It was just another sullen day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing and life couldn't be better. I realize the irony in my statement and at this point, I really couldn't care. Life in a modern century can be anything one wants it to be, especially now that everything is tied to technology, even the damned weather is controlled by technology now. Welcome, indeed, my friends, to the 23rd century and all its glory, or, what passes for it, anyway. Whether it be New London or the ever so trending Cyber York City (what once was called New York City) or the colonies of the moon, technology has progressed farther than man ever fathomed it would. Little did any of us know that technology could not only be a savior, but a tool for destruction as well, or, as my cousin says, the end of bloody society as we know it.
Let me explain, my name is Abigail Stalton, my cousin, whom I mentioned before, is Deidre of the Baker Street Irregulars of New London. I live in Cyber York City in New America. I was, once, a member of the anti-techs that were dismantled by Deirdre's boss and close friend, one long thought dead Sherlock Holmes. Can't say I blame Holmes for collapsing the Anti-Tech Movement for near dismantling his robo-assistant Watson, but really, the British have always been so stiff about things, even their technology. This is why I am traveling to New London, to meet the infamous detective and to pop in on my little cousin and see what I can learn about the other side of the story. After all, a good investigative journalist takes as much information as she can from the experiences around her, not from other peoples' stories. And so, my story with the Irregulars and the infamous detective begins.
I landed in New Heathrow Airport around 12:15 PM (I think that would be around 6 or 7 AM American time. I can never tell these days). As I was looking around, I tried to glean the fiery red hair of my beloved cousin, my childhood friend, but couldn't find her. What I found however was a damn near heart attack when a metallic whir and a heavy metal hand rested upon my shoulder, nearly sinking me into the floor. My quick turn brought me face to face with the mechanical Dr. John Watson. I was half tempted to swing my suitcase at him when my right eye suddenly twitched. Shoving the mechanical nuisance out of the way, I stalked over to my cousin hiding behind a young blonde haired man in a flying hover-chair and promptly whacked her once with my suitcase.
"Curse you, Deirdre!" I yelled, threatening to swing my suitcase again.
"You dingbat! Your mechanical friend almost gave me a coronary! I come all the way from America to visit you and this is the thanks I get?!"
I was about to swing the oversized luggage again when a tall blonde haired fellow in brown trousers, a brown vest and white dress shirt grabbed my arm, hoisting a blonde brow at me and smiling rather coyly. I like this guy already. I wonder if he's Deirdre's boyfriend.
Feeling the sudden need to comply, I couldn't bear to break eye contact and instantly blushed as he took the suitcase from my hand and gave a deep bow. Deirdre was right, he is very old school. How charming.
"Cousin Abby, this is the World's Greatest Detective…"
"Sherlock Holmes," I finished for my flustered British counterpart as I returned the Detective's smile.
"So glad to finally meet you, Mr. Holmes," I replied, shaking Holmes's hand vigorously.
My, he had a strong grip. He was everything the love-gushing Deirdre described and more. If he really is Deirdre's boyfriend, I'll kill the girl. Then again, she did mention New Scotland Yard's most notorious wrecking ball, one Beth Lestrade. Maybe Holmes and Lestrade are an item and Deirdre wanted my help in splitting the happy couple apart? You never know these days.
Nonetheless, I had taken my liking to Mr. Holmes and wasn't afraid to show it. As we made our way out of New Heathrow, I noticed a pretty, and pretty expensive, hover car waiting in the loading port. My eyes gleaned over every detail before I faced the criminal capturing genius with a mischievous twinkle and a subtle smile. "Aston Martin XS300 LE?" I asked, gaining a rather amused smile from Holmes and a dagger-filled glare from Deirdre. Ah, jealousy is a petty thing, but it runs deep in our family, no matter what side of the pond you're on.
"Very astute, Miss Stalton," Holmes said, helping me into the passenger seat.
"I saw one in one of those 20th century James Bond movies and felt inspired to get one for myself," he chuckled, sliding into the driver's seat as the remainder of the crew piled into the back. The hover-car was nice. Leather interior, leather on the wheel, full auto-pilot to manual override systems with the most up-to-date GPS system ever built. New Scotland Yard must really want to keep Holmes around. Deciding to try for shock value, I settled myself into the seat and reached back to poke my cousin as I spoke to Holmes.
"I heard through the grapevine you registered it under one 'Arthur Doyle' with your cosigner being a one 'Mr. Conan'. Quite a pseudonym to use, Mr. Holmes and, I must admit, very clever considering Arthur Doyle was your roommate at Eton and his dog, a Siberian Husky/Labrador mix, was named Conan. Coincidence, Mr. Holmes?" A momentarily glance from Holmes told me he was impressed on the amount of research I'd done on him and his cases. When one is suffering the hands of defeat, one learns about the person who handed them that defeat.
"Very good, Miss Stalton, although your record serves quite the history as well. Arrested for vandalism, resisting arrest and this is the most intriguing, acts of terrorism on places housing technology. You were one of the Anti-Techs, were you not?" Well duh. Needless to say, Holmes's incredible account of my past crimes made me feel a little less than stellar and a bit ashamed. A career criminal face to face with the world's greatest detective. This was going to be interesting, very interesting.
We finally arrived at 221B Baker Street and Holmes parked the hover-car in front of the building, motioning for us all to exit. As we ascended the stairs into the building, an old woman greeted us. Holmes smiled at the kind old lady and handed her an envelope.
"200,000 credits, as promised, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said as Mrs. Hudson took the tan colored envelope.
She then tipped her oversized gray hat and scurried off to her room, probably to deposit the credits into her account. Once we finally entered Holmes's room, he tapped Deirdre on the shoulder and motioned to the door. Deirdre did not look happy about this.
"Deirdre, dear, do be kind and run down to that Mr. Wong's and order some orange chicken and lo mein for everyone, and do tell the good inspector not to be so obvious behind those bushes."
A short snicker from my cousin signaled that she too had spotted Inspector Lestrade and set about doing as Holmes had requested, dragging the other Irregulars with her.
"Do have a seat, Miss Stalton. You are our guest, after all. May I get you some tea? Or do you prefer coffee?" My eyebrow nearly rose off my head as I took my seat, giving Holmes another gracious smile.
"Abby, please, and coffee sounds nice…actually a…"
"Latte, peppermint, light foam with chocolate shavings on top and a chocolate candy on the side," Holmes quipped, nodding to Watson, who immediately left to fill the order. Oh dear, am I dreaming? Am I really alone with the great Sherlock Holmes? A quick pinch to my right arm assured me this was no dream.
"You know my favorite coffee, my favorite food, and my past. Have you been stalking me, Mr. Holmes?"
A slight chuckle and a shaking of his head told me Holmes was just being a good detective. A fact finder to the nth degree was Mr. Holmes. Relaxing on the very plush sofa, Holmes took his cup from its saucer and slowly and methodically sipped his tea. How very British of him, and very common for men of his era. I took a moment to examine my surroundings and noticed a very beautiful Middle Eastern rug lying in the room. I got up from the settee and knelt to examine it, in awe of the intricate woven pattern.
"That was given to me by one T.E. Lawrence prior to the war," Holmes quipped as he knelt next to me.
"T.E. Lawrence? As in Lawrence of Arabia T.E. Lawrence?" I asked, absolutely astounded.
Holmes chuckled at my expression and nodded enthusiastically, motioning to a picture in a gilded frame. There indeed was Lawrence of Arabia himself and a very middle-aged Holmes standing in front of the rug in question.
"Lawrence was nice enough to leave me this antique piece of history and that picture before his untimely passing," Holmes said, taking the photograph in hand. "I had helped him gather information on his enemies and helped not only the Arabs, but England herself secure quite the victory. I even attended Lawrence's funeral after that tragic accident."
"I'm…sorry. I'm sure he was a nice man," I said, unsure of what to say about that.
"You must've met a lot of greats in your time, I'm sure. You could probably dictate a book on your many past adventures and famous friends." I regretted the words as soon as they left my lips. In that instant, Holmes's normally bright blue eyes dimmed to a sullen gray. Oh how I wanted to strangle myself with anything I could find for upsetting Holmes.
"I…I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," I said, wobbling back upright on shaky legs. "I didn't mean to upset you. I just…" I was suddenly cut off by a raised hand and a sad smile. Ah, how the heart aches for the loss of friendship. Deciding to try and salvage the lost happiness from past conversations, I decided to do the normal American thing and shove my foot in my mouth. At best, I'd get a straight answer. At worst, I'd look like a complete moron. God Bless America, here I go.
"How did you and my cousin meet, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I was working a case," began Holmes, reveling the re-telling of a case. "When Watson and I came across Wiggins, Tennyson and your cousin Deirdre. They're friends of Inspector Lestrade, you know? Or…what's the more precise term? Informants, yes. They're Inspector Lestrade's informants. But now, they're my Irregulars. Oh, by the way," before he continued, he took a sip of tea and gave me an amused smile. "If you're thinking there's something going on between Deirdre and myself, rest at ease madam, for there is nothing of the sort. For one, Deirdre is much too young for me, literally and figuratively, and two, sweet as she is, Deirdre is, I'm afraid, a bit..."
"Childlike?" I asked, smiling. Holmes was right, yet again. Deirdre had her moments where she could be actually adult-like, but, unfortunately, for the most part, Deirdre was, like all her age, your stereo typical teenager. Deirdre, nonetheless, had better count herself lucky that she has Holmes to guide her and keep her on the right track, otherwise, she'd never amount to anything.