A Springer from Baker Street
Your perception of life changes with your experiences. You can be in the same place, wearing the same clothes with the same people around you, but it can seem like a completely different place, different clothes and different people, depending on your past.
In a reality, Marty McFly was only sitting in this English class, in the same seat, 2 days ago. But in another reality, he had been absent for 2 weeks, but in an even further reality, and perhaps more accurately, he had been separated from this classroom for a century.
Time travel had gone further however, and changed, not only Marty's position in time, but also, his position on life. He had grown up in that 2 day, 2 week, and 100 year period.
And now he sat in the same chair, wearing the same denim jacket and surrounded by the same students- Janice was in the seat next to him and Jesse in the seat to the right of him. But he was nothing like the boy who began the journey only 2 days ago. He was more confident, decisive, and most importantly, he no longer cared what people thought of him.
Yes, that adventure through time, with the Doc, could have taught him alot about history and mankind's journey, but instead, it taught him about himself, and allowed him to put the lesson into practice by standing up to his demons, and changed him into a man.
Marty pondered his new life as he paid no attention to the English lesson that was in progress, but instead, daydreamed out the classroom window.
His thoughts watched the falling leaves, the rustling grass, the odd car they drove past on the road in the distance but his eyes started catching up to his thoughts, and forced them to cease as he became aware that he was watching a girl. A lady. She was walking towards the school. At first she was apart of the scenery, until Marty's mind made him notice her old fashioned clothes.
"Clara", Marty thought. As the name echoed in his mind it was deafened by the sound of the school bell, it was the end of class, and the school day.
Marty grabbed his books and back pack and hurried out of the room, down the corridor and out the exit door.
He looked around to where he spotted Clara only moments ago. Again, all he could see now was the falling leaves, the rustling lawn and the odd car on a distant road.
"Marty?" a voice came from behind him; Marty tuned around and looked into the eyes of Clara Clayton. He had pictured her just a few minutes ago being 100 years in the past, but now she was so close to him.
"Clara! Ma'am. What are you doing here?"
"Oh, well, Jules and Verne wanted some fresh air and this grassy area behind the school looked so fresh and intouch with nature . . ." Clara awkwardly explained.
"Waitwaitwait. Fresh air? You come from a pollution free paradise. Where's the Doc?" Marty's eyes scoped around, trying to find Doc, or maybe even that huge locomotive.
But before he could rule out all 180 degrees, Clara threw herself on the teenager.
"Oh Marty. Emmett is the reason I have come. The fresh air whooper was, well, a whooper." Marty felt a tear slide down Clara's round face.
"Uh, it's ok. Has something happened to the Doc?" She didn't answer in words, only nodded her head slightly, it was all she could manage to prevent more tears.
"Let's sit down on this bench over here, and you can tell me about it." Marty lead her to the nearby wooden bench, the two sat down, Marty kept is arm around her.
"Oh Marty, I didn't know where else to turn." Clara had taken out a handkerchief and was drying her face.
"Uh no no, you did the right thing by coming here. Tell me what's happened to the Doc, and I'll see if I can help."
Marty waited for Clara to compose herself, not just her appearance, but her voice,
"3 months ago, well, 90 years ago, Emmett disappeared."
"Disappeared? What do you mean?"
"I mean . . . one day, he didn't come home from work. Days turned into weeks, then months and now here I am, almost a century later."
"Did the Doc have any enemies? Did you talk to people in town, and ask if anyone saw him?" Marty wasn't trying to interrogate, but he was worried about his old friend.
"Of course, I found out he had been seen with a man in the saloon, an English writer. This writer had been staying at the saloon, but he had left the night of Emmett's disappearance. They say he was going to return to Great Britain."
"Do you think this writer did something to Doc?" asked Marty, coming to terms with the situation.
"I . . . don't know. But he was the only new element in Emmett's routine day. I thought if I came into the future, I could find out about the writer, and maybe even what happened to Emmett. Do you have a library?"
"Yes, But, wait a minute, Ma'am, you have a time machine. You could just go back and . . ."
"Emmett is constantly warning the children and me about paradox. I am so scared to mess up history, I thought it would be safer to come to the future first, find out exactly what happened to him, and then go back and stop it."
"Good thinking, c'mon, I'll take you to the Library." Clara smiled as Marty helped her up from the bench.
Hill Valley Library had changed very little since Marty was there last; this was surprising since he hadn't been inside for 30 years.
Marty was hopping to see Jennifer, his girlfriend, working at the library, since she had a part time job there, but apparently she was off this afternoon.
Marty's memory went back to Doc and himself, shuffling through documents, trying to find the cause of Doc's death in 1885. Now he was shuffling through documents with Clara, trying to find the reason for Doc's disappearance. This time, however, they were looking for an English writer that had visited California in 1895. His name was 'Doyle', and they were going through lists of authors.
"What was Doyle's full name, Clara?"
Clara had suggested Marty address her by her Christian name, Marty was giving it a test drive, so to speak.
"I have it here, I wrote it down," she thumbled through her purse, trying to find it.
Marty held back a giggle as he noticed that women have been having trouble finding things in their purses for 100 years, possibly longer.
Jules and Verne were also looking around the library. Their search was confined to the biography section. Suddenly, Jules hurriedly approached Marty and Clara with a book.
"Mother, I found him! I found Doyle." Jules said, excited, he held the Sherlock Holmes story up for inspection. It was written by Arthur Conan Doyle.
Clara glanced at the book, and then resumed the search through her purse,
"We said to look in the Non-Fiction section, Jules."
Marty was surprised, he grabbed Jules before he could turn around and take the book back,
"Wait a minute, Sherlock Holmes is Non-Fiction."
"I beg your pardon, Marty?" Now the book had Clara's attention.
"Sherlock Holmes was a real person. Arthur Conan Doyle was his biographer."
Clara pulled the writer's name out of her purse, and read it slowly, "Dr. Arthur Doyle."
Marty smiled, "Then we've found him, the biographer of Sherlock Holmes is the man who last saw the Doc."
"Marty, where I come from, we all know Sherlock Holmes is make believe."
"What?" Marty couldn't understand Clara's attitude.
Jules pointed to the picture of Sherlock Holmes on the cover, "Sherlock looks like father."
Clara paused for a moment and then dropped to her knees to be level with the book, "You're right, Jules. He does. I think I'm starting to understand what has happened."
"What has happened?" Marty asked.
"Somehow, Emmett has gone to London with Doyle, and instead of Doyle writing about a fictitious character, he now, in this altered future, based the greatest detective on my Emmett!"
Marty tried to make sense of the predicament, "So, Sherlock Holmes use to be fake, but the writer met Doc, took him back to England and made Doc into the fictitious character?"
"That is what I'm suggesting, oh no!" Clara looked up from reading the Holmes book.
"What?"
"Sherlock Holmes fell off a waterfall and died in 1901. Poor Emmett."
"Don't worry Clara, we're going to go back and rescue him. You said Doc disappeared in 1895?"
"Correct. January the 5th."
"And what is the next Sherlock Holmes story after January the 5th?"
Clara checks the contents page, "The case of the midnight Shadow is dated April 25th, 1895."
As soon as they had the date, Marty and the Brown family rushed out of the library with alot more information on Doc's whereabouts then they had when they entered.
Clara showed Marty where she had secretly landed the Time Train. Deep into the woods they hiked, until they came to a clearing where the wonderfully built Time Machine was parked. They climbed on board and before Marty knew it he was flying up high above the clouds.
"Marty, take a seat" Clara warned.
"I'm fine, I'm just enjoying the vieeeewwaahhh," Marty was swept back into a seat by a sudden acceleration in speed. Sonic booms filled his ears and the next thing he knew the read-out on the old fashioned time display had changed. The current time was April 25th, 1895.
The train had not ceased its acceleration however. Marty assumed that since London was their destination, they had to keep up the speed to make it there by a decent time.
"We are now flying over the Atlantic Ocean," Clara declared.
"Atlantic ocean? Already? How fast are we going?" Marty asked eagerly.
"Um, I'm not too familiar with your measurements of speed but . ." Clara was interrupted by Verne,
"We're going really fast!!"
Marty laughed, "Great."
And sure enough, an hour later they were landing the train down in a forest, just out side of London. Marty was impressed with how well Clara operated the Train.
Leaving Jules and Verne behind, since the dark, fog filled 19th century London streets would have been no place for youngsters whose names weren't Oliver, Marty and Clara walked into the city.
As they came in contact with the locals, Marty realized that Clara's clothing was perfect, but his denim look was attracting some gazes.
The cobble streets looked nice, but they were hard to walk on, it was a constant battle not to trip over. Marty could understand the amount of horses in undeveloped 1885 Hill Valley, but London was a huge city, the horses seemed somewhat out of place to him.
"So where is Sherlock Holmes meant to live?" Marty asked.
"221B Baker Street," Clara read from the book.
"I'll ask for directions," Marty stopped a young lady with the wave of his hand, "Excuse me, ma'am, I was wondering if you could tell us the way to Baker Street?"
"Sorry, I don't give out information to men who don't introduce themselves first," the lady explained.
"Oh, I'm Marty, this is Clara," Marty polity said, he knew customs there would be different.
"Nice to meet you Marty," she grabbed his hand and shook it, "My name is Kath, are you Australian? I can tell by your accent, I have a pen pal in Australia. Your Koalas get drunk off eucalyptus . . ."
"Actually, we just want to know where Baker street is," Marty hated cutting her off, but he needed to find the Doc.
"Oh, I don't know. Cheerio," Kath then walked inbetween Marty and Clara and brushed past them. Marty shook his head, not knowing weather Kath had known the whereabouts of Baker Street, or was upset about being interrupted.
The latter was quite obvious when he heard Kath mutter, "Bloody Australians!"
Clara looked down the street, "I think I can see a street sign up ahead, we should . . . ."
A ruff looking, old sailor type man, with a navy blue cap on, and with a distinct aura of bourbon around him, stood in Clara and Marty's path.
"Excuse me Lady and gentlemans, you should know better then to be walkings arounds Whitechapel at night," he spoke with a cockney tone.
"Ah, we're fine thanks," Marty tried to walk around him, but he was pushed back, the street man then grasped his hand around Clara's pearl necklace.
"My oh, my oh, my oh, oh, what a shiny pearls."
Clara looked at Marty for help; Marty didn't fail to deliver and grabbed ahold of the hoodlum's arm. Marty was flung off and fell against a brick wall.
"Stop in the name of the law!" A deep, strong voice yelled from down the road.
"You keep the necklace, lady, I've gots enough problems with the law," the man said as he darted away.
The mysterious voice became a mysterious shadow that walked towards Clara in the moon illuminated fog. As he came closer, the shadows evaporated into the gas lit street lights, and Doctor Emmett L Brown's face emerged. His head housed a deer stalker's cap.
"Oh Emmett, I knew it had to be you," Clara declared with speech of relief.
"Are you quite alright, madam?" The Doc asked, with a peculiar English upper class accent.
Marty stood and gave a sigh of relief at the sight of his friend, "Doc. We . . ."
Doc cut him short with a wave of his hand, "Just a minute, Don't say a word, not a word now. My deductive reasoning will tell me more about the pair of you then your words ever could." Doc started to study the two.
"Emmett, what's wrong?" Clara started to notice the change in her husband.
"Madam, you are American, who currently lives in the west, you are a school teacher, you are the owner of a dog and you are married." Doc concluded.
"Emmett, of course I am, I'm married to you."
Doc seemingly ignores her and moves his attention to Marty.
"You are also American, you're in your late teenage years, and you make your own clothes." Doc said bluntly.
"What?" Marty looked at Clara for a moment with confusion.
"Well, I have never seen anything like your clothes before; I therefore deduce that you use your own material."
A short, heavy set man then came hurrying up behind the Doc.
"Holmes! Holmes! Why did you run over here?" asked the distinguished man with a moustache.
"Ah, Doyle, allow me to introduce you to two Americans. I heard a robbery taking place, so I arrived here to prevent it," the Doc explained.
"You're Arthur Conan Doyle, aren't you?" Clara spotted the man straight away.
"Well, yes, I'm Sherlock Holmes' colleague and biographer; did you say you were American?" Doyle's eyes squinted as his mind turned.
Marty stepped forward, "Listen Pal, what have you done to the Doc? First you kidnap him from California, and now you have him pretending to be Sherlock Holmes?"
"Holmes, I think we should leave," Doyle said as he turned around.
"Yes, Doyle, I quite agree," Doc started to follow Doyle away.
"Emmett, wait! You can't tell me you don't know who I am!" Clara desperately said, hoping it was all a joke.
"Young lady, my practice extends to the Continent; I have not had the good fortune to visit North America. Good night." The Doc turned and walked away.
"Emmett, come back, we can prove we know you." Clara almost cried the words. Marty comforted her.
"It's no use Clara, that Doyle guy has brainwashed the Doc or something."
"What are we going to do? Should we go back to Hill Valley and stop Doyle from kidnapping Emmett?"
"I guess so . . . wait a minute, have you got that Sherlock Holmes book?" Marty asked.
Clara nodded and handed the book to him.
Marty opened it, read a few of the early pages then spat out a laugh and closed the book with a dramatic clap, "I've got it!"
As Marty and Clara walked out of London town and back to the hidden Train, Marty explained that he had skipped through the first chapter and found that Sherlock Holmes would receive an anomalous letter, telling him to go to the docks under London Bridge. Holmes would go there, but it would be a wild goose chase, no one would show up. Marty then explained his plan.
It was close to midnight. Sherlock Holmes walked onto the peer's woodplanks over the murky, foggy Themes River.
He looked up at the Great London Bridge with pride in his country. He never thought about his past much, he wondered if the deduction of crime had always intrigued him. Then his thoughts shuffled to the two Americans he met earlier that night.
"Emmett", "Doc", these titles they addressed him with seemed to come from a time before his interest in mysteries became prevalent. He thought of the beautiful woman, he knew she was American due to her accent, he knew she had been in the American west recently, due to the orange dirt on her boots, he knew she was the owner of a dog because the fur of a white sheepdog that was plainly visible on the bottom of her dress, he knew she was married due to her wedding ring and after all, a beautiful, sensible lady her age would have to have had a trip down the isle. And Holmes had deduced she was a school teacher because, because,
how did he know?
Holmes struggled to remember what piece of evidence had lead him to the blatant conclusion that she had been a school teacher. There was nothing. He had just known.
Holmes considered the possibility that he had evolved to the point of reading minds, but these thoughts were blown away with the breeze of a huge locomotive, rocketing down the river themes. Holmes could not believe his eyes, yet his eyes never lied to him.
The Train hovered under the bridge and then turned, like some huge dragon, and directed its course towards the wharf Holmes was standing on.
Holmes wanted to run, but his curiosity had always been his Ackley's heal.
The flying machine drew closer towards him; he then heard a voice coming from behind him, "Sorry about this Doc." The voice was then followed by an enormous thud to his head and then darkness.