Hallo! The lovely Silvre Musgrave (check out her wonderful stories, do) and I come together to bring a new, and more than slightly randomized, offering.
The inspiration for this story came from a wonderful icon she has made at her DeviantArt page athttp: / / silvre . deviant art . com / art / My – BFF – Watson – 74472968. (If that broken-up link doesn't go through, follow the link in her profile to her dA galleries, and you'll be able to easily pick out the icon in question after reading the initial randomness here.)
We reiterate the warning in advance: this is pure, unadulterated crackfic; or, in laymen's terms, here there be craziness. Not meant to be, and definitely would never be, considered part of the Canon. Read at your own risk.
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On a ridiculously warm winter evening some months following my marriage to Miss Mary Morstan, my wife was out for the evening at a friend's house, helping to watch the lady's four children while a dinner party was in progress there. I had just locked up the consulting-room for the night and was walking back through the hall, candle in hand, when there was a knock at the front door.
Sighing, for I suspected it to be a desperate patient, I plastered my friendly-family-physician-who-is-still-struggling-to-build-up-a-practice smile upon my face and wearily opened the door on the wetly warm evening air.
To my relief, and his obvious amusement, the visitor was my friend Sherlock Holmes, and I lost no time in showing him into my study, where the maid had lit the evening fire. Though it was unseasonably warm for this time of January, the sun had set and the house was growing chilly. We pulled our chairs close to the blazing embers, and it was only then in its cozy light that I noticed my friend was shifting uneasily, scrabbling at his coat pockets as if in search of something, and doing so with some urgency.
And a peculiar, very uncanny buzzing noise was emanating from his right jacket pocket.
"Erm…Holmes?" I asked tentatively, as he shoved a hand into his right trouser pocket, his ears turning slightly red as he could not seem to locate the object of his hasty search.
"I can't find it," he muttered frantically, but finally rammed his hand into the correct pocket with an exclamation of triumph. The buzzing noise suddenly ceased as he pulled the object out, glaring at it as if very seriously upset.
"I missed it!" he complained loudly, scowling at me as if I should have helped him "catch" whatever he "missed."
"Missed what?" I asked curiously, leaning forward to see the object held in his hand. "And…what the devil is that thing?"
"It is…some sort of communications device," he replied dolefully, shaking the thing in evident frustration as he fiddled with its shiny cover, his lips pursed in a thin dash of a scowl.
"A what?"
"Lestrade gave it to me for Christmas; said the Yard was tired of my sending too many messages and telegrams every day," Holmes answered, scrutinizing the object closely and tapping the face of it in experimentation.
I jumped as the object suddenly emitted an angry beep at his touching.
"What on earth, Holmes!"
"Ah, there it is. I knew I was doing something wrong," he muttered, more to himself than to me as was his custom when thinking deeply. "Here, Watson, take a look, and tell me what you observe from this interesting little conundrum."
He passed the object over to me, and I accepted it warily at arm's length, not wishing to be on the receiving end of any strange noises (or other even less pleasant gifts from whatever it was); I had been the recipient of enough practical jokes in those old days at Baker Street to suspect a trap with nearly any object that passed through Sherlock Holmes's hands prior to reaching mine.
The article in question was roughly four or five inches long, and about half as wide, made of some very shiny, almost iridescent, dark reddish material that was apparently hard as glass. It was not as heavy as I had anticipated, either, and was covered on the front by what looked like different uniformedly-shaped buttons, bearing the letters and numbers one would normally find upon a typewriter – but not in the correct order; they were crammed upon twelve buttons and no more, in numerical order.
I held the thing up to my eye, wondering at its light and rather sleek design, when suddenly it began to vibrate in my hand, with that peculiar buzzing noise as background accompaniment. I gave a small yelp of surprise (Holmes snickered in a most ungainly fashion) and nearly dropped it in the fire, causing the detective to dive for it and snatch it protectively, almost lovingly, from my hand.
"Be careful, Watson! I am told the things cost a small fortune!"
"Holmes, what the devil is it?" I demanded as he examined the face of the object, which had suddenly and unaccountably lit up as if illuminated from behind by some phosphorescent glow.
"Look," said he with a small knowing smirk, pushing a button and showing the thing to me.
Upon the smallish glowing screen were…letters. Words. Sentences.
You are like a child with a new toy, Sherlock, do you know that?
I gasped and looked up, to see my friend laughing at my mystified, and quite skeptical, expression.
"What devilry is this, Holmes?"
"My dear Doctor, it is not witchcraft; merely a very interesting new form of progress in the world of communication. A portable, pocket-sized processor of words and communication, both written and spoken, using some sort of technology that my brother insists is going to be in vogue in coming years – he calls it a 'cellular mobile telephone and messaging unit'."
"A what?"
"A cell phone, Watson," he informed me, his thin, nimble fingers tapping the tiny keys with a speed that fairly made my eyes cross. "From what I have been able to see, it functions as these new telephones do, but more importantly it has the ability to send a sort of telegram, without having to go down to the local offices and send the wire one's self. Quite handy."
"You mean you can telegraph your brother from that…thing?" I gasped, looking over his shoulder as he indeed was apparently "typing" a message.
"Quite – or anyone else who also has one of the infernal machines, for that matter," said he cheerfully, pressing a small green button. The words vanished from the tiny screen as if by magic.
"What happened?"
"I just sent the message."
"But how?"
"Brother mine can explain the entire thing to you, Doctor; I haven't the time or energy after spending so long to figure out how the blasted thing even worked," he drawled, stretching out his long legs in front of my fire. I peered curiously at the little wonder once more, holding it gingerly in the palm of my hand, and I saw his eyes slide sideways at me, a knowing grin quirking at his thin lips.
"I don't suppose you would like to have one as well, Doctor, so that I may stop desecrating your consulting-room with my street urchins when I wish to send you a message?"
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And the crack-fic will continue, oh yes…