London, 1585

'There appears to be a distinct link between cleanliness and the chances of one being infected by the plague. If one doesn't dabble in the festering waste of themselves and others, removes themselves from situations in which they are exposed to rats and lives in calm, quiet, clean seclusion, one is much less likely to develop the disease.'

John read the print over and over. He was surprised this was even allowed in the paper. It made perfect sense, of course, but it's a risky thing to do. He followed the text down, 'An extract taken from the upcoming paper, 'The Basics of Bubonic Biology', penned by Sherlock Holmes'. The name was new to John's eyes.

Headed towards the tavern, which was frequented by half the people who had been there the week before, John made for the bar and ordered a tankard of mead. He was joined moments later by Michael Stamford. It was a miracle that the childhood friends were both still alive.

"How are you keeping, John?"

"What you mean other than constantly worrying I could wake up with boils the size of my fist on my neck tomorrow morning? Oh yes, I'm dandy!"

"Ah you see! Humour in times of hardship...you're the kind of man that'll get us through!"

"No, I'm the kind of man who is frustrated by the people around me who believe that smearing themselves in their own urine or rubbing chickens on their boils will cure them."

"You still living up on Elms Street? I heard your landlord got caught by the disease?"

"Yeah, he went quite quick really. Left his son and sole heir to evict me. 'Dad was always too soft on you,' he said, 'too soft to be a landlord, better he's gone really.' Bastard..."

"I don't suppose you'd want somewhere to stay?"

"No I think I'll test the idea that living in the sewers prevents you from getting the disease."

"So yes?"

"Please. You needn't put me up in your house. Your wife wouldn't be too happy."

"Aha, that's true but I met a friend earlier today who was put in a similar situation although his landlord died in...different circumstances."

"Different circumstances?"

"Yes...he was, er, murdered whilst he slept. Needless to say his wife was not impressed but nonetheless my friend is as homeless as you. I'll take you to meet him."

"Well," John said, downing the last part of his mead, "what do I have to lose?"

Sherlock was sat on the floor of the town hall, eyes closed in thought, when Michael walked in. He had with him, by the wearing on his leather satchel, tired eyes and heavy sigh, a doctor who was as fed up with the current state of affairs as Sherlock.

"Who've you brought to me, Michael?"

"This is my recently evicted friend, John Watson. I thought he and you could escape off to a house together."

"I need to stay here to complete my research."

"Research?" John chipped in quiet as ever.

"Yes about the plague. The daft bugger thinks it's caused by dirt and not God!"

"You're the one from the paper?!" John asked in disbelief.

Sherlock was almost surprised the man could read but he hid his surprise as quickly as it struck him. A relatively well-educated doctor. Not many of them around, well less so than there were before.

"What do you think about the idea, doctor?"

"Well personally I feel it mak- excuse me? Did you say doctor?"

"You are a doctor, aren't you." It was a statement, not a question so John continued.

"How did you know I was a doctor?"

"The same way you know the sky is blue and I know that the plague was caused by something other than any God."

"Careful what you say Sherlock, never know when The Lord will be listening."

"I'll bear that in mind, Michael. Dr Watson, what did you think about my theory?"

John could laugh at the tension in the air. At least it felt like tension, who knew what else was flying about in it.

"Well, it does make rather a lot of sense. I mean why should an all loving God inflict such suffering onto u-"

"As recompense for sins, John. Christ died for our sins but we have committed too many for he alone to bear so God must punish us."

"So the four-year-old child I saw not yesterday, clinging onto life like the tattered doll in her hands was being punished? For what, Michael? For Eve eating a piece of fruit all those years ago? For the people that Noah left to drown in order to cleanse the world? There has to be some other reason!"

A stunned silence fell on the room which seemed to accentuate both the smirk on Sherlock's face and the blush tickling John's cheeks.

"That's blasphemous...you're lucky I was the only one to hear that else you'd be hanged."

"You're right...you have my apologies."

"Well, John, you're about the only person in this city to believe me so I should like to offer a contract in which you can help me gather further evidence to support my claims and have a place to stay. I know a place not far from here and I hate to pull strings but it's the only place sanitary enough for me to work. Come along."

Sherlock gathered his coat and books before walking towards and out of the door.

"You'll get along just fine." Michael said with an enthused pat on the back before wandering out the back door back towards the tavern.

John was alone in the town hall with nothing but candle light as he thought through his options. No Sherlock means no home, no job and likely death. Sherlock means a home, a job and a depleted chance of contracting anything.

He made his way towards the door to join Sherlock and found him stood on the steps waiting for him outside.

"You took your time."

"Yes, I was deciding if this would get me condemned but I suppose everything I've said in the last five minutes has sealed that fate so I thought what the hell? I'm going there anyway, might as well have fun."

"Good. Well the house is 221B Baker Street, a bit up market for me but my brother revels in giving me things I find pretentious."

"What research help will you need?"

"Well, you're a doctor and you have a mind beyond this time and despite your messy childhood I think you've turned out ok."

"Messy childhood?!"

"Ah! No! Retained issues I see...I'll work you through that. I'll just need you help me gather some things and on the rare occasion I need a second opinion, you have the honour of informing me of yours."

"So what do you think causes the Plague then?" John asked as they made their way up to the doorway of 221B.

"I believe it is a creature too small to see with the naked eye but with certain instruments, they are greatly magnified and fully observable. I trust you have all your belongings in your bag? You can have that room. I have the one across the hall."

Then John was left alone again, in an alien household, with a strange dark-haired man and a new, unfamiliar need for adventure.