Sherlock Holmes: Mare of the Night

She killed.

Do you think it was Jack?

Oh, God.

This is horrible.

(uneasy music)

(uneasy music continues)

I apologize for the theatrics,

but I felt it necessary

to keep you voiceless for the moment.

If you do not mind.

Actually I do. If you

I believe I now know why he moved out here to the country.

Pardon?

It would appear that even with all the hate in this world,

he was able to find a modicum of beauty.

Apologies, where are my manners? Please.

I'm sorry, sir,

but I don't understand why I am here.

You are a writer, are you not?

Just starting out actually.

And you have not been corrupted? No meddling in politics?

You still have a mind of your own yet?

Last time I checked, sir.

All clear, Inspector Lestrade.

Thank you, Inspector Baynes.

I appreciate your generosity in this matter.

Of course, one of my men will be back in the morning

for any further assistance.

Gentlemen.

Morning?

It really is quite peaceful out here.

No sounds of the city.

No sounds at all, really.

Just silence.

Enough to bring happiness to most,

and to a select few

madness, I should imagine.

As you'll see, Inspector.

I hear you're an educated man graduating from Edinburgh

in the field of medicine and surgery, if I recall correctly.

Yes sir.

Yet, although a man of science,

there have been whispers amongst your peers

that you've been a...

Spiritualist of sorts.

It would seem the theatrics has now turned

into an interrogation.

If my personal fascinations

are the reason you brought me here,

then I would say we are done, Inspector.

Your fascination with spiritualism

is the reason you are here in the first place.

Sir?

Tell me, are you a man of art?

As much as any man, I would say.

And do you know of a painting called "The Nightmare"?

Yes, I've seen it a few times.

It's the one with the mare, if I recall.

And the mare in the painting, do you know its meaning?

Meaning?

I believe common knowledge would say it's a horse.

Common knowledge, or a common consensus amongst those

of more limited intellect?

Come.

There's something I need to show you

for the mare has another meaning.

My God!

Quite the gallery, wouldn't you say?

Fascinating.

I've never seen anything like this.

Inspector, the other meaning,

the mare in the painting,

what was its purpose?

In a word: Evil,

but from what I've been able to research,

it's some kind of preternatural being,

one that causes nightmares.

Nightmares, like the ones you now see around you.

Yes. The devil's work.

The devil, demons, madness, brilliance, love.

A man's mind is full of such sins and corruptions.

We all walk amongst such lines in this world.

When you truly think about it, we're all very fragile.

One misstep, just one,

we fall and we break.

Is this what happened to your friend, Inspector,

the one you speak of?

No. No, the man I speak of did not break.

He shattered.

When you're ready.

What was in that room was...

Where there was drawings of suffering, loss, anger, pain,

a nightmare's dream, no doubt was it.

But one stood out to me as I was leaving, Inspector.

Not all of the drawings in that room were

from your friend, were they?

I noticed another, just one,

but it stood out to me,

drawn with love and heartbreak

to capture such a man who looks to have taken on the world

a hundred times within constant losses.

And yet, he still finds a way to rise.

He doesn't want to, but he has to.

Not for himself, but for another.

As to the person that drew that picture,

drawn by a woman's hand, if I'm not mistaken,

plus I noticed two small fingerprints along the edge,

much too small for a man's hand

and well, a child able to draw such a piece out here

in the middle of nowhere,

it's not likely.

Not to mention, I don't know of too many artists

able to draw themselves with such meanings

as I've just spoken of.

Therefore, the only outcome that makes sense

would be that it was a woman.

What?

Nothing.

Earlier you asked me why I requested you here tonight.

And to be honest, I'd heard you were different

from other, more established writers.

And I feel the speech you just gave

backs some of my theory as well.

Your practice under Dr. Bell

and your belief in the other side, as they say,

is a trait much needed in such a case.

No need to look so worried.

I've seen enough in my day to know

that there is something else out there besides us.

You should receive no judgment from me.

Yes. Well, thank you, sir.

That is a subject not too fond amongst our peers.

Well, I'm not one of your peers

and to understand the case I'm about to tell you,

having that kind of knowledge

will come in very handy indeed.

Believe me.

What case would that be, Inspector?

Hello?

Hello.

It has always fascinated me the ease

with which a fly wander into a web.

Does it truly not see it

or is it mindless to it?

And as such, merely a creation

to fill the belly of its superior.

The spider, of course.

I meant no intrusion. I

Or, perhaps she is not a fly at all.

But a serpent, (match hissing)

Slithering into the burrow of the unwitting mongoose.

Could her innocent nature

have lulled me into a false sense of comfort?

She does not dress to impress one after all,

nor is her dress that of an assassin.

But why? The question is why.

Well, yes, of course, it is. It's always the question.

But her motives are intriguing.

Yes, quite indeed.

I did not mean to upset,

but I was told that Mr. Holmes lives at this establishment.

Tell me,

how does one get to her place

with only a lantern to brighten her path

to said destination?

Pardon?

Answer!

Moonlight. The moon was my guide.

Yes, that is correct. Moonlight.

Well, done.

Well, done.

A rare thing, moonlight.

It's a natural on-and-off light source.

Not like the sun. No, no, no, no, no.

With the sun though, a cloud may cover thee,

and still you can see the light,

you can see the figures.

But with the moon,

one can all but disappear.

Mr. Holmes?

Mr. Holmes, I did not seek you out to play games.

Oh, that is what life truly is. Is it not?

One big game of life, death, spider web,

which truly is an unfair game when you think about it,

but it matters not.

This game is over.

I suggest you leave, little fly.

Someone that hides in the shadows

out in the middle of nowhere

waiting for the right moment to cite riddle intellect

to the first person to arrive late one night?

Seems a bit much.

Tell me, how long did you have this rehearsed?

Or does your brain actually register

at the level of an adolescent schoolboy

trying to impress strangers who wish not to be impressed?