Again, many thanks for the many reviews. As any writer will tell you, they are always appreciated and enjoyed - as much (I hope) as you enjoy reading the stories. As I cannot respond to guest reviews, I thank James Birdsong and KIT-10 for their reviews in particular. I hope that you continue to enjoy this story.

After insisting that we stay for tea, Mr. George Lestrade decides upon hailing a cab and accompanying us to Baker Street. That some of my companions are becoming fagged is undeniable, but I am all too aware that I have no ready cash. I wonder how I might come by money - could I purchase a bulk lot of coinage cheaply, if I were to return home to the 22nd Century? That might be better than waiting for a case to land in my lap.

"Let me help you move your bags, Beth," the old Yarder offers, as he bids his wife adieu. "Have you made any plans? Are you staying at Baker Street for dinner, or coming back here?"

The expression on her face speaks of regret. "I'm sorry. I already said that I'd have dinner with Sherlock's brother. But I'd love to have dinner with you tomorrow, if that's OK."

He beams at her. "I'd like that very much. Of course, the more the merrier, if you were to decide to bring everyone with you, but please give us some warning."

She thanks him warmly and he turns to me, as the lady of the house hands us each our outdoor clothing.

I second the thanks of my fiancée with gratitude, but the Lestrades merely smile and Mr. Lestrade simply raises a hand in reply. He then steps out into the street in order to hail a passing cab.

"It will be my pleasure - and the same goes for my wife, I'm sure."

Mrs. Lestrade is quick to confirm this as she follows us out into the street in order to see us into the cab. She is still waving when we turn the corner at the bottom of the road.

Brett chuckles quietly and then gives a roar of laughter when I cast my gaze in his direction - almost deafening his friend, judging by Burke's facial expression.

"What is it now?" I ask impatiently.

He shakes his head, as if attempting to claim that it is nothing, but he is still unable to keep a straight face.

"Mr. Brett, if you are unable to control yourself I shall have no choice but to take you home, lest you find yourself carted away in restraints."

Mr. Lestrade's expression informs me that he should like to know how he has avoided such a scenario for this long, while Mr. Burke silently informs me that I should apologise forthwith.

"If you must know," retorts Brett, "this is all your doing. There you are, sandwiched between Doctor Watson and Miss Lestrade - and towering over both of them and..." he shakes with near-silent laughter "...and all I can... Ha ha! ...all I can think of is what you must have looked like, when you went flying over Beth's shoulder. Ha ha ha!"

Mr. Lestrade smirks at me. "He has got a point, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Maybe you shouldn't have told them that story," is Beth's remark. "I don't know why you did."

I shrug my shoulders and spread my hands before me. "It was to illustrate my point - you have always been more than capable of taking care of yourself."

She gazes at her dress as if to remind me that she might have difficulty in doing so, at the moment (which I myself very much doubt - not that I would not protect her anyway).

I pat her hand and offer her a (somewhat) shy smile when our eyes meet, though I know not quite how to put the way that I am feeling into words (particularly with her ancestor sitting opposite us).

My beautiful fiancée takes my hand and squeezes it as a bright smile lights her face in response, warming my old heart as she bestows her silent affection upon me. Perhaps there is no need for words, after all.

"Travelling by cab is much better than walking everywhere," Burke remarks suddenly, drawing my attention back to the entire group.

Brett nods and attempts to stifle a yawn.

"All right?" his companion enquires, his obvious concern reminding me of my Boswell.

He nods again but says nothing. Hum. He is beginning to look rather fagged; I think I really should try to find some coinage, rather than forcing him to walk all the way to Mycroft's pile of bricks tonight. Watson is in the habit of walking everywhere through choice, due to his dislike of flying transport, but he would appear to be the only one.

Upon our return to Baker Street, Mr. Lestrade accompanies us inside, asking for the cab to wait a moment. While Mrs. Hudson prepares tea, he follows us upstairs to collect Beth's assortment of packages, which were delivered to the house while we were out.

Upon entering the sitting room, he stops short and points at the mode of transport that brought us here. "What the devil is that?"

"This is Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis," I reply enigmatically, as I lean upon it.

"The time machine," Watson adds quietly, from his position at the hearth, where he is coaxing the fire back to life.

The old Yarder nods his understanding and creeps forward cautiously, so as to inspect it. "How do you power it?"

"Oh!" Burke looks to me. "I never thought to ask you that. I assumed it ran on petrol."

Petrol! Ha! How old-fashioned! "It is powered by sunlight. The sides are covered with solar paint. Even while we are indoors - even if the weather was particularly bad and the light very poor - it can continue to recharge until the sun has completely set.

"Amazing!" breathes Mr. Lestrade, as he studies it. "Even science fiction hasn't dared to dream that far, yet. Well, I'd better load up the cab, or the driver might think I've forgotten him."

I remove my jacket and roll up my sleeves. "I shall assist you, inspector."

Despite his obvious fatigue, Brett stands and is quick to offer his own assistance in the loading of the cab. The stubborn fool would probably keep going to the point of collapse! Why can he not just accept that he is tired?

"Brett, do sit down," I order him (but not unkindly). "Mr. Lestrade and I can manage. Perhaps you and Burke will pour the tea, hum? I take mine black; Watson prefers his strong with just a little milk and Lestrade takes hers white. Oh! And I believe that Mr. Lestrade takes his strong, with two sugars."

"Only when the wife knows nothing about it," Mr. G. Lestrade informs us. "I'm surprised that you remember, Mr. Holmes."

Brett chuckles quietly as he pours the tea. "Dear me! A dishonest police inspector!"

G. Lestrade gives him rather a funny look. "I can see why you were asked to play Mr. Holmes - not only do you fit his description physically, your sense of humour is almost as strange as his is!"

Charming. "Lestrade, I could leave you to carry the boxes downstairs by yourself, you know."

Brett snorts. "I don't know why you're taking offence, Holmes - it takes me a lot of trouble and makeup to look as... uh, to look like you."

I bristle for just a moment and then smile. "Well, I apologise. Of course, not everybody can be blessed with my good looks."

"Very funny," returns the actor. "Watson always said that you looked like a big, ugly vulture - I don't look like that!"

"If you say so," I snap in return, ignoring the groans and placating words of my Boswell (this is his doing, after all). "I myself think that you fit the description more than I do."

"Well, you would say that, wouldn't you? Tell me, would you prefer to drink your tea or wear it?"

"Guys," Beth chastises us. "Do you have to? Why can't you just shake hands 'n' try to get along, huh?"

We both simultaneously apologise to my fiancée (Brett does so in a particularly - and annoyingly - suave manner) and then we each address the other with a glare.

"Please?" Beth appeals to us. "I know you're probably both tired 'n' irritable, but how d'you think the rest of us feel? Huh? Think you're the only ones that're worn out, do you?"

Again, I apologise to my lovely wife-to-be and then turn to Mr. Jeremy Brett in order to extend my right hand to him. He shakes it rather solemnly.

"Your hands are cold," I note. "Sit down beside the fire and take your tea. I shall be back before mine has had a chance to cool."

"Oh, where are you going?" Watson asks.

"To get some money," I reply. "I shall be but a moment. Would you care to join me, Mr. Lestrade?"

The little man follows me quietly as I enter Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis and takes the seat that I wave him into somewhat apprehensively.

"How long does it take?" he asks.

"Less time than it takes to blink an eye," I inform him. "We have arrived. Welcome to the 22nd Century, Mr. Lestrade."

I permit the Yarder to watch the cars that fly past the window, while I start up the computer. He then comes to my side in order to watch me operate the device.

"You said we'd only be a moment or two, Mr. Holmes," he reminds me. "It's all very interesting, but I have got a cab at the door, waiting for me."

"Yes," I reply, "but we are going to return to the moment from whence we left. It will be to everyone in London as if we were never gone."

He gasps. "Oh. I see. Yes, I see. Right. Well, that changes things. Um. How did you know that the house was going to be empty?"

"Because I have returned to a time when Watson and I were on holiday. It is a shame that you could not meet our robot, though."

He laughs. "Now you're pulling my leg!"

I gesture towards an electronic photograph frame. "Am I, indeed?"

"That's a picture of a tracking dog, Mr. Holmes. A beauty, but definitely not a robot. Unless it can change form, of course."

"The picture will change in a moment," I tell him without averting my gaze from the screen before me. "I believe that there are some silent video - film - moving picture clips, as well."

He whistles. "This is like some sort of funny dream. I feel as if I've fallen asleep over an H.G. Wells novel, or something. Oh! Yes. Here's a picture of you and Doctor Watson with your robot. He looks strange! All metal, with a human head."

"He thinks like a human."

"Oh. Well, I suppose he would, with a human brain."

I chuckle. "It is a mask - an electronic mask. Let me place this order and I shall show you."

He finds the idea of the electromask fascinating, so I permit him to try one out. "You must find playing at dressing up much easier, now."

'Playing at dressing up', indeed! "To be honest, I only use the elastomask if I want to change my appearance - or the sound of my voice - dramatically. The rest of the time, I use my old techniques - makeup, false hair, a change of posture and so on. Your granddaughter says that I like to keep my hand in, which I suppose is true."

"Why do you still prefer to use your old techniques, if you have technology to make it easier?"

"That is a good question. These things can betray emotional responses - even in John the robot. They will frown, smile - even pale or flush - of their own accord, depending upon the emotions of the wearer. I prefer to maintain a much better level of control at the best of times - imagine trying to act with such an honest face! I had might as well send Watson."

He laughs. "I suppose so. It's a clever bit of technology, though."

I cannot argue with that.

"How long have we got to wait for your parcel?"

"Three and a half hours, approximately. It is coming from Cornwall. It could be quicker than that, if traffic turns out to be lighter than anticipated."

"That's amazing."

Yes, I suppose that it is. It surprises me to realise just how much I have come to take for granted.

"How does a parcel get here, all the way from Cornwall, in a few hours?"

"Flying automatic delivery," I reply. "Actually, three hours is not all that quick. I received a suit from Glasgow in two hours, once. And a top hat from Bath in under half an hour - though I grant that Bath is much nearer."

He shakes his head. "You've taken to the technology like a fish to water!"

"That is not difficult," I retort. "I have always been interested in new technology and ideas. As has Watson, fortunately, or else he would feel rather lost. Oh! While we wait, would you care to see Brett and Burke at work? Their production was recorded for television, such as it was in the 1980s and 1990s."

He looks frightfully confused, but he permits me to find one of the films on the Internet for him to watch never-the-less. These days, they are very much in the public domain, which means that they are on every video sharing application known to man. I select a favourite of mine and take to his side without a word. This will serve to be as good a means to fill one's time as any other.

Lestrade seems to rather enjoy the entertainment. He laughs frequently and says that it is well done. He also appreciates that he has not been made to look a fool. I have to agree - I also am pleased that Watson has been treated with respect.

"Watson and I encountered enough fools, in the course of both his career and mine, for comedic effect. The production team had no reason to pick on you."

"I'm going to have to call on you, when you're back in London," he announces suddenly, after a moment of silent thought. "The other you, I mean. I never took the time to really get to know you and it's about time that I made an effort - I mean, you're far better company than you are usually given credit for. Tell me... If I was going to pay you a social call, what would you like me to bring? And don't say 'a case' - I bring you plenty of those as it is."

I shrug. "Chocolate, wine... I would say cake, but Mrs. Hudson might be a bit upset if you bring your wife's delicious baking. Competition, as it were. John the robot certainly takes it to heart, if he thinks that I prefer somebody else's cooking over his efforts."

"It is kind of you to think of your housekeeper," says he with a smile. "I didn't realise that you had a sweet tooth. Do you like humbugs? I know the doctor usually carries them."

"Yes, he still carries sweets with him, as a rule - bribery for difficult young patients, I believe."

"Probably a good plan. Chocolates, then. Or a bottle. I'll remember. And maybe cakes, as long as I remember a present for Mrs. Hudson."

Perhaps I should not have given him such a list. I cast my eyes to the carpet. "I am sure that anything that you bring will be appreciated, Lestrade. It is, after all, your company that we would value the most."

"You certainly have changed!" says he.

I force a smile and lick my lip in an effort to keep my emotions in check. "I have missed you. More than I ever thought that I would." I am not going to tell him that I did not know just how much I valued his friendship until he was gone - morbidity has never been my way and I still do not like emotional scenes.

He nods. "Yes. I can see that. But, you know, you're always welcome to call by. Now that you can."

"Thank you."

He gives a sigh. "What shall we do now? We've still got a two hour wait, thereabouts."

We spend the remaining time playing chess and chatting. I suspect that I am helping him to see the approachable side of me, as he has never seen it before, along with information on how best to draw it out. Perhaps, when he next sees the other me, he will be more at ease with me. I hope so.