Please read Author's Note at bottom!
Sherlock Holmes could be found hunched over his chemistry desk at dusk. His eyes were focused on odd-colored chemicals that caused wood (And flesh, he noted dully, putting a bandage on his pinky finger) to burn.
It was damn near eleven o'clock at night. Watson was sitting—dozing—in his armchair, which had been moved by Holmes from the parlor to his lab for a reason he refused to say at that point in the night. Watson had not questioned his friends' antics since he was constantly going about his plans without telling him about the desired result.
Sleepy eyes drooped closed. Watson was almost—almost—in a contented sleep before Holmes snapped his fingers in his direction, immediately rousing him.
"I can't have you sleeping just yet," murmured Holmes apologetically, stirring the chemicals with a metal rod (a wooden spoon had disintegrated, and he knew not to use his fingers again).
"When are you going to inform me of what exactly you are doing? It looks no different from the thousands of chemistry experiments you have done in the past—none of which involved my constant presence and required me to be awake at ungodly hours."
Watson's voice was accusatory, sharp. Holmes briefly stopped his ministrations and turned around to face the doctor; he also looked weary.
"Trust me, please. I am about to revolutionize… something," he added lamely, not prepared to give away his grand scheme. Watson scoffed. "How close are you to your revolution?"
"What is the phase of the moon tonight?"
Watson blinked. "Pardon me?"
"The phase of the moon," Sherlock repeated, looking at his friend through a raised eyebrow and speaking deliberately slower.
"Full tonight, if I recall."
Holmes grinned, looking significantly livelier. He turned around back to his chemicals, which were being poured into vials at varying amounts. A vial filled with a blue substance that seemed to radiate light was filled to the brim.
"Then to answer your question, Watson, within the hour,"
Watson looked pleased—not because of how close Holmes was to whatever scientific breakthrough he might be trying to make—but because he actually might be able to get some sleep soon.
A silence fell over the dim room as Holmes continued to work, and Watson working even harder at not succumbing to sleep.
Approximately an hour later, Holmes asked Watson for the time. It was five to twelve.
"Watson, I require every ounce of your attention. This is important, if not monumental."
Obediently, the doctor looked at him, skeptical. "I better be amazed, or I might kill you."
"You shall be," Holmes smirked, feeling his ego rise.
"I was recently pondering some claims and theories that a German scientist, Albert Einstein, had stated. Particularly concerning his Theory of Special Relativity."
He stood. "I have dared to think the impossible, though not without coming up with some ideas of my own. I have found that to travel backwards in time, according to the theory, it would take an infinite amount of energy for an object slower than light to move at the speed of light. Now, before you interrupt-" Holmes cut off, as Watson was about to object. "—His theory is crucial to moving backwards in time. I want to move forward. With the moon being as it is, it'll cause a gravitational pull that will assist me in my attempts to combine these two chemicals, the names of which are not important. What it will do will create an explosion in which the impact will affect only the people within a meter of the explosion, which is also why I needed it at midnight, when everyone is in bed. The impact will send us at the speed of light, thrusting forward into the time and space continuum."
"So, shall we go?" asked Holmes with a beam on his face. "We have two minutes."
"B-but what will I do about my patients, Mrs. Hudson, Gladstone and my fiancé!" Watson demanded, trying to reason with Holmes (whose eye twitched at the mention of Mary Morstan). "How long will we be gone?"
"At least two weeks, I gave Mrs. Hudson a heads-up about it. Saying we're going abroad in pursuit of a killer. She didn't ask any questions, and I'm sure I can fabricate something foolproof when we return." Holmes replied briskly, gathering his materials. "Take your revolver, please. You never know."
Watson hastened to obey, even if a part of his conscience believed in their certain death. There was a thrill in the air unlike any the ex-military man had ever felt before. He had no fear in the unknown—he had Holmes with him (It goes without saying that sometimes, as brilliant as he is, Holmes can be dead-wrong), and that would make everything alright (Assuming of course, that wherever he were to end up, Holmes would be with him).
The two exchanged a smile as they walked outside into the cool, crisp September air. Night was beautiful in London if you didn't mind the smell of industry and night life.
"Well, I hope we don't die!" Holmes proclaimed cheerfully, and before Watson had any time to holler at him, much less rattle off his concerns, he threw some powder at the ground and threw the chemical vials on top of it, shattering the glass and spilling the liquid.
It took less than a second for a brilliant purple explosion that took the approximate distance of two meters around—a minor miscalculation on Holmes' part—and the light was so unearthly it beckoned to Watson and Holmes, drawing them in.
The light was hot, almost unbearably hot. Holmes felt ethereal—the fire in the light could not burn him. He was invincible. He was traveling in ways that men in his age would have only laughed at, and claimed impossibility.
But he, Sherlock Holmes, managed it.
Time could have passed rapidly, or it could have passed slowly. One way or another, what felt like hours actually felt like moments when the vivid light suddenly as it came: vanished.
Holmes felt temporarily blinded by the light and it took him a moment to recognize Watson's shout of his name, and that he was falling.
With an ungraceful thud, he and Watson landed harshly onto well-cut grass. Holmes landed on his stomach, Watson on his back.
Dazedly, he offered up Watson a hand. "See, we didn't die. Nothing to have been afraid of, my good man," The two stood up. Holmes stretched, concealing a yawn.
Watson ignored him. "Where are we, exactly?"
"I haven't the slightest idea where and when we are at. It is safe to say that humanity is still prosperous, however, and that we definitely made it to the future." A faint, but true, smile crept into his features.
The two were on top of a hill, overlooking the most breathtaking sight either of the two had ever seen. Lights that were definitely not gas lights littered the landscape, and giant buildings unlike anything the Victorian age had ever seen were commonplace. There were automobiles… there was life.
"I do hope that wherever we are, these people speak English or French." Holmes said brightly, feeling his ego swell to enormous proportions; seeing Watson amazed and speechless. He took great pride in filling his friend with awe—because no one else mattered to him but Watson.
Holmes turned around to study what was behind him. "We appear to be on private property."
Watson followed suit, and shook his head vigorously. "The establishment is much too large to belong to just a family. It must be from the government."
Holmes barely listened to his friend, because he was entranced by the engineering of the place, but spoke, quietly. "I doubt it for several reasons, but since this is a different day and age, I would not want to risk being dead wrong. Follow me, Watson."
The two walked together to the front of a white—for lack of a better word—mansion. It was beautifully crafted into a cliff overlooking an ocean, or a giant lake.
"Lucky for us, it's nighttime here as well. Perhaps we can ask the people here if we could stay for the night."
"I don't like this, but I'm going to go along with it because I am exhausted," murmured Watson as he tried to stifle a yawn.
"Fair enough,"
When they reached the door, Holmes rapped at it. When there was no answer, he studied the door.
"They're probably sleeping."
"I'm trying again, regardless." There was a small button on the side of the door. Watson pushed it.
There were bell chimes—odd, because there definitely were no bells around! It was clearly more effective than the knock, for the door opened.
On the other side stood a man, leaning into the doorframe and studying the two. "I don't normally answer my own door, but I'm surprised by your…," he searched for a word, gesticulating with his arms. "Attire. Who are you?"
The question was obviously directed at Sherlock Holmes, for that's where the future-man's gaze lay. Holmes and this man looked eerily alike.
Holmes' lookalike was wearing clothing that in the Victorian day and age would be considered underwear. A white sleeveless shirt clung to his well-endowed body, covered in stains that could be from oil, or another similar source. Petroleum, perhaps. Holmes could assume that the man was an engineer. His trousers were of a blue fabric unknown to both Holmes and Watson. It had many rips, especially near the knees. A working man.
It was not his lack-of-attire that really struck Holmes, however. His concern was the glowing blue torch that resided in the heart cavity of the future-man. It seemed to have been lodged in his body.
Holmes was at a loss for a conclusion, and would have to acquire more data.
"I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend John Watson," Holmes said slowly. "We seem to have gotten lost on our way around town and ended up here. Might you be able to provide us with some—"
The other man cut off Holmes' monologue, expression going from curious to nothing short of amazement, and a shock not unlike the one Watson had been sporting earlier. "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, huh? Are you shitting me?"
"Pardon?" Watson asked, taken aback by his incivility.
"Come inside. Quickly." The man hurriedly ushered Holmes and Watson inside. "I'm Tony Stark, but please, call me Tony. You shouldn't be messing around in the fabric of the time-space-continuum and all that bullshit: you'll change the whole course of time. For example, prior to thirty seconds ago, Holmes and Watson were fictional characters written by a British man named Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."
Watson looked aghast, and stared at Stark as if he were an insane man. "My penname! I thought everyone knew that!"
"Well, you learn something new every day. Or at least, people who aren't me learn something new every day. I pretty much know all that there is to know."
Textbook narcissism about his intelligence; must investigate further.
Holmes looked intrigued, but offended that he was being chastised by a man whom he barely knew, and who barely knew him. "It is safe to say that even in the time period we are in that time travel is not something commonplace, whatever time period we are in?"
"No one dares do it, even though I'm now sure it isn't impossible," Stark murmured as he crossed his arms, clearly deep in thought. "Luckily for you, I'm in the midst of creating my own time capsule module. Now that I have incentive, I can get it done within the month."
"I'm sure that won't be necessary, Mr. Stark." Holmes replied lightly, looking around at his surroundings. The house was nothing short of marvelous—the most beautiful piece of architecture he had ever seen from the outside as well as on the inside. A waterfall cascade was the accent of the white room with very, very modern furniture, even for Stark's time.
"It is much safer than whatever method you used, I'm sure of that. For your knowledge, today's date is June 4th, 2010."
Watson looked at Holmes in awe, and Holmes looked mightily pleased with himself. "I must have used more of my blue-ish chemical than what was required—I only meant to send us forward a hundred years."
"Be glad you made it here then!" Tony grinned genially, offering to take Holmes and Watson's jackets. He waited, and put the jackets on the back of a nearby sofa.
"You probably managed to go to the one person on the planet who will assure you of my complete confidences, since you'll be here for a while and we don't want to screw up the timeline. Doctor," Stark now addressed Watson.
"Don't take any notes on what you see here. Though I know the two of you would be extraordinarily careful with the knowledge of the future, you just never know when the police—Scotland Yard, right?—will raid your house. Or, you might be surprised what men boast about when they are under the influence of alcohol."
Watson nodded, seemingly unable to speak with these two men in his presence that looked so… good. So similarly, gorgeously good. He'd tap that. Twice.
"I have enough spare time now with Pepper running my company that I can show you around the modern world." Stark interrupted Watson's inner musings.
"You're not going to let us go by ourselves, I'm sure?"
"I hope you both can find a friend in me," Stark smiled winningly. "But yes, you will not be going alone. I don't want to be unreasonable, but let me say, it'll be much easier to walk around modern times when you have someone with you who practically invented it himself."
Watson leant over to Holmes. "He's almost as full of himself as you are."
Holmes scoffed and cleared his throat. "Excellent. Thank you, Mr. Stark, for your hospitality."
"Always for you two." Stark winked and took out his cell phone, telling someone to fetch clothing for Holmes and Watson and to prepare the guest bedroom.
It looked ridiculous, Holmes thought. He was talking to what looked like to be a metal and plastic device. Was this contraption the modern telephone, which had only just gotten a patent?
It appeared so. Within minutes, a pretty woman had clothing on hangers. She shot a deadpan glare at Tony Stark. "I'm your boss, I don't see why I'm still—"
"Pepper Potts, meet Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," he interrupted, nudging her and giving her and urgent look. "They came here from the late 1800s, as you know."
Nothing Stark could have said would have surprised her as much as he did right then. Her eyes widened, mouth forming an 'o' of surprise. The clothing fell to the ground. Tony, who had gauged such a reaction, caught them.
"I-I'm awestruck!" she apologized, holding out her hand for Holmes and Watson to shake. "I'm a fan, a huge fan…"
"She has all your novels in first edition copies in her bedroom." Tony teased her, offering the clothes to Holmes, who was getting his daily ego boost and Watson, who was even more thrilled. He had written the damn novels after all.
Holmes was now studying the fabric as Watson made small talk with Pepper about his novels, and he answered a few of her burning questions.
The fabric of the pants was the same that Stark was currently wearing, so it was safe to assume that this was a material that was commonplace in 2010. The shirt was exquisitely soft, and a rich purple-red color. Pepper had also brought him undergarments, socks, and shoes that were made of canvas.
Tony looked at Holmes. "Watson looks like he hasn't slept in days. I can show him to the guest room, and if you're not quite sleepy as of yet—"
"I'm not."
"Great. I have a laboratory that you might be… very interested in seeing. Of course, I'll show Watson later, but I thought you'd especially appreciate it today."
"You want me to trust you, Mr. Stark."
"It's not a bad intent!" Tony defended, raising his arms in the air as a sign of surrender. He was grinning cheekily. Holmes rolled his grey eyes and looked at Watson.
"Ready for bed, darling?"
The doctor scowled at him, and Pepper offered to show him to the nearest guestroom. He graciously thanked her and followed, glaring at Holmes once more. Whatever he had to say, Holmes wasn't listening, attention focused on Tony Stark, who gestured to his couch.
Holmes took the invitation to sit. Ever-calculating eyes took his surroundings in even more detail. Tony watched with a sense of rapture.
It was hard for him to comprehend. Here, as if by a stroke of luck, sat the Sherlock Holmes. There, in one of his guest bedrooms, John Watson was sleeping. This was no imitation, no movie actor. Luck (or pure skill on Holmes' part), brought him to Tony Stark's exact place.
He thanked the universe for the hand he was dealt.
(In truth, no movie actor he knew could pull Sherlock Holmes off. Not the real one.)
Stark watched Holmes' mannerisms and overall appearance. He made a mental note to check his ancestry for Holmes, even though he was sure all of his ancestors were in America by the Victorian Age. It was most likely some genetic fluke, their resemblance. Though, he couldn't help but think- wouldn't it be just awesome if they were distantly related?
"Mr. Stark—"
"Tony," he corrected. He didn't let anyone else call him Tony, save Pepper and some of his intimate friends (the few he had, because he wouldn't consider his subordinates friends). Holmes was an exception. Before Holmes, Tony could have said confidently and truthfully that he was the smartest person on the planet. Now, he felt like an apprentice under a master whom he barely knew.
"Tony then," Holmes smirked. "Am I safe in assuming you designed this home yourself?"
"Of course," There was more than a hint of pride in Stark's reply. "I wouldn't trust anyone else to do it. Besides, I did a better job than anyone else ever could."
"You are an engineer."
Tony paused. "Elaborate."
"With pleasure," He turned to look at Tony directly, a faint grin on his face. "The way you boast about your ability to design proves this, as well as give insight into who you are as a person, and exactly how advanced you are, probably far beyond your technological years."
It was high praise, and Tony did his best not to agree aloud.
"When Watson and I looked over the skyline of Los Angeles, I did not see anything that even resembles what you have here. First, it shows that you are quite intelligent, if not brilliant. Second, this was further cemented by looking at this house from the inside: you are wealthy. Judging by your lack of trust, higher intelligence (though perhaps, not as intelligent as I), a female servant or assistant at your beck and call even this late at night—you are a corporate manager."
"Yep," Tony nodded. "A former CEO, actually. I thought I was dying—story for another time—and gave my job to Pepper, the woman you just met."
"That's not all you are, however." Holmes continued, nodding in reply to Tony's words as he yawned. It had to have been at least one o'clock.
"Something happened, something of a large personal scale, caused you to experience a change of heart. You have mannerisms left over from your previous state of mind—whatever that mindset is, and I have no doubt I will find out later—but you have developed new ones. For example, I do not believe that prior to your personal change, you would have not let Watson and I into your home."
"Explain," Tony was sure he knew the answer just as much as Holmes knew the answer. The point was, though, he was getting into the mind that was Sherlock Holmes—just as Sherlock Holmes was getting into his life. They both knew it.
"You could see just how easily it could have been a bluff, and you assassinated or something of the like."
"Not quite." Tony's eyes were twinkling, leaning in closer to Holmes to further dramatize his following statement. "I would have not let either Sherlock Holmes or John Watson into my home because I would have felt inferior—this is not taking into account my own personal fears for my life, of course. Tony Stark rarely feels inferior to anyone. I have the world at my fingertips, because of how far I pushed myself. To feel like someone could easily turn the attention away from me? That is an absolute no-no."
"The world is at your fingertips, you say. You have created something, using your engineering skills, of an enormous scale. And I'm willing to gamble that it is a fear-monger."
"Fear is the most deadly weapon a man could harness as his own to control. I'm sure you agree with me. However, this is more than a weapon to inspire fear. It is also a weapon that brings hope- which is, as you know, my change of heart."
Holmes looked absolutely delighted. Other than Watson, he had no one whom he could use as a brain stimulant, and the conversation he was having with a man whom he barely knew was one of the best he has had in a long time. "I require a look at this hope and fear weapon."
Tony stood, grinning as he offered out Holmes a hand. "I promise I will show you, and Watson, come tomorrow morning."
Holmes took it dubiously, lifting himself to his feet and bringing his clothing. "I shall hold you to it."
The next fifteen minutes went by. Stark telephoned Pepper to bring Holmes to the guest room next to Watsons'. He now was lying in the spacious room, too excited to sleep. In a dresser, he removed bedclothes and changed hastily before laying on his bed again, grinning widely.
Today, nothing is more thrilling than the unknown, and no one is more intriguing than Tony Stark.
(And Watson, of course.)
Okay, so this is written as an un-beta'd, just for fun kind of fic. My dear friend Raitonaitsunaito and I saw Iron Man 2, and LOVED IT (okay, it did have its lows, but hey, it was a great sequel). We were both SO inspired by it and Robert Downey Jr. that we did a fanfic for fanart exchange!
She drew me Holmes and Stark- in wolf form. It is the coolest thing, and I urge you to check it out- I linked to it on my author bio.
So, this is what I made for her! I decided to post it after debating for a bit. Second chapter is being written! Updates will be sporadic, just as a fair warning :)
Oh, and sorry for the hokey science- it was hilarious to me as I was writing it, and it really doesn't make any sense. If time travel logic made sense, we'd have time travel, so that's my defense. XD