Chapter Six

12 July 2009

2:00 PM

Sherlock burst through the doors of the lab at St. Bart's Hospital. He spotted a female doctor standing at a microscope, faced away from the door. She was a very small person with mousy brown hair, and—judging by the straight-leg khaki trousers and simple brown flats on her feet—she liked to dress for comfort rather than looks.

Very practical, Sherlock noted.

"Dr. Hooper is expecting me," Sherlock said, stepping over to one of the benches and inspecting some Petri dishes.

"Just one moment," came a soft, quiet voice.

Intrigued by one of the samples, Sherlock pulled a glass slide from the table and slid it into the microscope, peering through the eyepieces. Hmm… Stentrophomonas maltophila…

Finishing her notes, Dr. Molly Hooper set the slide aside and turned the light on the scope off. "Sorry about that. You must be Sherlock—" she turned to see him at his own microscope, "…Holmes. What are you doing?"

"As a graduate chemist and pathologist, I would have thought that would have been obvious to you," muttered Sherlock without moving.

"It's just, I don't think you should be doing that," Molly told him timidly.

"It's fine," Sherlock brushed off. "I'm a graduate chemist as well."

"Those samples are from an active homicide case," Molly told him, wanting to pull him away from the evidence but her nerves freezing her in her tracks.

"Yes, the Travers case," Sherlock rattled off. "It was the brother. He poisoned the victim with thiacloprid using his own tea cup. Obvious."

Molly's brow furrowed as she hurried to her findings on the Travers case evidence, flipping through the pages in the file. "That's…that explains the nicotine-like effects in his nervous system. The thiacloprid bound itself to his nicotinic acetylcholine receptors. Of course!" She looked up at him. "How did you know that?"

Sherlock fiddled with a knob on the microscope. "The presence of stentrophomonas maltophila in the bloodstream. It hydroxylated the thiacloprid, rendering it unrecognizable. Well, nearly unrecognizable. After that, it was really rather obvious."

"Wow," said Molly softly. "You're amazing."

Sherlock brought his head back slightly from the microscope, but stayed staring at the table as Molly instantly began to stutter.

"I-I didn't mean—" she began. "I meant that, that was amazing. I-I didn't—"

Sherlock turned his head to look at her, looking her up and down.

"Not that you're not—" stuttered Molly, a blush appearing in her cheeks.

Elevated heart rate, pupils dilated. Sherlock turned his head back to the front. Schoolgirl crush. Wonderful. He lowered his head back to the microscope.

"I just—" Molly took a short breath. "We should probably just do the drug test." She went to a nearby cabinet and came back. "There's a bathroom just through there." She gestured towards one side of the lab. "I'm going to need you to give me your coat and empty your pockets." He set the plastic sample cup on the table next to him.

"Not now," Sherlock muttered.

"Your appointment is at two o'clock," Molly told him timidly.

"Yes," Sherlock stated.

"Then shouldn't we get started?" suggested Molly.

"Busy," stated Sherlock.

Molly hesitated, wringing her hands. "Your brother said that if you…caused any trouble, to call him."

Sherlock gave a sigh and an eye roll. Stupid muddling brother! "Fine." He stood from the stool, took his Belstaff and jacket off and handed over his wallet from his trouser pocket, letting Molly see that the pockets were now empty. He snatched the sample cup from the counter and strode towards the small bathroom as Molly watched him go. "Don't touch my samples."

Just as he closed the door, he barely heard Molly utter the words, "Your samples?"


5:24 PM

A knock sounded at the door of Sherlock's bedsit, and he quickly opened it.

"Lestrade, excellent!" he exclaimed, rushing over to grab his Belstaff and put it on. "Tell me you have a worthy case. I haven't had anything intellectually stimulating for two hours now."

"Oh, I think you'll like this one," said Lestrade, stepping aside into the hall in preparation for Sherlock's usual frenzied flight out the door

Coat in place, Sherlock yanked his scarf from the hook on the wall and rushed out of the flat, pulling the door shut with a bang and practically flying down the stairs.

Lestrade hurried after him. "Karly Summers, twenty-four. Found dead in her flat. All windows and doors locked from the inside."

Sherlock came to a halt on the stairs and abruptly turned back to him with an annoyed tone. "Then the killer was obviously someone with a key to the place."

"Her bookshelf had been pushed over against the door," Lestrade told him.

Sherlock's eyes lit up again. "Well, why didn't you say so?" He immediately turned and continued his exodus down the stairs. "Did Dr. Watson ever come in to run fingerprints?"

"No," said Lestrade as he followed the consulting detective. "Not a single person came in to run fingerprints, nor have I met any Dr. Watson."

Thinking back to the letter that Dr. Watson had left about running Sherlock's fingerprints at Scotland Yard—which, no doubt he would have done immediately after writing the letter—Sherlock smirked in delight at the mystery deepening.


13 July 2009

1:43 AM

Sherlock stood in front of the only small window in his bedsit, swaying slightly as he played his Stradivarius violin. It always helped him to think, which he obviously needed. If it wasn't for the mystery that was Dr. Watson, he would have had this case solved by now. It was a simple case—he knew it was—but his mind kept drifting back to the army doctor. How was he doing this? After the second letter, Sherlock had had his homeless network stake out Baker Street, and not a single person had come or gone apart from Mrs. Hudson. And yet, a letter had appeared just as always.

How was Dr. Watson getting letters into the Baker Street flat?

How was he writing letters in London when he is currently in Afghanistan?

How does he know so much about Sherlock when they had never met?

How can he write a blog if it doesn't exist?

How?

How?

HOW?

"Shut up!" Sherlock yelled as the bow gave a discordant screech on the strings. He closed his eyes and gave a deep breath. Focus. He brought the bow back to the strings and continued.

The woman had been found strangled in her kitchen. She had most definitely been murdered—the clues were all there—but if the doors and windows had all been locked, then how did the bookshelf end up barricaded against the door? If the killer had locked the door with a key after he left, then how would a dead woman have pushed the shelf over? Sherlock had tested the shelf himself; it had a sturdy build and wouldn't have simply fallen over. Sherlock had had to give it a good push.

There had been no evidence that anyone or anything had been in her flat after she had died. She didn't even have a pet.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open as he froze. Pet! Of course!

Sherlock gently tossed the violin and bow into his armchair, grabbed his coat and hurried out of the bedsit. Hailing a cab, he hurried over to the crime scene and went inside, ignoring the yellow police tape hung on the door.

Sherlock moved over to the linen cupboard in the hall on the way to the bedroom, yanking the door open and examining a panel in the bottom of the door. Sure enough, carefully disguised in the dark woodwork was a hinge for a cat door. And at the very back of the big close was a hidden litter box.

She must keep the food and water bowls in a kitchen cupboard while not in use. That's why they weren't there! Stupid!

Sherlock spotted something in the other corner of the closet and moved into the space to take a closer look. The edge of the carpet that sat at the foot of the wall was frayed, strings of plastic branching up from the fibers. Smirking, Sherlock reached forward and pulled the corner of the carpet up. There was a small hole that the cat had worn at over time to fit through. The cat had escaped into the building shortly after Karly Summers' death to go in search of food.

Sherlock stood and hurried to the kitchen as he whipped his phone out.

She had a cat.

Need access to Bart's.

SH

He stuffed his phone back into his pocket as he searched the kitchen cupboards for the second time that day, this time looking for something very specific: cat food. But, just like earlier, he didn't find anything. He went for the fridge next and found cans of tuna. He had assumed they were for her, but clearly, they were meant for the cat.

Sherlock pulled a can out, found a can opener and opened it, pouring some tuna onto a small plate. He then went over to the closet, tapping on the plate to alert the cat. It took a minute or two of sporadic plate tapping, but eventually, a white-haired Persian cat squeezed through the hole in the floor and moved over to Sherlock's feet. Sherlock set the plate on the floor, and the cat immediately began eating the tuna.

Sherlock let him finish before scooping him up to take a look at his paws, pleased to find he still had his claws. He smirked and got to his feet, pulling out his phone as the cat growled lowly in his arm. He had received a text two minutes ago.

I was asleep, Sherlock.

GL

And now, you aren't.

Get me access to Bart's.

SH

Knowing Lestrade would call the pathologist's office just to shut him up and go back to bed, Sherlock put his phone away and headed out of the flat.


9:01 AM

A success! Sherlock thought, though a little annoyed with himself as he headed back through the London streets.

This case had been little more than a five, and yet, it had taken him twelve whole hours to solve it. It if hadn't been for his mind wandering to Dr. Watson over and over again, he would have had this solved yesterday evening. He had to put this mystery behind him!

Sherlock made his way towards Baker Street, heading straight up the stairs after he had greeted Mrs. Hudson.

"What are you always doing up there?" Mrs. Hudson called up to him. "I better not hear any complaints from my current tenant, young man."

Sherlock stepped into 221B, heading straight for the fireplace. Smiling when he saw that a new letter had appeared, he yanked the knife from the mantel and opened it, setting the knife down.


13 July 2011

9:12 AM

"Lestrade…"

"What?"

"The letter's gone," John told him as he stared at the mantel, the penknife lying on its side and the letter nowhere in sight.

Lestrade stepped up next to him, staring at the empty mantel. "Gone? You sure it didn't fall?" He looked around at their feet.

"No, no, I just saw it," John insisted. "It was literally just stabbed into the mantel."

"Then how is it—" began Lestrade, looking around the room.

"I don't know!" exclaimed John, also searching.


13 July 2009

9:12 AM

"Dear Sherlock (if it really is you),

I don't know what to believe anymore. Is this really you? Or have I been writing your letters unknowingly?

In response to your offer, God, yes, I would love to solve crimes. I miss our cases more than I thought I would.

Everything else in your letter makes sense if you're writing from the year 2009, but that's impossible. You're living two years in the past? How can that be? But if you are, that explains everything—how you don't remember me, why my record and Mike say that I'm still in Afghanistan, why my blog doesn't exist, how you're talking to me in the first place. But, our letters going back and forth through a time portal—that's insane. Unless…

Look, if you're here, find some way to let me know.

God, I hope I'm not going crazy.

John Watson

P.S. You're welcome, about your brother. He is pompous. Guess it runs in the family."

Sherlock couldn't help but let out a chuckle at that sentence. This John Watson seemed to know him almost as well as Mycroft.

"Speaking of, is there something you could tell me that Mycroft knows about that you would never tell anyone, not even your best friend? It would help me believe it's you."

Sherlock stared at that for a moment, knowing just the thing to tell him. The problem was, it was such a touchy subject with harsh memories that he was reluctant to share it. But it was something he discussed only with Mycroft—if ever. And if it helped prove to Dr. Watson that he was himself, he supposed it was worth it.

Sherlock pulled the notepad he always carried in his coat now and began writing.


13 July 2011

9:20 AM

"Where could it have gone?" asked Lestrade.

"Exactly!" said John, running one of his hands through his hair in frustration. "It couldn't have—" He sighed. "Unless it did vanish into thin air."

"Or…" began Lestrade with a reluctant grimace in John's direction, "you took it while I wasn't looking."

John searched his pockets, immensely relieved when he found nothing.

"Or…it…disappeared into thin air…" muttered Lestrade in an awed voice.

John looked up at him with a frown, and Lestrade merely nodded at the mantelpiece he was staring at with slack-jawed shock. John turned and saw that a new piece of paper—the same kind Sherlock's letters had been written on—was stabbed into the mantel.

"What happened?" asked John, unable to take his eyes off of the paper.

"It just…appeared," said Lestrade. "One second, the knife was lying there, and the next, it was stabbed into the wood with the paper there. It was like I blinked, and it was different. I swear it."

Hardly daring to breathe, John reached forward and pulled the knife from the wood. It felt solid enough. He turned and held it out to Lestrade.

Lestrade took the blade in his hand. "Well, at least it's not you."

John huffed out a laugh. "Yeah…" He turned back and picked up the letter, opening it and moving over to Lestrade so they could both read it.

"Dr. Watson,

What do you mean I'm writing form the year 2009? Aren't we all? Unless, of course, you really are in the year 2011. It would explain a lot of inconsistencies about you. But it is scientifically impossible. But unless this is all an elaborate prank (Mycroft, if this is you, don't you interfere enough?), either an invisible person is leaving these letters and writing nonsense in them—as my homeless network has not seen a single person other than myself and Mrs. Hudson enter Baker Street—or there is some kind of dimensional portal or vortex inside 221B. An invisible person is, of course, ludicrous and impossible, and when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains—however improbable—must be the truth. Perhaps a time vortex has appeared here. After all, humanity thought space travel and electricity were impossible at one point. Maybe this is just a form of science that has yet to be explored. Fascinating…

Several things you've mentioned not only suggest a falling out between the two of us but also an impossibility of the fact that I am writing these letters. Either I am dead in 2011 or otherwise incapacitated; perhaps in a coma or jail? I favor the former. Only an idiot would ever believe I would commit a crime."

John laughed out loud. If only Sherlock knew how ironic that statement was.

"I can assure you that you are not crazy, because if you are, then I am as well. As for your request for information, how can I know what I will have told you and what I won't have? However, there is one thing that I would never tell anyone. Mycroft and my parents are the only individuals who know about this. And in return, I hope you will share something that no one but us would know.

When I was young, I had an Irish setter named Redbeard. He had to be put down. It was a very hard time for me.

Sherlock Holmes"

John looked up at Lestrade, stunned by the revelation and the abrupt end to the letter. "He had a dog?"


13 July 2009

9:21 AM

Sherlock laid his folded letter on the mantel and stabbed the penknife into it. He slowly took his hand off of the handle to find it shaking.

Redbeard…

Closing his eyes, Sherlock clenched his jaw and fist to steady himself. Just as he had feared, that one little paragraph had brought the memories back. Hopefully, it was worth it. Hopefully, this would prove it was him. But perhaps Dr. Watson would need something more; something to show this time portal was really happening.

Sherlock moved toward the staircase outside the door. If they indeed did live here together in the future, then the upstairs bedroom would be used. He headed up the stairs and into the room, which was currently completely empty. Taking one look around it and smirking, he headed back down the stairs to amend his letter. Oddly enough, though, both the letter and knife had disappeared.


13 July 2011

9:23 AM

Lestrade shrugged. "He never told me."

John stared at the letter another moment before pulling out his phone to send a text to Mycroft.

Who is Redbeard?

John

Not give seconds went by before the phone rang, the Caller ID reading "Mycroft Holmes."

John looked up at Lestrade. "He never calls if he can text." He answered the phone and put it on speaker. "Mycroft."

"How do you know that name?" came Mycroft's voice through the line, sounding sharp and—could it be?—unnerved.

Thinking fast, John replied, "Found it in some of Sherlock's notes. It struck me as odd since I couldn't remember a case involving that name."

Mycroft released a sigh, sounding relieved. "It was the name of the family dog when we were young."

John shared an amazed and triumphant smile with Lestrade. "A dog? Really? Wouldn't peg Sherlock as the pet type."

"He isn't," said Mycroft before muttering in what sounded like a dejected voice, "not anymore."

"What happened?" asked John, tense with anticipation.

"Redbeard became sick for a long time," Mycroft explained. "Eventually, Mother and Father had to put him down. Sherlock was never the same again."

"Sherlock was really attached to him, was he?" asked John.

"He was my brother's best friend," said Mycroft softly.

John waited a moment before speaking. "Thanks for telling me, Mycroft."

"My pleasure," Mycroft responded in a tone that suggested otherwise before ending the call.

John stared at the phone for a long moment before looking up at Lestrade with a smile. "It really is him…"


13 July 2009

9:25 AM

It was gone. The letter had vanished into thin air. He had not even heard anything, so the knife couldn't have fallen and no one could have come up and taken it. Could it be that this time portal was real? He had not even really believed it completely.

As he watched, a piece of paper with the penknife stuck through it into the wood appeared suddenly—quick as a blink—on the mantel.

Smiling widely in fascinated intrigue, Sherlock immediately yanked the knife up and retrieved the letter.

"My God, I can't believe this. It really is you. Mycroft confirmed your story about Redbeard. Sorry you had to go through that, by the way, but I understand why you'd want to keep that to yourself.

I don't know what things you wouldn't inadvertently tell people, so I'll name a few.

Your violin was actually a gift from your brother when you were five.

Your first case was Carl Powers when you were eight.

Mycroft once told me you wanted to be a pirate when you were little.

I hope one of those helps.

John

P.S. If you're still in the flat, so am I."

Sherlock frowned at the statement about being a pirate. He couldn't remember ever wanting any such thing. The other two facts were true, and they were only things his family knew.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and texted his brother.

Did I ever want to be a pirate when I was younger?

SH

Five seconds went by before a text came back.

Why are you asking?

M

Curious.

SH

And what has prompted this curiosity?

M

What does it matter?

Just answer the question.

SH

Yes, you did.

Briefly.

M

Frowning, Sherlock put his phone back in his coat. Why couldn't he remember wanting to be a pirate? But as he thought about it, a vague image of Redbeard wearing a bandana appeared in his mind, accompanied by the memory of a little wooden play sword.

Hmm. Must have been exceptionally young.

Sherlock raised the letter once again. Still in the flat…

He pulled his notepad out once more.


13 July 2011

9:25 AM

John stabbed the letter into the mantel, watching it. "Do you think he's still here?"

The letter and knife suddenly vanished.

John's jaw dropped. "Oh, my…" He looked at Lestrade. "He's here…right now…" He shrugged. "Well, two years ago."

Lestrade shook his head. "My head hurts."

John looked back at the mantel, waiting for the letter to appear. One minute later, there it was. John opened it to see a short note written there.

"I'm here as well. All three of your facts were correct, including one even I didn't know. This vanishing act goes to show our separate timelines are coinciding. It is 13 July 2009, 9:26 a.m. You?"


13 July 2009

Sherlock yanked the knife from the mantel, opening the letter.

"13 July 2011, now 9:27 a.m. This is incredible."


13 July 2011

"Indeed, it is. I can think of several experiments I would like to do—"

"Of course he does," John laughed.

"—one of which I would like to do now. Interested?"

John smiled and grabbed his pen.


2009

"What did you have in mind?"

Sherlock smirked. This John Watson was going to become a very dear friend indeed.


2011

John unfolded the letter.

"Go to the second-floor bedroom. On the baseboard behind the door, I will carve something at 9:35. Tell me what happens and what I have written."

John looked at Lestrade, and they both headed for the stairs and into John's old room. Lestrade swung the door almost closed, and they looked down at the baseboard at the bottom of the wall.

John looked at his watch. "Two minutes."

When 9:35 came, John squatted down and watched grooves start to form in the wood. Getting an idea, John whipped his phone out and began recording a video of the carving. Slowly, words and numbers began forming.


2009

Sherlock blew away the wood shavings and splinters, surveying his handiwork.

WILLIAM H. BORN 6 JAN 1981

Sherlock got to his feet and headed back down the stairs. He strode over to the fireplace and waited. And waited. And waited.

"For God's sake, how long does it take to write four words?" Sherlock grumbled.

Ten minutes later, and the knife finally reappeared, but a piece of paper was not the only thing that accompanied it. Pinned by the metal loop used for a keychain, a USB flash drive was sitting atop the paper.

Intrigued, Sherlock removed the knife and opened the letter.

"Who's William?

I thought you might like what's on this memory stick."

Sherlock immediately headed down to Mrs. Hudson's flat, borrowing her old laptop. Returning to the flat, Sherlock plugged the stick into the USB slot. There was one media file on it, and Sherlock pulled it up. It was a video of lines being carved into a baseboard. He watched in amazement as the words he had carved upstairs formed on the wood. They even stuttered and paused where he had run into a nail.

"Incredible…" Sherlock said in a breathy, amazed voice.


2011

John watched as, finally, the knife reappeared with a letter and the USB drive. He retrieved the letter.

"Amazing. Watching a video from the future of myself changing the past—my present.

I am William. My legal name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I've gone by Sherlock since as long as I can remember."


2009

"Really? And all that grief you gave me about me not telling you my middle name.

It's so strange. I can remember what it was like for that baseboard to be blank, but now, I also have memories of seeing it with those words carved in it. All this time I never knew when your birthday was, and it was right in front of me."


2011

"I'm pleased to know that I've successfully kept my birthday from you, until now. I'm not very keen on birthdays. Someone always tries to surprise me—me, of all people. It's painful watching them think they've fooled me.

I envy you. To be able to experience two different timelines at the same time. What is that like?"


2009

"It's weird. It's almost like when a movie is made from a book, and there's little things they change in the story. It's the same, yet it's not."


2011

"So, we become flatmates in 2010. When do we meet?"

John got out his pen and started to write, but then stopped. "Wait, I…I can't tell him, can I? What if it changes things? What if—" He froze, staring off at the wall.

Lestrade glanced at the wall and then back at John. "What?"

"I can save him," said John softly.

"What, now?" asked Lestrade.

John looked at him. "I can save him! He's living two years in the past! If I just warn him…"

"But you said yourself you might change things," said Lestrade. "If you're not careful—"

"Well, I'll have to wait until he and Mycroft are planning to fake his death," said John. "As long as we don't tell him stuff before it happens, it should work." He looked down at Sherlock's letter, a smile that hadn't seen the light of day in a month appearing on his face. "It'll take two years, but…we're going to get him back."