My friend, Sherlock Holmes, was truly never the same since that fateful day at Reichenbach. The confrontation with his greatest adversary had left an irrevocable mark on his very soul since then, for I watched a change spread ever more intrusively over his personality as the days wore on. He seemed to become more prepossessed with fighting crime in all its forms.
This became his obsession.

It was the start of a new chapter in his life. I remember it was a warm summer day when Holmes burst into the room. I was then temporarily taking up residence at his flat, more to keep a protective eye on his changes and as a concern for his well being, rather than a need for shelter or surcease from my wife.

“Quickly, Watson,” he said, “Mrs. H has informed me that we are needed most urgently.” Hearing those words from Holmes, I threw down my newspaper and jumped from my armchair. “There’s not a moment to lose,” I cried in acknowledgment, adrenaline pumping, and ran to the back wall of our flat.

Tilting a nearby portrait of the Queen slightly to the right, an audible clicking noise was heard, and part of the wall slid quickly aside. Holmes, impatiently waiting before the enlarging gap, rushed ahead of me, into the doorway opening. There, surrounded by gleaming metal walls, was our destination: the sleek, black form of the Holmesmobile. Indeed, the horses were already harnessed to the carriage.

Hopping into the passenger’s seat, over the sealed door which had been welded shut to heighten its aerodynamic properties (as Holmes had briefed me on once before) I landed with a bump onto the black upholstery, after hitting my head slightly on the carriage top, the fringe flying into my eyes.

And then we were ready for action. Holmes appeared in the driver’s seat next to me, wearing a black cowl to replace his ever-familiar deerstalker, and then he promptly turned the key. The dashboard lit up with a score of multicolored lights, and a loud indistinct rumbling sound was heard ominously growing beneath the floorboards, filling the cavern with echoes of its restrained power. We looked eagerly to the horses, waiting for the oats to kick in.

The building thrum of raw horsepower at bay vibrated mercilessly through the Titanium hull of our sleek vehicle, seducing my mind to the dangers of keeping in check the awesome Pandoric power before us.
Then, we were ready!

Holmes reached over dramatically and pressed a switch on his so-called “dash.” An entire section of the wall in front of us disengaged and parted with a shake. Bright sunlight streamed in through the gap.

In a moment we were outdoors, hitting the pavement in a mad gallop, so fast I never realized the moment of transition. Our “tachometer” was almost off the scale. Gales of onrushing air hit us full in our faces.

Buildings and people flashed past us in a confusing blur as I shouted to Holmes over the increasing roar, “Where are we going?”

He shouted back, “I don’t know!”

“What?” I said, momentarily taking my eyes off the ever-changing landscape before us.

“I thought I told you…didn’t I?” he answered, screaming over the deafening noise.

“No, you didn’t,” I said, a little uneasy.

“I ran out so fast I never asked Mrs. Hudson what was the problem.”

“Stop the carriage!” I said, exasperated.

“I can’t!”

“Why not?”

“The extreme forces of a dead stop would tear the legs out from under our trusty steeds. We’ll have to slow down gradually and go around the block.”

“Nice day for a ride anyway.”

“Yes, isn’t it?”

By then the crisis was over.