Vicky arrived on Thursday, and when she entered, she was smiling like a lioness about to share a piece of meat with the leading male of her pride. Of course, that was fanciful thinking on my part, but I did wonder at times if she had any designs on him. However, observing the way she had behaved with David when we had first met, I reasoned that this must be the way women in this age treat all men. The videos on Youtube that Holmes showed me also helped clear some of my doubts as to this matter.
"I think you're being shadowed."
"Way ahead of you." Holmes brought out a small plastic cuboid, and he bade her activate her laptop. "Here." He slotted in the device and asked her to read the contents of the device he called a 'pen drive'.
"What the hell are these?"
I winced at her coarse ejaculation, but Mary seemed all too ready to tolerate this abuse of our ears and sensibilities. Indeed, she sat beside the younger woman, more companionable a presence than I have ever seen her before.
"Pictures of the cars that have been surveying our apartment. These idiots think they can fool me by changing cars every day or so. They only used two cars, though, both times driven by the same person. I have their number plates and the times I sighted them idling at the end of this street."
"I don't think that'll do for a harassment charge," Vicky said. "You could play up the mental distress angle, though."
"I'm counting on it. Besides, just imagine the look on their faces when they find that they aren't the only ones who know how to snoop!" He rubbed his hands in glee. "I'll give 'em mental distress, all right!"
I could see very clearly that some of the shots were taken from behind the bushes, and others had the edge of a coat in their corner, revealing that Holmes had concealed the camera in his jacket and snapped pictures of the offender as he went out for a walk. There were about twenty images in total, all taken several hours apart.
"I even assumed that the house opposite us was occupied by them. Just to be safe, you know." Holmes continued. "It was the same back then, and it's probably the same now; most people have a price."
"Most." Vicky conceded grudgingly, but I knew from her tone that she did not count herself among them.
We spent some time discussing our next move. Holmes realized that for now, his risky manoeuvres were out of the question; he might put a street tough in jail, yes, he might generate some public stir, but in the end, his efforts would amount to very little.
"You should have been there during the Hackney riots." Vicky shook her head. "I'm sure you've watched the videos, but there's nothing like being there yourself. I took cover from the whole thing in a clothes boutique on the second floor of a shop lot. After that, I went around the area entirely instead of just passing through."
"I get the message." Holmes shook his head. "There isn't much you can do against criminals on the street, eh?"
"Not really." Vicky shook her head. "These days, it isn't so much a matter of finding them as it is of agreeing on the laws that we should use to punish them."
"And this marvellous new method of analysing the scratches on bullet surfaces– " Holmes paused. He was red-eyed, and even his iron constitution could not withstand night after night of near-ceaseless activity. "Amazing." If that was all he could draw up from his well of expressions, then he was more than merely fatigued.
Vicky left us shortly after, and Mary retired to our chambers, clutching the black book I had now learnt to loathe in her hands.
"Holmes, surely you don't plan on giving up on your crusade." I said. It was unthinkable that he should do so. If I knew anything about him, he was never the kind to break down or become permanently discouraged as we mortals do.
"Of course not. I'm just targeting another class of criminals." Holmes laughed weakly. "And who would have thought that I.P. addresses could be so difficult to understand? I blame it all on today's poor writing language. Confusing rather than enlightening." He nodded his head weakly, and I caught him by the shoulder least he fall forward upon the low table. "Remember Charles Augustus Milverton?"
"Of course I do."
"His spirit lives on indeed in today's newspapers, only that they accept no ransom. And now forgive me, Watson. I am exhausted beyond all measure."
He closed his eyes and went to sleep, and I laid him out on the couch and covered him with a blanket before retiring to bed with Mary.
"He plans to put the fear of God into the newspapers through the Law and his own clever brand of detective work." I remarked to Mary before we slept. "I can only hope that it won't get us into more scrapes."
The next day found me leaving early for the British Museum. I arrived on the dot of seven at the curator's simple, Spartan office, the surrounding grey and pastel tones of the wall unlike the warm burgundy and brown colours that I was accustomed to seeing in most studies. It still unsettled me a little how times had changed, but I kept a firm grip about my hat, which I still carried about religiously with me, since I was unaccustomed to going about bareheaded in our cold English climate, which scarcely seemed to have changed.
"Dr. Watson, do you mind if I speak frankly?"
The curator leaned forward, eyes glinting with interest. The older man sprouted an impressive mop of silver hair, which he did not bother combing, but rather allowed to spread itself heavenwards like storm-tossed wave peaks. He wore a charcoal-black suit, and his cuff-links told me that he had come from Cambridge University, that noble institution that forms the pinnacle of British, and indeed, global education among with Oxford and Imperial. Holmes told me that some universities in the United States have also claimed the top spot with them, cycling between first, second and third place in the world rankings, though he said that he would much rather try studying in those American institutes of tertiary education. That came as no surprise to me, really, since Holmes has always had a soft spot for that sapling nation.
"Of course not. We are here to speak our minds, after all." How else could I answer such a question sociably and amicably?
"We are very interested in you because you are a piece of living history, and you may actually provide eyewitness accounts of what happened on the battlefield. It's a Godsend, really, since it will help clear up any allegations of misconduct by British forces on the battlefield during the Colonial era."
I found it uncomfortable that he could speak of our armed forces so distantly, but that is how historians operate. They have to be objective, seeing even the history of their country through a different lens than most of us, even doctors, do. At any rate, I found myself having no choice but to cut to the chase of the matter.
"Hum! So it seems you have decided to make me a living exhibit."
"Yes and no." The curator pushed a slip of paper forward. "We have decided to appoint you to manage the collection of artefacts from the Victorian era, and quite frankly, you would be the best expert we have on the subject, having actually lived in that period."
"That compliment has been not infrequently given me and my friends, but I accept it nonetheless."
"You could also try recording an audiobook." The curator leaned back, eyeing me thoughtfully. "I am sure a recording of you reading Sherlock Holmes would sell very well indeed."
Heavens no! Perhaps you, dear reader, might act differently in my position, but all I wanted at that moment was to be left to live a quiet, happy life. I did not wish to become a celebrity, or worse, a curio that others would gawk at. Maybe you might have done so for the money, but seeing that Holmes and I had been given a pension as well as our old bank accounts back, I was not in want of a living.
"That's a good idea," I began, but the curator erupted in excitement.
"Yes, it is, right? Think of it, Sherlock Holmes as read by its original source! Of course, we'd give you a standard cut of the Royalty in addition to the advance payment. I don't have the contract right now, but I could have it ready for you in an hour's time."
What had I gotten myself into? I would have to find a way to refuse the man politely.
Holmes takes over the narrative here, and I am quite happy to say that I managed to persuade him to do so without much trouble.
I'm going to try and write like someone from the Twenty-First Century now. No more fancy turns of phrases from our elegant, bygone Victorian era. There, I've done it again! Remind me, Watson, to be a modern Englishman by whispering 'Hopkins' whenever I revert. Now, to work!
I've decided to meet Vicky in a café about a twenty minutes' walk from my home. She says she has some updates for me. I switch disguises three times, hopefully confusing my tail. Vicky's told me that the newspaper that had tapped my phone line was probably The Sun, and I glance at some copies of that same paper on display on a rack as I pass. Like every other morning, I heave a sigh of relief. Our names aren't splashed all over the headlines yet.
The café is a traditional-looking thing with tables and chairs that remind me of my time. I sigh, suddenly wanting to order a coffee and sit there the entire day. Though Watson says that I am machinelike, this one-way trip to the future has brought out my human side more than even I could have expected.
Vicky is seated at a table in the corner, with the screen drawn down. I walk over to her, and pay her a brief smile as I sit down. The teenager serving us looks more bored than anything, and after he takes our orders, he walks languorously to the kitchen, notepad in hand.
"Teenagers these days." I shake my head as I turn to Vicky. "What've you got for me this time? The name of the one who ratted me out? I'd settle for that."
"You overestimate me, Holmes." She smiles. "David says that it is possible for you to ask the Courts for a gag order, though I wonder why the news isn't all over the Internet."
"Yes, I was wondering the same thing too." Two things have been troubling me ever since the papers found out about us: The identity of their informant, and the reason for them not been splashing it all over the Internet, papers and television. "I think they don't want to lose credibility, and want to be very sure that it really is us before announcing it to the world. Besides, any posts on the Internet saying that Sherlock Holmes has awoken in the Twenty-First Century will probably be treated as fan-fiction."
"You sure pick things up fast." She says.
"I try."
"Anyway, here are is a summary of the procedure."
"I've already gone through the complete thing."
Her eyes boggle, and I shrug. "What?"
"Now I understand why they say you're a genius."
"Why, thank you." I observe her carefully. "By the way, why do women in your time wear so much makeup? The amount of eyeliner you put on is scary."
"I see you're not just reading up on crime online." She smiles. "It's normal, that's why. If you don't, people will look at you funny when you try to date them."
"That's just a female insecurity."
"How would you know? You ever been on a date as a woman before? In disguise?" She teases. I know Watson would be flustered, but I'm not boasting when I say it doesn't even make me bat an eyelid.
"Internet."
"I have a sneaking suspicion that I would lose if we played twenty questions about the modern world."
"Think, Vicky. I do everything for a reason."
She concentrates for a moment. "Now, why would you need to know so much about women and makeup? You planning to woo someone on a date?"
"Vicky."
"I give up."
"Disguises."
She slaps her hand to her head. "Of course." She groans. "You need to know about makeup and women for that. You make me feel really stupid, Holmes."
"Don't be too harsh on yourself."
Our order arrives shortly after, and we share a quick discussion in low tones about asking for a gag order. Vicky will try applying for it today, and I'll tell Watson and Mary not to let anyone in unless they are people we already know.
When we depart, Vicky offers to give me a ride home, but I tell her that I prefer walking.
"Okay." She says. "Be careful. You know how pushy those reporters can be."
I walk home slowly, switching disguises once only. On the way, I catch sight of a woman walking her dog. The man waiting for her is her fiancé, not husband. How would I know that? The ring on her finger glints tellingly, and yet she has the slim profile of an unmarried woman who had not let herself go. If she is indeed a married woman, I see no sign of it because the man who is now standing in front of her came from another street, and his dog is nuzzling and sniffing at the woman's dog, showing that their dogs don't live with each other. The woman does not have shopping bags in her hands, meaning that she isn't coming back from a shopping trip to meet her husband. If she is pursuing an affair with him, without her real fiancé's knowledge, then the man's story must be quite similar to hers because the ring on his finger is identical to hers.
I reach my home, constantly checking to see if I am being followed. When I let myself in, inspiration strikes me, and I race upstairs to my computer and workbench, which is now cluttered with books, disguises, and the odd piece of equipment I have been able to buy with my limited funds.
I will do what I did with Charles Augustus Milverton: Burgle the newspaper headquarters.
I slow my steps. All right, not quite burgle. I will disguise myself as someone else, and then sneak into their head office to retrieve any incriminating documents. No, that would not work. The law would catch up with me sooner or later if I tried to take them to court based on it.
I sit on the stairs, drawing my knees to my chin in frustration. I still know too little about the modern world. I must learn more about computer programming before I stand a good chance of getting past their electronic defences, and I must learn more about personnel identification if I want to gain physical access to their offices. I must learn more about modern legal processes before I take this case to court in case they are allowed to publicize the case. It could be that they are waiting for me to make the first move instead of vice versa.
I walk upstairs after an hour spent in contemplative silence.
They've started this, and now I'm going to finish it. The first order of the day will be to find out who leaked the news to them. It couldn't be someone on the street; the average sane person wouldn't tell the newspapers they saw Sherlock Holmes just because they saw someone on the street who looked like one of those grainy drawings in cut outs of the Strand Magazine they might have found in their great-grandfather's scrapbook. It had to be someone we knew. Could it have been Doctor Hopkins himself? Vicky? David? Unlikely. One of the nurses at the Hospital? Our two handlers? Possible. The man I ticked off the other day when I spoke to him about my home being under surveillance? Highly likely. Motives for crimes need not be grandiose; they can be petty and trivial as well.
My studies last me late into the night, and I find myself continuing the very next day from where I left off at my desk, a small puddle of dried out saliva showing where my head was resting on the desk after I fell asleep there.