From Sparky Dorian: Holmes encounters a visitor who claims to be from another time
...
I stare out of the window, willing for Watson to return. My mind has returned to a state of stagnation, and I resent it so. My dear doctor is my preferred cure for such a grave matter, but he is writing a journal. I do wish I knew where that wretched Morocco case was- I could do with something to 'while away' the boredom, and ensure my mind does not rot. I watch lazily as my friend leaves the room to go and retrieve his bag- but he freezes.
"Holmes, there is an axe yielding man downstairs," He tells me, he eyes wide, just as we both hear loud footsteps rattle the house.
Sure enough a man stomps in, and my heart suddenly quickens in shock at the sight. It...It cannot be so! This is illogical!
"Good afternoon, my good man," I say, as calmly and politely as I can, despite my disbelief at the strange sight before me. Had I taken an overdose and simply forgot about it? I deny it instantly, as I have no recollection of either taking any cocaine or even where I had left it. Watson must have taken it away.
That means... I am really seeing this. So is Watson
The visitor just growls at me.
I am certain now that this is actually happening. "Now, pray, tell me why you are here...your majesty. Or shall I call you Robert Bruce?"
"How do you know my name?" He roars, swinging his axe high. Knowing he would want an answer from me, I do not flinch once.
"Simple- I deduced it." I explain. Well, not entirely- I recognise him from history books I read in my boyhood. I wonder if Watson ever felt fascinated by this man in front of me.
He does not seem to understand what I meant, and instead he looks at me
"Ah, would you care for some tea, your majesty?" I offer, at once at a loss on how to address him. Watson just stares at me, with eyes wide and full of disbelief- even shock.
"But...but it can't be him, Holmes!" He exclaims.
"It is." I tell him, grimly, just as I hear someone at the door.
"Hello?"
"Oh curses- it's Mrs Hudson!" I panic, suddenly wondering how to explain our mysterious visitor away- especially considering he is armed with a battle axe. I do not wish for either my own or Watson's lives to end the same way as Sir Henry de Bohun's did- that is for sure.
"I'm coming up there, Mr Holmes!"
From behind me, I hear our Scottish visitor shift his battle axe from his left hand to his right. I try to use my tall physique to cover our guest, but in vain.
"Mr Holmes, why on earth is Robert the Bruce in our living room?!" An irate landlady demands, glaring at us both as though we had invited a Scottish axe yielding, murdering, manic usperer in our living room for tea.