Chapter two ayy! This one is Lestrade from the modern BBC drama Sherlock in Jeremy Brett's era, so just to clear things up, this Lestrade is the one played by Rupert Graves and Holmes and Watson are Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke :P

Hope you like it!

Lestrade let out a low grunt, raising his head from the hard wooden floor as he began to register his surroundings. He blinked in surprise as he realised that the memories currently flooding back into his addled brain did not correspond with the scene around him. He had been on his way to visit Sherlock, hadn't he? Yes, of course he had, he had been in a hurry too, not only to consult with the slightly hostile detective but also to get out of the goddamn snow storm outside. The last thing he could remember before blacking out was rushing to let himself in, a crucial piece of police evidence in hand.

But the room he was in now was not what he had expected. It was dimly lit, an oil lamp set on a small table the only source of light, though it gave off a strong glow. A dim doily, heavy with grey crochet was draped over the table. It one of the only pieces of furniture in the cramped hall which was to be expected. What wasn't to be expected, was the furniture itself. It looked like nothing Lestrade had seen in recent years and appeared to belong to a different era. A few framed photographs hung on the walls, covering patches of wallpaper that had not been there the last time Lestrade had seen it. Had Mrs Hudson been redecorating?

"My goodness! Whatever are you doing down there, young man?"

Lestrade hurriedly picked himself up off the floor and blinked at the unfamiliar elderly woman approaching him. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn't find the words, running a hand throw his greying hair in distress. This woman wasn't Mrs Hudson.

"Are you here to see Mr Holmes? You should know that he doesn't take visitors unless there is an appointment or an urgent matter at hand," The woman glared at him unwelcomingly when Lestrade did not respond. "If you would so kindly speak, Sir, and tell me as to why you are dripping all over my floor!"

"Y- Your floor?" Lestrade wasn't usually a man for stuttering, but he found himself at a loss for words as he shuffled nervously under the woman's suspicious gaze. He stuffed his hands into his pockets in a practically futile attempt to stop the melted snow from running from his sleeves onto the floorboards.

"Honestly!" The woman exclaimed in annoyance, rushing to the door and fastening the bolts. "You didn't even have the deceny to close the door! Were you raised in a barn?"

"I- Bloody hell- What is going on?!" Lestrade burst out, gazing around the room again. He hadn't got the wrong flat, that he was sure of, so why did this place look like a house from the 1800's? It had a distinctly Victorian feel about it and was completely unfamiliar to the inspector, save for the structure of the building itself.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, young man, but I suggest you leave unless you have further business here," The woman instructed. Lestrade gaped as he took in the woman's full appearance. She was dressed in old fashioned attire, complete with a dress that flowed to her ankles and her greying hair was pinned up into a tight bun. A dark navy shawl was draped around her thin shoulders to keep out the cold. She wore a golden chain around her neck and a scowl on her aged face.

"What the hell are you wearing that for?" He spluttered before he could stop himself. "Is this some sort of joke? Fancy dress, is it? Bloody hel- Where's Sherlock?"

"I beg your pardon-"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade interrupted the woman, annoyance taking over. If this was some sort of joke the prat had played on him, he was not amused. "Oi! Sherlock, get down here!"

"Get out of my house!" The woman practically yelled, pointing a finger at Lestrade. He snorted.

"Whatever, I'm here to see that idiot Sherlock and I'm not leaving until I do. This is 221B, right?"

"Yes, it is-"

"Well then where the bloody hell is he?!" Lestrade roared, causing the woman to jump.

"Could you keep your voice down?"

"Not really!" Lestrade yelled, spinning around to face the owner of the new voice that had just made itself known. The voice belonged to a man, a man that Lestrade had never laid eyes on before. The inspector stopped, mouth agape as he stared at the man at the top of the stairs. He had fully been expecting to see Sherlock, but this man was not the Holmes he knew.

This man was tall and lean and was slightly older than Sherlock, though some features were similar, such as the smug look of confidence on his face when he had made a deduction. He had a hawkish face and slick black hair, and his dark eyes seemed to bore into Lestrade. He had that same air of confidence and knowledge that Sherlock Holmes had. But this couldn't be Sherlock Holmes, even if he was standing in his flat as if he owned the place.

"Is there a problem here, Mrs Hudson?" The man inquired in a distinguished English accent, much unlike Lestrade's.

"In fact there is, Mr Holmes, this young man-"

"Hang on, hang on a sec," Lestrade put his hands up and looked from the woman who was apparently Mrs Hudson to the man who had just been identified as Mr Holmes. "So apparently this is Mrs Hudson? You've got to be joking me! I know Mrs Hudson when I see her, she's always talking about reality tv shows and her bad hip!"

"Perhaps we should inform Dr Watson of your arrival," Holmes smirked, giving Lestrade a curious stare which made him feel uneasy. "It appears this man is quite confused."

"Are you calling me mad?" Lestrade yelled, rounding on the man. "What the- Jesus Christ, I need to smoke."

"Ah! Splendid idea," Holmes smiled widely. "Why don't you join me upstairs, I'm well due a smoke aswell."

"Nice try, I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes."

"I am Sherlock Holmes," The man replied with a cocked eyebrow. "And you, my dear fellow, are most intriquing. Do come upstairs. Mrs Hudson, tea, if you will?"

"Oi, hang on a sec," Lestrade gave a gruff laugh. "Did you just say, you're Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, for the third time now, do come along, good man."

"Bollocks!"

"Swearing does not impress me, not even when it's coming from a policman who has been in the force for approximately twenty years."

"Yeah wel- You what?" Lestrade frowned and reluctantly followed the man upstairs, the stairs that were so familiar to him yet so unbearably different.

The man ushered him through the door and closed it behind them as Lestrade gaped at the scene in front of him. The layout was exactly identicle to the 221B he knew, but everything else about it was completely different. The various tables and desks were littered with papers, a few oil lamps were tossed here and there and newpapers were strewn across an old armchair. He didn't fail to notice the familiar violin layed carefully on the old fashioned couch, or the multiple syringes and other recreational substances laying around. He swallowed thickly, feeling dread form in the pit of his churning stomach. There was no technology or anything from the twenty first century to be seen. Something was not right.

"What's going on?" He demanded weakly. "Is this some sort of sick joke?"

"Ah, Holmes, another client?" A smiling man sporting a moustache complete with a pipe hanging out of his mouth looked up from his position in an armchair. "Bit late isn't it? Is that what the commotion downstairs was?"

"Ah, my dear, Watson, always asking question after question," Holmes smiled, offering a chair to Lestrade.

"I'll stand, thanks," He muttered, burying his hands into his pockets again and straining his neck to look into all corners of the small flat. "Are Sherlock and John going to pop out from beneath a table or a cupboard or something?" He raised his voice to call out to the two who he assumed must be in hiding. There was no other logical explanation. "All right, boys, fun's over!"

"My apologies, Sir, but-"

"Or the fridge, maybe?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow, realising his tone was becoming more manic by the second but unable to bring himself to care. He stalked over to the fridge. "I know there's room in there, Sherlock, you kept a severed head in there once!"

"Sit down!" Holmes ordered stenrly with a raised voice that startled even Lestrade and had him retreating from the fridge, which he found was devoids of humans, even just heads. "Why don't you tell us you're story? I am quite enthralled by your strange behaviour and attire, pray tell, what has brought you here?"

Lestrade paused and remained standing. "I don't know who you are, you don't know who I am, I don't even know what's going on. That's all there is to tell, happy now?"

"I know that you are a policeman, one who thinks rather highly of himself and considers himself a bit more capable than you really are, I'm afraid. You have just earned some rather startling news, a murder, perhaps? Yes, a murder, nearby, in fact. Obvious by the proof of DNA sample in your hand. You came here for help but instead all you have found so far is stress which has led to you wanting to smoke even though you are struggling to give up the habit. You haven't been having a good day at work, your boss gave out to you and distilled your chances of promotion that you so desperately craved. You set out to come here but once you have arrived, have no idea where you are or why you are here. Is that enough to be going on?

"Bloody hell," Lestrade breathed, eyes wide. Everything the man had deduced was spot on, something only Sherlock Holmes would be able to do. "You're the third Holmes brother, aren't you?! I mean, you must be related to Sherlock and Mycroft to be talking like that."

"Holmes, what is this poppycock?" Watson scoffed with a laugh. "Who is this strange fellow? And may I ask, dear sir, where did you purchase your suit? It is nothing like I have ever seen before, I'd quite like to buy one-"

"Watson, this is no time for exchanging shopping tips," Holmes silenced him, leaning forward in his seat to gaze at Lestrade attentfully. "What is your name, good man?"

"Greg Lestrade!" He almost yelled. "And I know you're not Sherlock Holmes because you look nothing like him. Sherlock's all... Curly hair and-"

"Holmes, this man is obviously pyscologically disturbed."

"Oi!"

"Maybe so, Watson, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't give him the time of day," Holmes smiled in curiousity, his dark eyes never leaving Lestrade.

"Time of night, more like! Look at the hour!"

"Well you can go off to bed if you want, Sunshine, but I want answers from someone," Lestrade demanded, balling his hands into fists in frustration. "What is this bollocks?!"

"Oh wonderful, Holmes, really wonderful. You picked up another that swears like a sailor."

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING O-"

"Tea, boys?"

Letrade paused in his rant as Mrs Hudson ascended the stairs with a tray consisting of a pot of tea and three mugs. Lestrade felt his heart warm slightly. He offered the woman a curious smile.

"Thought you weren't their housekeeper?" He raised an eyebrow, as she poured the tea. The Mrs Hudson he knew never failed to remind John and Sherlock of the fact.

"Excuse me?"

"Ignore him, Mrs Hudson, my dear," Holmes stated lightly with a dismissive wave of his hand. "He's not in his right mind."

"I'd believe it, "Mrs Hudson declared wryly, handing Lestrade his tea and placing the other two cups on the coffee table next to Holmes and Watson.

"Where's the biscuits?" Lestrade yelled at her retreating back in annoyance at her condescending tone.

"I'm not your housekeeper!"

Lestrade scoffed, almost burning his tongue on his tea. "Where was I? Oh yeah, you two are lunatics!"

"Says the one talking absolute raving nonsense!" Watson exclaimed. Lestrade opened his mouth to reply but stopped as he realised something vital. The lack of noise. Baker street was never this quite. You couldn't go five seconds without a cab passing noisily. Lestrade rushed over to the window and stared at the scene outside. He gave a yell and turned around to point an accusing finger at Holmes.

"Ooooh, you bastard," He growled, shaking his head with a disbelieving smile. Holmes barely reacted, simply widened his eyes slightly at the exclamation. "Horse and carts, really? You've really outdone youself this time, Sherlock. You went to all the effort to rent out a horse and cart just to play a stupid, idiotic joke on me? I'm not stupid, whatever you might say!"

"Whatever are you talking about?" Holmes almost looked amused, though seemed unimpressed.

"And cobbled streets!" Lestrade turned back to the window, revealing what looked to be Victorian London. "I know you have friends in high places, Sherlock, but cobbled streets? Seriously? You twat! Mycroft's going to kill you for messing around like this."

"Has he perhaps had too much to drink? Overly generous with the port?" Watson hissed to Holmes who let out a sharp bark of a laugh.

"No, no my dear Watson this man seems to be telling what he believes is the truth," Holmes stood and produced a pipe from his pocket. "What is your name, you never did enlighten us?"

Lestrade stared at the pipe in Holmes' hands and mulled it all over. Doubt was starting to settle in his mind. Surely even Sherlock wouldn't go to such extravagant lengths just to play a prank on him, would he? But this man couldn't be who he said he was, he couldn't be Sherlock Holmes. He looked nothing like him. Though his manner was quite the same, except for the fact that he spoke as if he was from the nineteenth century.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," He choked out after a pause. "Or Greg. But people don't usually bother with that. Or bother to remember it."

Holmes let out a small surprised exlcamation of "Oh!" and Watson did a double take.

"Nonsense!" Watson gave a guffaw. "That is not Lestrade!"

"Oh, this is most peculiar," Holmes paused mid smoke. "Lestrade? Well this man is certainly as much of a fool as the Lestrade we know."

"Ah now, Holmes, he's not that incompetent," Watson chided lightly. "Just because you're smarter than everyone else doesn't mean you can put them down all the time."

"As you keep reminding me," Holmes stated dryly. "Would you care for a smoke, Lestrade?"

"I gave up, remember? You deduced that, Sherlock Holmes, if that's who you really are," Lestrade pulled up his sleeve to reveal a nicotine patch. "See? I'm doing well."

"Ah! Marvelous!" Holmes gasped, rushing over to stare at Lestrade's arm intently. Lestrade frowned in confusion as his arm was examined by the man. "Watson, come look at this! It stops the craving for tobacco, yes? What a wonderful invention!"

"I- You what?" Lestrade pulled his arm away. "You've never heard of nicotine patches?"

"What did you say they're called?" Watson had stood up to gain a closer look. Lestrade was beginning to feel slightly claustrophobic. "He must have imported them. From Egypt, no doubt."

"How do you not know about these?" Lestrade spluttered. "Where have you been living these past few years? Stuck in the 1800's? You're still smoking a pipe, for God sake!"

Lestrade blanched at the puzzled look Holmes and Watson exchanged.

"What?" Lestrade demanded nervously. "Look, you're not the Sherlock I know but that doesn't mean you have to leave me out of the loop like he does. What is it? What'd I say?"

"Lestrade," Watson tried out the name slowly, almost disbelievingly. "You do realise what year it is, yes?"

"2014, I'm not stupid," Lestrade laughed, his chuckle fading away slightly by the shocked looks on the two men's faces.

"Detective Inspector, it is the 15th of May 1891," Holmes stated cautiously. Lestrade gaped at him. It couldn't be, none of this made any sense. His hand roamed to his arm of it's own accord and gave it a pinch, just to make sure he wasn't dreaming. The sharp pain told him he wasn't, and that this really was the messed up, confusing reality that he was trapped in.

"I think I'm going to need a cigarette," He breathed, removing his emergency pack from inside his coat.

"I thought you said you were giving u-"

"Just shut up and let me smoke!" Lestrade sat down in a chair before his legs failed him. This could not be happening. None of this was possible. He whipped out his phone and checked it. No signal, no hope of sending a text for help. He took a deep breath.

"By George, what is that futuristic device you've got there, Lestrade?" Watson breathed, rushing over, his tea forgotten in his excitement.

"Mobile phone," Lestrade muttered weakly. "I don't suppose either of you have a lighter?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, dear fellow," Holmes began as Watson examined his phone keenly with a look of wonder on his face akin to that of a small child on Christmas day. "But I will light your 'cigarette' with this match."

"I'll bet that thing was imported from Egypt too," Watson pointed at the cigarette in Lestrade's mouth as Holmes held a flame to it. "Does it contain tobacco?"

"Of course it- Oh Jesus," Lestrade took a long drag of his cigarette to calm his nerves, having missed the sensation as he hadn't smoked for weeks now, save for the odd one or two here and there.

"You really are Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?" Lestrade stated more than asked as Holmes snatched the phone from Watson's hands and gazed at it with wide eyes.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, that I am," Holmes muttered, more interested in the phone than in Lestrade. Some things never change, he thought to himself. "This contraption, you referred to it as a mobile phone? How fascinating! Can you make calls on it?"

"For once, I know more than Sherlock Holmes does," Lestrade allowed himself a smile before taking another drag of cigarette smoke and commencing to explain the ins and outs of a mobile phone to the consulting detective and his friend the doctor.

So, any good? :D Should I continue? It's quite fun to write :P Please review to let me know what you think, it'd make my day :)