Giles: Friday, 8 January 1886
Last night with Watson was magnificent. I saw The Mikado at the Savoy! George Grossmith, Jessie Bond, Rutland Barrington, the singers the roles were written for. It was almost more than I could bear. To add to the surreality of the experience, I 'dressed' for dinner for the first time in my life. Wearing a modern tie and tails to formal events is one thing; this is different. It's normal. It's everyday. It isn't fancy dress, no matter how much it feels that way to me. The clothing is so complex. All buttons and studs and layers of lush fabric. Cut perfectly for my body. When I put it on I found myself standing differently, walking differently. I nearly didn't recognise myself in the glass as I sorted out the tie and the cufflinks. I felt like I was another man. And there I was, in a theatre packed with men dressed similarly, surrounded by women in silk and feathers, holding a libretto for a comic opera I've known since childhood.
And then I found myself undressing for bed and shaking out the vampire dust, just as I might after any evening out at home. Gave Watson a bit of a turn and shocked me back to my senses. Rupert Giles, a twit in a top hat, stake in hand, playing at being a Victorian. Fool. I've been traipsing around pretending everything is all right. What if I'd missed staking it and gotten myself killed? What if I'd gotten Watson killed? What if it had been Angelus or Spike, and I'd just changed history by staking it? Why was I not spending every waking moment working to get myself back?
I lay awake thinking. Trying to sober up. No more drinking with Watson.
Holmes reappeared some time during the night. I went down to the sitting room this morning, once again hung over, to find him calmly smoking a cigarette over coffee, spraying ash on his eggs. I sat down and immediately pumped him for information, which he blandly refused to give me. I don't know how Watson puts up with the man's ego. He adores making a big show of revealing what he's learned, stage-managing the whole thing so as to impress onlookers. Chiefly to impress Watson, if you ask me.
"Have you found it?" I said.
"All will be revealed--" he began. I cut him off.
"Quit showboating and just tell me. Do you know where it is?"
"I believe so, yes."
"Where?"
Holmes crossed his knees and sipped his coffee. "Watson tells me you've learned a great deal about the artifact. Perhaps you would be so good as to share your discoveries."
"Bloody hell, man!"
Watson was suddenly at my elbow, pouring another cup. He held it out to me.
"We have an excellent plan which we'll set in motion today, that should get you back home. Don't we, Holmes?" I caught him grimacing at Holmes over my head. I took the cup, like a decent man, and drank it. Shouting at maddening British heroes isn't the done thing.
I know what's bothering me. I can imagine Buffy saying it to me, flipping a lock of hair: "You've got control issues, Giles." Perhaps with capital letters. More Issues. The business with the vampire rattled me more than I'd thought. I need to do something. Desperately.
"Mr Giles," said Holmes, "we appear to have got off on the wrong foot today. Perhaps you'd be so good as to walk with me, after you finish your breakfast. I think we each have information to share. The day is a fine one, I perceive."
I consented. Watson didn't seem to mind being left behind. He just asked if we'd be back for lunch, and helped himself to Holmes' paper.
I put on my own warm overcoat and one of Watson's hats, and trailed after the world's first consulting detective in his fur coat and top hat. The winter storms seem to have moved off. One spends a lifetime complaining about weather predictions in the morning paper, but one misses them when they're not there. No radar, no forecasts, nothing but the barometer. Today we had a chilly sunshine. The streets were bloody awful. Filthy with coal dust and horse manure. Yes, there are water-carts and street-sweepers, but there are an astonishing number of horses on the streets. And many of them in miserable condition. I commented on the filth to Holmes, and told him I understood now why the city once had killing fogs. It's much cleaner in the 21st century.
We walked east, past the Council buildings. I found myself leading after that, treading familiar streets toward Bloomsbury. At the Museum steps, I asked him if he'd mind if we went in. I told him I'd worked there, before being sent to Buffy at the end of '96. Then I thought I ought to have specified a century, then I realised it was obvious. One hundred years from now, just about, I will be starting work in the back rooms of that building.
It has changed, of course. The steps I walked up today are less worn than I remembered them. The visit was painful. To see such damage inflicted on fragile artifacts! What they were doing to those mummies-- unwrapping them! If I were an Egyptologist I'm certain I would have had a fit right then. I did splutter a great deal over the displays in my own field. I'm afraid I gave away that Etruscan had eventually been translated, by reading it aloud to Holmes and explaining the real significance of various items. He had me translate several inscriptions for him before I stopped over-focusing on the translation and realised what I had done. Thoughtless, and not the sort of revelation he'd be likely to miss. At least this slip likely did not change the course of history, unlike my previous one with Watson-- I didn't translate anything even remotely interesting, and it's not earth-shattering news that Etruscan might be translated some day.
Or so I tell myself.
I lost my taste for the museum in the endless hallway of Greek pottery. (Homoerotic items not on display, though they're present, in vast quantity, in storage. Most amusing.) Holmes laid a hand on my arm to silence me, and led me from the museum. He took me to a pub, bought me a drink, and at last talked.
Holmes knows who stole the artifact from me. Pudge, damn him, knew the identity of the man, but it took threats of prosecution for trafficking in banned artifacts before he would consent to reveal it to Holmes. Pudge was terrified of vengeance; the man is apparently an unholy terror, a sorcerer known to use magic to kill, sometimes horribly. His name is Roger Merridew. Holmes looked at me expectantly over his ale, but I'd never heard the name. Merridew wishes to prevent Victoria from ascending to the throne by assassinating her before her coronation. It seems to have something to do with getting Germans out of the succession. Merridew also disliked the influence Prince Albert had on the nation. All that civilisation doesn't sit well with some people. It's true that the course of European history would be drastically altered if Victoria were not to marry and have her brood of children. Though perhaps not the way Merridew wants.
What is it with schemes to assassinate monarchs? Unpleasant things happen when people succeed. For instance, world war. And the Serbs didn't get what they wanted for another eighty years, and it was an holy mess when they did. Oh Lord. What was Ethan doing with the thing?
Whatever Merridew's aim, he has a few other men in on the scheme with him, mainly members of a small occult society.
Holmes has tracked down Merridew and established the chain of actions he took after he stole the Folly from me. He may know less than we do about how to operate it. He's spent the last few days holed up with an alchemist friend of his, Holmes believes in research and experimentation. The artifact should nearly be recharged after a century jump, so we'll have to act soon to make sure they don't use it and possibly strand me here forever. Or worse, use it and achieve their aim of assassinating the Queen. I'm not sure it's possible; I'm not sure the timestream as I know it can be changed. But I'm also not sure it can't be. Hasn't the fear of just this been dogging me every time I open my mouth?
I was unable to reassure Holmes. He quizzed me on what I'd learned about the artifact. I told him everything. He questioned me quite closely about what it looked like, how it worked, and what I knew of the rules of time travel. Which wasn't much.
Holmes proposes that we investigate the home of this alchemist tonight. He believes the man will not be at home, but will instead be off at a meeting of his esoteric brotherhood. He was certain Watson would go along with it, but wanted to sound me out. How did I feel about a spot of burglary? I just laughed, thinking of the times he would ask Watson the question, and told him that it might be good to have me along to disable any magical traps we might encounter in the lab. Bound to be a few.
So here I am, in their sitting room, scribbling to fill time and keep myself from fidgeting out of my skin, waiting for the proper dinner hour. I've prepared a few magic tricks for the break in, but I did that hours ago. Holmes and Watson ate earlier, but I couldn't. Stomach is turning over. At last I'll be able to act in some way other than turning over the pages of dusty books. I confess I'd like a chance to hit something.
We're off now.
