The man looked at my hand, then shook it with his own, chemically-stained hand. "Sherlock Holmes. And *please* do not call me by first name at all, Americans make it sound horrible. You are left handed and write a bit for fun, I see"
I guess he was waiting for me to be suprised, I only smiled. "My accent, and the way I have the calluses on my left hand, along with the ink stains."
"Yes," he looked at my criticly. Then looked up and laughed heartilly. "Ah, where *are* my manners. Let me introduce you to John Watson."
"You forgot to say Dr., Mr. Holmes." He looked at me and gaped. "Simple, the stitch you used for the inside of your blazer. I'm familuar with the stitch, used rarely by anyone but a surgeon." I put out my hand to Watson. "It's very nice to meet you, sir."
"Now, can you explain to me why you fell through the ceiling of my living room, leaving nary a mark on it, nor an exclaimation from the man that lives upstairs? Never mind, he moved out."
I look down at the floor. "I'd have to know myself to tell you, now wouldn't I? All I know was that I was driving on the bridge, on my way to the airport and a jerk in front of me hit the brakes, I veered to the right to get out of his way, and ended it up falling over the side."
"An 'airport'? What in heaven's name is that? And what is a car? Ms. Watson, if that really is your name, you do not seem to make sense."
"Don't be stupid! An airplane, you know a-" a sighed exasperated. "What year is it?"
"The year is 1883," Watson offered.
"That means I've gone back 118 years!" I moaned, putting a hand on my forehead. Holmes made a movement as if to catch me, and I glared at him. "I don't faint, thank you."
"But how may I ask is the year going to help with anything?" Watson looked at inquired.
"I'm going to prove to this man that I am from the future!" I looked down at the paper reading the date. Smiling broadly, I held myself up to my tallest, which, if it really was 1883, would make me rather tall. "You just got back from a case involving a murdered women, her twin siser, their step-father, and a snake. It also was the first time *you* have ever gone along with him, isn't Watson?" I turned to the other man, choking on his toast.
"How-how did you know?" He said at last.
"Why, the journals that you have been keeping behind Mr. Holmes'back," I looked at the papers that obviously cases that cluttered the room. "You accuretly discribe the state of *his* record keeping, I see."
"She probably asked Mrs. Hudson on her way in." Holmes said simply.
"How could I ask her if I fell through the ceiling?" I retorted.
"A trick of some sort, you tell me, magician."
"Maalesh" I said carelessly, using the Arabic verbal form of a shrug.
"You speak Arabic, then?" Holmes said in the language. I observed how it flowed effortlessly off his tongue.
"Yes," I responded, the same. "I know many languages. French, Latin, Spanish . . .. I don't think this is very fair to Mr. Watson, though. He is probably taking this converstation as something that is is not, from the his style of writing, I can see he is a hopeless romantic."
"Yes, quite right, Ms. Watson," he said in English. "But I dont see how I should trust that you are who you say you are."
I fumed, then twirled about. Like a gift from God, my two large suitcases were infront of me, as well as the small knapsack that held my gun. On the 'side' I had done a little FBI work, after which I was rewarded with a permit to carry it around. When I was at my apartment in New York with my best friend and practically sister, Krys, I couldn't sleep without on my bedside.
Turning to the ironically heavier suitcase, full of books and other paperwork that I could casually glance through on my vacation, I opened it. From the bottom of it, I pulled out my secret weapon for that particular moment; 'The Complete and Unabriged Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Volume One'. Flipping furiosly to the Speckled Band story, I held it open to Watson. "Does this look familiar?"
"Yes!" That's my entry for last evening! But how the devil did you-?"
"Simple. You are going to start selling these tales to a man by the name of Sir Arthur Canon Doyle, who is going to publish them as ficticious mystery stories. I hope you can take very constructive critisism, Mr. Holmes." I said matter-of-factly.
"And why?" he snorted.
"Because people are going to say that you are a figment of Doyle's imagination, and that you are a copy of certain Monsier Dupin, created by Edgar Allan Poe. But," I sighed dramatically. "Ces't la vie!"
Holmes grabbed the book and looked at the frontpage that told the publishing date. "1999," he said quietly. He flipped through the pages, then gasped. "I die? By George, that can't be true!"
"It is." I said solemnly, then corrected myself. "Err, it's not. I mean it is and it's not, or at first it is and *then* it's-"
"As much as I wish to listen to this all day, Ms. Watson," the detective said impatiently, "but I have things to do. Like count the floor boards of the steps upstairs, and stare into nothingness . . . "
I stomped my foot like a little child. "Excuse me, Mr. 'I-think-I-know-everything-so-that-entitles-me-to-be-impolite', women of this time might be okay being talked to like that, but I am most cetainly not! I am a Crime Scene Investigator and I also am a forensic biologist, I am also a force to be reckoned with if you want to fight over something. Now that you've been warned, bring it!" Unfortunettly I didn't have a Yankees hat or gum, or I would have pushed the brim down snug and probably blowed an obnoxious bubble.
The defeated man sighed. "Alright, alright." He glared at me and smiled amused. "Yet, you still haven't shown any sign of identification."
I grabbed by backpack and grabbed my ID. Flipping it with extra relish I looked at him sternly. "Olivia Watson, C.S.I. Is that enough now?"
"Yes, I suppose." He slunk down in the chair, beaten. "And what do you want?"
I shrugged. "A ticket back home, but untill then . ." What was I going to do about a house? Living with them wasn't practicle, but then I thought of something . .
"You said that the room upstairs is open for rent, right?"
"Yessss," he looked at me with a questioning look, raising one brow. I nodded at him with a grin.
"Oh good Heavens, no!" He moaned, falling back into the chair again.
"What?" Watson finaly spoke up.
"Yes! I'll move in upstairs, wait, I better check how much money I have.
Looking into the wallet that was in the bag, I nearly choked. "Um, I think I can take care of the rent. I have 851, 790 pounds in the bank! How in the world. . ." I didn't even want t think about it.
"Well, with everything else that's happening today, I suppose I should believe in *fairies*, too!" Holmes said with a humph. As I stifled a laugh from knowing that it was Doyle who actually believed in them, Mrs. Hudson came in.
"Why Mr. Holmes!" She exclaimed. "I didn't know that you had a client, please forgive me for intruding."
"It is no problem. This is Watsons . ." he paused, "sister, Ms. Olivia Watson. She was interested in the room upstairs, and was inquiring if she could move in immediatly."
"Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Watson, really 'tis." She grasped my hand with her heavily callused ones and shook it. "I'd love to have you stay upstairs. And you could move in right away if you like. I'll have my boy come and fetch your things for you."
When she left, I turned to the two men. "Well, 'brother', Mr. Holmes, I suppose I shall see a great deal more of you as we are now neighbors. Good day." With that, I left to go explore my new flat, but not without hearing a large groan come from Holmes' sie of the room."
Yeah. I know, I know, switched into first person. Oh well suffer all of you! MWA HA HA HA HA! That feels better.
I guess he was waiting for me to be suprised, I only smiled. "My accent, and the way I have the calluses on my left hand, along with the ink stains."
"Yes," he looked at my criticly. Then looked up and laughed heartilly. "Ah, where *are* my manners. Let me introduce you to John Watson."
"You forgot to say Dr., Mr. Holmes." He looked at me and gaped. "Simple, the stitch you used for the inside of your blazer. I'm familuar with the stitch, used rarely by anyone but a surgeon." I put out my hand to Watson. "It's very nice to meet you, sir."
"Now, can you explain to me why you fell through the ceiling of my living room, leaving nary a mark on it, nor an exclaimation from the man that lives upstairs? Never mind, he moved out."
I look down at the floor. "I'd have to know myself to tell you, now wouldn't I? All I know was that I was driving on the bridge, on my way to the airport and a jerk in front of me hit the brakes, I veered to the right to get out of his way, and ended it up falling over the side."
"An 'airport'? What in heaven's name is that? And what is a car? Ms. Watson, if that really is your name, you do not seem to make sense."
"Don't be stupid! An airplane, you know a-" a sighed exasperated. "What year is it?"
"The year is 1883," Watson offered.
"That means I've gone back 118 years!" I moaned, putting a hand on my forehead. Holmes made a movement as if to catch me, and I glared at him. "I don't faint, thank you."
"But how may I ask is the year going to help with anything?" Watson looked at inquired.
"I'm going to prove to this man that I am from the future!" I looked down at the paper reading the date. Smiling broadly, I held myself up to my tallest, which, if it really was 1883, would make me rather tall. "You just got back from a case involving a murdered women, her twin siser, their step-father, and a snake. It also was the first time *you* have ever gone along with him, isn't Watson?" I turned to the other man, choking on his toast.
"How-how did you know?" He said at last.
"Why, the journals that you have been keeping behind Mr. Holmes'back," I looked at the papers that obviously cases that cluttered the room. "You accuretly discribe the state of *his* record keeping, I see."
"She probably asked Mrs. Hudson on her way in." Holmes said simply.
"How could I ask her if I fell through the ceiling?" I retorted.
"A trick of some sort, you tell me, magician."
"Maalesh" I said carelessly, using the Arabic verbal form of a shrug.
"You speak Arabic, then?" Holmes said in the language. I observed how it flowed effortlessly off his tongue.
"Yes," I responded, the same. "I know many languages. French, Latin, Spanish . . .. I don't think this is very fair to Mr. Watson, though. He is probably taking this converstation as something that is is not, from the his style of writing, I can see he is a hopeless romantic."
"Yes, quite right, Ms. Watson," he said in English. "But I dont see how I should trust that you are who you say you are."
I fumed, then twirled about. Like a gift from God, my two large suitcases were infront of me, as well as the small knapsack that held my gun. On the 'side' I had done a little FBI work, after which I was rewarded with a permit to carry it around. When I was at my apartment in New York with my best friend and practically sister, Krys, I couldn't sleep without on my bedside.
Turning to the ironically heavier suitcase, full of books and other paperwork that I could casually glance through on my vacation, I opened it. From the bottom of it, I pulled out my secret weapon for that particular moment; 'The Complete and Unabriged Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Volume One'. Flipping furiosly to the Speckled Band story, I held it open to Watson. "Does this look familiar?"
"Yes!" That's my entry for last evening! But how the devil did you-?"
"Simple. You are going to start selling these tales to a man by the name of Sir Arthur Canon Doyle, who is going to publish them as ficticious mystery stories. I hope you can take very constructive critisism, Mr. Holmes." I said matter-of-factly.
"And why?" he snorted.
"Because people are going to say that you are a figment of Doyle's imagination, and that you are a copy of certain Monsier Dupin, created by Edgar Allan Poe. But," I sighed dramatically. "Ces't la vie!"
Holmes grabbed the book and looked at the frontpage that told the publishing date. "1999," he said quietly. He flipped through the pages, then gasped. "I die? By George, that can't be true!"
"It is." I said solemnly, then corrected myself. "Err, it's not. I mean it is and it's not, or at first it is and *then* it's-"
"As much as I wish to listen to this all day, Ms. Watson," the detective said impatiently, "but I have things to do. Like count the floor boards of the steps upstairs, and stare into nothingness . . . "
I stomped my foot like a little child. "Excuse me, Mr. 'I-think-I-know-everything-so-that-entitles-me-to-be-impolite', women of this time might be okay being talked to like that, but I am most cetainly not! I am a Crime Scene Investigator and I also am a forensic biologist, I am also a force to be reckoned with if you want to fight over something. Now that you've been warned, bring it!" Unfortunettly I didn't have a Yankees hat or gum, or I would have pushed the brim down snug and probably blowed an obnoxious bubble.
The defeated man sighed. "Alright, alright." He glared at me and smiled amused. "Yet, you still haven't shown any sign of identification."
I grabbed by backpack and grabbed my ID. Flipping it with extra relish I looked at him sternly. "Olivia Watson, C.S.I. Is that enough now?"
"Yes, I suppose." He slunk down in the chair, beaten. "And what do you want?"
I shrugged. "A ticket back home, but untill then . ." What was I going to do about a house? Living with them wasn't practicle, but then I thought of something . .
"You said that the room upstairs is open for rent, right?"
"Yessss," he looked at me with a questioning look, raising one brow. I nodded at him with a grin.
"Oh good Heavens, no!" He moaned, falling back into the chair again.
"What?" Watson finaly spoke up.
"Yes! I'll move in upstairs, wait, I better check how much money I have.
Looking into the wallet that was in the bag, I nearly choked. "Um, I think I can take care of the rent. I have 851, 790 pounds in the bank! How in the world. . ." I didn't even want t think about it.
"Well, with everything else that's happening today, I suppose I should believe in *fairies*, too!" Holmes said with a humph. As I stifled a laugh from knowing that it was Doyle who actually believed in them, Mrs. Hudson came in.
"Why Mr. Holmes!" She exclaimed. "I didn't know that you had a client, please forgive me for intruding."
"It is no problem. This is Watsons . ." he paused, "sister, Ms. Olivia Watson. She was interested in the room upstairs, and was inquiring if she could move in immediatly."
"Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Watson, really 'tis." She grasped my hand with her heavily callused ones and shook it. "I'd love to have you stay upstairs. And you could move in right away if you like. I'll have my boy come and fetch your things for you."
When she left, I turned to the two men. "Well, 'brother', Mr. Holmes, I suppose I shall see a great deal more of you as we are now neighbors. Good day." With that, I left to go explore my new flat, but not without hearing a large groan come from Holmes' sie of the room."
Yeah. I know, I know, switched into first person. Oh well suffer all of you! MWA HA HA HA HA! That feels better.
