Bedbugs and Broomsticks
I'm so puny. slap self
Paris, France. They settled into their hotel and continued out into the sweet air of Paris. Lestrade took a deep breath of the perfumed air. "Ah Paris, the city of love." She didn't mean to drop obvious hints, but the phrase just slipped out.
"Actually, Lestrade, the 'city of love' is technically Venice."
"Oh." Well maybe we should go there next. Out loud she pressed, "Any leads?"
Holmes shook his head with a melancholy sigh. "I suppose we shall have to pretend to be tourists after all." He groaned. Lestrade smiled. "Well then let's gets a move on!" And she tugged forcefully at his sleeve in the direction of Champs Elysess and the Arc de Triomphe. Lestrade had never been so happy in all her life. All around her were people holding hands and smiling. Holmes was evidently wrong about the French being snobs. The weather was colder in France, and there were patches of snow already beginning to form on the sidewalks. Lestrade was wearing a cloak, but she still had to shiver when she stepped in snow. Holmes cocked an eyebrow, gave an exasperated sigh and put his arm around her shoulder to keep her warm. Beth fidgeted, but didn't move; it was warmer, anyway. They walked the rest of the way to the famous café on Champs Elysess in silence.
The coffee warmed both up considerably, and after leaving a few extra credits they continued on their way, in the same fashion as before. The Arc was magnificent, and amazing that it had survived all the centuries since Napoleon Bonaparte had it commissioned. Lestrade could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Across the Seine River was the Notre Dame, and there was the Louvre Museum and Versailles about an hour away.
When they visited the Eiffel Tower, Lestrade gave a laugh, wriggled out from under Holmes' arm, and raced up the stairs. Holmes was shocked, but then chuckled as well and climbed up after her. The two athletics were winder when they got to the top, but the view was so magnificent that all thoughts of exhaustion were forgotten. Lestrade couldn't bring herself to step back from the railing, because, although she was afraid of heights at times, the sheer brilliance of seeing the entire city was worth it. She poked a little fun at Holmes when she saw him looking around at the complete panoramic view of Paris and told him he couldn't possibly be able to see Moriarty, even from the top of the Eiffel Tower.
But she froze when Holmes suggested they take the elevators down this time. Lestrade could take stairs anytime; you could stop whenever you wanted, but with elevators your life relied entirely on the cord holding you and tons of other people. She shivered with fright. When she didn't budge Holmes asked her what the matter was.
"I just need. A little time, that's all." She pleaded to him. But "a little time" became 5, 10, 15 minutes and Sherlock was getting apprehensive. He was enough of a detective to know she was afraid of heights -elevators at least- and enough of a gentleman to decide to just take the stairs. He playfully challenged her to a race down the stairs, but Lestrade still didn't budge. When she began thinking of elevators the vertigo completely overtook her and her thoughts moved on to the day of the explosions. Holmes' impatience was beginning to kick in, but Beth didn't notice. She was still standing by the rail, and when he couldn't take it anymore he scooped her up like a child and headed quickly for the stairs. She gave a shriek and clutched tightly to his coat, burying her face in his shoulder. When Holmes got to the steps, ignoring the stares of people around him, he hopped down the stairs three at a time as if he weren't carrying Lestrade at all. Holmes was afraid he would land wrong and turn his ankle, but his main concern was keeping Lestrade from being frightened. He ostentatiously sang songs he knew from his many trips incognito to various shipping docks, where he learned hearty tunes, which the sailors often sang. His voice didn't change from the jumping down steps, and when he reached the bottom he set Lestrade down gently. Beth Lestrade took a few deep breaths and stood wobbly but eventually looked at him. Holmes smiled at her - he understood. She looked back down again but they walked on, Holmes' arm always around her shoulder to keep her warm.
The two of them had visited each of the famous tourist spots in turn, and Holmes had finally gotten Lestrade a warm overcoat. She appreciated his kindness, but secretly wished he hadn't. Beth found herself preferring his arm around her shoulder. Soon the only sights left to see was the countryside, which was a ways off from Paris itself. They retrieved their car and drove along, following the signs.
Being from the Victorian era, where the transportation was trains, cabs, and other public carriages, Holmes had to adjust to driving his own car. He was a skilled horseman, but driving was another thing altogether. Lestrade had given him some manuals to study so he wouldn't get into to much trouble trying to learn on his own, but she was worried that he might not have looked at them at all. So she made sure to buckle her seat belt - tight. She didn't know how the French system of driving worked, but hoped it was rational. The first signs of impoliteness in the French people became apparent when Holmes almost collided with a cruiser. He protested in frustration as he avoided a collision, but Lestrade was quick to notice the driver's hunched back and orange hair.
"It's Fenwick!" She cried in surprise. Holmes wrenched his head at her in surprise and almost became road kill when they ran a red light. "Quick! Switch on the tracker!" And when he did Fenwick's ion trail was easily followed, but the villain was far ahead of them after the traffic parted. Sherlock grimaced and increased the speed of their vehicle. Whenever a craft got in their way, he easily maneuvered their own under, over, or around it with a series of flips, swerves, and rolls. Lestrade could barely tell which way was up.
"Glad to see you did read those manuals." She said weakly. She had never been carsick in her life, but felt that if Sherlock Holmes didn't stop his certainly illegal roller coaster ride, she would have to ruin her new coat. Her fears were soon put to rest, but not in the way she had expected. Their hovercraft suddenly stopped going, and Holmes made a surprised sound that sounded like a squeak. He had spotted the police car approaching them. And Lestrade noticed the large metallic robot approaching Holmes' side.
"Good morning to you, sir." The robot began pleasantly, "Are you having some emergency? Is you wife having a child?" It stared over toward Lestrade's direction. Holmes grunted, and replied wryly that the robot's assumption was far from true. He said nothing else, and the robot continued on, "Well then could you please inform me why you're driving very much over the speed limit!" Although it was a robot with artificial intelligence, it was clearly uneducated in the sense of manners. Then again, few police robots are.
"So just give us a ticket already!" Lestrade growled. The robot smiled wickedly. Robots aren't exactly polite, but they sure as zed aren't evil. Lestrade knitted her eyebrows in thought. She was sure the same consideration crossed Holmes' mind, but he remained courteous. "Yes," he encouraged the robot, "we are in a bit of a hurry." Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Fenwick's ion trail fading slowly.
If robots could smile the one in their presence was doing so. "Oh no." It purred. Their Irregular friend, Tennyson, whirred and beeped in the same fashion, but his noises had a kindness behind them that the policeman's lacked. "The government of France wouldn't want you to stay on the road after this. I'm afraid I shall have to put you under arrest."
And the robot was as good as its word. Its police car was different from the ones in New London: there were two different compartments separated by a wall. The policeman sat in the front, and the prisoners sat in the back on the floor. There was a camera in one corner, which connected with a screen set in the steering wheel of the front seat. A screen on the wall separating the two compartments was used for the policeman to communicate with the prisoner if they needed to. The windows in the back were tinted so as to give the prisoner isolation and privacy. The only way to get to the back seat was by lowering the separation wall, which was done by a button on the driver's side. All this Holmes observed as he and Lestrade were shoved into the backseat.
Lestrade protested loudly until the robot threatened to press charges. After that she seethed darkly and muttered under her breath. Holmes, however, was analyzing the situation and calculating their next move. Lestrade's complaints weren't doing any good: nothing she said, none of her actions, nothing at all seemed to reach the robot's ears. It was immune to them. The robot was behaving rashly and not at all like the usual ones in the police force. Even if they were in a different country he doubted the French government was much different from that of New London. He deduced someone or something had messed with the wiring. And why had their enemy singled out him and Lestrade? And if it were true that their enemy was after them, how would he or she be sure the two of them would fall into the clutches of the robot? Then the answer came to him: Fenwick. Moriarty himself had probably ordered the easily noticeable Frenchman to follow Holmes and Lestrade and to get himself noticed and followed a fast speed past the reprogrammed robot. The robot would then do his job and give out a harsher punishment than usual, landing Holmes and Lestrade in jail until things were sorted out. And Moriarty and Fenwick would've escaped for good by the time the two were out and about. They had to do something - something showy that would get the robot's attention fast. Holmes' mind quickly devised a plan.
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I'm so puny. slap self
Paris, France. They settled into their hotel and continued out into the sweet air of Paris. Lestrade took a deep breath of the perfumed air. "Ah Paris, the city of love." She didn't mean to drop obvious hints, but the phrase just slipped out.
"Actually, Lestrade, the 'city of love' is technically Venice."
"Oh." Well maybe we should go there next. Out loud she pressed, "Any leads?"
Holmes shook his head with a melancholy sigh. "I suppose we shall have to pretend to be tourists after all." He groaned. Lestrade smiled. "Well then let's gets a move on!" And she tugged forcefully at his sleeve in the direction of Champs Elysess and the Arc de Triomphe. Lestrade had never been so happy in all her life. All around her were people holding hands and smiling. Holmes was evidently wrong about the French being snobs. The weather was colder in France, and there were patches of snow already beginning to form on the sidewalks. Lestrade was wearing a cloak, but she still had to shiver when she stepped in snow. Holmes cocked an eyebrow, gave an exasperated sigh and put his arm around her shoulder to keep her warm. Beth fidgeted, but didn't move; it was warmer, anyway. They walked the rest of the way to the famous café on Champs Elysess in silence.
The coffee warmed both up considerably, and after leaving a few extra credits they continued on their way, in the same fashion as before. The Arc was magnificent, and amazing that it had survived all the centuries since Napoleon Bonaparte had it commissioned. Lestrade could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Across the Seine River was the Notre Dame, and there was the Louvre Museum and Versailles about an hour away.
When they visited the Eiffel Tower, Lestrade gave a laugh, wriggled out from under Holmes' arm, and raced up the stairs. Holmes was shocked, but then chuckled as well and climbed up after her. The two athletics were winder when they got to the top, but the view was so magnificent that all thoughts of exhaustion were forgotten. Lestrade couldn't bring herself to step back from the railing, because, although she was afraid of heights at times, the sheer brilliance of seeing the entire city was worth it. She poked a little fun at Holmes when she saw him looking around at the complete panoramic view of Paris and told him he couldn't possibly be able to see Moriarty, even from the top of the Eiffel Tower.
But she froze when Holmes suggested they take the elevators down this time. Lestrade could take stairs anytime; you could stop whenever you wanted, but with elevators your life relied entirely on the cord holding you and tons of other people. She shivered with fright. When she didn't budge Holmes asked her what the matter was.
"I just need. A little time, that's all." She pleaded to him. But "a little time" became 5, 10, 15 minutes and Sherlock was getting apprehensive. He was enough of a detective to know she was afraid of heights -elevators at least- and enough of a gentleman to decide to just take the stairs. He playfully challenged her to a race down the stairs, but Lestrade still didn't budge. When she began thinking of elevators the vertigo completely overtook her and her thoughts moved on to the day of the explosions. Holmes' impatience was beginning to kick in, but Beth didn't notice. She was still standing by the rail, and when he couldn't take it anymore he scooped her up like a child and headed quickly for the stairs. She gave a shriek and clutched tightly to his coat, burying her face in his shoulder. When Holmes got to the steps, ignoring the stares of people around him, he hopped down the stairs three at a time as if he weren't carrying Lestrade at all. Holmes was afraid he would land wrong and turn his ankle, but his main concern was keeping Lestrade from being frightened. He ostentatiously sang songs he knew from his many trips incognito to various shipping docks, where he learned hearty tunes, which the sailors often sang. His voice didn't change from the jumping down steps, and when he reached the bottom he set Lestrade down gently. Beth Lestrade took a few deep breaths and stood wobbly but eventually looked at him. Holmes smiled at her - he understood. She looked back down again but they walked on, Holmes' arm always around her shoulder to keep her warm.
The two of them had visited each of the famous tourist spots in turn, and Holmes had finally gotten Lestrade a warm overcoat. She appreciated his kindness, but secretly wished he hadn't. Beth found herself preferring his arm around her shoulder. Soon the only sights left to see was the countryside, which was a ways off from Paris itself. They retrieved their car and drove along, following the signs.
Being from the Victorian era, where the transportation was trains, cabs, and other public carriages, Holmes had to adjust to driving his own car. He was a skilled horseman, but driving was another thing altogether. Lestrade had given him some manuals to study so he wouldn't get into to much trouble trying to learn on his own, but she was worried that he might not have looked at them at all. So she made sure to buckle her seat belt - tight. She didn't know how the French system of driving worked, but hoped it was rational. The first signs of impoliteness in the French people became apparent when Holmes almost collided with a cruiser. He protested in frustration as he avoided a collision, but Lestrade was quick to notice the driver's hunched back and orange hair.
"It's Fenwick!" She cried in surprise. Holmes wrenched his head at her in surprise and almost became road kill when they ran a red light. "Quick! Switch on the tracker!" And when he did Fenwick's ion trail was easily followed, but the villain was far ahead of them after the traffic parted. Sherlock grimaced and increased the speed of their vehicle. Whenever a craft got in their way, he easily maneuvered their own under, over, or around it with a series of flips, swerves, and rolls. Lestrade could barely tell which way was up.
"Glad to see you did read those manuals." She said weakly. She had never been carsick in her life, but felt that if Sherlock Holmes didn't stop his certainly illegal roller coaster ride, she would have to ruin her new coat. Her fears were soon put to rest, but not in the way she had expected. Their hovercraft suddenly stopped going, and Holmes made a surprised sound that sounded like a squeak. He had spotted the police car approaching them. And Lestrade noticed the large metallic robot approaching Holmes' side.
"Good morning to you, sir." The robot began pleasantly, "Are you having some emergency? Is you wife having a child?" It stared over toward Lestrade's direction. Holmes grunted, and replied wryly that the robot's assumption was far from true. He said nothing else, and the robot continued on, "Well then could you please inform me why you're driving very much over the speed limit!" Although it was a robot with artificial intelligence, it was clearly uneducated in the sense of manners. Then again, few police robots are.
"So just give us a ticket already!" Lestrade growled. The robot smiled wickedly. Robots aren't exactly polite, but they sure as zed aren't evil. Lestrade knitted her eyebrows in thought. She was sure the same consideration crossed Holmes' mind, but he remained courteous. "Yes," he encouraged the robot, "we are in a bit of a hurry." Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Fenwick's ion trail fading slowly.
If robots could smile the one in their presence was doing so. "Oh no." It purred. Their Irregular friend, Tennyson, whirred and beeped in the same fashion, but his noises had a kindness behind them that the policeman's lacked. "The government of France wouldn't want you to stay on the road after this. I'm afraid I shall have to put you under arrest."
And the robot was as good as its word. Its police car was different from the ones in New London: there were two different compartments separated by a wall. The policeman sat in the front, and the prisoners sat in the back on the floor. There was a camera in one corner, which connected with a screen set in the steering wheel of the front seat. A screen on the wall separating the two compartments was used for the policeman to communicate with the prisoner if they needed to. The windows in the back were tinted so as to give the prisoner isolation and privacy. The only way to get to the back seat was by lowering the separation wall, which was done by a button on the driver's side. All this Holmes observed as he and Lestrade were shoved into the backseat.
Lestrade protested loudly until the robot threatened to press charges. After that she seethed darkly and muttered under her breath. Holmes, however, was analyzing the situation and calculating their next move. Lestrade's complaints weren't doing any good: nothing she said, none of her actions, nothing at all seemed to reach the robot's ears. It was immune to them. The robot was behaving rashly and not at all like the usual ones in the police force. Even if they were in a different country he doubted the French government was much different from that of New London. He deduced someone or something had messed with the wiring. And why had their enemy singled out him and Lestrade? And if it were true that their enemy was after them, how would he or she be sure the two of them would fall into the clutches of the robot? Then the answer came to him: Fenwick. Moriarty himself had probably ordered the easily noticeable Frenchman to follow Holmes and Lestrade and to get himself noticed and followed a fast speed past the reprogrammed robot. The robot would then do his job and give out a harsher punishment than usual, landing Holmes and Lestrade in jail until things were sorted out. And Moriarty and Fenwick would've escaped for good by the time the two were out and about. They had to do something - something showy that would get the robot's attention fast. Holmes' mind quickly devised a plan.
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