A/N: Prompt fill for my husband!
There were six throwing knives embedded in the wall by the time the noise started to bother John. He looked up from his blog, glanced at the clock, and watched his flatmate roll his shoulder in preparation for another throw. Ever the polite friend, he did not break Sherlock's concentration by speaking, and instead waited until the seventh blade had reached its target with a thud and a shower of drywall particles. Then he closed his laptop and said, "No cases today?"
Sherlock made a face. "Lestrade hasn't texted. Nothing on at the moment."
"Not even in the private sector?" John asked dubiously.
The detective showed a spark of recognition, as though he'd suddenly been reminded of something. He turned toward his own computer – which was wedged between the microscope and a set of moulding petri dishes on the dining table – and navigated to his webpage. "Ah," he cooed, evidently pleased. "Private client coming in at three." He smiled wolfishly.
"What sort of a case is it?" asked John, satisfied.
"Don't know," Sherlock said. "When he e-mailed me, he said he wished to maintain the utmost secrecy until we could meet in person."
John's expression darkened somewhat as he pondered this. "Sounds dangerous," he observed, frowning in concern.
"Aren't they always?"
At precisely three o'clock, the doorbell chimed. John and Sherlock exchanged a look, and Sherlock shrugged out of his dressing gown, quickly tossing it aside. He brushed his fingers over his blue oxford shirt to smooth the wrinkles out, and went to the door to find their visitor coming up the stairs.
"Mr. Holmes," the man said pleasantly as he ascended upon the landing. He was smiling – which was very unlike most of Sherlock's clientele – and wearing a crisp tweed suit. His face was pleasant and smile-lined, with large, intelligent eyes. He had a wide brow, a smattering of wispy dark hair, and a thick walrus moustache. He looked to be about forty years old. "It's good to finally meet you."
"Come in." Sherlock ushered him inside, eyes scanning over him in swift, calculating movements. All the basic information had made itself apparent already: the man was married, he was a writer, he lived in South Norwood, and he had two children.
John shook the man's hand warmly and introduced himself. "Can I get you anything?" he asked politely.
"No, no," the stranger said, smiling. "Not at all, thank you. Thank you for seeing me, both of you. I'm Ethan Raul Croydon." He paused, waiting to be recognised.
Both the detective and the doctor blinked back at him, bewildered.
"The author," he clarified. Silence greeted him once again, and he waved his hands dismissively. "Ah – never mind."
"Please sit," Sherlock said, assuming his customary position in his own armchair. "And start from the beginning."
Croydon nodded and sat down on the sofa while John took his place in a chair beside Sherlock's.
"Well," Croydon began with a sigh. He exhaled slowly. "I, ah – I have a confession to make. I'm not here to give you a case."
Sherlock slumped backward in his chair. "Oh, for the love of god," he moaned, "another crazed fan. John, I told you this would happen, all because of your stupid blog. I told you."
"Hear me out!" Croydon insisted. His moustache twitched. "I'm here to make you an offer."
Sherlock lifted his head and arched an eyebrow.
John frowned.
"I want to write your story."
This time, Sherlock sighed heavily. "You aren't the first," he said. He straightened slightly. "I am flattered, Mr. Croydon, but the answer is no. I am not interested. Besides, with a full-time blogger, what need do I have of a biographer?" He snapped his gaze to John with a half-sardonic, half-affectionate smile.
John frowned some more.
"Ah, that's not quite what I was after," Croydon continued. "I want to write your story, but – different. A work of fiction. Set in the late nineteenth century."
At this, John laughed. "What?"
"Think of it!" Croydon said, turning to John now, excitement sparking in his eyes. "A Victorian sleuth working alongside Scotland Yard, using the science of deduction to solve their cases. It'd be brilliant! And everyone would have a place – even you, Dr. Watson."
"That would never work," Sherlock said, shaking his head disdainfully. "My methods are far too advanced to be applied to such a setting. A Victorian sleuth? Please."
"He has a point," John said, looking dubiously to Croydon. "I mean, how would you explain things like – tracking someone down by the dirt on their shoe? They could never have done that in the 1800s."
Croydon shook his head. "The cases would have to be adapted to fit the setting, to be sure, but it is far from impossible to do. Think of A Study in Pink, for example. I've worked it all out already. If you strip away all the technological nonsense, the heart of the case was the cab driver, the word 'RACHE,' and a series of poisonings, right?"
Sherlock twitched in an irritated fashion. "Among other things," he murmured.
"Yes, obviously, but the details aren't important to anyone but me," Croydon said impatiently. "In any case, the very heart of the thing can always be applied to the Victorian age. They had cab drivers back then, and poison, and aneurisms. All you need is a little change in motive and – voila! Victorian detective story."
"You want to rip off his work for a good read?" John said then.
"I wouldn't put it that way, no." Croydon shook his head solemnly. "It would be perfectly tasteful, and I think people would get a kick out of it."
"The fact remains: my methods can't be applied to such a primitive time period," Sherlock pointed out.
"They can," said the author. "All it would take is a truly brilliant mind like yours, and something like soil identification or forty different kinds of tobacco ash really could exist in that time period. If it were you, sent back in a time machine, would you be limited by the technology, or lack thereof, of the era?"
"No," Sherlock said petulantly, "but people were fantastically ignorant back then."
"Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be."
Sighing, Sherlock finally stood, gesturing toward the door. "I think it's time you left, Mr. Croydon, I have actual clients to see."
Croydon stood. "Understand – I'm only asking you for the permission, that's all. The rest would be up to me. You would be paid, and well."
The detective shook his head. "I'm afraid I'm not interested, Mr. Croydon. Good day."
Defeated, Croydon sighed and straightened his tie. He shook John's hand, then Sherlock's, and pressed a business card into Sherlock's palm. "Please, if you change your mind, do ring. I really think this has potential."
Sherlock smiled a tight-lipped smile and shut the door behind the author's retreating back.
"Ridiculous," the detective said once he'd gone. He flicked Croydon's card across the room, into the unlit fireplace. He pulled his dressing gown back on one arm at a time and shook his head in disapproval. "What a complete waste of time."
John shrugged. "It would have flopped anyway. No one would read that, especially not if they know who you are in real life. Your Victorian counterpart would be pretty dull by comparison."
"Dull indeed," agreed Sherlock.
"Although... it could be interesting to see how you would solve some of these cases with only the methods available in the 1800s..."
John's words hung in the air for exactly five-point-six-three seconds, and then both men laughed.
"It'd never work," John said, shaking his head.
"Never," agreed Sherlock.
END.