With thanks to my dear Beta, for making such a good job of the proofreading, as always. I hope that I never take you for granted, my dear.
Also with compliments to LA, for her continued support - and to my wife, for never giving up on me.
Despite my intentions (or my ability to "lie at the speed of light"), Mrs. Hudson sees us the moment that we appear, as she would seem to have decided to tackle the "obstacle course" that has been left in the sitting room. When we emerge from Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis, she is standing in the middle of the carpet, gasping and gaping like a landed fish and there are signs that she is mere moments away from one of her fits of hysterics.
"But... But..."
Calmly, gently, Watson puts a soothing hand to her shoulder and begins to explain something to her. What he is saying to her I know not, because I am busy sneaking Beth Lestrade - trousers and all - into our washroom. I hope that Watson and I - the other Watson and I - have not left it in a mess befitting our - their - marital status. We never did, did we? Not as far as I can see - thank goodness!
"Zed, Sherlock! I can't stay in here the whole time we're here," she protests.
She is not going to have to. "Just wait there and try not to draw attention to yourself," I hiss as I hastily close the door.
"Sherlock Holmes!" her indignant and angry voice growls through the thick wood behind me, as I charge into my bedroom to riffle through my costume chests.
"Holmes? Do you mind if I smoke?" Mr. Brett's voice enquires from behind me, as he approaches my open door. "The stale tobacco smell is making me frantic."
"It does you no good, you know," I respond without so much as turning my head. If I were to be honest, I would rather he did not.
He sniffs. "It's true when they say that the people who've given up smoking are more virtuous than those that never tried it. Or have you forgotten that you used to smoke like a chimney, yourself?"
"I speak from experience," I reply. "I know that I am healthier now than I ever was in my own era."
"Yes, well, you lived in the middle of a dirty, sooty city - I'd imagine that tobacco smoke was one of the better things that you were breathing, on a daily basis. Anyway, you can't have been that unhealthy or you'd never have lived to a good old age. How old were you? Beyond the average life expectancy of a man of the day, anyway."
He does have a point. This irksome fellow has clearly done his research.
"I thought that Watson told me that he gave both you and your companion something to stop your cravings, anyway, while you were alone with him at New Scotland Yard," I note, hoping to change the subject. "I believe that he said that you both expressed a desire to smoke after the journey there."
He clears his throat and shifts on his feet. "We hadn't smoked the whole time we were with you - I told David that we should politely wait for you to load your pipe or... something. By the time we reached Scotland Yard, I was dying to smoke! David must have been, as well."
Both were somewhat unsettled, as well. Poor chap. I do remember what a craving such as that feels like, without the complication of nerves. "You should have said as much."
"Yes, well..." he approaches my side. "What are you looking for, anyway?"
Ha ha! Here it is!
The gentleman beside me gasps as I pull a dress from the chest and inspect it critically, all thought of tobacco cravings momentarily forgotten. "You can't make Beth wear that - it's cruel! That has to be at least two decades out of date!"
Does he research every damned thing? How does he know that? Well, he has overlooked one thing and I round upon him with a snarl.
"I am a bachelor and this is one of my disguises - I should like to see any other bachelor do better!"
"You do have a point, but..."
"Mr. Brett!" Does he go out of his way to irk and frustrate me? I should at least try not to react. Perhaps then he will become bored and desist. I slam my eyes shut and attempt to calm myself.
"Mr. Brett," I try again. "To make my darling fiancée wear this... indignity... for any length of time was never my intention. I simply feel that a dress of any sort would be better than no dress at all - she can at least leave the house and purchase which ever lady things that she might find appropriate - with the help of Mrs. Hudson, of course."
He nods with just a twitch of an eyebrow, which informs me that he still is unsure that he approves.
"You see that I am not being cruel - not intentionally. Besides, any that glimpse her will most likely think that she is merely very poor - more than likely, they will think that she is a relative of our housekeeper and pay her no further thought. It is better than permitting her to run the risk of being arrested. Or perhaps you disagree? Hum?"
He merely shrugs and takes his (silver) cigarette case from his pocket. It looks rather too expensive to be a prop and I am tempted to ask his permission to inspect it.
"I did notice that you referred to your fiancée as your 'darling'," he remarks, while he calmly inserts a cigarette into his mouth and lights it, before offering me one.
"No, thank you. Well, what do you expect me to call her? My 'little woman'? Beth is one of the two best things that ever happened to me - in two lifetimes - and I would never..."
It is now that I notice that he is shaking with suppressed laughter. "Really, Brett! What is it now?"
He shrugs his shoulders and takes his cigarette from his mouth to make use of the ashtray on my bedside cabinet. "Oh, I'm sorry. It just seems so strange, hearing you talk of anyone like that."
I spread my hands before me. "Do you suppose that I could go through an entire lifetime of loneliness and regret - and still remain unchanged?"
His eyes soften and he nods. "I see what you mean. I'm sorry, Holmes. I suppose I forget that you've already seen one lifetime and that you must have learnt a lot. I also forget, I think, your wisdom."
Well, he is at least man enough to apologise. I touch his arm. "Quite all right - really. Now, I shall just call Mrs. Hudson and get her to help Beth into this dress."
"If you like," says he. "I still think that it's cruel."
Give me strength! "Then perhaps you can provide something better, hum?"
He grumbles and looks away. "Well, no."
"I thought not. Now, I suggest that you go and enjoy your smoke, before you go completely mad, and leave me to my own affairs before you drive me completely mad. Thank you."
Beth is still fully dressed in her uniform and invites me to step inside of the washroom with her, when I knock upon the door. She is also doubtful about my choice of clothing for her, but not due to changing fashions.
"It looks like a zedding tent! Call this thing practical? Zed! I can't knock a door in, with this thing tripping me! How the zed am I gonna chase criminals? How the zed am I meant to fight?"
Ladies are not supposed to fight. And I tell her so.
"Zed! Great!"
"Ladies are not supposed to shout obscenities, either. Really, Beth!"
"Really, Sherlock," she retorts, mimicking both my tone and accent, before becoming her angry, near-hyperventilating, self once more. "I tell you this zedding circus tent ain't practical - how're you even s'posed to go to the bathroom, wearing this thing? Look at it!"
How the deuce should I know? I would never have thought to ask such an impertinent question and I would certainly never have attempted to do so, preferring instead to go home (or to a bolt-hole) and to change my clothing first.
"Mind if I ask Mrs. Hudson? I'm gonna have to know how to manage, if I have to wear these horrible things."
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose against a building headache - no doubt brought on by antics of Mr. Brett and my 'lovely' fiancée. Perhaps this was not a good idea.
"You OK?"
"No," I answer honestly, before artfully changing the subject. "Please do bear in mind that my housekeeper was always a respectable lady and remember to be polite. If you must, remind her that you are from the future - show her your uniform and gun, if you must - but do try to refrain from swearing, using coarse language generally or otherwise scandalising the poor woman - please do consider the example that Watson and I have always set."
"Huh! You swear."
I never used to swear as much as she sometimes makes me want to! Mind you, I still do not swear nearly as much as she can make me want to.
"I have never done so in front of Mrs. Hudson." As far as I recall.
She narrows her eyes at me thoughtfully.
"I would never have even considered swearing in your presence, either, were it not for two points - the first being that the worst of the things that I might say, in a moment of weakness, are now so very ancient and out of use that they are considered to be mild at best. The second is that your language is coarse enough to make Watson blush."
She wrinkles her nose at me. "Fine. I'll watch my language."
"Splendid! Thank you. See if you can charm our housekeeper, then. I should quite like for you to make a sterling impression."
"Why? She's not your mom. Is she?"
I raise an eyebrow at the impertinent question. "No, she is most certainly not my mother. She is, however, more like a mother to me than my own mother ever was." So there. Make of that what you will, Miss Lestrade.
Upon exiting the washroom, I find Brett and Burke seated opposite one another (in the armchairs belonging to Watson and I), happily smoking cigarettes. Watson, I notice, is sitting beside the open window.
I call for Mrs. Hudson, direct her to assist the young lady in the washroom and then take to Watson's side. The tobacco smoke is causing my eyes to sting and prickle - I am glad of the (arguably) fresh air, from the window (even if it is chill, as London air usually is in March, be the year 1897 or 2107) - and I dab at my eyes as I recline there.
"It is difficult to believe that we would both smoke that stuff so profusely," observes my Boswell, somewhat gruffly.
I must agree. "Brett is still correct, you know; those who live in glass houses ought not to throw stones."
He shakes his head. "I know. I simply wish that they would use the craving suppressant that I prescribed for them - it would do them much more good."
What can I say? I shrug. "I never would have; you know how I am, where stimulants are concerned - caffeine, tobacco, cocaine... The more that I could consume, the better and faster that I could work."
"Piffle!" snorts my dear friend. "You do not need any of that rubbish - what you do need is this: regular, healthy meals and a bare minimum of six hours of sleep per night - every night. If you would only permit yourself to keep to a routine, you would find little need for artificial stimulants - or sleep-inducing medication, come to that."
Never attempt to argue with a doctor over medical matters. I really should know better, by now.
"Are you all right?" he asks of me with concern, as I rub at my forehead, having closed my eyes.
I meet his gaze hastily as I lower my hand. "Yes."
"Mr. Brett was also quite right when he spoke of the horrible ailments that were rife - no, do not laugh! I myself could have died of enteric fever, before I had had an opportunity to ever have met you."
This reminder serves to sober me. I ensure that our actor friends are absorbed in their own conversation before choosing to voice my thoughts. "I am truly glad that you survived. I must confess that you have always done me a power of good."
"What I mean, Holmes, is that we must all have a care."
I shrug my shoulders. "I doubt that very much misfortune can befall us, provided that we stay together - and as long as we stay away from places that are likely areas for sickness to thrive therein. Besides, should anything go wrong, we need only return to the moment from whence we left."
"All the same, careful we must be," argues my Boswell. "I imagine that you and I should be all right, provided that we take no unnecessary risks, having lived through this era once before; however, Brett, Burke and Miss Lestrade will have little or no resistance to anything that will have been eradicated or become scarce by the time of their births."
I had not thought about that. I almost wish that John were here, though I know that he would be neither welcomed nor made comfortable - the people of Victorian London can be suspicious enough of foreign visitors and immigrants of their own race (I observe no difference between a black or white man - we are all of the human race, are we not?). Besides, there is insufficient electricity on hand for him to recharge by. At home our robotic friend must remain.
"Holmes?"
I blink. I then realise that he has been talking to me about sleeping arrangements. Ah. Yes.
"Well," I clear my throat and rub my hands together as I consider the matter. "We are going to have to call on brother Mycroft, or else we shall have no funds; I am sure that he would be willing to provide beds for Brett and Burke."
"Jolly good," says he. "But what of Beth?"
"Do you think she could take your bed?" I ask of him. "You could take my bed and I shall sleep on the settee. Or, I suppose that we could share my room - it would certainly be warmer... No?"
He is shaking his head. "No. I might have a better idea. Perhaps Lestrade could stay with her own family. We know well enough that Inspector Lestrade and his wife would take good care of her."
I feel my eyes widen at the suggestion. I had not even contemplated introducing my lovely fiancée to her ancestor - what will he think? Is he likely to be pleased? Upset? Angry? What am I to say to him?
