Arthur Conan Doyle stumbles upon the Midnight Pals' storytelling circle and reluctantly brings Sherlock Holmes back for one last, final, final case.
Arthur Conan Doyle stumbles upon the Midnight Pals' storytelling circle and reluctantly agrees to bring beloved supersleuth Sherlock Holmes back for one last, final, final case. A locked-room murder mystery turns to metafictional highjinks as the Pals are embroiled in the world of Holmes's adventures, sort of like when the holodeck malfunctions on Star Trek.
Content notes: swearing, raised voices, drug references, portrayal of psychologically abusive relationships, threats of violence, guns, discussion of death, loss, grieving and murder.
CAST
with
Script by Robin Johnson, edited by Bitter Karella, based on the Sherlock Holmes stories of Arthur Conan Doyle. Production and music by Robin Johnson. Daisy McNamara was an audio consultant.
Most of Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories (as well as his Professor Challenger ones) are in the public domain and can be found on Project Gutenberg at https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/69
A transcript of this episode can be found at https://midnight-pals.simplecast.com/episodes/s01e04-the-tale-of-sherlock-holmes/transcript
The Midnight Pals is the creation of Bitter Karella ©
Subscribe to Submitted for the Approval of the Midnight Pals on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Pocket Cast, or wherever you find podcasts. If you enjoy the show, please consider leaving us a rating or review. For more information, see https://midnightpals.com
[MAIN THEME MUSIC PLAYS: A SPOOKY UPBEAT TUNE ON PIPE ORGAN IN 3/4 TIME, BASED AROUND 12 CHIMES OF A CHURCH BELL]
VOICEOVER (Rodrigo Borges): Submitted for the Approval of the Midnight Pals, created by Bitter Karella.
[MUSIC PLAYS OUT.
FADE IN AMBIENCE OF FOREST AT NIGHT. CRICKETS, WIND IN TREES. CAMPFIRE CRACKLING NEARBY]
EDGAR ALLAN POE (Rodrigo Borges): So, who’s telling the story tonight? Howard?
HP LOVECRAFT (Robin Johnson): Eh. I’ve not got much written lately. Not been myself.
MARY SHELLEY (Rebecca D'Souza): Must be nice.
POE: D’you want to do a story, Mary?
SHELLEY: Can’t be arsed.
POE: Clive?
CLIVE BARKER (Sister Indica): Hmm, I’ve been working on something about a sexy murderer who murders sexy people on a sexy train.
KING: Oh boy, a train? Do you wanna do a collab?
BARKER: Ehh, I just feel like mocking other people's work tonight.
DEAN KOONTZ (Wren Montgomery): I’ve got a story about a skeleton and the skeleton eats people!
POE: Sure. Go ahead, Dean.
KOONTZ: Uh... so there's this skeleton called—uh—anyway, the important thing, about this skeleton, is that it eats people, and—uh—the end.
KING: (PROUDLY) Very good, Dean. Boy it just gave me chills! Don’t you agree, guys?
POE: (SUDDENLY PICKING UP ON STEPHEN’S MEANING) Oh yeah absolutely, really terrifying!
BARKER: (SARCASTIC) Yeah absolutely, really terrifying!
POE: Clive
BARKER: What? I literally said the same thing!
[FOOTSTEPS APPROACH]
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE (Robin Johnson): (ARRIVING) Oh, excuse me.
KING: (ENTHUSIASTICALLY) Arthur Conan Doyle! How’s it going?
KOONTZ: It's Sherlock Holmes!
BARKER: No, Dean, he just writes Sherlock Holmes.
DOYLE: (TESTILY) I don't write Sherlock Holmes any more.
KING: You do look kinda like Sherlock Holmes, Arthur, with that magnifying glass.
SHELLEY: (SMIRKING) Probably hunting for fairies.
POE: (QUICKLY) Clive.
BARKER: I didn't say anything! I wouldn't use that word.
POE: (STERNLY) You were going to reclaim it.
BARKER: Oh I got WAY better words I’m reclaiming.
POE: (QUICKLY) You know what, we don’t need to talk about this.
DOYLE: I am not looking for fairies! It's too late in the year to find them at this latitude. I'm looking for clues.
KOONTZ: He is Sherlock Holmes!
DOYLE: No! I'm just on my way to the mystery story club campfire.
LOVECRAFT: There's a mystery story club?
DOYLE: Yes! Raymond Chandler, Ian Fleming, Agatha Christie... Steve's been along. Edgar's been along.
BARKER: Really?
KING: Oh, uh, sure, once in a while.
POE: Sometimes you feel like a change, you know?
BARKER: I have to know about this. What's it called?
POE: (EMBARRASSED) The—the Bloodhound Gang.
BARKER: (LAUGHING) Oh my god, you nerds.
LOVECRAFT: You know, I write about detectives sometimes.
BARKER: Yeah, but they don't actually detect anything, do they? Just explore a creepy tunnel for three hours and then get ate by a squid.
LOVECRAFT: Where do you guys meet?
DOYLE: Ah, that's the thing. We've no fixed location. When someone calls a meeting, they leave a trail of clues for the others to find them.
BARKER: (LOSING IT) HAHAHA you fucking nerds.
DOYLE: But I'm stuck on the second clue.
LOVECRAFT: I like mysteries. I bet if we put our heads together, we could—
DOYLE: No! No, it's far too difficult. I'm just gonna give up and go home. Maybe check under some toadstools, see if there's any speckled tinkerbells that haven't migrated yet.
KING: Why don't you stay and tell us a story, Arthur?
DOYLE: Uh... my stories aren't exactly horror.
KING: No, but they're still like, you know, genre.
POE: What does "genre" even mean anymore?
KOONTZ: I know! It means like, what kind of a story is it? Like horror or, or cowboys, or cowboys with dogs, or dogs with spaceships, or dogs with—
KING: Well, that's the original meaning, yes. But nowadays, we professional writers also use the term "genre" to refer to a certain area of popular fiction defined by, uh. You know. Genre.
KOONTZ: What?
BARKER: Genre's complicated, Dean. You'll figure it out as you explore.
KOONTZ: I sometimes try other genres. I—I use other names.
KING: You know what, Dean, that's healthy. Good on you.
LOVECRAFT: W-well, if you ask me—
SHELLEY: No one did.
LOVECRAFT:—there are only two genres. Cosmic horror, and dangerous leftwing ideology.
POE: Come on, Arthur. Tell us a story.
DOYLE: Well... Raymond is doing the Tale of the Hardboiled Detective and the Untrustworthy Dame tonight... again... (COMING ROUND TO IT) so I suppose I could be tempted to stay and rattle off a story about a certain brash but brilliant investigator.
KOONTZ: Oh boy!
DOYLE: Submitted for the Approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story... The Tale of Professor Challenger!
KOONTZ: What? (CRESTFALLEN) I thought you were gonna tell Sherlock Holmes! I wanted Sherlock Holmes.
POE: Yeah, Arthur, we all wanted Sherlock Holmes.
DOYLE: You guys should give Professor Challenger a shot. Oh, I bet you’ll like him! He’s a scientist.
SHELLEY: Nobody likes Professor Challenger.
DOYLE: But I'm sick of Sherlock Holmes! You don't know what it's like. Everywhere I go, I'm the Sherlock Holmes guy! He gets more letters in the mail than than I do!
KOONTZ: Oh! Did he get MY letters?
DOYLE: I'm done with him! That's why he died in The Final Problem.
KOONTZ: (ON THE VERGE OF TEARS) Sherlock died!?
KING: (URGENTLY) No no, It's OK, Dean. He got better. It turned out he just faked his death for, uh, y'know. Detective stuff.
DOYLE: Only 'cause my publisher threatened to chuck me off the Forth Bridge.
POE: Come on, Arthur, just tell a Sherlock Holmes story. It's what you're good at.
KOONTZ: Sher! Lock! Holmes! Sher! Lock! Holmes! (CONTINUES)
KING/POE/LOVECRAFT/BARKER/SHELLEY: (JOINING IN ONE BY ONE) Sher! Lock! Holmes! Sher! Lock! Holmes! Sher! Lock! Holmes! Sher! Lock! Holmes! Sher! Lock! Holmes! Sher! Lock! Holmes!
DOYLE: (SNAPPING) ALL RIGHT!! (WITH CONTROLLED ANGER) Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story...
[SPARKLE]
DOYLE: ...The Tale of Sherlock Fuckin' Holmes...
KOONTZ: Wow!
DOYLE: ...and his Final, FINAL, Last Ever Case. For real this time. I really mean it!
[FADE. EPISODE MUSIC PLAYS—AN EERIE MELODY ON A SINGLE VIOLIN.
FADE IN AMBIENCE OF MANOR HOUSE IN VICTORIAN LONDON—WEATHER AND HOOFBEATS AUDIBLE OUTSIDE, CHAMBER MUSIC PLAYING SOMEWHERE IN DISTANCE.]
SHERLOCK HOLMES (Lou Sutcliffe): You watch, Watson. I'm going to solve this case, and what's more I can do it zonked on cocaine, (SNIFF) because that's how good I am.
DR WATSON (Canavan Connolly): Whatever you say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Shut up, Watson. You're rubbish.
WATSON: Yes, Holmes.
HOLMES: To work! According to Inspector Lestrade's telegram... Lestrade's... telegram... which I have...
WATSON: I have it here, Holmes.
HOLMES: Hm, no wonder I couldn't find it. What does it say?
WATSON: It seems... [SOUND OF UNFOLDING TELEGRAM] the police have the matter mostly in hand, but we've been asked to visit the crime scene, in case we might be able to help out with a few details.
HOLMES: What details?
WATSON: It says "who did it".
HOLMES: Hah. Fine. To discover the truth, one only needs to implossibate the eliminal—(SLURRING)—elimibate the implosti—blaagh. The Duke of... something... (GATHERING HIMSELF) ...what are the facts of the case?
WATSON: Most puzzling. The Duke of Corstorphine was found murdered in this room.
HOLMES: That must be him.
WATSON: Your powers of observation never cease to astonish me, Holmes.
HOLMES: Watson, examine the body and determine the cause of death.
WATSON: I'd say it was the large knife sticking out of his back. Oh, and the room was locked from the inside. The maid had to break the door down to bring him his afternoon tea. That's when she found him, just as he lies now. Face down, his lifeless limbs hanging over the edge of the chaise-longue like battered sausages...
HOLMES: Yes, yes, you can leave the bad atmospheric writing for when you scribble it up in The Strand for the benefit of multitudes of adoring fans. My fans, not yours.
WATSON: You know, I used to think this was normal. I used to think everyone treated everyone the way you treat me.
HOLMES: Oh, here we go.
WATSON: Then I met Mary.
HOLMES: Watson, not now, we've got a case.
WATSON: Just a few years of married life taught me that it was possible to be in a relationship defined by mutual love and respect, instead of power and abuse.
HOLMES: Blah, blah, blah.
WATSON: And then you died and—after the shock, I thought... maybe I can be happy. Maybe I deserve to be happy. I actually believed that. Then Mary died and you came back saying you’d faked the whole thing, and I'm back in Baker Street packing your pipe and you’re talking to me like a left-handed office-boy and it's as though I've woken up to find those three whole years were a dream...
HOLMES: (GROANS)
[FADES OUT AS WATSON IS TALKING.
FADE BACK TO CAMPFIRE AMBIENCE]
POE: Wait, Dr Watson had a wife?
DOYLE: Yes! Mary Morstan!
POE: Are you sure?
DOYLE: Yes.
BARKER: Yeah, honestly he never struck me as the marrying kind. Not before 2014 or so, anyway.
KING: Ya know, I’m pretty sure that I’d remember a wife. I'm gonna look this up on Project Gutenberg. [OPENING AND TAPPING E-READER]
KOONTZ: I thought Watson and Sherlock were married to each other.
SHELLEY: No. You’re all wrong. Watson's gay for Holmes, but it's unrequited, right Arthur?
DOYLE: Er—that's open to interpretation—
LOVECRAFT: N-no, Watson had a wife. He got married at the end of The Sign of the Four, which proves that he and Holmes are completely heterosexual.
BARKER: (SARCASTIC) Oh cool, so he catches a case of the straights, huh? Seems like a lot of poor bastards come down with that right at the end of a book. Nasty.
KING: [STILL TAPPING E-READER] Doyle, Arthur Conan, Sign of the Four. Got it. At the end? Oh... here it is. They've solved the case, and Watson says—
CUT TO INT. BAKER STREET. VIOLIN BEING PLAYED.
WATSON: And there is the end of our little drama. I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour of accepting me as a husband in prospective.
VIOLIN STOPS ABRUPTLY.
KING: (V/O) "Holmes gave a most dismal groan." Oh, Sherlock's not happy about that.
HOLMES: (DISMAL GROAN) [VIOLIN DROPS AND SMASHES] I feared as much. I really cannot congratulate you. Love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things.
SHELLEY: (V/O) Dick.
WATSON: (AMUSED) I trust that my reason may survive the ordeal. But you look weary.
HOLMES: Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be limp as a rag for a week.
[AMBIENCE CUTS BACK TO CAMPFIRE]
BARKER: Aa ha ha ha ha ha!
DOYLE: What?
BARKER: Arthur, there's... there’s so much subtext in these stories, I'm surprised the pages don't stick together.
SHELLEY: Hey, I got a question. This Mary Morstan. Why'd she die?
DOYLE: Well, when I decided to kill off Holmes, so it was meant be a sort of bittersweet ending for Watson. But then when I had to do the reboot, I needed the dynamic back, you know, Holmes and Watson as roomies. They get on each other's nerves, but, true friends where it matters.
KOONTZ: Like Bert and Ernie?
LOVECRAFT: Yes. And again, also like Bert and Ernie, completely heterosexual.
KING: Ah, but that's only the Doylist explanation.
DOYLE: What?
KING: Like, that's the real-life reason you killed off Watson's wife. But how and why, in the world of the story, did she meet death? See, now that would be the Watsonian explanation.
DOYLE: (UNDER HIS BREATH) Oh my God, I cannae deal with these hard-core fans. (OUT LOUD) I don't care. Fell down a mine shaft. Yachting accident. Walking through Picadilly Circus when a piano fell on her head. Point is, she's deid.
KING: Ah, but Arthur, haven't you heard of the Literary Agent Hypothesis?
POE: Oh, I love the Literary Agent Hypothesis.
DOYLE: Oh Jesus Christ, what is this now.
POE: Oh hang on Arthur, you’re gonna love this. It’s just great.
SHELLEY: Such a bunch of nerds.
KOONTZ: So what’s the Literally Aging Hippopotamus?
KING: Well, it's a sort of a game that we (SMUG CHUCKLE) Sherlockians like to play... we start by first supposing Sherlock Holmes was real.
KOONTZ: (AWESTRUCK AT THE IDEA) Sherlock Holmes real? Wow!
KING: And Arthur Conan Doyle here didn't write the stories at all! He was just Dr Watson's literary agent.
DOYLE: Dr Watson doesnae exist!
KING: Or is that just what you want us to think?
DOYLE: Yes, because—
KING: In fact, maybe Dr. Watson, in fact, DOES exist!
DOYLE:—no—
KING: So Arthur here just pretended that he wrote the stories himself and only changed the names, to protect the innocent.
DOYLE: What?!
KOONTZ: Wow, is that all for real?
POE: Well, Dean, Stephen raises some good points. Let’s look at the facts. Dr Watson's first name is John. John H. Watson. But in The Man with the Twisted Lip, his wife calls him James. Now, a Doylist would say—
DOYLE:—Look, I just forgot what his first name is! I was on a deadline! It happens!
POE: Exactly. But a Watsonian would say—
SHELLEY: She's got a side piece named James.
POE: Uh—well. That’s one possible explanation. Or maybe we could go with the simpler, more likely explanation, which is that the "H." in "John H. Watson" stands for Hamish, which is Scots for James.
SHELLEY: You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.
KING: That is the most popular fan theory.
SHELLEY: Right, 'cause calling your boyfriend by his middle name in another language is totally a thing.
BARKER: No no she's right, guys. Mrs Watson is 100% definitely fucking some guy named James.
LOVECRAFT: Are there any Jameses in the Sherlock Holmes Stories?
POE: Well, there's—(SUDDEN, SHOCKING REALISATION) oh my God.
DOYLE: What?
POE: Steve, you don't think—
DOYLE: What?
KING: (COTTONING ON) Oh my God! Mary, you could be on to something.
[FADE.
FADE BACK TO IN MANOR HOUSE AMBIENCE]
HOLMES: To discover the truth, we need only eliminate the impossible.
WATSON: You know, I've never been sure about that.
HOLMES: What?
WATSON: Firstly, it's simply wrong. If you eliminate the impossible, you're not left with the truth, you're left with the possible. Secondly, the sheer number of impossible things makes it downright inefficient.
HOLMES: Shut up, Watson. The Duke was stabbed in the back, so suicide is impossible. The room was locked from the inside, therefore it is impossible for the killer to have left through the door. The window does not open and the glass has not been replaced. There only remains—the fireplace. [POKING IN ASHES] Yes, there's your killer's escape route. Watson, take a look up the chimney, would you?
WATSON: Why don't you take a look up the chimney?
HOLMES: I don't want to get coal on my deerstalker. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get soot out of Harris tweed?
WATSON: Yes, because I'm the one who's always crawling in fireplaces. Oh—(GIVING IN) all right. [RUMMAGING IN SOOT] Ugh. [CHIMNEY ECHO] What am I supposed to be looking for?
HOLMES: You know my methods. Apply them.
[WATSON TALKS UP THE CHIMNEY. CLOSE ECHO]
WATSON: Well... the brickwork has been scraped here... just as though somebody has climbed up recently. But it wasn't the sweep, because I'm getting eyefuls of soot just looking. In fact...
THUNK
POE: [UP CHIMNEY] (WHISPERING) Careful!
WATSON: ...ow! A tile fell on my face.
KING: [UP CHIMNEY] (WHISPERING) Shhhh!
WATSON: I think there's someone up there.
[RUMMAGING IN CHIMNEY]
POE: (WHISPERING) Keep quiet!
KING: (WHISPERING) I am! You keep still!
WATSON: Come down in the name of private consultants hired by the law!
POE: It's all right, Doctor, it's just... it's Santa Claus.
KING: And his elf!
WATSON: It isn't even Christmas. Get down here or I shall light a fire in the grate and cook you out.
KING: I think I'm gonna...
KING/POE: Aaaaaaaaa....
[THUMP OF TWO HORROR WRITERS FALLING DOWN A CHIMNEY ONTO A DOCTOR, THEN SCRAMBLING OUT OF A FIREPLACE]
WATSON: Ow!
KING: Wow, that was a long way down! Good thing that Watson here broke our fall.
HOLMES: Aha! A brace of murderers if ever I saw one.
POE: Oh, we're not murderers. We're here to help.
HOLMES: (INTERRUPTING) Shut it, Murderface. Watson, do you still have the handcuffs from this morning?
POE: No, we're not—
KING: Hey!
[STRUGGLING. CLICK OF HANDCUFFS]
HOLMES/WATSON/POE/KING: (CRIES OF STRUGGLY PROTEST)
WATSON: There's only one pair. They'll have to share.
DOYLE: (V/O)—said Watson, wrestling the miscreants to the wall. (CONFUSED) What are you two doing? You can’t just mess about in my story!
KING: Sure we can, it's out of copyright... isn't it?
HOLMES: Who are you talking to?
POE: I think so. As long as we don't use anything from recent adaptations.
KING: You're not being played by that, uh, Bendybus Crumplezone name changed for legal reasons, are you, Sherlock?
HOLMES: Excuse me?
KING: And Watson here does look a bit like Martin Freeman.
POE: Yeah, but Martin Freeman looks like every white guy. He's like if bread was an actor. That's why he always plays audience surrogates.
HOLMES: Quiet! You're both under citizen's arrest. Watson, I saw a bicycle outside. Go and fetch Inspector Lestrade.
KING: Oh, a real Victorian bicycle? Like a pennyfarthing? I'd love to see that!
DOYLE: (V/O) Get out of my story!
KING: Actually, we're in a bit of a pickle, Arthur, Could you give us a hand down here?
DOYLE: (V/O) Ah, baws.
[MORE CHIMNEY NOISE]
DOYLE: (FALLING) Aaaaaaaah! [THUMP] Ow!
HOLMES: What the devil? Who's this one?
WATSON: That's... that's Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle. He's my literary agent.
DOYLE: No, I'm not!
HOLMES: He’s not? Then he must be in league with these murderers we’ve apprehended! They were up the same chimney, after all. You lot picked the wrong peer of the realm to skewer… and the wrong Queen Anne chaise-longue to ruin! You’ll be lucky if the judge only sends you to the gallows!
POE: Arthur...
DOYLE: (RELUCTANTLY) It's all right. I'm Dr Watson's literary agent. They're with me.
[FADE BACK TO CAMPFIRE AMBIENCE]
LOVECRAFT: Where'd they go?
SHELLEY: Looks like they went and did some weird metafictional fourth wall shit. They're inside the story now.
BARKER: What, the one currently on Steve's ebook reader?
SHELLEY: Yeah. There it is. Scrolling away by itself. What's it saying, Howard?
LOVECRAFT: [MANIPULATION OF E-READER] Uh—"The literary agent looked around as though dazed. From the scowl he threw them, he appeared to have some private quarrel with the two bedraggled gentlemen who had preceded him down the chimney, but the details remained a mystery." Oof, this prose. Wow. It’s a little much.
SHELLEY: Says Mr Cyclopean 1928.
KOONTZ: Oh wow, that sounds so cool! I wanna go! I wanna go!
BARKER: No, Dean, it's dangerous. Dean!
KOONTZ: Here I gooooo!
[POPPING NOISE]
SHELLEY: Oh, crap. Well, now we’ve lost Dean too.
KOONTZ: [IN CHIMNEY, IN BACKGROUND DURING THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE. AMBIENCE STARTS FADING TO MANOR HOUSE.] Wheeeeeeee! [THUMP] Ow!
LOVECRAFT: "No sooner had Mr. Doyle stepped away from the grate than, with a rumble of falling tiles, yet another figure landed in the hearth. The newcomer bounded to his feet with the energy of a labrador puppy, looked at Watson with eyes of childlike wonder, and exclaimed—"
[FADE TO MANOR HOUSE AMBIENCE COMPLETES]
KOONTZ: Oh my gosh! It's Bilbo Baggins!
POE: Dean, we’ve been over this before. Martin Freeman is not Bilbo Baggins, and not everybody is Martin Freeman.
KING: That's Doctor Watson, Dean. And the guy with the deerstalker and the funny little pipe, see? You know him. That's—
KOONTZ: (STAR-STRUCK) Sherlock Holmes!!
HOLMES: The same. To what do I owe this bemusement?
KOONTZ: I'm your biggest fan, Mr Holmes! I've got a pipe just like that! Only mine blows bubbles. And I've read all the stories you ever wrote!
DOYLE: Eh, no, I wrote those stories.
WATSON: No, I wrote the stories.
DOYLE: Yeah, but I wrote you writing them.
PROFESSOR MORIARTY (Joel AS Butler): (EVIL REVEAL) As I suspected!
[“DUN-DUN-DUUUNNNNN!” MUSIC CUE PLAYS]
WATSON: Who said that?
POE: Oh Jeez, it was the corpse.
KING: You stay out of this, Lord Corstorphine. You're dead.
WATSON: Wait—that's not Lord Corstorphine. That's—
HOLMES: Professor Moriarty.
KOONTZ: Oh no! He's the bad guy!
POE: Yes, Dean, we know.
WATSON: Moriarty. The Napoleon of Crime.
KING: The Charlemagne of Chicanery!
POE: The Mussolini of Misdemeanors!
KOONTZ: The... Batman of Badness?
WATSON: Uh. Right. Ya know, I think I'll just stick with "Napoleon of Crime."
MORIARTY: Indeed, it is I! One moment. (GRUNTS, REMOVING FAKE KNIFE) [POP OF SUCTION CUP BEING PULLED FROM SKIN] I really wasn't sure you'd fall for the old "fake knife handle" trick, Holmes.
POE: But why?
MORIARTY: To bring him here.
HOLMES: A bit elaborate, isn't it? Why not just have me abducted outside the hats-and-pipes shop? Or send me a message encoded in stick figures? Or post a fake job advertisement from a pretend secret society of redheads?
MORIARTY: No. This may come as a shock, Sherlock Holmes, but not everything is about you. Anyway, I can find you at a moment's notice. I have eyes on you at all times. That's the man I wanted to summon.
DOYLE: ...me?
MORIARTY: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself!
DOYLE: But why me, exactly?
MORIARTY: (ACCUSINGLY) You're the Author, aren't you?
KING: (LAUGHING) No of course! He's Watson's literary agent. This has been established.
MORIARTY: Really. What agency do you work for?
DOYLE: Er—the—er—Pete's Literary Agency on, uh…
HOLMES: He can't name a single literary agency. He clearly is an author.
MORIARTY: But not just an author—the Author.
WATSON: The author of what?
MORIARTY: Why, the world we live in! It's all a simulation, of course.
POE: Oh, for goodness' sake. He's one of those guys.
KING: Oh, no, I read an article about that in Scientific American. The evidence is actually pretty compelling, if you ignore a bunch of things. Like, d'you remember Nelson Mandela dying in prison?
POE: No.
KING: Neither do I. He was released and became president, it was kind of a big deal. But there's a bunch of guys, real smart guys, that don't remember it that way. And the Berenstain Bears, you ever read those stories?
POE: No.
KOONTZ: I did!
KING: Right, me neither. But these guys would swear it was Berenstein, with an E.
[POPPING NOISE. ANOTHER PERSON FALLS DOWN THE CHIMNEY]
BARKER: Ha ha okay, now it’s a party! 'Scuse me coming down your shaft like that, Sherlock, but ha ha get it? Shaft! I’m talking about dicks. This guy here gets it.
WATSON: What?
HOLMES: The chimney-pipe of Corstorphine Manor seems to be quite the thoroughfare at present. Who are you?
MORIARTY: Probably one of the good doctor's collaborators.
BARKER: Steve. That whole little Rocko’s modern basilisk time cube theory of yours is cute, but I gotta tell you the fact that a bunch of rich, and I'm gonna take a wild guess here, white tech dorks know don’t know how to spell is really not good evidence that we're living in a computer.
KING: And you walked into my Kindle to tell me that?
BARKER: (PUZZLED) I...okay. Okay. Interesting point.
MORIARTY: Not a "computer", whatever that is. A novel. Or more likely a long series of short stories. Don't tell me you haven't noticed the clues, Holmes. Little changes in reality from day to day? Minor details, names, dates, places, constantly shifting. The Author can't keep them in his memory. Dr Watson, when you were wounded out of military service, were you shot in the leg or the shoulder?
DOYLE: Oh, that was my fault.
KING: (MAKING EXCUSES) Yes... because... he mis-edited Watson's manuscript when he was doing—literary agent stuff. Didn't you, Arthur?
DOYLE: Er, sure.
WATSON: No, I—I remember it both ways. I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. And—in the back of the leg. In cold weather it throbs with dull persistency.
BARKER: Hahaha!
POE: Clive.
HOLMES: So you were shot twice. Inexperienced as I may be in military service, I understand it is customary for more than one bullet to be fired during the course of a war.
WATSON: No, I was only shot once. Look at this...
[SHUFFLE OF CLOTHING]
KOONTZ: Why's Bilbo taking his clothes off?
KING: Uh... it's a thing grown-ups do sometimes.
WATSON: Look at my shoulders, Holmes.
HOLMES: Watson, this is not the time.
BARKER: So, you guys have a time?
WATSON: There's no bulletwound. It was there this morning.
HOLMES: Yes, I remember it graphically. Good heavens, you're right, it's completely healed.
WATSON: Not healed, Holmes. [UNBUCKLING BELT, REMOVING TROUSERS] Look, right on my calf there...
KING: (LOW VOICE) Edgar... while they're, uh, distracted... I’m gonna make a run for it. Find Lestrade.
POE: Uh..
WATSON: Go on. Give it a feel.
POE: ...right, good idea.
HOLMES: There?
KING: But you gotta come with me…
WATSON: Up a bit.
KING: 'Cause you're still handcuffed to me.
[CLINK OF HANDCUFFS]
POE: Oh. Right!
WATSON: Get your magnifying glass, if you need it.
HOLMES: (INVESTIGATIVE "HMMM" NOISES)
WATSON: (GRUNTS)
BARKER: Ok haha now this is getting interesting. This game's REALLY afoot!
WATSON: (BREATHLESSLY) Further.
HOLMES: ...There?
KING: Clive!
BARKER: (DISTANTLY) What?
KING: Edgar and I are going for help. Take care of Dean, yeah?
[FOOTSTEPS IN BACKGROUND AS KING AND POE CREEP AWAY]
BARKER: (ABSENTLY) Sure.
WATSON: (TENSELY) To the right... yes! (WITH RELIEF) Oh... there it is.
HOLMES: There it is indeed! A scar consistent with the entry wound of a Jezail bullet. But...
[WEIRD BUBBLING SKIN NOISES]
WEIRD: (WITH GROTESQUE FASCINATION) It's... pulsing... it's shifting, it's about to... it's... (ANTICLIMACTICALLY) it's gone.
WATSON: It's back on my shoulder, look!
MORIARTY: You see! Rifts in our reality. As though we're drifting in and out of slightly different universes. That’s not a bullet hole, it’s a plot hole! The Author can't keep track.
DOYLE: I can keep track just fine, I just don’t always bother! What does it matter where he was shot?
WATSON: It matters to me.
DOYLE: You don't exist!
MORIARTY: Ah, you admit it!
DOYLE: Uh—
MORIARTY: Don't worry, I've always known. That I was different. Better. And now I know why. Because the world as we know it is just the pages of a long-running book series. The Adventures of Professor James Moriarty!
HOLMES: Oh, nonsense.
DOYLE: Um. No.
MORIARTY: No?
WATSON: (TO HIMSELF) James?
DOYLE: No, it's actually The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
MORIARTY: Huh.
HOLMES: I knew it!
WATSON: ...James Moriarty?
MORIARTY: Then... if I'm not the hero, who am I? An NPC?
DOYLE: Well, no, you're—er—
KOONTZ: The bad guy!
BARKER: Dean!
WATSON: ...James Moriarty?
MORIARTY: Is it true? IS IT TRUE? [KERFUFFLE]
DOYLE: Put me down!
MORIARTY: IS IT TRUE??
DOYLE: Yes! But... you're not just the bad guy. You're the bad guy! The most iconic supervillain in literature. Isn't that right, everyone?
BARKER: Oh, definitely. Real iconic.
KOONTZ: I dunno, Skeletor is—
BARKER: Dean!
KOONTZ: Oh. OK. Yeah. (SULKILY) Totally worse than Skeletor.
WATSON: (LOSING IT) JAMES MORIARTY??!
[FADE.
FADE IN CAMPFIRE AMBIENCE]
LOVECRAFT: "Meanwhile, Stephen King and Edgar Allan Poe were attempting to tame that most unpredictable of beasts—the bicycle."
[FADE TO VICTORIAN LONDON STREET. RAIN, HOOFBEATS.
BIG BICYCLE CRASH]
POE: Ow!
KING: That time we nearly had it.
POE: No, we didn't. Steve, it's not possible for two men handcuffed together to ride a pennyfarthing bicycle along a wet cobbled street.
KING: Not with that attitude! C'mon, why don't you take the left pedal this time?
POE: Because then we'd be facing backwards!
KING: Not if we cross our arms over, like (GRUNT) [HANDCUFF CLINK] this!
POE: Ow! Then we've got the wrong hands on the handlebars.
KING: It's worth a try, isn't it?
POE: (IMPATIENT HUFF)... All right. One more try, and then we're walking. If God wanted us to have wheels, he'd have put them on us himself.
KING: I don't know what you're afraid of, Edgar. It's just an “ordinary” bicycle!!
POE: Are you going to explain that joke again?
KING: See, because prior to the development of the chain-driven or “safety” bicycle in the 1890s, the pennyfarthing or highwheel type bicycle was also known as the "ordinary" bicycle.
POE: Yes. You've said that every time it's dumped our asses on the cobbles. Which, if the bruises on my ass are anything to go by, is quite a number of times.
KING: I’m sorry, you know I’m just a joker sometimes. You know I love jokes. But if it’s such a problem, I’ll stop.
POE: Thank you.
STEPHEN And I promise... that "high wheel" not do it again!
POE: (ENRAGED) STEEEEVE!
KING: Whoa, Edgar, calm down? C'mon! Gosh, I mean, I thought it was funny.
[RUNNING FOOTSTEPS. BICYCLE BEING TRUNDLED]
POE: I'll get you! And that damned bicycle too!
KING: (GOADING) Yeah, I got the bike. You wanna smash it?
POE: I swear, I am going to dismantle it and seal it up in a wall, see if I don’t!
KING: Yeah? Come get it! Come on! Build up speed!
POE: You—
KING: (GRUNT OF EXERTION)
POE: Hey, what are you doing, Steve?
[PEDALS TURNING. WHEELS GO FASTER. CLANK OF HANDCUFF CHAIN, BUMPS, SCRAPING NOISES AS POE IS DRAGGED OVER THE COBBLES]
KING: (EXHILARATED) I'm riding a pennyfarthing! All by myself!
POE: You're dragging me! Ow! Oof! Yow! (ONGOING NOISES OF PAIN)
KING: I got it moving, didn't I?
POE: You—ow!—Yankee—bastard! Ow!
KING: I told you it'd be easier once we were over the crest of the hill.
POE: Aaaaaaargh! [SCRAPE, BONK, SCRAPE] Can't you slow down?
KING: (CHEERFULLY) No! The caliper brake won't be invented for another four years!
INSPECTOR LESTRADE (Liselle Nic Giollabháin): (OFF) Oi! Pull over!
KING: Who said that?
POE: The police officer on the—aagh!—on the bicycle behind us. Ow!
KING: Great! Just what we were looking for!
[BICYCLE BELL RINGS. NOISE OF A SECOND PURSUES OUR HEROES]
LESTRADE: [THROUGH MEGAPHONE] Pull over and put your hands on the handlebars!
KING: (CALLING) Uh... how do you that, exactly?
POE: Steve! That cop’s gonna—ow!—fishtail us! Aagh!
KING/POE: Aaaaargh!
[MASSIVE CRASH. BICYCLES STOP]
LESTRADE: Gotcha! (PAUSE WHILE SHE GETS UP) Do you have any idea how fast you was going?
KING: (PANTING, RECOVERING) You know, Werner Heisenberg once asked me the same thing. I said, "No, but I know exactly where I am!"
LESTRADE: What?
POE: Please excuse my friend. He's terminally unfunny. Do you know an Inspector Lestrade?
LESTRADE: I am Inspector Lestrade.
KING: Just the person! Sherlock Holmes sent us.
LESTRADE: (SIGH) 'Course he did.
[FADE.
FADE BACK TO MANOR AMBIENCE]
WATSON: (FURIOUS) JAMES!! JAMES Moriarty?! YOU'RE James??
MORIARTY: Calm down, doctor.
WATSON: SHUT IT, JAMES! [CLICK OF REVOLVER]
HOLMES: Watson, put down the revolver.
WATSON: You can shut it and all.
DOYLE: Watson, it's a coincidence! I just wrote your name wrong. Don't you remember having both names? Doesn't it shift, like the bullet wound?
WATSON: No! I'm John H. Watson. Always have been.
POE: (BATTERED, BRUISED, PANTING) Hey... Clive. Dean. We're back. What did we miss?
BARKER: Well, when Holmes and Watson were done exploring each other's bodies, we found our James. Watson is really not taking the news well. (BEAT) Also, Jesus, Edgar, you look like shit. What happened to you?
KING: Oh my God Clive, I got to ride the coolest bike ever!
KOONTZ: A Raleigh Chopper?
KING: No, a pennyfarthing. I'll tell you all about it, right now. It was first patented in 1869 by—oh cripes, Watson, what are you doing?
WATSON: He's James! Professor James Moriarty, it was him all along!
KING: Oh, that. Hey, no, you ever consider that your wife was just calling you by the anglicized version of your middle name
WATSON: What?
KING: It's Hamish, right? Scottish for James?
WATSON: No, the H. stands for fucking—
MORIARTY: Hieronymus.
WATSON: I've never told anyone that!
MORIARTY: Except her.
WATSON: YOU BASTARD!!
LESTRADE: (ENTERING) Sherlock Holmes, why'd you send this pair o' plonkers after me—Gordon Bennett! What's all this?
MORIARTY: (SMUG) Oh, a certain doctor seems to have solved a certain mystery at last.
LESTRADE: Doctor, I shall have to ask you to put the revolver down... and your trousers back on.
WATSON: Shut up, Lestrade.
HOLMES: You're not being rational, Watson.
WATSON: Damn right! And you, JAMES. What did you do with her??
MORIARTY: (LASCIVIOUSLY) Oh, lots.
WATSON: You know what I mean. (CLICKING GUN) Why did you kill her?
MORIARTY: Kill her? My good doctor, you overestimate me. Yes, we were bonking. She was passing me information about you and that drug-addled snitch who orders you around. But her death? I was as heartbroken as you, doctor. Natural causes, I'm afraid.
WATSON: Don't give me that bollocks, I'm a trained physician. She was a healthy woman in her thirties. They don't just drop dead.
POE: (TENDERLY) They... they do, John. Sometimes people just die. And there's nothing you or any doctor could have done.
WATSON: No! (GRADUALLY REALISING HE'S IN DENIAL) She couldn't have just—just died. She was taken from me. It has to be somebody's fault.
POE: No. Not always.
BARKER: Terrible things happen to good people every day, John.
HOLMES: Lower the revolver, Watson. There. There's a good chap.
WATSON: You—you're right. I'm sorry.
HOLMES: Now we'll go back to Baker Street and pretend none of this happened.
WATSON: Yes. (QUIETLY TORTURED) We'll go back to Baker Street and—carry on as we always have.
HOLMES: Come on. (PAUSE) Oh, I almost forgot. Lestrade, this is Professor James Moriarty. Arrest him, please.
LESTRADE: Er... what for?
HOLMES: Well, he's the Napoleon of Crime.
LESTRADE: What's he done?
DOYLE: What d'you mean, what's he done? It's Professor Moriarty. He's a supervillain.
MORIARTY: That's right. I am a supervillain. The supervillain. Arrest me at once, Inspector!
LESTRADE: Yeah, but, like, what d'you actually do? Like, what crimes?
DOYLE: Well, he, uh...
HOLMES: He's...
DOYLE: There was that time... er... when he... when he did that crime...
WATSON: He fucked my wife.
LESTRADE: That’s not technically illegal, doctor. Or wait. [FLIPPING THROUGH NOTEBOOK]
DOYLE: ...he’s got henchmen...
LESTRADE: [CLOSING NOTEBOOK] Yeah, frowned upon but not technically illegal. I'm sorry, Professor, I can't arrest you for "being a supervillain" if you can't name a single crime what you have committed.
MORIARTY: This is a disgrace.
POE: He still might have murdered Watson's wife.
DOYLE: No. He didn't. That one’s on me.
MORIARTY: You know, if I were looking for someone to blame for the death of Mrs Watson, I'd be looking a little closer to home.
WATSON/DOYLE: What?
MORIARTY: Five years ago, Holmes apparently died, and you married. An elegant, if bittersweet, conclusion to your adventures together. Three years pass. Sherlock Holmes, who, let us not forget, knows all about weapons, poisons, the right kind of snake to slip down a bell-pull, really one of the world's foremost experts on ingenious murder techniques... shows up again in London, demanding the return of his, ah... sidekick.
WATSON: You... you can't mean...
HOLMES: Watson, don't listen to him.
MORIARTY: Within a month of your wife abruptly dropping dead from cause or causes unknown.
WATSON: Holmes...
HOLMES: ...Watson...
WATSON: You couldn't. Could you?
MORIARTY: You know he could. I can assure you she was perfectly healthy just a few days earlier. Am I free to go, Inspector?
LESTRADE: Yeah. So am I, since there doesn't seem to be any real crime scene here. Love nights like this, really makes my job easier! 'Night all.
MORIARTY: And I'd better get back to my supervillainy, which apparently doesn't consist of doing very much. I suppose there are worse characters to be... Watson. Goodnight.
FOOTSTEPS LEAVING.
WATSON: Holmes. Is it true?
DOYLE: No!
WATSON: My wife, Sherlock! The one person in the world who mattered more to me than you. You were always jealous. You couldn't stand being less important than another human being.
HOLMES: Watson—
WATSON: I loved you. [CLICK OF REVOLVER]
DOYLE: Watson, no!
[AMBIENCE CUTS IMMEDIATELY TO CAMPFIRE]
LOVECRAFT:—cried the literary agent. Watson looked Sherlock Holmes in his cold, unemotional eyes, then steadying his trembling hand, raised the revolver and f—
SHELLEY: Whoa whoa, wait a second.
LOVECRAFT: What? It's just getting to the climax!
SHELLEY: He's gonna shoot Sherlock Holmes, right? If Sherlock dies, the book ends. And if Clive and Dean and the others are there when it ends… what happens to them?
LOVECRAFT: Ohh no... What do we do?
SHELLEY: Well obviously (BRACING HERSELF) I gotta go in. Someone’s gotta clean up after those nerds.
LOVECRAFT: Can I come?
SHELLEY: You just stay here and read. Whatever happens, you keep reading. (DRAWS BREATH)
[POPPING NOISE. AMBIENCE SWITCHES TO MANOR]
WATSON: Goodbye, Sherlock. [GUN CLICKS]
[DOOR OPENS]
SHELLEY: Stop!
KING/POE/DOYLE/KOONTZ: Mary!
WATSON: (SHOCKED) Mary!
KING: Why are you dressed like that?
SHELLEY: (NOTICING) Ugh. What the hell is this?
BARKER: It’s called white.
SHELLEY: Is this a fuckin’ bum roll? I look like a Dickens heroine. [SOUND OF TEARING FABRIC]
KING: Wow, you know what that’s like? It’s like the holodeck on Star Trek. I bet because she just walked in, instead of falling down the chimney, the simulation must have registered her as not Mary Shelley but as the "Mary" who appears in these books. That’s exactly what happened in TNG Episode S8E06: The Proctovonus Gambit.
POE: Speaking of, Mary… how did you just walk in?
SHELLEY: I do what I want.
WATSON: I... thought you were dead.
SHELLEY: Oh Criminy. (KINDLY) I am. But Sherlock didn't kill me. No one did. Nice people die, John. They're not always murdered by a supervillain with a snake on a string or some illegitimate heir with a phosphorous-coated dog. Sometimes life just fuckin' sucks. Sherlock's not a murderer, he's a dickhead.
HOLMES: Excuse me.
SHELLEY: I just saved you from getting shot, so shut the fuck up, Sherlock.
WATSON: (INCREDULOUS GIGGLING) You told Sherlock Holmes to shut the fuck up.
SHELLEY: 'Course I did. What else can you do, reason with him? This fucker's impossible. And you know what to do with the impossible.
WATSON: I... yes, I think I do.
SHELLEY: Come on, you lot. These two have got some CDs to split up or whatever.
WATSON: Mary! Don’t leave me again.
SHELLEY: I’m already gone. See ya, James.
[FADE.
CAMPFIRE AMBIENCE FADES BACK IN.
LOVECRAFT: “The end.”
SOBER PAUSE, JUST LONG ENOUGH FOR US TO START WONDERING IF HE'S ALONE.]
LOVECRAFT: Here's your e-book reader back, Steve.
KING: Thanks. Mary, you—you saved us all. And without even drawing your knife! That’s a first.
DOYLE: You split up Sherlock Holmes and Watson. That's an ending. I'm finally free!
BARKER: I gotta admit, that was beautiful, girl.
POE: I'd just like to say on behalf of the Midnight Society that—
SHELLEY: Any of you ever tell anyone about this, you're fuckin' dead.
[END THEME MUSIC PLAYS: SAME MELODY AS OPENING THEME, BUT PLAYED ON STRINGS AND WOODWINDS]
VOICEOVER (Rodrigo): Submitted for the Approval of the Midnight Pals starred Jason Robinson as Stephen King, Rebecca D’Souza as Mary Shelley, Sister Indica as Clive Marker, Wren Montgomery as Dean Koontz, and Robin Johnson and Arthur Conan Doyle; with Lou Sutcliffe as Sherlock Holmes, Canavan Connolly as Dr Watson, Joel A.S. Butler as Professor Moriarty and Ian Fleming, Liselle Nic Giollabháin as Inspector Lestrade, Nomi Ibsen as the radio announcer, and Dexter Howard as Raymond Chandler. The script was written by Robin Johnson and edited by Bitter Karella, based on the Sherlock Holmes stories by Arthur Conan Doyle. The music was by Robin Johnson. The episode was directed and produced by Robin Johnson. Daisy McNamara was an audio consultant. Submitted for the Approval of the Midnight Pals is created by Bitter Karella. All characters are fictitious, especially the real ones. If you’ve enjoyed this episode, please consider leaving us a rating or a review on Apple Podcasts, Spotify or your favorite podcast platform. Find Submitted for the Approval of the Midnight Pals at midnightpals.com
[MUSIC PLAYS OUT.
FADE IN OLD-TIME RADIO CRACKLE. JAZZ MUSIC PLAYING IN BACKGROUND]
OLD-TIMEY RADIO DETECTIVE SHOW ANNOUNCER VOICE (Nomi Ibsen): (V/O) Meanwhile, at the Bloodhound Gang's secret campfire, Raymond Chandler and Ian Fleming are discussing a yarn wherein Philip Marlowe meets danger in the form of a beautiful lady...
RAYMOND CHANDLER (Dexter Howard): Then Philip Marlowe punches out the mook, and grabs the briefcase fulla cash, see? An' then—(TRAILING OFF) an' then—uh...
IAN FLEMING (Joel): Then what, Ray? Don't keep ush in shushpenshe.
CHANDLER: I was just getting to that, Ian. Hey, I got a writing tip for you guys. Whenever you're stuck for an idea, have a guy come through the door with a gun in his hand.
FLEMING: Intereshting. Maybe I'll ushe that in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
CHANDLER: I know, right? So Philip Marlowe grabs the briefcase, an' then—a guy comes through the door! With a gun in his hand! (PAUSE) An' then... uh... (LONG PAUSE) another guy...
[FADE]