A/N: This was a one word prompt from KendraPendragon ages ago. I had planned to expand this into a multi-chapter but instead it is this sort of choppy little thing. Hope you enjoy it, and thank you for all your lovely reviews of previous chapters. They are all very much appreciated.
The room was full of stardust. No, not the room, just her vision. She swayed on her feet and would have fallen had strong arms not caught her and lifted her up. She blinked and stared, inhaling sharply at the sight of the face that met her eyes. He was handsome, of that there was no doubt, with sharp cheekbones, lush lips and blue-green eyes with a catlike slant to them, a high forehead topped by a mass of dark brown curls. One eyebrow was quirked up. "So, where exactly did you come from, Miss…?" His voice trailed off in an obvious question.
"Um, Molly, Molly Hooper," she replied, somewhat breathlessly. Whether she was breathless from nearly passing out or from his presence, she wasn't entirely sure. "And you are…?"
"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street," he replied crisply. She noted vaguely that he seemed to have no interest in returning her to feet, which was fine by her since she had no idea if she'd be able to stand on her own yet. "The year is 1886 and the city is London," he added. His eyes swept over her from head to toe before returning to her face. "Judging by the singular way in which you manifested in my flat, not to mention your style of clothing, I judge you are not necessarily from this era, even if your accent informs me that you are from England."
"Oh boy," Molly muttered as she took in the details that had escaped her before; the gaslight fixtures on the walls, the oil lamp by the antimacassar-covered table, the decided lack of anything modern in the room's decor…and the very Victorian clothing of the man still holding her as easily as if she was a child. "I hope you believe me, Mr. Holmes, but I have no idea how I got here. The last thing I remember is being in my own flat, here in London but in the year 2000."
His eyes crinkled with amusement. "So I gathered, Miss Hooper. It's a singular mystery you've brought to my doorstep - or rather, to my sitting room. I quite look forward to the solving of it."
"Good Lord, Holmes!"
They both turned at the sound of that flabbergasted voice, to see another man standing in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob and his blue eyes wide with shock. "Why on Earth…who in the world…" he sputtered, sounding utterly scandalized.
"Doctor John Watson, allow me to introduce Miss Molly Hooper, late of the 21st century…and our new client."
Two Years Later
"Well, Holmes, I must say I never expected this particular outcome when Miss Hooper entered our lives," Watson commented as he watched his friend pacing and fretting in the front room.
"What, that I would one day encounter a woman so extraordinary that I would actually consider changing my bachelor status? Or do you refer to the fact that such a union would produce-"
He fell silent as the sound they'd been waiting for filtered into the front room. Holmes' pipe dropped to the carpet, and Watson stamped out the smouldering ashes before giving his friend a gentle push. "Go on, then, Holmes, your wife will surely want you by her side now."
Actually, Mrs. Holmes had wanted him by her side for the entire ordeal - scandalous! - but Holmes had been ejected from his own bedroom once it became clear he was making her more, rather than less, agitated. Watson smiled as Holmes stumbled forward like a man in a dream, his footsteps becoming more sure as he approached the closed door through which a baby's wails could still be heard.
Three months later he stood proudly as the godfather to Astrid Margaret Holmes, name for her mother and the stardust that had made up her first view of her life in a different century to which she'd been born.