Sherlock Holmes had never been the type to ignore practicality. Budget constraints and even the realm of possibility were always ostensibly in the back of his mind. He was always watchful upon both, careful never to cross boundaries either financially or realistically.
Despite his consciousness of any kind of limitation on a trick, Sherlock could constantly hope. As much as he loved practicality, he hated simplicity more. His demands and mad way of wishing drove nearly drove his two assistants into Bedlam, and John Watson had once briefly considered checking himself in of his own free will before he was straitjacketed and thrown in on someone else's terms.
Despite his insistences that, yes, the trick was grand enough, and no, no one would figure it out, Sherlock was in constant pursuit of perfection. He will be the death of me, decided Watson one day. And of himself, he amended.
The 90s had been a good decade for the pair, but as New Year's Day of 1899 fell upon London and the pair popped a bottle of champagne in the back of a theatre, Watson could not help but wonder if his life would end in this tiny little backstage room. Not that he minded. The tricks were spectacular, the shows splendid, the adulation he received second only to the genius behind it all. It was not a bad way to spend a lifetime, but Watson could not help but wonder to himself if Sherlock was truly satisfied with it all. With the new century upon them, Watson decided, it was time to face their own mortality and decide what they really wanted out of life.
Sherlock had been with Watson, or rather, Watson with Sherlock, (as the pairing was hardly equal in Watson's mind) for longer than he could remember. They had both grown up in the same area of the Yorkshire countryside. Sherlock had always had a penchant for magic tricks and show-offery. He was constantly dazzling his lesser-witted companion with disappearing doves and magical coins. Watson had never been able to get the trick, not until it was explained. As they pair grew older and were sent off to separate grammar schools only to come back and attend the same university, Watson by then understood that there had never been any magic behind it—only sleight of hand. Trickery.
As they grew older and went through university—John taking an MD after eight years of study, and Sherlock a degree in chemistry—the tricks grew more elaborate and less easy to see through. Watson was now constantly capable of seeing through everyday tricks, and when he became confident of his abilities Sherlock could always be counted on to shatter his conception of himself with something more spectacular and unbelievable than before.
Although Watson had always anticipated that he would become a doctor and set up practice, fate intervened. Sherlock requested his presence at one, two, three shows, and Watson reluctantly agreed. When three weeks of shows multiplied and became a dozen, and a dozen doubled to become twenty-four, Watson abandoned the idea of ever going into harness and resigned himself to being the stage manager for a magic show. It was not a bad job, and far more exciting than treating cholera and consumption in an era that was becoming less and less enamored with the idea of abstract disease.
They had done their act at a dozen different stages in London, and then travelled to Paris and toured the continent, stunning audiences throughout the entire Old World, but Sherlock was still far from famous. Their venues were small, and although their audiences were dazzled, Sherlock received no global attention. As the 1880s fluttered by and the two passed from their twenties into their thirties, John became less and less convinced that he would some day retire. Why not live like this forever? he reasoned.
On this day, though, January 1st, 1899, he was feeling sentimental towards the old century. Electric lights were replacing gas lamps. Horseless carriages were coming into vogue. The world teetered on either the brink of collapse or total reconstruction.
"The world," he said to Sherlock as he poured champagne into a dirty shot glass, "is not the same place that it used to be."
"Too right you are, John," remarked the magician, slightly drunkenly. Although John referred to his friend as by his Christian name on occasion, the gesture was rarely reciprocated and had not been for many years. Why, Watson had never been able to figure out. As children they had always been "John" and "Sherlock" to each other, and even Sherlock's older brother Mycroft still called Dr. Watson "John." Perhaps Sherlock, too, was feeling a bit sentimental tonight. Watson dismissed the idea. Sherlock was never sentimental, least of all on New Year's Day. He heard footsteps behind the door and turned to listen when there was a knock at the door.
Miss Hooper, their latest "lovely assistant," who was not so bad as lovely assistants had gone for the past 11 years, peered behind the curtain to find the pair alternating shots of champagne. "Am I interrupting something?"
"Not at all," remarked Dr. Watson, his face flushing slightly.
"Mr. Holmes, I was wondering if I was free to go, because the rest of the crew is still picking up but it's a little late and I wanted to go home before the cabs were all—"
"Yes, yes, fine," answered John as a proxy. "It's New Year's, Molly. Do whatever you like." Molly beamed and left the room with a slight skip in her step. The door shut behind her.
"The trick, Watson," said the magician. "It lacks something fundamental. Something special."
"Which trick are you talking about?" asked Watson, a slight trace of a smile playing across his lips.
"I'm talking about all of them!" he announced, pushing his chair back and standing up. He was swaying just a little bit; Sherlock had never been able to hold his alcohol very well. "Every single trick. None of them are special, none of them are spectacular." He seized his assistant by the collar and pulled him in insisting, with a twinkle in his eye, "This new century is the future, Watson. We cannot be left behind."
"What are you suggesting, sir?" Watson never referred to Sherlock as sir. It was something that had always been an unspoken agreement between them. Despite the inequality intellectually as well as onstage, Watson had never been inferior to Sherlock in any way other than in showmanship and perhaps cleverness. It was this fact that made Watson suspect that he had thrown that last bit in just simply as a jest.
"I'm suggesting a trick, a trick that has never been seen before. A trick that will change the world."