A SCARLET PIMPERNEL / SHERLOCK HOLMES CROSSOVER...PARODY STYLE!

I am probably committing a literary felony by writing this, but I care not. The very idea (thanks go to BaronessOrc for mentioning such a crossover) strikes me as so hilarious, that I thought that I might as well write a parody out of it. Plus Blakeney and Holmes are my favorite literary characters. OF ALL TIME.

And, it should be noted, that Holmes never said the exact phrase "Elementary, my dear Watson" in Doyle's stories. But for the sake of this popular phrase, I'm using it as part of my story's title. I KNOW it's not canon. But, then again, neither is this story. 'Tis a parody, after all.

I own neither Sir Percy Blakeney nor Sherlock Holmes (or any other character here), as they belong to their owners, Baroness Orczy and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.


It started out as a simple horse race. Sir Percy Blakeney owned that he could beat Lord Tony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in a gallop through the woods surrounding Richmond at midnight in a rainy lightning storm. Of course, Blakeney also owned that he was rather bored at the moment and felt a contest of manliness would possibly alleviate said boredom, because, he drawled, "This demmed English weather has delayed my latest foray into France to free five faultless Frenchies from frightful ferocity."

Ffoulkes and Dewhurst heartily agreed to the challenge. Anything was better than Blakeney's sudden obsession with alliteration.

And so they met in a clearing behind Richmond, the late moon waxing high in the heavens.

"No cheatingggg!" Blakeney sang, as he leapt on the back of his massive, sorrel horse. "And ready, set…"

"Wouldn't dream of it, old chap," Sir Andrew rejoined with a laugh, dumping a sack of sugar cubes on the ground before Blakeney. Sir Percy's horse, whose favorite treat was, in fact, sugar cubes, immediately settled into decimating the pile.

"CURSES, ANDREW!" Sir Percy yelled as his two companions shot off for the darkened woods at breakneck speed. "Demmed horse, hie!" With a swift kick from his master, the sorrel was finally off, a mere fifty yards behind his companions.

"We're doomed, Ffoulkes!" Lord Tony shouted with a glance over his shoulder. Percy was swiftly gaining, his eyes ablaze, his jaw set, his eyeglass swinging majestically in the wind. It was quite a picture, really, except for the fact that Blakeney seemed rather vengeful at present.

"Aye, and what is he going to do to us, eh, Tony?" Ffoulkes grinned, cracking his crop on his horse's flanks.

"Disguises!" Blakeney threatened, now only ten yards back. "I shall make you wear the most horrid costumes possible on our next mission!"

"Oh, heavens! I quake in fear!" Lord Tony yelled back. "What? You'd make us dress as French guards again?"

"No," Sir Percy smirked, as he came to gallop alongside the pair. "As women." And with that he surged ahead with an inane laugh, his horse speeding on into the black woods.

But his closest friends were not to be put off. They split up around Blakeney, entering the woods at different angles. Sir Percy galloped on the wide dirt road through the trees, and had begun singing a delightful little ditty as he rode:

"Home! Home on the Range! Where the- BLAST IT, TONY!" Lord Tony had leapt from the foliage at Blakeney's right, cut his leader off, and cantered back into the woods. Percy could not believe the nerve of that man, interrupting his favorite riding tune. "TONY, YOU LITTLE CHEAT! You can't go roaming around in the woods and pop out like that! RIDE ON THE DEMMED PATH!"

At least Ffoulkes hadn't-

"Hie!" Came Sir Andrew with a shout, reining his horse through the bushes and equally cutting Blakeney off before disappearing once again into the musty foliage.

Blakeney was considering whether to conclude the race as an honest gentleman or throw all virtue aside and beat his dishonest friends at their game, when he heard the most unusual noise. It sounded like…

Cobblestones.

Cobblestones beneath his horse's hooves. Sir Percy started as his gaze shot to the ground, and beheld a widening path of paved stone that spread into the woods on either side. The air had thickened considerably and smelled of black smoke and smoggy streets. He lifted his head and gave a cry of surprise, as his horse was suddenly free of the shadowy forest behind.

He found himself surrounded by the dark streets of some strange, dirty city. Smokestacks spewed ashen fumes into the night sky as gas lanterns glowed eerily from both sides of the street. People milled about various shops and buildings, and in such strange attire too! Sir Percy blinked, and then cast a glance backward. It was if the woods had never existed. Behind stretched the same road he was now on, the farthest reaches of it swallowed up in the night fog.

"Excuse me, sir," Sir Percy inquired of a passing man. "What is the name of this city?"

The man looked him over with an unpleasant glance. "It's London," he growled. "What else would it be?"

London?

Sir Percy laughed. "Tut, my good man, I've been in London many a time and this is not London!"

"I tell you it is, sir," the man insisted grouchily.

"Nuh-uh," Percy countered.

"Uh-huh."

"Nuh-uh!"

"IS!"

"ISN'T!"

"IS!"

"How's that?" Blakeney snapped, folding his arms across his chest.

The man pointed to a sign at Sir Percy's left, which, aptly, read, "Welcome to London."

"What…year is it?" Percy whispered, his blue eyes widening.

"Heavens, man! It's 1883!"

"Sink me," Percy choked, his blue eyes now the size of Marguerite's favorite china plates.

"What did you say?" the man asked, cocking his head to the side.

"I said 'Sink me'," Sir Percy retorted, his good humor finally waning.

"Sink you? How the deuce am I supposed to do that?"

Blakeney rolled his eyes. "It's an expression, my dear man."

"Sink you where? A river? A lake? The ocean?" the man continued.

"IT'S A FIGURE OF SPEECH, YOU ANNOYING LONDONER!"

And with that, Sir Percy kicked his mount into a canter and shot off down the darkening streets. One by one, the gas lamps in the shop windows went out as the milling crowds lessened to one or two lonely stragglers. The night was old, and as Blakeney rode desperately on, no building or street recalled to memory the city he knew so well.

And because his attention was elsewhere, Sir Percy didn't see it coming. From an almost invisible corner, a hansom cab rattled around the turn just as Blakeney's horse reached the intersection. His mount collided with the beast pulling the cab, sending the unfortunate Blakeney flying over his horse's head before he struck the cobblestones in a heap of well-tailored frou-frou.

Two well-dressed gentlemen in frock coats leapt hastily from the hansom, one exclaiming, "What the deuce was that?"

"It appears we have struck a man, Watson," his companion answered mechanically.

"Is he…dead?" Watson whispered, his eyes wide.

"Well, because he is standing presently, I would say not."

Sir Percy had indeed staggered to his feet before he immediately collapsed to the ground once more, this time quite unconscious.

"He looks quite unconscious, Holmes," Watson noted.

"An excellent observation, my dear fellow," Holmes replied, rolling his eyes.

"Eaaagh," Sir Percy added.

"Well, we can't leave this poor fellow lying in the street," the man named Holmes concluded, tapping his foot.

"We should probably help him," Watson mused.

"You are a doctor," Holmes conceded impatiently.

"Eaaaaagh," Blakeney agreed.

And so, because Blakeney had not cheated in the contest of manliness, thus unintentionally traveling 91 years into the future, and thus crashing into the hansom cab of two most distinguished Londoners, he was about to begin a most singular adventure much different than any he had ever known.

And Mr. Sherlock Holmes was, unfortunately, about to learn the meaning of the word "fop."