go_exchange | Happy Holidays, migratory!

Title: The Giant Rat of Sumatra: A Story For Which The World is Not Yet Prepared
Author: caitirin
Characters: Crowley and Aziraphale and Three Gentlemen of London.
Words: 5229
Notes: Written for

migratory for the 2008

go_exchange. Inspired and graciously co-authored by the lovely, E and her deep abiding love for all things Holmesian. I hope that you enjoy reading it as much as much as I enjoyed writing it. Also many many many thanks to B who beta read it for us.

"You said this would be a vacation, Crowley." Aziraphale carefully stepped over the carnage that lay practically everywhere on the decks.

"Yes, well it was meant to be one." Crowley said. "It was hardly my fault that the ship became overridden with hellrats. It's not as though I called them up." Crowley frowned at the blood-soaked decking and wished it clean. These shoes were brand new and not inexpensive, it wouldn't do to have them covered in congealing blood.

"I'm not entirely certain that I believe you on that." Aziraphale said huffily. "You were working behind my back."

"I was just delivering a little bit of plague to the places that we stopped. I took great care not to deliver it until after we'd left. It's not my fault. I was given a job to do. You don't just shrug that kind of thing off with a 'Sorry, I'm on vacation, awfully sorry, Hastur. Ligur, lovely new shroud, really brings out your eyes.' Maybe Heaven operates that way, but my office is shockingly different." Crowley said with a warning tone in his voice.

Aziraphale ignored the tone. "I'm just remarking, it's an awfully big coincidence that a giant blood thirsty hellrat just happened to manifest on this ship, just in the middle of your spreading pestilence and despair." Aziraphale collected his valise from their stateroom. "I mean, it was really awfully unpleasant after your rat-"

"He wasn't MY rat!" Crowley interrupted.

"Your rat killed the other passengers, then the entire kitchen staff, and the maintenance man, and then the crew." Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. "You know I wouldn't entirely suspect you if it hadn't been that the first person killed and eaten was that singer that I fancied."

Crowley looked away. "I have no idea what you're talking about." Crowley picked up his bag. He had arranged for a cab to meet them. "And he was a terrible singer in any case. If I had killed him it would have been a mercy killing."

Aziraphale huffed and muttered something about the death of good taste and he followed Crowley down the ramp towards the shore. Since there was no crew left Aziraphale was very surprised to see people coming up to meet them. Ahhh, a welcoming crew. Aziraphale put on his brightest smile.

Crowley raised an eyebrow suspiciously.

"Excuse me, sirs, my name is Inspector Lestrade. I need to see the captain of this vessel."

"I'm afraid that might be rather difficult, Inspector." Crowley said smoothly. "The captain is dead. Now if you'll excuse us, it's been a most arduous journey and my companion is feeling rather faint."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, which one of the constables took as him being about to faint and lurched forward, nearly knocking Aziraphale into the water in the process.

Lestrade ground his teeth. "In that case then, I'm afraid I will have to ask you to remain for questioning. We've had some unpleasant news regarding your ship..."

"I should imagine!" Aziraphale said dramatically. "It's been absolutely wretched. We had to lock ourselves into our cabin. I'm certain there was a madman on the loose. The entire crews been..." Aziraphale trailed off here for dramatic effect.

Crowley fought to hold back a smirk. What a performance. He would have to remember to properly mock Aziraphale later. "As I said, my friend here needs to rest."

"I shall be happy to have a Constable escort you. Scotland Yard may have a few questions to ask you later, Mr...."

"Misters Fell and Crowley." Aziraphale said indicating himself and Crowley. "I'm sure we'd be glad to offer you any assistance that we can in the wake of this terrible tragedy."

"Thank you for your cooperation. Now if you'll please go with Constable Williams..." Lestrade indicated the youngest constable.

Aziraphale tugged Crowley's arm. "We'll just be on our way, Inspector."

Crowley relented, rolling his eyes. "Very well."

Lestrade shook his head as he watched them go. What an unusual pair. Probably Bohemians.

///

"As though our first vacation wasn't bad enough, now you've entangled us in a human police investigation." Crowely said irritably as he flopped down onto the finest bed the Grand Hotel had to offer. They hadn't made reservations, but luckily a sudden cancellation had come through and they'd been able to stay.

"The cruise would not have been bad at all if you hadn't loosed a giant hellrat in the middle of it." Aziraphale said moodily. "I'm still angry with you about that singer." Aziraphale carefully unpacked his valise. "It's the least you could do to answer their questions. It's your own fault. Maybe it will serve as a lesson to you in future. I'm feeling very cross with you. This came perilously close to breaking the guidelines of The Arrangement."

"I told you, I didn't-"

"Oh bollocks, Crowley!" Aziraphale said in a temper.

Crowley stopped. "Swearing, Angel?"

Aziraphale threw up his hands. "You see what you push me to? You are going to behave and answer the nice Inspector's questions or I won't ever go on holiday with you again." With that Aziraphale stomped out of the room.

Crowley laid back on the bed. "Such dramatics." He scowled peevishly up at the ceiling. It hadn't been his rat. Okay, so perhaps he'd nudged it in the direction of the rotten singer, but honestly the noise he'd made and had the audacity to call singing had been atrocious. Aziraphale should have better taste. As though the tartan suit wasn't bad enough. And it was at least ten years out of date.

Upon reflection Crowley had to admit to himself that only ten years out of date wasn't bad for Aziraphale who, long after the fall of classical Greece and anything even remotely resembling its fashion sense, had insisted that the traditional chiton was the only way to dress. Crowley couldn't say enough good things about the invention of trousers. Aziraphale had taken at least a hundred years to warm up to those.

Then again... Aziraphale without trousers wasn't all bad, now was it?

///

Aziraphale was berating himself for losing his temper. And for swearing. It was so unseemly. Crowley was most certainly a bad influence. But really, Aziraphale reflected, you couldn't blame him. He was a demon after all. It was his nature. The trip had been entirely too stressful. Aziraphale needed some tea. And maybe he'd pop round to a bookstore and get a nice old book. Yes, that would be just the thing.

Aziraphale acquired a hat and went out into the streets of London in search of a nice clean cafe.

He had just found a suitable place when he accidentally walked directly into another gentleman who had been passing by. Neither of them had been watching their paths carefully enough because of a sudden overturning of a cart of apples just across the street. Aziraphale knocked the man's hat from his head when they collided and a passing brougham's horse stepped directly on it.

"Your hat! I'm so very sorry, my good fellow! How unforgivably clumsy of me!" Aziraphale bent hastily to retrieve the crushed hat. He briefly considered repairing it on the spot but realized that it was certain not to go unnoticed by the hat's owner.

"Please, I was equally at fault, sir. I should have been more careful." Dr. John Watson said quickly so as to avoid unneeded discomfort for Aziraphale.

“Not at all, I’m very sorry, I’ve ruined your hat, sir. Please allow me to replace the hat for you. I feel terrible to have been so appallingly clumsy as this.” Aziraphale handed Watson back his erstwhile hat, now a mass of crushed felt.

“That’s really not necessary. I’d been meaning to get a new hat, anyway; this one was rather old,” Watson said amiably. “It’s really no trouble. Are you quite all right? I ran into you as well. You’re not harmed in any way, are you?”

“Not at all.” Aziraphale said holding his hands up to show that he was unharmed. “Still, I’ll feel terribly rude if you don’t allow me to buy you a drink or at least a cup of tea as an apology.” Aziraphale fretted.

"As it happens I was just on my way for a light lunch. I would certainly not begrudge some company." Watson said indicating a cafe near them. He extended his hand. "John Watson, at your service."

"Azra Fell." Aziraphale said. "You must let me buy your lunch then, it would be the least that I could do." He smiled.

"If you insist. I must recommend their roast beef to you. They do a wonderful job in preparing it." Watson walked across the road with Aziraphale.

Once they were seated and a charming girl had taken their orders Aziraphale poured them each some tea. "If I might importune you a moment further, I've just arrived here in London and I was hoping to visit a few rare book shops. Is the store on Bond Street still open?"

"The one run by Mr. Joseph Baker? I believe that it is still open," Watson said.

"Joseph? My goodness, that little lad is old enough to be running the shop these days?" Aziraphale said.

Watson laughed. "If you can still call a man of past sixty a little lad, well, yes."

"My my, how time does fly when you're away..." Aziraphale said to cover his accidental admission of his age. "I shall have to make an effort to go and visit. I knew his father when I was much younger."

Aziraphale was pleased at how amiable this accidental acquaintance had turned out to be. He passed a leisurely hour with Dr. Watson over lunch and then had to excuse himself.

"Sorry to leave so soon, but I really should be off. I promised someone that I wouldn't be long." He was thinking of the Inspector. It wouldn't do to rouse extra suspicion by being markedly absent.

"It was a pleasure to meet you Mr. Fell. And it was well worth the hat," Watson said with an endearing smile. "I do hope you enjoy your visit to London." He shook hands with Aziraphale and continued back to Baker Street.

///

When Watson got back to Baker Street, he met Mrs. Hudson taking the tea upstairs. He noted three cups.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson. Is Mr. Holmes seeing a client?" he asked.

"It's just Inspector Lestrade," Mrs. Hudson replied. "And rather frustrated he did look, too." She shook her head.

"Please, allow me," Watson said, taking the tray from her.

"Oh, thank you, Doctor."

Watson balanced the tray in one arm as he opened the door to their sitting room. He heard someone get up, and the door was pulled back fully. "Ah, Watson!" Sherlock Holmes said. "You're just in time. Lestrade was about to fill me in on a pretty little problem he's facing."

Watson put the tray down on the table. "A pleasure to see you, Inspector."

"Doctor." Lestrade was nestled petulantly in one of their armchairs. Holmes poured tea for them all and motioned to Watson to sit down.

"I trust you've heard of the Matilda Briggs?" Holmes asked as he passed out full cups.

"That's the passenger liner that was sending out the SOS telegraph signals earlier this week, isn't it?"

"Indeed. The very distress signals that stopped abruptly the night before last." Holmes sat down and cast a look of suppressed excitement toward Lestrade. "And early this morning, it sailed serenely into port... with no less than two hundred mutilated bodies littering its decks."

"Good Lord!"

Holmes pressed his fingertips together with a smile. "Oh, and I must not neglect to mention the two perfectly unhurt and unblemished gentlemen who met our friend the Inspector here on the gangplanks."

"You took them into custody, surely?" Watson asked. Lestrade's sour look deepened.

"No, though I believe you're the fiftieth person to ask me that today," he said. "I had a constable escort them to their hotel, and I've had a tail on them since." He straightened up at Watson's incredulous look, and Holmes stifled a laugh. "I don't understand it either, all right? I realize they're the only people who could have been involved, but for some reason, at the time, I-- it didn't seem to make sense to--" he shook his head jerkily, as if to clear water from his ears. "Oh, blast it. I don't know. I just didn't. And how could two men have overcome two hundred people in less than three days? The coroners have been working straight out, and they've determined that the killings happened within seventy-two hours. Bites all over them, chunks torn out, limbs ripped off. It's inhuman, gentlemen, that's what it is."

"Lestrade thinks," Holmes said with a certain amount of relish, "that there may be something supernatural at work."

"Oh, surely not," Watson said. "You were right there with us when we brought down the Hound of the Baskervilles, Lestrade. You should know as well as any that men are always behind these supposedly otherworldly horrors."

Lestrade looked less than pleased to be chastised in such a manner. "This is something of a different league," he said. "And I've come to ask for Mr. Holmes's help in the matter. Of course, if he'd rather spend his time mocking me than interviewing the only two witnesses..."

"You've set up an interview?" Holmes asked, starting forward in his chair.

"I took the liberty of doing so, in the hopes that you'd accompany me. It's at six o'clock," Lestrade said. Watson checked his pocket-watch.

"We've got about four hours, then. Why don't you tell us everything you know about the Matilda Briggs in the meantime?"

Holmes cast him an approving glance. "Get out your notepad, if you please, Watson."

///

After learning some pertinent details about the Matilda Briggs, Holmes, Watson and Lestrade went down to the docks where Holmes conducted a close inspection of the ship. Although he was a medical man by trade, Watson could not deny his horror at seeing the bodies of two hundred passengers strewn about in various states of dismemberment.

Holmes made careful measurements of the bite marks on the victims and stared some time at the large and vicious scratch marks driven deep into the wood of the ship's decking and walls. He found series of paw prints in blood leading down the inner stairs and followed them to measure. The ship's late captain, a burly man of forty five clutched a matted lump of brown and black coarse hair in his clenched hand. Holmes carefully collected this along with a sliver of a claw which Watson extracted from the man's chest.

At a quarter to six, Holmes, Watson, and Lestrade left 221B Baker Street and hailed a cab toward the hotel where the two suspects were staying.

"We are meeting them at the hotel, and not, say, at the police station?" Holmes said as they climbed in. Lestrade bristled and settled onto the seat across from Holmes and Watson.

"How many times must you force me to repeat myself? They are at the Grand Hotel and that is where they are going to stay until we speak with them and determine what part they played in this mess."

"Would you be so good as to describe them to us once more as you saw them when they exited the ship? Leave out no details."

"All right," Lestrade said. He hesitated, earning an expectant look from Holmes, and growled in frustration. "You'll have to pardon me, but my memory of them is a little fuzzy. For some reason now that I try to recall them..."

Holmes bit back a smile. "I know that observation is not your strong suit, my dear Inspector, but if you would be so kind."

"I'll do the best I can," Lestrade said pointedly.

"That is all we can ask of you, Lestrade."

Glowering, Lestrade sat back and raised his eyes to the ceiling in thought. "One was swarthy and the other fair. Both medium height. The dark one was wearing tinted glasses, I believe, and they were both dressed in evening clothes, frock suits and toppers, but the swarthy one's coat and trousers were black, I believe, while the fair one was wearing tartan, peculiarly enough. Very dandyish, and a bit out of fashion, if you ask me. He was a pleasant-looking chap, though, but the other one..." He shook his head. "He had a meanness about him."

"Watson? What is it?"

Lestrade looked back down to see Watson paused with his pencil hovering above the notepad on his knee and a slightly incredulous expression on his face. He glanced back and forth between Holmes and the Inspector and then shook himself.

"Oh - it's nothing, really. It's only that I met a gentlemen today wearing a tartan suit, and it occurred to me that it was a bit unusual, but beyond that I didn't dwell on it."

"What did he look like?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, he was a blond gentleman, with a cheerful face and impeccable manners. I couldn't venture a guess as to his age, but he was certainly older than twenty and younger than forty."

"Mm, that does sound a bit like our man," Lestrade agreed.

"Did neither of you notice the knees of his trousers?" Holmes asked. Lestrade stared blankly at him, and Watson pressed his lips together as if disappointed with himself for forgetting. "His fingernails? His boots? His sleeve?" They both shook their heads, and Holmes rolled his eyes heavenward with an exasperated snort. "Well, at any rate, we shall see momentarily. Here is the hotel."

///

"Crowley, put on your shirt." Aziraphale buzzed about the hotel room, straightening things.

Like an annoying housewife, Crowley thought. He dawdled in the bathroom taking his time just to annoy Aziraphale.

"I mean it. They're on their way upstairs. Make yourself presentable!" Aziraphale insisted.

"Fine, fine." Crowley emerged from a cloud of steam looking perfectly manicured and groomed.

"That's better. Now just behave. I've had quite enough of this nonsense and I'd like to have an actual holiday."

There was a knock at the door. Aziraphale gave one final look round the room and a reproving glance at Crowley before opening the door.

"Ahh, Inspector, how good of you to come." Aziraphale said with a smile. "I do hope your coming here hasn't been a terrible inconvenience. Please, come in." Aziraphale held the door wide open. "And Dr. Watson!" Aziraphale said with a surprised and pleased smile. "I hadn't expected to see you. What an unexpected pleasure. Thank you again for your assistance in locating that shop this afternoon."

"I'm delighted to be of help," Watson replied amiably, but he turned his hat about nervously in his hands at the prospect of his acquaintance being so intimately associated with such a terrible crime.

"Ah, I see you already know one another," Lestrade said. "Misters Fell and Crowley, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. Mr. Holmes lends his talents to Scotland Yard from time to time in our investigations and I would like the two of you to cooperate with him in all of his requests."

Aziraphale extended a hand to Sherlock Holmes. "An honor to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I've heard all about you from the stories in The Strand. I confess that I've not read them myself, my friend, Mr. Crowley keeps me abreast of them though. We shall certainly be glad to tell you what we know about this dreadful event."

Crowley took that moment to stand up from the settee where he had been seated reading the newspaper and ignoring everyone else. He walked over to Holmes and looked him up and down. He then turned his eye to Watson (completely ignoring Lestrade) and smirked knowingly at Aziraphale. "Told you, didn't I?"

Aziraphale pretended not to have heard him.

"Can't say he doesn't have good taste." Crowley said.

Aziraphale gave him a do-stop-talking-nonsense look.

Crowley extended his hand to Holmes. "It is a rare privilege to meet a man of your stature." He glanced again at Watson in a markedly intense, almost intimate way. "Y'know, there are going to be entire works of published academic literature dedicated to examining your relationship."

Watson turned pink and looked suitably flustered, but Holmes just narrowed his eyes. Crowley was put into mind of a raptor waiting for the perfect moment to strike. "I hardly see how that bears on this little problem of ours, Mr..."

"Crowley."

"Mr. Crowley." Holmes's smile was brief and sharp. "Now, the facts, if you please."

"Won't you all sit down?" Aziraphale slid between Crowley and Holmes. He placed a gentle but forceful hand on Crowley's chest and pushed him back a step. Honestly, if the atmosphere got more electric Aziraphale was sure that the drapes would catch. He gestured towards a table and chairs neat the fireplace where a maid had moments ago laid tea. "I think a bit of tea might suit us nicely."

"Why, yes, that would be absolutely lovely," Watson said a bit too quickly, and hurried over to the table to take a seat. Holmes followed him, never letting either Crowley or Aziraphale out of his sight. With a sigh, Lestrade joined them.

"If we could get down to business, gentlemen...?"

"We were on holiday aboard ship." Aziraphale explained. "It had been pleasant enough, we were just returning from the Continent, we had a lovely visit in France. Crowley has family there, such lovely people." He smiled daggers at Crowley.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. It was true that they'd run into a small crowd of demons. It had been one night out drinking with the boys. Aziraphale had almost canceled the rest of their holiday plans on the spot. Honestly, you'd think Aziraphale really was a wife.

"We were on board ship for scarcely a day when we heard the most awful noises. Crowley went out to investigate and there were bodies strewn everywhere. I feared that we were done for. We had to retreat to our cabins and barricade the door. The sounds outside were terrible." Aziraphale wasn't making this part up. It had been pretty awful.

"Oh yes, quite dreadful. All the screaming and the screeching." Crowley remarked dryly. It had reminded him of home, which was doubly annoying as home wasn't all that great. Sure demons were supposed to be at home amidst carnage and destruction, but Crowley felt that the whole scene was really a bit old school. There were much better (cleaner) ways to tempt the souls of mortals. "I don't know what else we can really tell you. We remained in our cramped quarters until the ship, thankfully, somehow managed to reach safe harbor."

Holmes remained silent for some time, leaning back in his chair with hooded eyes and his arms folded across his chest. "You will excuse my saying so, Mr. Crowley," he said at length, "but you appear surprisingly unperturbed for a man who has just witnessed the violent murder of two hundred innocent souls."

Crowley snorted and only just managed not to roll his eyes. "I've seen worse in my time. And I highly doubt that they were all innocent souls, Mr. Holmes. I've met very few souls that I would honestly term innocent."

"Have you, now?" Holmes asked quietly. Watson looked perceptively disturbed at the idea that Crowley had seen worse than the carnage aboard the Matilda Briggs. Sitting forward, Holmes went on, "You would have no objection to my examining your luggage, I trust?"

"Certainly not. By all means. Feel free to inspect the baggage. You'll find it just in the other room." Crowley said smoothly.

Aziraphale gave Crowley a look and mentally reviewed his luggage. He wished everything clean and neatly folded (which everything already was, but Aziraphale always thought that it never hurt to be extra sure). "Yes, please inspect anything that you feel needs inspecting. I would very much like to get this whole mystery solved and behind us. It has been a most strenuous journey after all." Aziraphale poured himself more tea.

Holmes and Watson went into the bedroom, Crowley snickered at this and Aziraphale kicked him, while smiling, under the table.

"More tea, Inspector?" Aziraphale offered.

"Yes, thank you," Lestrade said. This all seemed most irregular to him, but for some reason he could not keep his mind on reasoning out why for more than a few seconds at a time. Surely Holmes was having better luck.

In the bedroom, Holmes brought out his lens and conducted a minute examination of the outside of Crowley and Aziraphale's suitcases. After several minutes, he sat back on his heels and scowled. Watson crouched down beside him.

"What do you see?"

"Nothing."

"...Nothing? You've found nothing at all?"

"Precisely," Holmes said, "and that is most suggestive. I have found nothing because these suitcases are utterly new - not a scratch on them, not a ding in the leather, not a stretch mark on either handle. Nothing."

"They couldn't have bought them new here in the time they've been in London," Watson said. "Lestrade had a watch on them the whole time."

"Yes, and your friend managed to get out and have a charming lunch with you without anyone knowing," Holmes retorted, and Watson was forced to concede the point. "Anyway, let's have a look inside." Holmes pulled one of the suitcases onto its side and popped it open. The clothes within it were clean, impeccably folded, and also appeared quite new.

In the other room, Lestrade set down his teacup. "Where did you say the ship landed before heading to England?" he asked.

"Oh, Sumatra," Aziraphale answered affably.

"And what were you doing there?"

"Missionary work," said Aziraphale with a virtuous smile.

Holmes lifted a stiffly starched shirt out, the last piece of clothing, and then held up a postcard with "Sumatra" blazoned across it. Watson peered at it.

"Isn't there a war on in Sumatra right now?" he asked. "With the Dutch?"

"Yes," Crowley said appearing in the doorway. "Quite a bitter struggle. My dear friend Mr. Fell does insist that one should use one's times to bring light into the darkness. So many souls needing to be saved and all. Not much my idea of a good time, but one does make allowances for the hobbies of a dear friend. I'm sure you understand that concept, Mr. Holmes." He looked pointedly at Dr. Watson while speaking to Sherlock. "Dear friends really are so rare and precious, don't you agree?"

Watson colored again, looking a little bit alarmed at the turn the conversation was taking. Holmes rose and stepped in front of him. "I believe that is quite beside the point, Mr. Crowley," he said, steel in his voice. "These are all of your possessions, I take it?"

"These are all of them. Unless of course you should care to search my person, my dear Sherlock," Crowley said smoothly. Holmes flushed up with indignation and forced his fists to unclench. He was about to open his mouth to reply when he saw Aziraphale over Crowley's shoulder.

"Crowley, that is quite enough." Aziraphale said as he stepped beside Crowley. He glared at Crowley.

Crowley bowed out. Push this any further and Aziraphale was going to be in a bad mood for the next century. "My apologies. I do forget myself." He walked out of the bedroom and back into the sitting room with Lestrade. "I trust that your investigation bears out our innocence. We were simply not involved aside from being terribly inconvenienced." Crowley walked to the hotel room door. "If there are no further questions..."

"We have no further questions," Lestrade said, and frowned at himself immediately afterward. Crowley indicated the door again, looking pointedly at Holmes.

"I think we had better go," Watson said to him in a low voice, his hand on Holmes's arm. Holmes narrowed his eyes at Crowley.

"Inspector Lestrade may have no further questions for you, Mr. Crowley," he said, "but I have many. They will have to wait until I have made a few small inquiries, however. I trust you and your... friend will not leave London in the meantime?"

"It was our intention to take in the sights of the city." Crowley said. "We shall be here a trifle longer."

Aziraphale smiled at Holmes. "We are glad to be of help in any way that we can. So sorry to have been such a bother."

"Mgh," Holmes replied, and pushed past Lestrade out the door.

Aziraphale stood smiling in the doorway until they had gone from sight. He closed the door and turned slowly.

He found Crowley eyeing the window as though he meant to exit the room hastily. Aziraphale gritted his teeth. "Crowley!"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "I said nothing that wasn't true."

"You are the most insufferable wretch. That could have gone much smoother if you didn't always insist upon..."

"Being demonic?" Crowley offered. "I could counter that with it being much easier if you were a little less angelic with inviting them out for tea. And insisting on being so cooperative. I could have just made it all go away. It was your idea to play nice with the authorities. I was just doing what comes naturally."

"You are impossible." Aziraphale said irritably. "And now we can't leave the city until Mr. Holmes has made his inquiries."

"Well, I certainly don't intend on being trapped in here. You're free to be as cooperative as you like. I'm going to take some vacation. And this time I'm choosing somewhere tropical that isn't in the middle of a war." Crowley said as he snapped his fingers and his suitcase repacked.

Aziraphale did have to admit that the idea wasn't entirely without merit. And they hadn't done anything wrong. Well, at least Aziraphale hadn't. He wasn't entirely sure that Crowley was as guilt free as he was making himself out to be. "We should at least let them know that we're leaving."

"I'll just write them a note." Crowley said.

"I'm not certain that I trust you to leave a civilized note given your penchant for terrorizing the poor dears. Their relationship was quite strained enough without you having to insinuate that you knew what they liked to do in the peace and quiet of their own rooms. Really, that was uncalled for and unnecessary."

///

Some days later, a letter was delivered to 221B Baker Street by one of the street urchins so often employed there. It read as follows:

My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:

I trust your investigation has turned up the inevitable conclusion - that a rat or rats of epic proportions perpetrated the vicious murders aboard the Matilda Briggs. As I can imagine no other conclusion possible, I hope you are entirely satisfied with your investigation. I regret to say that Mr. Fell and myself have been called away from your delightful city by business of a greater importance, and we have been forced to take our leave. I wish you the best in all your future endeavors (especially that one with the blackmailer - watch out for him) and I look forward to reading about your exploits in The Strand.

Yours faithfully,
A.J. Crowley

And so the Case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra was never fully solved, although it is mentioned briefly in one of Watson's accounts of the further cases of Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street.

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winterthunder.livejournal.com

OMG, you crossed Holmes with Good Omens! That was brilliant!

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Happy Holidays, migratory!

Happy Holidays, migratory!

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