A/N: So I wrote you guys almost a 3000 word chapter! :D I figured I owed it to you all since you've been leaving me awesome reviews and alerts and I'm just overwhelmed by how much you are all enjoying this! I would have updated yesterday, it was my birthday and I was busy with friends and family. . . .anyway. . . . I hope I can keep you hooked and that you will review this, and more chapters! I look forward to them, and I'll do my best to answer your reviews/questions.
Thank you so much! ENJOY!
Chapter Ten
"Bethany's dead?" the young woman gasped, shocked to learn of her coworker's unexpected passing. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," the tall detective sighed emotionlessly. "Quite sure."
The woman sank into her medium sized desk chair, a slight hint of tears lining her chocolate colored eyes. "W-what happened?"
"She was murdered." Sherlock's unsympathetic tone seemed to unease the woman, causing her eyes to swell with more tears. John, noticing the woman's grief, nudged his flat mate in the side sharply. He sent a confused scowl the doctor's way, before realizing why he'd been jabbed.
"Um. . ." Sherlock hesitated, stealing a look back at John.
"What he's trying to say is we're sorry for your loss, but we could really use your help in finding her killer," John retorted.
The woman nodded, taking a tissue from the box on her desk, and wiped her eyes and her nose. "Yes, of course." She sniffed. "Anything."
"Were you and Ms Williams close?" John said, before Sherlock could ask a rude question.
She nodded again. "Yes. We both started at the same time, and we've been friends ever since."
"How long have you worked here?" Sherlock pried, his icy blue eyes piercing.
He could tell she was intimidated by him from the way she cowered and looked to John every time he spoke to her.
"Uh. . . four years."
"And that's her desk there," he pointed to an area about five yards way. "Yes?"
She nodded again, as Sherlock quickly dashed over to the tidy work area. John however wasn't as quick to follow his flat mate, stopping to apologize for Sherlock's behavior like he usually had to.
Sherlock rooted around in the draws and the neatly stacked papers, John stood on hand, watching in dull amazement as the detective took pleasure in soiling the poor girl's desk. "You know, it's a bloody good thing she's dead." Sherlock moved papers aside, careful not to wrinkle or drop any.
"And why do you say something like that?" Sherlock scoffed, scanning over a document he removed from a file.
"Because I sure as hell would be pissed to come to work in the morning and find all of my work moved and stacked differently." John paused, waiting for a reply. "What are you even looking for, Sherlock?"
"Oh nothing specific, however this might be something."
Sherlock held up a rather expensive looking engagement ring.
"Is that-?"
The detective raced back to the woman silently sobbing at her desk.
"Did this belong to the victim?"
Her eyes grew wide at the sight of the sparkling silver jewelry piece. "Bethany was engaged, but that, uh, that wasn't the ring Matthew gave her."
"Matthew. . ." Sherlock dragged out the name, as he thought.
"Her fiancé?" John asked.
"Yes, he proposed to her about four months ago. Matt didn't have enough money to give her an actual engagement ring at the time."
Sherlock held the ring between his thumb and index finger, intensely staring at the piece. "Where can I find Matthew?" he asked, never taking his eyes from his the ring.
The woman stood up, and walked over to Bethany's old desk, searching amongst the shifted clutter for something. When she returned she handed John a small piece of thick paper.
"He lives in the flat they saved up to buy last year. Her address is listed there on the card." She pointed.
Sherlock put the ring in his pocket, and quickly headed out the door, already hailing a taxi.
"Thank you so much," John said, struggling not to trip over his feet in the rush for the door.
"Anything to help." She sniffed as Sherlock slid into a black taxi, barely allowing John inside as well.
XXXXXX
The taxi stopped outside a rather plain brick building. It wasn't much to look at; weathered red brick, rusted iron railing lining the few steps to the old door. Greenery peeked out of the cracks where the structure met the side walk. The dreary weather did nothing to improve the structure's character, but rather made it even worse to look at.
John looked down at the small card the woman at the travel agency had given him to confirm the right address. He bit his lip and his brows furrowed as he looked back at the building.
"This is it," he said, as if to convince himself.
"Obviously."
Sherlock reached the front door in three long strides and knocked. John came up beside him, placing the piece of paper into his jacket pocket.
"I- I don't really feel like visitors this afternoon," said a man's sobbing voice on the other side of the door. "Sorry."
"I'm afraid you have no choice but to let us in. And judging by your sobs the police have already informed you of your fiancé's murder," Sherlock said dully.
"Sherlock. . ." John warned.
Matthew attempted to make his expression menacing, but the effort was futile. "Pssh. I don't have to talk to you."
"For all we know, this deranged killer could come after you next," Sherlock stated. "And the information you give us could very well break the case."
"W-what do you want?" the man whimpered, quickly giving in.
"We were hoping you could answer some questions for us," John explained.
The young man opened the door only a crack, enough to showcase his grief stricken features. His cool hazel eyes were swollen and red. Dried tears lined his stubble coated cheeks. John instantly felt sorry for him.
"We're sorry to bother you, but maybe some of your insight will be greatly appreciated. . ."
The man's eyes dropped to the floor solemnly.
"Your name is Matthew, yes?" Sherlock inquired.
He nodded.
Sherlock paused. "Well Matthew, perhaps you should let us in so we can get this over with."
John ground his teeth. Sherlock was the smartest man he'd ever known and yet his lack of compassion and people skills almost dwarfed his genius.
Matthew opened the door to allow the detective and the doctor inside, and led them into a small living area. What the building lacked on the outside was made up for by the inside. Dozens of pictures hung artistically on the brightly painted walls. John couldn't help but to stop and marvel at some of the photographs.
"Photographer?" Sherlock queried.
"Mmhmm."
"You took all of these yourself?" John asked, trying to perhaps lighten the mood. Matthew nodded.
"They're very good." John added, hoping to coax Matthew out of his grief. John didn't like seeing the sadness in the man's eyes and he wanted nothing more than to console him.
The trio sat down, John and Sherlock on the sofa, and Matthew placed himself in an armchair.
"So are you guys some sort of investigators?"
"I'm Sherlock Holmes, Consulting detective."
The man's eyebrows pulled together with confusion, but he quickly dismissed it.
"And this is Dr. John Watson," Sherlock added, motioning towards his flat mate beside him.
Matthew nodded. "So, who killed Bethany?" A look of ample sorrow washed over his features when he said her name.
"I think I'll start with the questions," Sherlock said. "First of all, I'm aware you and Bethany planned on making your partnership permanent."
"Yes. I asked her to marry me about four months ago on her birthday. I didn't have money at the time to afford a ring, with school and bills and everything. She said she understood, and that the ring didn't matter as long as we were together."
Sherlock removed a small plastic bag from his coat pocket – inside was the engagement ring he'd found earlier. He handed the small parcel to his doctor friend, silently ordering him to hand it to Matthew. John gave the clear bag a brief glance wondering where the detective and gotten it, but decided it wasn't the most pressing matter at the moment.
"I found this among her things at work," the detective said.
"Perhaps you know where it came from," John finished.
"I've never seen this before. Are you sure she had it?" Matt looked astonished, holding the bag flat in his horizontal palm.
"Yes. Is there any information you could enlighten us with, as to why someone would kill her, why she would have such an expensive item – clearly you didn't buy it for her, you can barely afford this flat."
"Sherlock. . ." John hissed
Matthew's shaking fingers slid across the smooth outline of the metal and gemstone as he looked at it. "No one would've wanted to kill her," he murmured finally. "She made friends so easily. Nothing ever got to her. She was so easy going and happy all the time. Even with that boss of hers."
"What do you know about him?" Sherlock asked, steepling his fingers at his lips.
"Her boss?" Matthew shrugged. "She would talk about things he did to her and the girl she worked with. I guess he's had a couple of female employees quit because of the harassment and comments."
Sherlock's eyes glazed over like they always did when he was in deep thought. He didn't utter a sound, or move for quite some time, making everyone but himself feel uncomfortable.
"Interesting," he finally whispered. "This case just keeps getting better and better."
He stood up in a rush and once again made his way to the exit without expressing a goodbye or a thank you. Matthew stood, muddled by the sudden excitement as did John, who upon realizing his flat mate didn't plan on returning, said his farewells and again, apologized for his colleague's behavior.
"Sherlock, you and I need to work on your people skills once this case is solved," John scolded as he got into the taxi behind Sherlock.
Holmes didn't say anything right away. Instead he stood in the center of the living room, violin in one hand, bow in the other, staring wide-eyed at his dearest friend. The tea? The tea? Was the solution to their big mystery something as ordinary as a cup of some gypsy's tea?
"I say, Watson. However did you think of such an explanation before me?" The detective was genuinely surprised at his doctor friend's capability to solve such a puzzle.
"I'm surprised that wasn't the first thing you thought of," Watson laughed. "Although I have to admit Holmes, you are blinded by your intellect when it comes to simple problems." The doctor leaned back and put his feet upon the coffee table.
Holmes eyed his friend before sitting beside him. "I have no idea what you are implying, Watson. But I-"
"I'm implying that your genius sometimes overlooks puzzles that are less clever than others," Watson explained.
Holmes thought a moment. "Yes, well. That may be the case sometimes Watson, but I assure you my occupation need not worry. I do not concern myself with crime on a ordinary level, thusclever is always an abundant factor inthe cases I take"
Watson rolled his eyes. "So Mr. Clever, how do you suppose we are going to get back to 1886?"
Holmes got to his feet, thoughtlessly tossing the instrument aside, rubbing his chin and pacing the room. It wasn't often someone uttered a question he didn't know the answer to right away.
"Whatever it was that gypsy woman put into our tea, obviously is some sort of supernatural element. That is the only logical explanation. Now I fear returning back to the proper era of which you and I previously resided might not be as easy as we hope."
The doctor's brows furrowed and he leaned forward. "What are you getting at Holmes?"
The eccentric detective hesitated and took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
"You aren't seriously suggesting that we are stuck here, are you Holmes?" Watson pried.
"What I'm suggesting is that it's a fair possibility."
Watson stood up, eyes glaring. "I can't stay here!"
"Why? I see no pressing matter that calls us home. I'm here, and you're here. What else matters?"
"My wife!" Watson scolded. "Mary!? I can't just leave Mary and live with you in the future!"
Holmes frowned. "I have yet to see the downside to staying."
Watson narrowed his eyes, and pointed a finger at his friend. "I am not staying here.
The detective pursed his lips, and stuck his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He looked at his dearest friend with wide, puerile brown eyes, and slouched into one of the chairs closest to the fireplace. Watson had seen the act many times while the two had shared residency. Holmes often acted like a child, but the detective took pouting to a whole different level. He always sat, hunched over, staring off blankly or seemingly interested in something unimportant, glancing solemnly in Watson's direction for a brief second. At one time, the doctor couldn't resist his friend's feigned grief, but he'd soon learned to overlook it.
Watson rolled his eyes and sat back down. "You know that won't work," he sighed.
Holmes's eyes narrowed and he quickly got to his feet to once again and maneuvered around the cluttered coffee table to set next to his friend. "Watson, since you are so keen to return to your dreadfully humdrum lifestyle of husband and wife, I shall make a deal with you."
"Oh god." Watson brought his palms to his face and covered his eyes, shaking his head slightly.
"I promise to return us home if-"
The detective hesitated, thinking quickly. "If. . .?" Watson cajoled.
"If you are to help me on one more case. Here. In this era. Now."
Watson looked confused. "What are you talking about Holmes?"
"Upon my arrival of this time period, like you I wished to find somewhere familiar, and of course Baker Street was the rational thought. However I was whisked away by Scotland Yard for what I understand as 'breaking and entering.' I immediately called for Lestrade, who in this time period may actually hold some intelligence, who proceeded to call for a Sherlock Holmes." Holmes stood, once again holding the violin bow in his hand as he paced the small room. "I can tell by your dumbfounded expression you are as confused as I was." Holmes noted before he began again. "Much to my surprise, I found myself in the presence of another Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective."
The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. "So there are two of you? Fan-tastic."
"Ah yes. There are also two of you, my dear Watson. Who also is a doctor, and both he and my other self live here at 221 B Baker Street. Our exact same address, with none other than a reincarnation of our dear landlady. . .Ms Hudson."
Everything spewing from Holmes's mouth was too much for the doctor to comprehend immediately. He sat baffled on the old sofa, staring wide eyed and disbelieving at his friend. Watson wondered if finally both he and Holmes had cracked.
"So essentially what you are saying is there are duplicates of us in the future?" Even saying it sounded crazy.
Holmes nodded. "I believe so. Somehow there are two of us."
Watson was quiet a moment, stirring his thoughts over in his head. He genuinely had a hard time questioning Holmes accusations, because most of his incoherent nonsense- however unbelievable- was usually true. This, on the other hand sounded like it was coming from someone completely mental.
"So we are stuck in the future, one-hundred and twenty-six years in the future. . ."
"Yes, with potential duplicates of everyone we know." Holmes finished, matter-of-factly.
"Have you completely lost it Holmes!?" Watson shouted.
"On the contrary! In this new era I have become enlightened! Watson, I understand how this could confuse your delicate intellect, but you have got to accept this strange reality!"
Both the doctor and the detective were face to face, standing, Watson looking a mixture of confused and frustrated, while his counterpart seemed both amused and annoyed.
"Are we interrupting something?" said a deep voice in the direction of the door way suddenly.
Holmes looked to find Sherlock, donning his long coat and blue scarf with an eyebrow raised, and beside him the doctor.
"I told you Watson!" Holmes practically cheered. "Might I introduce you to Sherlock Holmes, and Dr. John Watson."