The Sixth Hour

Honestly, the idea for this chapter was created because someone suggested disguises, and I've been spending waaaay too much time looking at steampunk goggles online (there's a summary for you). This did turn out a bit longer that expected, but I was enjoying it too much to stop. Have fun!

They emerge from the tube station about forty-five minutes later, fighting the urge to blink in the stronger-than-normal sunlight. Neither is sure whether or not they've lost Mycroft or his ineffective accomplices, but there's probably enough time for another coffee. And a biscuit, according to John.

Three biscuits later (one of which goes somewhat unwillingly into Sherlock), they leave the café in a hurry when they notice a few people who seem far too normal to make any such claim.

Time to disappear again.

Sherlock takes the lead this time, and several back alleys later they're standing outside a rather ratty back door, the kind that suggests that the building is host to all sorts of unsavoury business.

So it's understandable that John's a bit surprised when it flies open at Sherlock's knock to reveal a rather disheveled redhead that takes one look at the two of them before grinning and inviting them in.

Her name, it turns out, is Eva, and she's the older sister to a scrawny albino teen who, it appears, has had a rather busy morning judging by the numerous computer screens surrounding him and the rather interesting video feed that he's…borrowed…from the NSY. John has a chuckle at Sherlock's blatant disregard for the mayhem he's caused, even though he knows that his violation of the numerous laws surrounding gun ownership and the disregard thereof have done just as much damage.

The leave the rather focused hacker at Eva's insistence, who seems to have pieced together the situation from the few comments that they've exchanged and her brother's choice for an early-morning diversion.

Now John remembers where he knows the pair from- that case from a few months back involving the BBC, the leaked pilot program, and the producer's ex-wife. Aside from the numerous attempts Eva had made to get Sherlock into a deerstalker (apparently, she's a costume designer for period shows), they had gotten along rather well- or as well as anyone can get along with Sherlock.

(And if Eva can get her hands on some of the film materials that Sherlock occasionally needs for his experiments, what of it?)

So her question about how they're going to stay out of sight when most of London (and all national, international, and most likely bloody intergalactic agents within a five-mile radius) knows them by name and face is not met with an insult or an overly withering glare, but with a silent pondering by both parties.

It's going to become a problem soon- the morning commuters are to hurried and caffeine-starved to pay any attention to anything other than themselves, their things, and when the tube stops next to notice their surroundings, but the coffee's probably kicked in enough to make their whole internet-phenomenon-fame thing a bit bothersome.

And then her face lights up with unholy glee, and John has a very bad feeling when the next phrase she utters is "Have you considered using disguises?"

Sherlock has failed to pick up on John's apprehensiveness, and simply murmurs something about that being a possibility. He's also oblivious to the signals John is giving him indicating that No it's not a good idea, because people get ideas when it comes to clothes, and he has no desire to be walking around London dressed as a ninja. Again.

So he makes a halfhearted protest when Eva drags them up a flight of stairs to a well-lit studio that's a sea of cream and tan and leather, paying attention only to her warning that "There's pins everywhere, watch where you put your hands."

Then it clicks.

A brief sputter of "Whatonearthdoyoumake?" is met with a frighteningly cheerful grin that wouldn't look out of place on a serial killer. "I'm a diehard steampunk fan," she explains as she rifles through several clothes rails, grabbing several articles of clothing as they walk along. "I make most of my friend's costumes, and there's a convention going on in the park near here today."

Sherlock looks a bit apprehensive now, as if he's realizing that John had the right idea earlier. "Won't the two of us walking around in Victorian gear draw some attention?"

Eva merrily shoves them into two adjoining fitting rooms as she considers his statement, responding with a piece of logic that even the master of deduction finds it a bit difficult to argue with.

"You've said it before- people are idiots who don't notice things. Everyone's usually quite happy tuning out anything and everything that doesn't fit with the way they want to perceive the world. If you two walked down the street dressed as you are now, people would see you faces and recognize you immediately. However, if you're running around dressed like this (whereupon she tossed the clothes over the doors), people will look at the clothes, and then promptly ignore you."

Her sound argument doesn't stop John from cursing a bit as he buttons himself into a three-piece suit tan tweed suit, though his profanity steadily increases in creativity as he ties the cravat (harder to fix than the bloody bow-tie he had to wear to Harry's wedding, how is that even possible?) and slips the pocketwatch into his vest.

However, when he gets a looks at what she's forced Sherlock into, he has to admit that it could be worse. At least his suit has breathing room. (Though no-one should be allowed to look that good in this Victorian get-up.)

Eva looks ridiculously smug at her handiwork as she hands them hats, coats, and a cane which John almost refuses until she points out several of its rather…interesting features. When he protests that he failed fencing, Sherlock points out that he didn't, but would look silly carrying a walking stick.

As they head to the meeting, John takes comfort in the fact that at least their boots are comfortable. Because if they go the next hour without having to make a hasty exit from somewhere, he'd cheerfully eat his cravat.

Better than wearing it, at least.

However, any hopes of a bit of quiet are obliterated when, not ten minutes into a cup of tea laced with more rum than should be allowed before 5 o'clock, a piecing scream shatters the rather jovial air as a woman stumbles though a doorway.

Taking a shuddering breath, she gives the shock group a wild-eyed stare before crying "In the study! It's Heatherton! He's been-" another gasp "murdered!"

Rather a long AN, but bear with me. How could I write a story like this completely devoid of any murders? It'd be sacrilegious! (Now I just have to construct the murder, but it's happening! And don't hate me for the cliffy!)

I had a lot of fun writing this, and would love to give you a link to a deviantart picture of those two in their new duds, but unfortunately, I have the artistic talent of a cross-eyed capuchin monkey. Word processing is far easier, in that respect. However, if anyone out there happens to feel like making a quick sketch, I would be in your debt- Sherlock Holmes WAS originally set in Victorian London, so it'd be awesome to see what those two would look like, dressing like their predecessors (with a few added gears). PM me! (Please? Pretty please? Pretty please with deerstalkers and skulls on top? Anyone? Having a minor fangirl moment here!)

And no, Gallifreyan_Exile_87 will never be named. Any OCs that I create will exist for only a few chapters, have little to no backstory that doesn't involve the main character, and will be promptly discarded once their plot has run out.

Anyway, reviews, prompts, and comments are always welcome, and keep your eyes peeled for the next chapter!