A carriage rumbled along the country road towards the Liddell Estate. Inside, a man slouched over with a pocket watch in hand. Or what appeared to be a pocket watch.

The man - long black coat, emerald bouffant, slicked brown hair - had a haggard way about him. Almost like a glorious piece of furniture past its prime: tufts of hair jutted from under his cap, and, upon closer inspection, his clothes reveal several well-concealed repairs. Had this man been observing himself - which he rarely did - he would have surely deduced his character: a rather famous and wealthy man past his prime, now in dire straits.

In the past, Sherlock Holmes had taken care to project an air of careful neutrality. The less his appearance showed of his personage, the less a criminal could predict of his personality. That was a luxury of the past, however - and Watson had been the one to see him clothed, fed, and cared for most of the time. Now, these menial tasks fell to Sherlock himself, and he found himself sorely lacking in skills others had so naturally.

He checked the strange pocket watch again, careful not to fiddle with the dials. It did not, after the fashion of similar devices, tell time. Nor did it have numbers. Instead, the watch was inundated with symbols. Sherlock had spent the better part of a month cross referencing these symbols with his library, and had translated some of the strange machine’s controls. Yet he dare not change them.

The missing girl’s father, Mr. Liddel greeted Sherlock in his carriage. The Liddel estate seemed to be crumbling around them; everywhere were signs of faded wealth. “Mr. Holmes,” the short man mumbled, “we are so happy you came. Please, this way.”

Inside the house they were greeted by a young woman in an expensive gown; ruddy of complexion and smiling brightly. “Mr. Holmes, please meet my niece, Mrs. Darcy.”

“Elizabeth, please,” the woman said, nodding her head. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Holmes. We followed your Jack the Ripper investigation quite rapturously. Tell me, how does it feel to have worked with the Queen so closely?”

Sherlock scanned her face for any sign of accusation. “She was quite involved in the process,” he said. “Now. If you are quite ready, I have questions concerning Alice.”

“Quite,” Mr. Liddel said, “quite, yes, of course - Lizzy here was playmates with Alice all those years ago. She was here the day she disappeared. She can best answer your questions.” He dabbed his forehead with a cloth.

“Uncle, are you quite alright?” Elizabeth asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m afraid my ill humours are returning. I feel the need to lay down. Elizabeth, would you be so kind as to show Mr. Holmes the grounds? I should be available to answer your questions momentarily, Mr. Holmes, but I’m afraid I’m feeling quite ill.”

Sweat. Redness of face. Labored breathing. Stress induced cardiac event - not a heart attack, yet, but perhaps three years hence. Maybe less.

Nothing to be done about it, Sherlock thought. He examined the man’s countenance for any signs of guilt. In these cases, it was usually the father, anyway. But not this one, he thought, we know that much already.

“Come, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Darcy said, “I’m eager to hear more of the famous detective’s exploits.”

They walked the ground and, to her word, Mrs. Darcy investigated him quite thoroughly. He answered tersely, preferring to observe the grounds. The home was still stately, despite the decay, and the grounds had once been a large garden park. Shrubs still suggested shapes of fantastical beasts that had long since become overgrown: dragons and rabbits and queens and cats. They morphed eerily, as though Sherlock were seeing them through a dream.

Finally, they came to a large tree on the edge of the wood. “This is what you wished to show me?” Sherlock said.

“Yes. Well, I’m not sure. That day, Alice had gotten bored while we lay on the riverbank. She ran off, and I followed her through the hedge maze. I’m fairly certain I saw her following a rabbit towards the wood here, and then-”

“And then?” Sherlock asked.

“Well she went into the tree. Into that hole there, by the roots. I could see her crawl inside, muddying her little shoes - and then she vanished. At least, that’s what I think I saw. I was only a little girl. The grown-ups all told me that it couldn’t be the case, that if that had been so, we would have found her inside,” Elizabeth said. She clutched her arm in a way that reminded Sherlock of children, as if the stress of reliving the event made her regress to a childlike state.

Just then, a raven landed in the branches of the tree above them. It squawked, looking down at them with beady eyes. Blast that thing, Sherlock said.

“Look!” Elizabeth said, pointing up at it, “we never get ravens in these parts. How odd.”

“You can see it?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow. “The Raven?”

“Well of course,” Elizabeth said, laughing. “It’s there, isn’t it? My, I have heard you were odd. I suppose I didn’t know what to expect.”

Sherlock eyed the raven, then the woman - surely, she couldn’t be one of them. Two, so close together?

Sherlock forced a smile, folding his hands behind his back and bowing. “I suppose I must aim to live up to my eccentric reputation, if I am to continue being called on such titillating cases. Mrs. Darcy, if I may ask - I do work best on my own. I thank you gor graciously showing me your uncles grounds and recounting your story. But…”

Mrs. Darcy curtsied. “Of course. I’ll begin preparing tea. Do come inside soon, Detective,” she said, grabbing herself and shivering, “it’s positively frightful out here.”

Mrs. Darcy vanished, and Sherlock turned back to the tree. He’d learned to ignore the Raven by now, but it still flapped its wings, then glided to a lower branch.

“Nevermore!” it squawked. 

“Shoo you blasted bird,” Sherlock said. The Raven continued to squawk. 

He took out his pocket watch and stepped towards the base of the tree, leaning down to inspect the rabbit hole. A pale light shone from the pocketwatch, an ethereal blue. It illuminated what looked to be an ordinary hole: roots formed the roof, dirt the floor. He sighed.

“Nevermore!” the Raven screamed.

He produced a worn journal, the leather cracked and creased by years of oiled hands. The writing in the journal was his - which was odd, because he’d never written in it. A second version of this journal sat on his desk, untouched. It had come with the pocket watch.

Inside the journal was a drawing of the hole, just as he saw it now. Beside it, a second drawing: the pocket watch, its dials turned to a new position.

Sherlock sighed, then delicately adjusted the dial. The blue dot marked “E” slid from position, replaced by a violet “W.” 

The light from the pocket watch swelled, overtook him, and the world burned out.

-

Falling, as though down a hallway. On all sides, bookshelves. Curious, Sherlock thought,  it appears to be a kind of library. A library between worlds.

He looked up, and could see where reality seemed to pinch around the rabbit-hole. And down, where a white-hot daylight seemed to approach. The Raven flew around him as he fell, unperturbed. “No more!” it screamed, “No more!”

Gravity seems to be only partial in this Realm. This must be one of the Wayworlds the journal references. He was falling slow enough to read the titles of the books, only to find that they made no sense. They were completely random letters, and many of them were not even of the Latin alphabet. There Chinese characters and Cyrillic and Sanskrit, and even more that he didn’t recognize.

Sherlock fell through the glowing light at the bottom of the tunnel-library, then found himself stepping out of another tree, not unlike the one he’d stepped in to. All around him was a wood, filled with exotic plants. He noted a mushroom that was twice his own height, clearly some kind of varietal of toadstool, with a red body and white spots. Others dotted the forest around him, lending a strange appearance to the wood. But something even more strange became apparent: the sky, unlike Earth’s blue expanse, was a shade of pale violet.

He took out his notebook and began to sketch. He recorded everything he saw in the tunnel, what he’d done to the Timepiece to jump worlds, as many of the randomized book titles as he could. He had no way of knowing if these notes would become useful, but he assumed that, as in any scientific endeavor, recording was important.

“You’ve arrived,” a voice said, and Sherlock turned towards the source. Standing in the shade of a toadstool was the silhouette of a woman, her eyes gleaming, almost glowing. “We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Show yourself,” he said. He bore no weapon, only the Timepiece. He supposed he could use it to return, but he still had very little idea how to use it. 

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The woman stepped out from beyond the toadstool. Her eyes were indeed overwide, their sclera pale green in the light of the violet sky. Otherwise she looked fairly normal: a blue and brown shift and apron, a white bonnet. But despite this, Sherlock stepped away, frightened. 

The woman’s smile took up half of her countenance, the corner of her lips touching her earlobes on either side. Her teeth, which were too large and of which there were far too many: Sherlock counted nearly fifty, stretched between ear to ear.

“I have no name. My name is not important,” the woman said, “but you may call me Cheshire Woman. What is important is that you come with me, so that I may lead you to what you seek.”

“And what is it I seek?” Sherlock asked.

“Alice of the Overworld,” she said, still smiling, “she who everyone seeks.”

Sherlock kept his hand on the Timepiece. “How do you know this?”

“I know nothing,” the Cheshire Woman said, “it is my master who knows all. Come. Come with me.”

The Raven cawed, landing on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Nevermore! Nevermore!” Sherlock spared a glance, then nodded. “Take me to him.”

Sherlock followed the smiling woman through the mushroom wood, until the mushrooms grew smaller and smaller and eventually vanished, replaced by gnarled trees. The branches sealed out the sky, grasping down at Sherlock like claws. He noticed, from the corner of his eye, that some of these trees had slits in their trunks. They looked suspiciously like smiles.

Eventually they came to the deepest part of the wood; hardly any light reached the forest floor, and shapes moved in the distance: smiling men and women and children, laughing and running between trees, vanishing. Several huddled on the ground, smiling so widely that it appeared painful, gathered around hookah pipes that seemed to grow from the earth itself. Not all of these grins were as wide as the Cheshire Woman who’d found him. For some, it appeared the process of becoming one of these creatures was only just beginning.

They came to a clearing in the wood, where something shadowy lounged on a high branch. 

“Well, well, well,” the shadow said, “if it isn’t the intrepid Sherlock Holmes. Tell me, dear detective, where is your Watson?”

Sherlock frowned. How had the creature known his name? “Otherwise engaged,” he said, “who are you?”

“Oh is that what they call being dead now. And here I thought he’d have alllll the time in the world.” As the creature spoke, it curled down from the tree in a single languorous motion. It was a cat, with a strangely elongated orange body and a huge, yawning grin. The cat continued to smile even as it spoke, as though the words echoed through its teeth.

“You can call me Cheshire,” the cat said, “did my friend here find you well? I must say, we’ve been waiting, Sherlock. For this whole disaster to begin again.” 

“You’ve met me before,” Sherlock said.

“Hm. Depends on who you ask,” the cat said.

“And if I ask you?” Sherlock asked.

The cat clapped its paws together. “I don’t answer questions for free, Sherlock, surely you must know that. All of my friends here came to ask me a question, and all payed the price.”

The cat seemed to float over to a Cheshire Man, then draw the man’s smile a little wider with its claws. “Now all of them stay with me, happy forever and ever. I always found all this knowledge to be so… burdensome. I much prefer to simply smile time away…”

“Do you know where Alice is?” Sherlock asked, stepping aside as a Cheshire Child stumbled by, laughing.

“What’s more important is to ask ‘why is Alice?’” the cat said.

“You are being illogical,” Sherlock said. 

“Or perhaps I am merely being Improbable,” the Cat said, smiling, somehow, even wider. “Or I could simply be insane. Will you play my game or not? I’ll tell you where Alice is.”

“What is this game, exactly? I will not play a game where the rules are not clear.”

“It’s quite fun,” the Cheshire Cat said, “and quite simple. You ask me a question. I ask you a question. If you can answer mine, then I will answer yours.”

“And if I can’t answer your question?”

“It’s no problem at all - you’ll simply have to stay here until you do. I think you’ll find my other friends are quite happy here.”

Sherlock looked at the Cheshire Folk, huddled around pipes, living mad in half-darkness. Were these creatures driven insane by Cheshire's question? 

“This arrangement sounds amenable. I’ll start. Where is Alice Liddell?”

“An excellent question indeed,” the Cheshire Cat said, “and now for mine.”

Cheshire vanished, then reappeared in a flash, its grin glowing in front of Sherlock’s face. “What is the difference between a raven and a writing desk?”

The cat grinned more, obviously pleased with itself. The question made no sense. How could Sherlock answer it? Or perhaps there was logic.

Perhaps it’s a code. Or something to do with phonetics. Raven and writing desk begin with the same sound. A Raven is a bird. Corvus corax. A writing desk is flat, used for writing, storage… ink… ink is black, like a raven. 

The Cheshire Cat circled him, seeming to stretch around his legs in a shimmer. Sherlock felt a smile twinge at his lips, then immediately repressed it. It’s happening already, he thought, and the idea was almost funny.

“Well?” Cheshire said. 

Sherlock looked into the cat’s overlarge eyes. Madness glowed there: pure and primordial. What is this creature? He thought, surely not some common monster. But the probability of finding a divine piece here…

Probability. It mentioned that; it was not illogical, merely improbable. This creature does not want a logical answer. I have been thinking about it wrong. So what does an improbable creature want?

“The difference between a raven and a writing desk,” Sherlock said, suppressing the grin that rose up within him, “because Outstanding Bills are found on both.”

The Cheshire Cat raised a claw, as if to object, but then lowered it. It looked baffled, almost shocked that Sherlock had answered it at all. Then, grinning even wider, the creature laughed. It sprang up, circled him in the air, looking positively tickled.

“Wonderful, wonderful! Another, another!” it said.

“You must fulfill your end of the bargain,” Sherlock said, “I know your kind.”

“Or so you think. But fine: Alice Liddell is in the Palace of the Red Queen.”

“And where is that?” Sherlock asked.

The Cat’s eyes widened. “Shall we play again? I have oh so many questions for you, I could-”

“No,” Sherlock said, “I should think not. I’ll be on my way.”

He took a step back. The Cheshire Cat’s eyes narrowed. “But we’ve only just started! Why don’t you stay.”

Immediately, the Cheshire Folk around Sherlock stood up. “I had your word, creature,” Sherlock said, “your kind cannot recant a promise.”

“Funny, how that works. See I told you I’d answer your question, but I never said I’d let you leave. You should really be more careful with your words.”

The Cheshire Cat vanished, leaving only its smile behind. The Cheshire Folk lunged, knives drawn, curving like smiles.

Sherlock flipped open the Timepiece, drawing it from his coat. The pieces of it separated mid air, forming a sphere of metal around a single, glowing spark.

And the forest vanished.

-

Time and space, turning over him. No discernable lands or locations. Only cosmos, and even that, thinly. A map of the stars sprawled before him, expanding, then shrinking, throwing him towards-

A red palace. Spires like blades into the sky, still violet, but so pale as to be almost white.

The Timepiece had taken him where he wanted to go, without conscious thought. That, at least, the strange machine did intuitively. Moving through time, well… He didn’t want to relive that misstep. Realms, it seemed at least, like the difference between this world and Earth, were also within the purview of the Timepiece. 

“Halt!” a voice boomed. Sherlock turned, only to see a squadron of armored shoulders pounding towards him. A knight led them, in full mail. It shone blood red, plated with some secondary metal over the steel. A heart sigil shone on the crest. The rest of the soldiers wore simpler chain, with the same heart sygaldry.

“Who goes there?” the Red Knight said, his voice booming in his helmet.

“I seem to be rather misplaced,” Sherlock said, acting as innocent as possible. “Say, have you a seen a young British girl about these parts? Yay high, blonde hair, fond of getting lost?”

The Red Knight didn’t laugh. Instead, he raised a hand, then clenched his fist; instantly, red ribbons appeared in the air around Sherlock, binding him in place. He feel to the ground, trapped.

Soon, the Red Knight’s men dragged him into the palace. His eyes were covered by a red ribbon, also seemingly summoned from nothing by the Red Knight.

Matter cannot be created or destroyed, Sherlock thought, so how did he summon those ribbons? The must have come form elsewhere. Is he using similar technology to that which exists in my Timepiece?

The heart-soldiers dragged him up a twisting staircase, then into what sounded like an expansive hall. He could hear footsteps echoing off distance walls.

“Your Majesty,” boomed the Red Knight. “An intruder. We do not know how he breached the Walls.”

Someone ripped the ribbon from his eyes. Indeed, he was on his knees in an expansive chamber. All around was the heart-and-crossed-swords crest word by his captors. And in front of him, a throne: not a classical heart, but rather shaped like a biological one. Four chambers, valves and veins curving into arches that ended in improbable points. 

A young woman - barely more than a girl - sat on the throne. Her face was heart shaped, her hair white-blonde.

“His clothes,” she said, “they are strangely… familiar.”

The young woman stood, staring at him with violet eyes. Her gown was white, simple - made after an English style from perhaps thirty years before.

Sherlock attempted to stand, only to be forced down. “Your majesty,” he said. “I have come a long way to see you.”

“Indeed you have, Englishman,” she said, leaning forward in her throne. “Tell me. Why have you come to the Kingdom of Hearts?”

“I am looking for a girl,” he said, “a girl named Alice Liddel.”

The look in her eyes was all he need to know the truth. A clever girl indeed, he thought, to arrive in this land an orphan and become its queen.

“And why do you wish to find this girl?” Alice asked. 

“I have been tasked with it. By her family,” he said. And by others.

“Curious,” she said, “it is possible I know of this Alice. But I’m afraid she died long ago. I killed her. You should return to Earth and tell her family that she died alone in an unforgiving world.”

“I’m afraid I cannot-” Sherlock started. But he was interrupted by a dour, simpering voice.

“Your majesty,” the voice said, “if I may…”

From the shadows behind the throne, a man appeared. He was short, dark of hair and eye, and wore immaculate velvet suit, emblazoned with a black heart. Sherlock recognized him instantly.

“Moriarty,” he said, “I should have supposed you would find your way here first.’

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, intruder,” Moriarty said, avoiding a smirk.

“You know this man, my Wizard?” Alice asked. Her crown glimmered on her brow, black iron woven around a glittering ruby. 

“The Red Wizard is familiar with him, from our days in England. He is a notorious criminal mastermind. Doubtless he is here to swindle you, your Majesty.”

Alice’s eyes narrowed. “Is this true, intruder?”

“No, Alice-”

“Alice?” the woman’s eyes flared red. “You dare call me that filthy human name - that name my parents gave to me before they abandoned me here!”

Lights began to flare around the room. Energy of some kind swirled around her throne, whipping the air of the chamber into a frenzy. Her eyes glowed with crimson power.

“Off with his head! Take him to dungeons! Off with his head!”

The soldiers began to chant alongside her, pounding their spears into the ground. “Off with his head! Off with his head!”

Moriarty grinned at him, as slyly as he could manage. Then the red ribbons reappeared around his eyes, making Alice and her court vanish from view.

-

The cell was large for such a thin man. In the high corner, a single window let violet sunlight into the room in a square shaft. The Raven perched on the shaft, wings flapping. Sherlock lay slumped on the floor, surrounded by limp red ribbons that were already collapsing into dust. 

“Nevermore!” the Raven called.

“More! More! More time! No more time!” the Raven screamed. It was the same call Sherlock had heard incessantly over the past months.

“I know, I know, you stupid bird,” he said. Then he pulled the Timepiece out of his jacket. He looked at the strange symbols ticking their way towards a single word. A threat.

Nevermore.