When they opened their eyes, they were still in a cellar, the same shape as the one they were in a second ago, but the floor was dirt and there were crates stacked in the corners. Herbs hung from the beams above their heads. From the tiny high window, the clatter of horse hooves sounded. The angels were gone.
"Where are we?" Hamish asked.
"Right where we were. 221 Baker Street. 1895," John said in a hushed voice, although he was unable to believe it.
Sherlock looked over to John, then turned around to face the cellar door. Hamish kept a tight grip on his fathers' hands as they climbed the stairs and stepped into what used to be—or what would become—Mrs. Hudson's flat. The place was entirely unrecognizable, however. Gone were the settees and the knit kettle cozies, replaced with dark wooden furniture, kerosene lamps, Persian rugs, and patterned wallpaper.
A young woman stepped into the room, looked up and nearly dropped the tea tray she was holding, gasping loudly.
"It's all right, it's all right!" Sherlock said, holding out his hands defensively.
"Who—who—how—" she stuttered, setting the tea tray on the table and backing away from them. "Mr. Doyle!"
Arthur Conan Doyle stalked in and stared wide-eyed at Sherlock and John. "You! How did you get in? What are you doing here?"
It was a very good question. John looked at Sherlock in hopes that would come up with some sort of logic out of this, but Sherlock ignored the question entirely. "The flat above you…is it available to let? We were thinking it would suit our needs perfectly."
Mr. Doyle harrumphed. "So you thought you'd just barge in and make yourself at home? Inspecting the fireplace again, are we? Were you aware that I was attempting a very important séance when you violated my property?"
John raised his eyebrows. He'd read up a bit on Mr. Doyle after they'd met him, and it seems that he was quite the spiritualist, but it was still strange thinking about a grown, intelligent man trying to convene with spirits.
When he got no answer from them, Mr. Doyle stepped up to them. "You expect me to let the flat above mine to two ruffians who barge into my home without asking? And who does this waif belong to?" He looked down at Hamish, who stared up at him, wide-eyed.
"This is my son, Hamish Watson. I'm a widower and Sherlock was my wife's…brother. He's helping me look after him, as we are both bachelors."
"And your occupations?" Doyle asked.
"We are, as of now, unemployed. We've just moved to the city, but we hope to have jobs soon."
"These are tight times for all of us. What makes you so sure?" Doyle asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Because we are masters in our respective fields and it would be absurd not to hire us," Sherlock interjected.
"Well! Come back at the end of the day with a job contract from at least one of you, and then perhaps we'll talk about letting the flat."
It was a reasonable enough request from Doyle's perspective, but an entirely daunting task for John and Sherlock, who had no identification or proof of their credentials at all.
"How—how does one go about finding a job in London?" John asked, noticing that Sherlock had bent to whisper something in Hamish's ear, then stood to scan the flat.
"Goodness, you haven't any connections? My, my, this city shall eat you up and spit you in the Thames in less than a fortnight," Doyle proclaimed.
Hamish stepped forward. "You're a writer? You write books and things? Have you written anything that I've read?"
Doyle frowned down at Hamish and his odd clothing, skeptical of the boy's reading ability, but tickled that he was taking an interest in his passion. "I've written some adventure stories and some histories."
" Wow! Adventure stories? I love those! Brilliant! I've never met a real writer before!" Hamish took another step toward Doyle to shake his hand, but tripped on the edge of the rug and smashed into him.
"Goodness, do be careful!" Doyle said, catching Hamish, who quickly regained his balance and backed away. "Sorry—I didn't mean to…"
John eyed Sherlock suspiciously, who was smiling in amusement.
"Its' fine, just fine. Only be more careful next time," Doyle said, his annoyance fading.
"We should go, then," John said. Once they were out the door, he turned to Hamish. "All right, what did Sherlock tell you to snitch?"
Grinning, Hamish pulled a decently filled coin purse from his jumper.
"Ha! That's my boy," Sherlock crowed, ruffling Hamish's hair.
"Lovely. Glad to know that our financial situation is sorted. We'll teach our son how to pickpocket like a proper street urchin while simultaneously making enemies with our potential landlord. Oh, yes. We're going to flourish in the century—" John's grumblings faded away as he was taken in by the scope of the crowded London street.
Without busses, a very new and quite limited tube station, and next to no cars, there were far more pedestrians, and those not on foot were riding in carriages or hansom cabs or riding carts laden with produce or supplies.
John was quick to notice that he was the only man not wearing a hat. Sherlock still had his deerstalker on, remarkably. He must have noticed that he would look less conspicuous with it on than off.
The men kept a tight grip on Hamish's hands so he wouldn't be post in the bustle of newspaper vendors, flower sellers, ladies daintily holding up their skirts from the street's muck, urchins who let their hands wander toward unattended money purses, and delivery boys, arms laden with parcels and goods.
"Why does it smell so bad here?" Hamish asked.
There certainly was a smell to Baker Street, and it seemed to roll off everything—the people, the buildings, the muck in the streets.
"Pollution, poor hygiene, and poorer sewer systems," Sherlock said.
"Do you think St. Bart's is hiring?" John asked. He knew that St. Bartholomew's hospital was at least still around. It was the oldest hospital in London.
"Worth a try," Sherlock said. "I know pick-pocketing Mr. Doyle isn't the ideal solution, but we look like a group of nutters in our clothes. No one is going to give you a job if you're dressed like that, John, no matter how talented you are. Now that we've got this—" He grabbed the purse. "—Thank you, Hamish—we can hopefully afford some proper attire for you, and possibly get a…cab ride." He eyed a passing carriage.
"So you stole money to take me suit shopping?"
"Obviously. Unless you want Hamish to become an actual street urchin."
Hamish laughed at his dads' bickering, looking at everything with dinner plate eyes.
They wandered in confusion down the street, past residential areas to a street with more shops, finally finding a menswear store. Once inside, they quickly learned that most suits were tailored on request. When they explained that it was an emergency, the tailor frowned and took John's measurements, disappearing into the back and appearing with a suit that he thought might be a close match.
"I'm not certain if this is the style you were looking for—"
"No, it's fine, thank you."
John slipped inside a changing booth and pulled it on, feeling odd buttoning trousers without a zipper, and even odder as he buttoned the waistcoat and thought about wearing it as part of a daily ensemble. He slipped the coat on, which was a trifle long in the arms but altogether passable, and stepped out for Sherlock's approval, leaving his modern shoes on, deciding they weren't horribly futuristic looking.
"What do you think?" He longed to put his jumper back on.
Sherlock smiled, resisting the urge to kiss him, and Hamish clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle his giggling.
"Yes, that's right, have a good laugh," John said, although he couldn't help smiling a bit himself, especially when Sherlock grabbed a bowler hat from a stand and set it on John's head.
The tailor held up a mirror for John to look at himself. He smoothed his hand along the smooth brown brim of the hat. "My exact size, Sherlock. Did you measure my skull circumference while I slept, or did you just do an eyeball estimate."
The tailor raised an eyebrow but said, "A fine fit. Bowlers suit you, sir."
John frowned a bit. The Doctor had said the exact same thing.
"Dad, you look hilarious! Can I try your hat on?"
"I don't look hilarious, I look…dapper. Right, Sherlock?"
"Very."
They had enough money to hire a cab to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. John felt much less self-conscious in his suit. In his long coat and his hat, Sherlock didn't look absurdly out of place, and Hamish was only a boy, so some odd clothing choice could be explained away by a number of possibilities.
In the cab, Sherlock watched Victorian London pass by. He looked at each person they passed, calculating, annoyed that they weren't quite as easy to read as he was used to. The basics were all still the same, however, he was happy to find. The apple vendor was having an affair, obviously. The shop on the corner had recently come under new management. Still, there was much to learn.
"Did you know doctors during this time only made £100-200 a year?" John said.
"Yes, but that suit I just bought only cost a half-sovereign and two shillings," Sherlock said, jingling the coins left in the bag.
"Oh, God, that's right, we're back to Imperial system," John groaned. "I think I had to learn about that in primary school. What is it, 21 shillings to a guinea?"
"And 20 shillings to a pound," Hamish added proudly.
"Then why bother with the guinea at all?" John fumed, and Sherlock smiled.
Once out of the cab, they headed inside St. Bart's. The old façade outside looked much the same, but the inside was much changed.
Sherlock and Hamish waited on a bench near the door as John approached the front desk. St. Bart's was a large hospital, even now. Surely there had to be some sort of job vacancy.
"Hello, I'm here to ask about a job."
"You saw the advert, did you? For the surgeon job?"
John nodded, his heart lifting at his luck, and the man rang a bell from his desk to fetch someone.
Meanwhile, Sherlock was perched on the bench next to Hamish, his elbows propped on his knees, steepled fingers against his lips. He glanced over at Hamish, who had taken up the same pose. "Why do you do that?" Sherlock asked curiously.
"Because you do," Hamish said over his small steepled fingers. "Are we going to find crimes to solve, Dad?"
"Oh, undoubtedly. London is still full of crime, I imagine. You however, are going to be in school."
Hamish looked crestfallen. "But people in this time period don't know anything! They haven't even discovered penicillin or boron yet!"
Sherlock only smiled at that, staring ahead, so Hamish settled back in his chair, sighing. His eyes followed a passing doctor. "That man's got a secret, hasn't he? Look at how he's holding that folder."
Sherlock leaned over to observe how the man clutched the folder to his chest. "Yes, indeed. Knuckles white from gripping it so hard, sweat visible on the forehead." He looked over at Hamish, impressed. "What else can you see?"
Hamish cocked his head, considering. "He doesn't make enough money, or he's cutting corners. His haircut's uneven, so that means he cuts it himself—or has a bad barber. But if he does cut it himself, it means he lives alone. His shoes are polished but that's to hide that they're old. I could see how worn down the heel was even from here!" He sat back, satisfied. "Did I miss anything?"
Sherlock swelled with pride, but raised an eyebrow at his son. "Is he right- or left-handed?"
Hamish pursed his mouth like John and furrowed his eyebrows like Sherlock. "I can't tell," he finally admitted after scanning the man again.
"Left-handed. See how he carries the folder in his right so he can open the door with his dominant hand? The haircut's the definite giveaway, though. As you noticed, he cuts his own hair, and see how it's just a bit shorter on the right, as it's easier for him to reach, and a bit more jagged on the left?"
Hamish sat back in his chair, frustrated. "I'm never going to be as good as you are."
"I have a few years on you, remember," Sherlock reminded him, running his hand through Hamish's dark hair, feeling a surge of love for the boy. "I'm glad you came with us, Hamish."
Hamish smiled and scooted closer to lean against his dad.
The interviewer was well impressed with John's medical background, which he'd been mostly truthful with, changing a few dates and details to fit the time period.
"Did you bring your medical certificate?"
John shook his head. He'd thought up a lie for this in the cab. "My household recently suffered from a fire. I had been operating a business from home, but that's all gone now, so I thought I would offer my services to the hospital. My papers were burned in the fire, but I can pass any medical test you give me, I assure you."
After some more questions and mutterings about the entire procedure being "most irregular," the interviewer finally agreed to test John's skills, provided he came up with new licensure papers in reasonable time.
An hour and a half later, John finally emerged in the foyer, triumphantly holding a paper in his hand.
"You got it? Even without the papers?" Sherlock asked.
"I took a brief test, was all. The requirements for medical hiring have changed a lot over the years, I'll tell you. I had to bite my tongue from correcting them on some of the questions. But I start as surgeon on Monday!"
Sherlock stood to kiss him, but noticed a group of men down the hall and backed away.
"…What day is it now, anyway?" John wondered as they stepped back outside.
John wasn't to be paid until after the first week, and the rent on 221B was 2 guineas a week. They paid Doyle the last of his own money save for a few farthings, then stepped up to see the flat.
Sherlock pushed the door open half expecting to see it just how they left it, with John's laptop on the table, the stone angels frozen near the kitchen, and his violin propped in its usual spot.
The space was of course entirely different. The fireplace was in the same spot, but the floor was covered in an old rug. There were a few pieces of furniture with dusty sheets thrown over them, but it was mostly barren.
"Hm. We'll have a great deal of work to do," Sherlock frowned as John and Hamish stepped in.
"Until the money from my job starts coming in, we're going to be in a tight spot," John said, looking up at Sherlock. "Pick-pocketing might have to do us for a while, unless you happen to catch a criminal and collect a reward."
"Now there's an idea. Start-up money," Sherlock grinned, striding over to run a finger along the bare mantelpiece He felt a sudden stab of homesickness for the skull, the Cluedo board, his vast book collection, and most of all, his violin.
"I'm hungry," Hamish said.
John considered this dilemma as he stepped into the kitchen. Gone was the fridge full of convenient if slightly off food, and the electric stove was replaced by an intimidating coal stove. Without a microwave and an electric kettle John was at a complete loss on what to do.
Mr. Doyle's housekeeper poked her head in then. "Mr. Doyle sent me up to see if you were finding the flat to be to your liking," she said. "Is it just the three of you? Neither of you have a…a wife?"
John shook his head.
"I'm Mary," the maid said, meeting John's eye. Sherlock looked over. She appeared to be roughly five years young than him, although it was evident she'd been a maid for all of her adult life. She had already been married, and quite recently, it would seem, as there was the faintest hint of a ring's tan line on her left hand. A widow, then.
"I suppose you'll be wanting a housekeeper then. I'm glad to provide my services. I'm experienced, and my rates are reasonable. I'm a fine cook, Mr. Doyle says so."
"Yes, well, perhaps when we have to funds to hire you," John mumbled.
Mary looked around. "Don't you have any items that need moving in, sir?"
John used the fire lie once again to explain why they had no property to speak of. Mary's eyes widened in sympathy.
"You poor dears! I'll pop down and fetch you a pie from 's larder."
"Mary, that's hardly necessary," John said.
"He'll never miss it! I'll not have you starve. It would hardly be Christian of me to do any different," she insisted, then hurried downstairs.
"A real housekeeper," John said. "She hardly knows what she's in for, looking after you, Sherlock."
"Mm. The wall looks so wrong without the bullet holes in it," Sherlock muttered.
Hamish had already scurried upstairs to look at the spare bedroom and at the bedroom and privy downstairs. "There's only one bed!" he announced when he came out of Sherlock's room.
"We'll sort out sleeping arrangements tonight," John said.
Mary came back upstairs, empty-handed. "I explained your situation to Mr. Doyle, and he's invited you all to join him for supper.
"Thank you, Mary," John said gratefully.
"You're very welcome, Mr…sorry, what were your names?"
"Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, and this is Hamish."
"Whose son is he? He looks a bit like both of you," Mary said.
"He resembles my sister," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "Dr. Watson's deceased wife."
"Oh. Dear, I'm sorry to bring it up." Mary looked bashfully at the floor for a moment.
"Not at all. We're still growing used to the idea ourselves," Sherlock said, putting some convincing emotion into his voice. "We're all Hamish has now, and it's difficult to make ends meet."
John cast Sherlock a warning glance. Ease off a bit from the pity party, eh?
Mary looked at the two men with a new level of respect, which quickly faded when Sherlock asked conversationally, "So, when did your husband die? No more than a month, surely?"
John sighed and stared at the ceiling. Some things—like Sherlock being an oblivious twat—never changed.
Mary swallowed. "He died overseas, in India. I only got the news a few weeks ago. How did you know?"
She turned away to hurriedly wipe her eyes.
"Tan line from the ring. Went to visit him, did you? India would be a horrible place to die."
Hamish tugged on Sherlock's sleeve. "You're making her cry, Dad," he whispered.
Sherlock glared down at Hamish, but sighed and said with some difficulty, "I'm…sorry. Forgive my rudeness."
Mary shook her head. "It's fine. You're welcome to join Mr. Doyle in the parlor whenever you'd like. Dinner will be in an hour." She gave a quick curtsey and headed out the door and down the steps.
An hour later, John, Sherlock and Hamish were all crowded into Arthur Conan Doyle's parlor, Mr. Doyle fending off a barrage of questions from Hamish as Mary set the table and John examined his bookshelf from a respectful distance.
Mary announced that dinner was served, and everyone gathered at the table. "There are only four place settings," John remarked as Mary disappeared back into the kitchen to begin the washing-up.
"Well, of course. There are four of us," Doyle frowned.
"Mary's not eating with us?" John asked.
"The hired help, dine at the table? Honestly, you sound like you're a Londoner, but it's as if you three dropped out of the sky! Pass the gravy, if you could."
Hamish gave Doyle a knowing look as he handed over the gravy boat a bit unsteadily. "We've been in Liverpool for the past few years."
Doyle nodded as if that explained everything, and Sherlock covered his laughter with a cough. "Well, thank goodness you didn't pick up that absurd Liverpudlian accent. Word is that the police believe the Belgravia Slasher might be originally from Liverpool. I'm hardly surprised. Did you hear he struck again last night? Ghastly business. Good fodder for a story, though."
Sherlock's eyes flashed. in excitement "There's a murderer in Belgravia? For how long? How many deaths? What's the murder weapon?"
Doyle stuttered, torn between his instinct to turn conversation back to more proper subjects and his relish for such a juicy story. "There have been five in the past month—all the victims took a knife to the heart as well as the usual throat-slitting." He looked over at Hamish, realizing he should have held his tongue in the company of the young boy, but Hamish was hanging to his every word. Sherlock, too, was engrossed.
"Does crime interest you, Mr. Holmes? London has plenty to offer, I'm afraid."
"I make my living off of crime, Mr. Doyle. I'm a consulting detective—the only one in the world. I invented the job. Is there more information on the case in the paper?" Sherlock asked Doyle.
Doyle stood up and walked over to a pile of papers on the chair, picking a leaf out. "Good thing for you I fail at keeping tidy—even Mary can't keep up. The perils of being a bachelor, as you two must both understand. There's an article in here, third page, I believe."
Sherlock snatched up the paper, hungrily reading through the article, an expression of annoyance creeping onto his face the more he reads. Finally he drops the paper back onto the pile. "Drabble, all of it. I see the quality of journalism hasn't changed…from Liverpool," he amended hastily. "I'm going out tonight."
"Going where? To the crime scene?! You must be raving mad!"
"Trust me, he is—but he's done it hundreds of times, solved loads of cases for the police," John said.
"Can I go with you?" Hamished asked, sitting bolt upright.
John touched Hamish's shoulder. "Tracking alleyway slashers is hardly suitable activity for an eight-year-old."
"So? It's not a suitable activity for a doctor either," Hamish countered.
"Army doctor. And I won't be going tonight. I'll be looking after you."
Hamish slumps into his seat, pouting.
"You've solved other crimes, then? You'll have to regale me with some of your tales," Doyle said.
"I can tonight, if you'd like," John offered.
After dinner, Sherlock and John returned upstairs, Sherlock grabbing his coat, pacing with excitement. "I'll be going to Belgravia on foot due to our tight funds, unless I can sneak a ride on some passing cart, so I might be a bit late."
John pulled Sherlock into a kiss, glad for the privacy of their flat. "Be careful. I wish I had my service revolver."
"Gross, Dads!" Hamish wrinkled his nose. "What if someone sees you?"
Sherlock turned to Hamish. "The only one who can see is you. The curtains are drawn, which is good, because nobody can see me do this either." He grabbed Hamish under his arms and hoisted him up to kiss his forehead.
Hamish laughed and hugged Sherlock around the neck. "Love you, Dad. Don't get hurt."
Sherlock set Hamish back down. "With any luck, I'll have caught a criminal before the night is out," he said, then tossed his scarf around his neck and flew out the door and into the dying London light.