Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus by P.C. Martin Page A

beyond.
    “Holmes!” I shouted furiously. “What on earth is going on? What is the meaning of this outrageous mess?”
    Holmes held aloft my mechanical arm in a triumphant gesture, but a loud knock pounded outside our door just as he seemed poised to launch into speech. All expression vanished from his countenance and, hastily pushing a chair against the drafty gap in our wall in an attempt to conceal its presence, he went to the door and opened it.
    “Why, good morning, Mrs. Hudson. I trust you had a pleasant night? Excellent! Pray, what can I do for you?”
    “Mr. Holmes,” said our housekeeper in an agitated voice, her face contorted into a grimace, doubtless at the fouled atmosphere which escaped the open door of our sitting-room, “did you hear that dreadful explosion?”
    “I believe I did hear a noise of some sort a few minutes ago,” replied Holmes, vaguely. “I imagined that your furnace below had done itself a mischief.”
    “Nothing of the kind, Mr Holmes! I thought the noise came from this apartment. And what is that dreadful smell?”
    Holmes turned his head and looked reprovingly at me. “Your senses are uncommonly sharp, Mrs Hudson. Perhaps my friend Watson and I do smoke a little too much. When will breakfast be ready?”
    “As soon as you desire, Mr Holmes,” said our landlady, consternation still apparent in her tone.
    “Good, good. Watson and I shall want breakfast immediately. I wish you the finest of days, Mrs Hudson.”
    “Holmes!” exclaimed I when he had shut the door. “What have you been up to?”
    “Oh, merely testing a new gadget I installed into the crook of your mechanical arm. The internal cannon was unfortunately destroyed during our fun yesterday, and so rather than attempt to restore it by lengthy pains to its former state, I opted instead to pitch it altogether, and installed in its place that beautiful little rocket-launcher I picked up at the Russian armory.”
    “What?”
    “Oh, didn't I give you any description of the case which took me to Moscow last autumn, Watson? It had some singular features of interest, and its solution depended upon the mysterious disappearance of a certain diamond-studded dog-collar, of immense value. When I had solved the case to the satisfaction of my illustrious patron, I was accorded the honour of a guided visit through the armory, and received as a token gift this fully-functional scale model of a magnificent rocket-launcher of mammoth proportions. You can imagine how pleased I was to have acquired the miniature, and how I regretted not having a proper opportunity in which to test its alleged powers of destruction. Well, I have tested it at last, and you may observe for yourself how pleased it seems to be in its cozy new niche, and what glorious damage it is capable of inflicting upon its opposer, when skillfully handled. I've no doubt she will be to you an admirable companion and worthy comrade in battle.”
    Holmes demonstrated the various mechanics of the instrument—such as were visible, that is, above the gleaming surface of my newly-repaired arm—as he spoke, and proceeded to fasten the refurbished arm to the attach-plugs and braces set within my shoulder. I tightened the leather cinches which circled my left shoulder and chest, noticing that the weight of my metallic member had diminished significantly now that its heavier impedimenta had been replaced by a much lighter weapon.
    “Ah, here is our breakfast. Come, Watson, for in the excitement of my experiment this morning, I clean forgot to tell you of the conclusions I reached last night, as I meditated over shag and our present case. Let us sit down, and after breakfast, I shall recount all, for I am famished after my nocturnal exertions.
    * * *
    Our breakfast was spread, and I retrieved from the pageboy our daily pile of periodicals. Elsewhere I have described my friend's avidity for the personals and agony columns of most of our London dailies and weeklies. Into our not