It had been some months since I had last been in the company of Sherlock Holmes. The summer was drawing near and I had not gotten so much as a letter from the gentleman as to let me know how he had been faring since my departure. To be perfectly honest with myself, I am not sure what it was that drew me back to Baker Street that evening. It was mere coincidence that I had found myself in the area and the thought suddenly occurred to me to pay Holmes a visit, as it had indeed been so very long. Perhaps it was sentiment that I had been feeling? Sentiment towards the lifestyle that we once shared, back when the two of us were solving cases together on a near regular basis. I didn't suppose a single thing had taken place in order to change that way of life for my former flatmate.
As I approached the familiar building and stepped out onto the brown-tinted ground below, I wondered briefly what the man will have been in the midst of. Perhaps playing his violin mournfully by the window sill, or sitting besides a client and listening intently to whatever event it was that he or she were describing.
I held my breath and rapped on the wooden door that stood before me. Much to my surprise, it swung open rather rapidly to reveal a familiar face, now standing directly across from me and wearing a slight grin, as if he had already anticipated my arrival. And no doubt he had, by one means or another.
"Dr. Watson," Holmes ejaculated, taking my hand. "I wondered just how much time must pass before you visited me again. Now, did you intend on staying or simply stopping by to poke your head in and then march on back from whence you came so suddenly?"
I hesitated. "If it isn't too much trouble? My being here, that is."
"None at all! Please, Watson, do come inside. I was just in the midst of heating up a kettle."
Stepping into No. 221B Baker Street, Holmes immediately shut the door behind me and I hung up my coat. I took a deep breath then, allowing my eyes to scan about the familiar sitting-room. In more ways than one it were as if nothing had changed in the time that I was away; as if I had never even left in the first place. It was hard for me to restrain myself from peering over a writing desk as I was curious about what my former flatmate had been up to in my absence, but I managed to do so regardless. Meanwhile my host disappeared around the corner and I settled down in the nearest armchair, just beginning to lift my legs when my attention was pulled by the strangest buzzing sound, like that of a nearby insect. Craning my neck around, I searched for the source of the noise as it grew gradually louder.
I called out the name of my friend twice. "Do you hear that?"
Within a matter of moments Holmes was back in the doorway, a slightly concerned countenance upon his face. "Do I hear what?"
But the buzzing sound had stopped, giving way to an eerie silence. I quickly decided that it must've been the wind that had distracted me, pouring in through a half-opened window and rustling the curtains. I shook my head. "It must have been nothing. Hopefully it was not a sign of my aging."
Holmes displayed a tense smile just before the buzzing returned, even more prominent than before. Judging by the way the man's eyes lit up, I had no choice but to assume that he, too, could hear it now. The noise was followed by a blinding white light that had seemingly appeared out of the smallest crevice in the room, but then engulfed the surrounded area in its entirely at an almost alarming pace. I recall jumping to my feet in surprise, but I could now see nothing, as all evidence of the room and Holmes having ever been in my presence had already disintegrated around me.
-x-
With summer just around the corner, pale sunlight streamed into 221B, Baker Street and settled across the carpeted floor in two long patches. To the two occupants of the flat, things had seemed as if they were moving in slow motion for the majority of the day. Mrs. Hudson occasionally popped her head in to confirm to check on Sherlock and John as they attempted to make the most of their downtime between cases.
John was seated comfortably at his desk by the wall, typing away furiously at his blog. In the other room Sherlock could be heard flipping through papers and occasionally clanking together bits of metal or glass. John thought little of it, however, until out of the corner of his eye he spotted his flatmate exit the kitchen and approach him. Knowing full well that Sherlock was now hovering over his shoulder, John strategically turned his laptop at an angle.
The consulting detective frowned. "Admiration or complaining?"
John tried to keep from smiling. "What makes you so sure I was writing about you?"
"So you were," Sherlock mused.
"And what have you been up to the past... what, six hours or so since I last asked?"
Sherlock shrugged, throwing himself down in the nearest armchair. "Absolutely nothing of worth. I don't know how you can stand it."
Sighing, John shut his computer and turned sideways in his seat. "As I've told you before, it just might do you some good to get yourself outside for a change."
"I do too go outside."
"For fun. Go... spend the day camped out at the library, or a park or something. Maybe you'll meet someone interesting."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He strummed his fingers over the arm of his seat impatiently. "Or Lestrade can hurry up and phone me. I can't fathom what's possibly taking him so long."
"Can't you at least pretend to appreciate that there haven't been any good crimes recently?" John breathed. "You know, for as brilliant as you like to go about convincing people you are, you can be quite simple-minded at times."
Bzzzt.
Sherlock's eyes lit up. He fished around his trouser pocket for a moment before pulling forth a mobile and flipping it open. "Speak of the devil," John muttered under his breath.
"Perhaps not?"
They both stared down at the screen, which seemed to have been put on the brightest possible setting. But all the mobile displayed was a blank white screen. Sherlock pressed a button to hang up, but it didn't go away and the thing kept vibrating, it's buzzing noise growing louder and louder.
"Strange," John said, scratching his head. "Try turning it off?"
He did so, but it was to no avail. The white light and buzzing remained uninterrupted, continually going in strength. Before Sherlock and John even knew what was happening everything within eyesight seemingly melted away, leaving behind nothing but an empty white void.
-x-
Is this some kind of game to you? Is that was this is? John Watson accused and jabbed the other man square in the chest with an index finger. We all thought you were dead!
Well, yes, but see - I wasn't, Sherlock Holmes beamed back.
Yes, I can see that! It still doesn't change anything!
Holmes pouted. Why do I get the feeling you liked me better when you thought I wasn't around anymore? He pulled forth a stack of papers from inside his coat and began to read them aloud:
Ah, yes! Here we go. Blahdy blah blah... of their generation I shall ever regard him as the wisest man whom I have ever known. Well, isn't that absolutely touching. I didn't know you thought so highly of me, Dr. Watson.
Give me those! Watson hissed, snatching his papers away. A liar and a thief. I don't believe you.
Don't sound too surprised.
I'm done talking with you, Watson announced, taking his leave.
Oh, don't be like that! Holmes whined. He darted after the doctor, cutting him off just before the other man could descend the stairwell. You're being immature.
You're the last person to be the judge of that, Watson retorted.
Whatever witty remark his companion was preparing to throw back at him Watson never heard, for he was distracted by a sudden ringing in his ear. Holmes appeared to be experiencing the same difficulty, for he whirled his head around, perhaps calculating what direction the buzz was coming from.
Neither Dr. Watson nor Mr. Holmes were able to recall just what happened in the following couple of minutes, save a surreal curtain of white.
-x-
Eventually the whiteness does fade away again, revealing a room shaped like half a cylinder. The rounded wall is lined with glass and overlooked a cityscape. Inside, several pairs of men and two mice are crowded around with generally confused looks.
"Not confused," one of the Sherlocks corrects. "Surprised, of course, and perhaps a bit intrigued, but certainly not confused."
Huh? You can… understand me?
Another Holmes folds his arms with a slight nod. "Don't sound too surprised. You are the one writing this fan fiction, are you not?"
I mean, yeah, I guess that's a valid point… But wait, how did you-?
"What? Know that you're a fan fiction author?"
"Incredible," a Watson mutters. The detective from his own universe gives him an almost jealous glare.
"You're also an eighteen-year-old senior in high school who spends far more hours than would be considered healthy in front of her computer screen, where she-"
Yes, yes, that's quite enough about me! Now, I'm sure that most of you must be wondering why I've gathered you all here…
"Not particularly."
Oh?
"Speak for yourself," John snorts. "I'd certainly like an answer or two!"
"And an answer or two you shall get. But tell me, kid, what's your angle in all this? You brought us here from every corner of the fandom. You've certainly seen Sherlock Holmes crossovers before, some better than others, and wanted to create your own. Except that you're ambitious; it had to be big. Complicated, even. But for what? What story can you possibly create it which all the Holmeses and Watsons-"
"And don't forget special cameos from Basil and Dawson!"
"-yes, of course, them too. But what plot could you even come up with in which we'd all be forced to sort out our minor differences in character in order to work together and solve a single case that, chances are, we'd probably work out just as quickly on our own? Really. I'm curious."
The author sits back in her chair and furrows her brow at this. I didn't… think about it like that. Really I was just bored and curious as to what would happen. I thought I'd assemble you all - you know, like the Avengers. You could be The Deducers. I don't know. It's a working title. But you feel me?
Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is a waste of our time," he grumbles.
Well I'm sorry! I didn't expect you all to be so self-aware! With an exasperated sigh, the fan fiction author quickly regrets having even made an attempt at something this unusual and intricate and hurriedly exits out of her Word Document without saving the file.