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“Sherlock, I want my blazer back.”

“Too late, I’ve already experimented on it.”


It’s kind of odd, I think, how a full-grown man can have such a demure sneeze. Even if he is half Elf. (Full-blooded Elves don’t sneeze, in the first place. And let me tell you, there is nothing more annoying than an immortal hovering around you, solicitously cheerful, when you are sick as a dog. Except bad health care plans.) Almost more amazing is how such a simple, demure, retiring sound can so swiftly attract the attention of Sherlock’s Boswell…

“Sherlock! You shouldn’t have dissolved the blazer in acid, or whatever it was you were doing. Now Obi-Wan has a cold–and from the sound of it, the beginnings of either bronchitis or…” Obi-Wan coughed again. “…possibly pneumonia, or laryngitis. Most likely laryngitis.” John finished.

I had heard enough. Dropping my pen and freezing the screen so nobody could mess up my work, I hurried out of my room and threw my big blue robe around Obi-Wan’s shoulders. The sleeves don’t look quite as long on him as they do on me–his shoulders are broader than mine–but the length is a bit too long for him. The hem of the cloak trails on the ground even when I’m wearing it–it doesn’t just trail, it pools. The fleece lining always comes in handy, in my opinion.

And that’s why at six p.m. last night, I was helping Gaius and John take care of our resident Jedi Master. (It’s also why Battlefield of the Soul has been delayed so long. Sorry…)