Disclaimer: My, these certainly get old fast. I still do not Sherlock Holmes.
Chapter Eight
Holmes was playing the violin when Sian rushed through the front door, later that afternoon. Holmes noticed that Miss Fairfax was holding two remarkably thick books in her hand. When he caught sight of the name "Sir Arthur Conan Doyle" on the spines of the books, he knew that something was up.
"Okay Sherlock," Sian said as she unceremoniously plopped herself on the couch next to him. "We are going to prove once and for all that you are not Sherlock Holmes."
Holmes gave Sian a look, which made her squirm uncomfortably in her seat. "You still don't believe me, then?"
"No."
"Then why do you call me 'Sherlock'?" he wanted to know.
"Um…." Sian said.
"Ah-ha."
"It's not because I believe you," Sian rushed to say. "Because I don't. I just call you Sherlock for, uh, lack of a better name."
"Ah. I see."
"I have with me everything that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who was not Dr. John H. Watson, ever wrote about Sherlock Holmes," Sian announced, waving the heavy books around. Holmes sincerely hoped that she would drop one on her foot, she was such an inconvenience.
"So, what are you going to do? Quiz me?" Holmes asked mockingly.
"Actually, yes, I am." Sian settled herself into her seat. "What is your address?"
"221B Baker Street."
"That was an easy one," Sian dismissed airily. "Anyone would know that. Describe 221B Baker Street."
"It's a flat that Watson and I share. It's on the first floor, above a flight of seventeen steps."
"Hmm," Sian murmured. That was correct. Not many people knew the whole 17 step bit. She turned a page in her book, scanning for another question.
"What's your brother's name?" Sian demanded. Scarcely anyone knew his name, let alone that Sherlock Holmes had a brother.
"Which brother?"
"What do you mean which brother? Your brother!"
"Miss Fairfax, I have two brothers. And as I cannot, in fact, read your mind, I do not know of which you are speaking," Holmes said coolly.
"Oh. I guess both of their names, then."
"My brothers' names are Sherrinford and Mycroft."
Sherrinford? Sian held back a bark of laughter. Then again, Mycroft was no gem either, never mind Sherlock.
"Ah. Tell me about your brothers."
"Sherrinford is nine years my elder. He maintains Holmes Manor in Yorkshire."
"And Mycroft?"
"Mycroft is seven years my elder. He resides in London, and is a member of the Diogenes Club."
"Out of all the Holmes brothers, who is best at deduction?" Sian asked, trying to play on his ego. Most anybody would say Sherlock was the better detective.
"Why, my brother Mycroft, of course."
Sian was at a loss. "Ugh!" she groaned, tossing the books on the floor. Suddenly, she thought of it; the one thing that would prove Holmes's lie, or misconception, or whatever. Something that he wouldn't have to say, but would have to have on his body….
Sian, like a striking snake, grabbed Holmes's wrist and thrust his sleeve to his elbow. And she saw what she hadn't expected to see; dozens upon dozens of small needle pricks, going up and down Holmes's arm, nothing that would be noticed, unless being looked for. Those needle pricks where from Holmes's syringe. From his cocaine addiction. And Sian knew it.
"Ahh!" Sian shrieked, and, in one fluid motion, she threw his arm away and leapt from the sofa. "Oh my God, you really are him!"
Holmes stiffly rolled his sleeve back down to his wrist. He said, "I am sorry that that is what it took for you to finally believe me. I wish the deciding factor had been one of my strengths, rather than my weakness."
Sian scarcely heard a word of it. She just kept saying, "Oh my God, it's you. You're him. You're Sherlock Holmes."
"So you believe me now?" he asked softly.
Sian shook her head. "God help me, I do."
---
"So how did you end up in my time?" Sian asked quietly that night. Holmes and Sian were both on the couch. The television was on, but muted; Sian didn't have the heart to watch any insipid, melodramatic sitcoms that night, and Holmes, to tell the truth, couldn't stomach them anyway.
"Well," Holmes said slowly, "it happened when I went to investigate Moriarty's flat. I suspected that he was up to no good, and I wanted to stop him.
"Watson and I were standing in the alleyway along side the building. The lights were doused, so we assumed that no one was at home. That's about when we saw the mysterious blue light." Sian shivered, though she wasn't sure if it was from the cold night air through the open window or Holmes's narrative. Whatever caused the shiver, Sian wrapped the blanket tightly around her.
"I left Watson in the alleyway so I could poke about inside. I went around to the back, and was surprised to find the door unlock. I didn't realize that anyone was behind me, until it was too late," Holmes said dramatically.
"What did he do?" Sian asked breathlessly.
"Bashed me over the head," Holmes said, not without some humor. Sian swatted him on the arm.
"Hey!" Holmes said, mock-defensively.
"Finish telling your story," Sian instructed.
"Very well. Well, as I said, Moriarty bashed me over the head and knocked me unconscious. The next thing I knew, I was in a patch of grass in an unfamiliar place. The first thing I noticed was this contraption strapped to my arm. I can only guess that that is how Moriarty was able to transfer me here. I immediately removed the blasted thing, and started to wander about, trying to get my bearings. I didn't realize at first that I wasn't in London, or in 1884. But very quickly, I noticed things that didn't exist. Cars were the most obvious. I then ducked into the first public building that I could find, which happened to be the library." Holmes smiled humorlessly. "And, well, you know the rest from there."
"Why on earth would Moriarty want to send you forward in time?" Sian wondered aloud.
"I think that is obvious, Miss Fairfax. He wanted to get rid of me, and I'd say he did so remarkably well."
"But why go through all the trouble of building a WABAC Machine? Wouldn't it've been just be easier to simply kill you?"
"Of course. But Moriarty must have other plans for his contraption than to merely get rid of me."
"I hadn't thought of that," Sian said as she leaned her head against the back of the couch. Holmes settled into the couch, contemplative.
"What are you going to do?" Sian whispered. Holmes merely shook his head.
"I—I don't know, Miss Fairfax," he said, brokenly. "I'm at a loss. I've never been unsure of myself, never in my entire life."
Sian considered. Her eyes were beginning to feel heavy, but she refused to succumb to slumber quite yet. "Sherlock," she said, "I'll help you. As long as you need me, I promise to take care of you."
Holmes smiled sleepily. He, too, was in danger of falling asleep. "Thank you, Miss Fairfax."
"You don't need to call me that, you know," Sian said after a pause.
"What?"
" 'Miss Fairfax.' Just my first name will do."
"And that won't be improper?"
"No."
Holmes nodded. "Very well, then."
"Sian."
"…Sian."
They both fell asleep on the couch.
