath the lock, and pried it open. Inside the compartment, alongside bundles of old letters, was a sealed envelope labeled “Will.” Alistair tried to protest, but Holmes broke the seal and scanned the document. "Hmm," the detective murmured with a frown. "According to this, Sir Alistair, your father left you 80% of his estate, with the remainder to his niece, Lily. But I don’t see the notary’s confirmation of the recent revision. It’s not here." <img src="13.png"> Alistair shrugged with feigned innocence. "Perhaps Father changed his mind… burned it?" Holmes knelt by the fireplace, ran his fingers through the ashes. "No. This fireplace hasn’t been used in weeks." Try to draw Holmes’s attention to the tea cup on the bedside table — [[Next|20]] Rub against Holmes’s leg to get his attention — [[Next|23]]

<img src="27.png"> Holmes returned to the bedroom. I—Kitty—slipped in silently behind him, my feline heart pounding. A chance! The bitter scent from the cup on the table screamed at my nose. I leapt onto the chair, meowed, and nudged the teacup with my paw, trying to draw his attention. Holmes glanced over and smiled slightly. "Don’t interfere," he muttered, moving the dish aside. <img src="45.png"> He lifted the cup to his nose and sniffed—then shook his head. "Nothing unusual." My heart sank. A human nose couldn’t detect what mine could. I tapped the cup again and let out a plaintive meow… "Hmm… this cat seems to be sensing something," Holmes murmured thoughtfully. "Stupid animal," snapped Alistair, clearly agitated behind him. "Get out!" Alistair grabbed me by the scruff and carried me off. [[Next|21]]

I let out a pitiful meow, twisting and writhing with all my strength. But Alistair held me firmly. He stepped outside and made his way toward the shed. Near the wall stood an oak barrel, into which rainwater flowed from the shed’s roof through a gutter. Without hesitation, he plunged me into the murky, freezing water! <img src="15.png"> I began to choke, thrashing desperately, and even managed to scratch his arm with my hind legs. But it was all in vain… My body convulsed in its final spasms, and my consciousness slipped away. [[Next|25]]

<img src="11.png"> “Alistair is a fool! Alistair’s a fool… A fool!!” I screeched. “Damn bird,” Alistair muttered irritably. “Lily must’ve taught it that.” A flicker of hatred flashed in his eyes, but he quickly forced a softer expression onto his face and added, “Children... what can you do? Always up to mischief.” Holmes expressed a desire to inspect other rooms in the house, and Alistair reluctantly led him away. Where do you want to fly? – To the kitchen — [[Next|29]] – To Alistair’s room — [[Next|30]]

I leapt onto the table with resolve. “Meow!” I cried insistently, doing my best to sound commanding. I paced over the documents detailing my own medical certification of Sir Blackwood’s death—papers where I had written about possible poisoning. <img src="53.png"> My feline eyes darted between the pages and Holmes. He looked up, raising an eyebrow at my determination, then picked up the top sheet. I saw his eyes skim the lines describing the “heart failure,” based on what Alistair and the butler had told me. //''Yes, yes, Holmes, read to the bottom! I added an important note about testing the tea! ''//- Of course, he couldn’t hear my cries. All that escaped my feline mouth was plaintive meowing. At that moment, Alistair’s voice rang out from the doorway: “Sir, excuse me, but I believe I may have found something of interest in my uncle’s study. Might you take a look?” Holmes hesitated, then gave the page only a cursory glance—stopping short of the final paragraph—and set it neatly back on the table. He nodded to Alistair. “Of course, Mr. Alistair. Let’s see it.” My heart sank. So close! I let out a desperate meow and reached a paw toward the papers, trying to swipe them to the floor. But Holmes was already stepping away, drawn in by Alistair’s “discovery.” The chance was lost. [[Next|24]]

Alistair returned, eyes gleaming with malice. “You wretched little beast,” he hissed, and seized me by the scruff of the neck, hauling me away. [[Next|21]]

<img src="54.png"> I swayed gently. My body felt incredibly light. Instead of legs—I now had bare, gripping claws wrapped tightly around a perch. My vision—startlingly sharp—made the world appear magnified, as if seen through a lens. I tried to move, and a harsh, rattling cry burst from my throat: “Flint wants a biscuit!... Wants a biscuit!” [[Next|26]]

<img src="55.png"> I, Dr. Watson, was now the large parrot Flint in the living room. My mind, my memories — everything was intact. But my body... it was feathered. The smells were weaker compared to a cat’s sense of smell, but the sound... The sound was overwhelming. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of clothing, every word — all sounded with incredible clarity. My hearing had become a perfect tool of observation, picking up even distant whispers. And, of course, my own voice: it was strange, sharp, made up of trills, whistles, and sudden imitations escaping beyond my control. The most irritating habit was an irresistible urge to gnaw. My beak, that powerful and sharp tool, constantly reached for the wooden perch, for any suitable surface. I felt an itch in it, an instinctive need to break and crush something. [[Next|27]]

Voices of Holmes and Alistair could be heard from the next room. I flapped my wings and, taking off from the perch, wanted to fly toward the voices, but the unfamiliar sensation of flying threw me into a panic. Losing balance, I landed on the wardrobe. There I noticed a small metal key on the top of the wardrobe. This might be something important. I grabbed the key with my crooked beak. At that moment Holmes and Alistair entered the living room. I, limping, approached the edge of the wardrobe’s top and dropped the key. It fell to the floor with a clink. Holmes turned at the sharp sound. I swooped down from the wardrobe onto the living room floor and snatched the key in my beak. <img src="34.png"> “What’s that?!” He came over and picked up the find. “Aha! Surely this is the key to Sir Blackwood’s secretary desk. But how did it end up on top of the wardrobe? If not for this parrot, I would never have found it. Hmmm...” Alistair stood there, pale and silent. What do you want to shout to your friend? Flint is a good boy! — [[Next|28]] Alistair!... Alistair!! Alistair is a fool! — [[Next|22]]

“Flint is a good boy!” I shouted. Holmes smiled in response — Good, good. You helped us find another clue. “Another clue?” Alistair tensed up. “What do you mean?” “My friend Dr. Watson did not fall by himself. He was struck on the head by something heavy. And I intend to get to the bottom of it.” <img src="13.png"> “But… but that’s unthinkable,” Alistair said, confused. “Why would anyone try to kill Dr. Watson?” “That very question is the most important one,” the detective said meaningfully. Holmes wanted to inspect the other rooms in the house, and Alistair reluctantly led him away. Where do you want to fly? To the kitchen — [[Next|29]] To Alistair’s room — [[Next|30]]

<img src="16.png"> I, Flint, took off from the perch; my wings flapped clumsily, obeying the determined commands of my mind. The living room was left behind, and the dark corridor gave way to the familiar smell of frying and baking. The kitchen. I landed right on the kitchen table. “Flint! Good boy!” Lily exclaimed joyfully. She took half a cookie out of the pocket of her dress. “Want a cookie?” <img src="14.png"> I quickly waddled to the offered treat and grabbed it with my beak. At the far end of the table, Dorothy and Cavendish were sitting. “Nothing but villainy, Mr. Cavendish,” Dorothy grumbled, stirring something in a cast-iron pot. Her voice was full of suspicion. “It’s never happened that the master would do something like that out of the blue! And besides… Alistair himself brought him tea that evening! That’s never happened before. I always brought it, or you did, Cavendish. And suddenly — himself!” The butler, with a cold gleam in his eyes, sharply interrupted her. “Quiet, Dorothy! We have a new master now. Mr. Alistair. And such thoughts… better keep them to yourself. You understand what I mean?” Suddenly Lily spoke up. “I saw Uncle Alistair bring home a whole bouquet of wildflowers. I never thought he liked flowers. He’s always so gloomy and grumpy.” The butler just shrugged in response. “He said he’d make a herbarium out of them,” the girl continued. Then it hit me! Of course!... That strange smell from the tea — it was the smell of a poisonous plant. Fly to Alistair’s room — [[Next|30]]

<img src="9.png"> A sharp beat of wings, and I, Flint, clumsily soared into the air. My heart fluttered with birdlike excitement. Here was Alistair’s room. [[Next|31]]

The landing on the table was rough; my clawed feet clutched the smooth wood convulsively. On the table were several thick books, a stack of papers, some newspapers, and writing supplies. <img src="29.png"> My gaze caught the title of one book — Botany. A silk ribbon bookmark protruded from the book. On the shelf, I noticed a bunch of plants with beautiful flowers. Inspect the book — [[Next|32]] Inspect the bunch of plants — [[Next|45]]

The beak — my new finger, my tool of discovery. With a jerk, I opened the book. The bookmark — a yellowed ribbon — beckoned like a pointer. My beak began carefully, page by page, turning the rough paper. And here was the needed page. [[Next|35]]

Alistair’s scent — sharp, sticky, like feverish sweat — burst into the room. He entered. I tilted my head to the side and shouted, “Alistair is a fool!” <img src="38.png"> Alistair’s eyes, wide and wild, were fixed on the book, on the page I had gnawed. A rage — pure, bare, animal — flared in them. He saw. He understood that I, or someone through me, had uncovered his secret. I tried to take flight, my survival instinct screaming in my feathered chest, but it was too late. A quick, sharp jerk, and a strong hand closed around my tiny body. The feathers cracked under the fierce grip. Air hissed from my lungs. My beak opened in a silent scream, and my claws scratched convulsively at empty space. The last thing I felt was an unbearable squeeze, suffocating me, then — darkness, silent and all-consuming, into which I fell, carrying with me the name of the killer and knowledge of the poison. [[Next|34]]

I, Watson, regained consciousness!... The first thing I saw was my reflection. Near the stove, opposite an old buffet, hung a small, slightly tarnished mirror. From the mirror looked back a small, round-faced girl with wide blue eyes and a mop of unruly golden curls. It was Lily’s face. <img src="42.png"> At that moment, I was sitting on a low stool by the kitchen table. The smell of freshly baked bread mingled with the aroma of strong tea and the acrid scent of worry emanating from two figures nearby. Dorothy, the cook, stout and grumpy, stood by the stove, stirring something in a cast-iron pot. Her movements were sharp, her lips pressed tight. Opposite her, arms crossed, stood the butler Cavendish. His usually impassive face was tense, and his gaze frequently drifted toward the door. [[Next|36]]

The image — tall grass with purple and pink bellflowers. Caption — Digitalis purpurea. Foxglove. <img src="23.png"> My bird’s eye ran down the page. Descriptions... “cardiac glycosides”... “rhythm disturbance”... “fatal outcome.” The words formed a terrifying mosaic. Poison. It was poison! That same bitter smell that had tormented my cat’s nose. My beak instinctively began fiercely gnawing the sheet of paper. Foxglove. Alistair’s book. Bookmark on the page of death. The mosaic began to fit together. Footsteps sounded in the corridor — [[Next|33]]

The attempt to take control of Lily’s body was in vain. My, Watson’s, adult mind flailed, trying to make these small, alien limbs move according to my will, but they would not obey. I wanted to stand up, approach Holmes, tell him everything I had seen and knew, but Lily’s body remained glued to the stool. Her child consciousness was like a thin but impenetrable shield. It did not actively resist; rather, it simply was there, whole and unshakable. My thoughts, my impulses crashed against her innocent but stubborn will. I felt her own fears — fear of the stern butler, worry for her deceased uncle, the childish misunderstanding of what was happening. My desire to act collided with her desire to hide, curl up in a corner, return to the familiar world of cookies and stories. Go to the living room to tell Holmes everything — [[Next|37]]

I, Watson, desperately tried to gain control over Lily’s mind. “Go to the living room, Lily! Find Holmes!” — my mental commands rang in the girl’s head. But Lily’s body did not obey. My adult impulses struck a wall of her childish desires. “I don’t want to go to the living room,” her inner voice said. — “I want to find my teddy bear!” My commands clashed with her wish to play with her doll. Instead of Holmes, Lily waddled toward the nursery, humming a little song. I was furious at my own helplessness, trapped in this childish shell whose priorities were so absurdly distant from mortal danger. [[Next|38]]

As Lily passed by my room, she paused for a second and peeked through the crack of the half-open door. My Watson body lay on the bed. The head was bandaged, the face pale. Then she noticed her teddy bear on the chair. <img src="56.png"> Lily mustered courage and entered the room. She approached the chair and, trying not to wake me from my “sleep,” took the toy. Lily hugged the teddy bear close, and I, Watson, felt through her tiny hands the soft fur and warmth of her beloved toy. She was about to leave when the door to my room burst open. Holmes and Alistair entered. [[Next|39]]

Holmes approached the bed, his gaze studying my motionless face. Alistair nervously paced behind him. I, Watson, saw my chance. I felt a powerful impulse: to tell Holmes the truth! Lily grabbed Holmes by the hem of his coat. <img src="14.png"> “Mr. Holmes! I... I saw… how Uncle Alistair brought home a bouquet of flowers… They had such beautiful pink blossoms…” — Lily’s voice was thin and trembling, but it carried such sincerity that Holmes lowered his gaze to her, tilting his head slightly. I guided her thoughts. Say about the tea! The tea was poisoned!! <img src="13.png"> Alistair, standing a meter away from them, instantly tensed. He understood that her seemingly innocent childish observations could lead to his exposure. “Lily, dear! What are you doing here?” — Alistair hissed. Holmes, having confirmed I was still unconscious, left the room with a sad expression. [[Next|40]]

Alistair, waiting until Holmes left the room, turned to Lily. His face twisted with undisguised rage, but his voice still held a sickly sweetness. “Lily, dear,” he said, stepping toward her. “What did you want to tell Mr. Holmes? Did you see something?” I, Watson, desperately tried to make her keep silent, but the innocence of a child’s mind was stronger than my will. Lily, still a bit frightened but trusting, lifted her big blue eyes to him. <img src="4.png"> “I... I saw how you, sir, threw your cane into the pond. The one with the shiny round thing at the end! Why did you throw it away? Was it broken?” Alistair’s face turned ashen. His eyes narrowed to slits, and a wild, murderous resolve flared within them. He understood. The girl, unknowingly, had just nearly given Holmes a thread capable of unraveling the entire tangle of his crimes. She had seen how he got rid of the murder weapon, the very cane with the brass knob with which he struck me. “You... you saw?!” — His voice became a low, guttural roar. Before I could grasp the full horror of the situation, Alistair lunged at Lily, his fingers clamping around her slender neck like pincers. [[Next|41]]

The air in Lily’s lungs grew constricted, the world before her eyes blurred, tinged with red and black spots. Her child consciousness began to fade, and with it, mine. Almost breathless, her soul released control, and in that instant, as if struck by lightning, my consciousness returned to my own body lying on the bed. I felt a sharp, throbbing pain in my head, but it was nothing compared to the horror I saw. Alistair was strangling Lily! From my lungs, as if awakening from a long sleep, burst a hoarse but desperate cry: ''“Holmes! Over here! Help!” '' My voice, weak after the coma, sounded foreign, but carried the full force of my despair. [[Next|42]]

<img src="48.png"> The door flew open. At the threshold, drawn by my shout, appeared Holmes and Cavendish. Holmes’s eyes immediately assessed the situation. His face hardened. Alistair, caught off guard, hesitated. The next moment Holmes and the butler rushed forward. Cavendish, despite his age, acted decisively, grabbing Alistair’s hands while Holmes skillfully disarmed the murderer. Alistair was subdued; his resistance was fierce but futile. Lily, freed from his grip, collapsed to the floor. She was alive, but her tiny body shook with convulsions, and a child’s terror was frozen in her eyes. [[Next|43]]

Several days later, 221B Baker Street. It was hard to believe I was sitting again in my favorite armchair, next to the crackling fireplace, and opposite — Sherlock Holmes, deep in thought. My Watson body, though still somewhat weak, was finally mine. The bandage on my head reminded me of what I had endured, but more tormenting were the memories of the nightmarish transformations. <img src="25.png"> “So, Watson,” Holmes put down his pipe. “You have told me quite a collection of… eccentric stories.” He looked at me. “To be frank, your insistence on tales of your consciousness shifting between a cat, a parrot, and Lily, while entertaining, is sheer nonsense. The main thing is that you survived.” Holmes stood. “I immediately suspected that Blackwood’s death was no accident. It was obvious you had learned something, and that is why the murderer tried to eliminate you.” “After the attack on you,” Holmes continued, “I guessed the weapon was that very cane Alistair supposedly lost. In Alistair’s room I found newspapers spread open to the pages with horse races, and in the desk — racetrack tickets with huge bets. Alistair was a passionate gambler and lost a fortune. Old Blackwood apparently learned about this and decided to change his will, leaving most to Lily. Alistair could not allow that.” “And finally,” Holmes took a scrap of paper from his pocket. “In Alistair’s fireplace, I found a charred piece of paper — amendments to the will he stole from the old man and burned. Everything fell into place.” Holmes lit his pipe. “Thus, Watson, it was your misadventures, and my humble observation of them, that allowed us to expose this villain.” What upset me most about Holmes’s explanation was that he did not believe my stories of consciousness transfer. One month later — [[Next|44]]

Mrs. Hudson, carrying a tray with a cup of tea, knocked and entered Watson’s room without waiting for an answer. Watson was sitting cross-legged on the floor in a lotus pose, meditating. On his table lay a book with the Indian symbol of the Mandala. On the book was written — The Tibetan Book of the Dead. “I certainly respect your hobbies, sir, but if you start talking to my canary again, I’ll call the doctor.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head, set the tray on the table, and left. <img src="57.png"> ''THE END''

I flew over to the shelf and bit off a piece of a leaf from a bunch of plants, starting to chew it. The taste was tart and acrid. Then I bit off a couple of pink petals. They were sweetish to the taste... My head felt a little cloudy. Suddenly, without my command, the parrot loudly shrieked, - ''"Ugh, how disgusting!"'' Examine the book on the table - [[Next|32]]

"Mr. Holmes! You've arrived. Dr. Watson... your friend. He fell and is now unconscious. A preposterous accident." Alistair's voice was full of feigned sympathy. Limping slightly and leaning on a cane, Alistair approached Holmes and shook his hand. <img src="40.png"> Holmes nodded. His steps were light and precise. I watched as his gaze, like a scalpel, glided over everything, never lingering, yet seemingly absorbing every detail. Then his attention settled on Alistair's cane. I, too, looked closely at the cane. It was dark with a curved handle, clearly not his old one with the brass pommel. <img src="44.png"> "If you please, gentlemen, let's proceed," Holmes stated dryly. "I wish to examine my friend's body, and I will also need to ask a few questions of each of you." [[Next|11]]