Marty and Jennifer couldn't stay too long; they had to go to school. But as soon as school was over, they were off to the library.
Unfortunately Mrs. Simons knew nothing about Spring-heeled Jack. And a search through the library's records failed to find anything as well.
Jennifer started chatting with her friend Kim about Kim's new clothes, Marty admitted they looked pretty on her but wasn't content for a girl talk session, so he continued with a final frustrating search, he walked past isles of books.
As he walked past the fiction isle, he noticed a strange sight.
Doc was standing down the end of the isle, searching the books, wearing his full Sherlock Holmes gear from 1895.
Marty was going to keep walking for a moment, but he thought he better confront Doc, and put his mind at rest.
"Doc, what are you doing here?" Marty walked down to his friend.
"Oh, it's you again. Why must you insist on referring to me as 'Doc'?"
"Umm . . what?" Marty was confused.
"If you have to address me my boy, Mr. Holmes would be preferable," Holmes frankly said, performing an excellent portrayal of Basil Rathbone.
"You still think you're Sherlock Holmes? Doc, we went over this, you're back in the year 1985!"
Mrs. Simons walked by the isle and gestured with her finger for the two to remain silent; after all, they were in a library.
"I know, and I know why I am here," Holmes smiled.
"You're not killing people are you? Clara saw you leave the house last night."
"Young fellow, my lad, I am not the suspect. I am in pursuer!"
Many ideas crossed Marty's mind, but he finally settled on Doc having a split personality, which might not be a bad thing, because now Sherlock Holmes was on the case of Spring-heeled Jack.
Holmes located the book he was searching for and yanked it out, "Uh Ha!"
"What, what did you find?" Marty excitedly asked.
"The identity of Spring heeled Jack!"
Holmes turned the book around and raised the cover for Marty to see. It was the same Sherlock Holmes book that Jules had found earlier in the week, but the picture of
Sherlock Holmes on the cover was blank, it had erased.
"You're the killer?" Marty tried to make sense of what he was looking at and what Doc was trying to suggest.
"No, no. Spring Heeled Jack no longer exists in history, and neither does Sherlock Holmes," Holmes flipped through the entirely blank book.
"So, we altered history someway when we were in the past?" Marty asked the great detective.
"In a way. Spring-heeled Jack stowed away on the time locomotive when we left 1895, that's why there is no sign of him in history." Holmes explained.
"Wow. But what about Sherlock Holmes, why weren't those books written?"
"Because Spring Heeled Jack is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle!!"
Doyle looked out the high window and watched a homeless fellow's feet walk by.
He found it ironic that he had become most famous in the future for flying, but he lived down under the ground in a small room under the court house. He was very pleased with himself, following Doc Brown to the London Wharf, and then sneaking onboard that wonderful rocketing Locomotive, and then finding himself in this marvelous future where people are much more frightened then anyone was back in old London.
He thought of the library girl, he wished he had got a chance to touch her. A more beautiful victim, he would be hard pressed to find, maybe tonight he would be lucky and encounter her again. Jennifer. Her name was Jennifer, he heard the man call out. What a lovely name.
It could have been because Doyle was in deep thought, or perhaps it was because the clock tower was striking 11 p.m.
But either way, Sherlock Holmes managed to walk down the stairs to the small room, unnoticed. Unnoticed that is until he spoke.
"Hello Doyle."
Doyle spun around with such shock, "Doctor Brown! I should have known I'd see you again. I see you've kept the clothes I gave you."
"Yes, and I've deduced why you gave them to me. When we met in that saloon, you realized I strangely knew all about your very little known creation. Your Sherlock Holmes character was being described, so well to you, by an American. You drugged me, kidnapped me and even hypnotized me!"
Doyle chuckled, "It was surprisingly easy, you knew all about Sherlock, I just made you shift your scientific mind to a deductive mind."
"And you did all this to subtract attention from your night job as Jack," Holmes added.
"Yes, I was incontrol of the world's greatest detective. You would never have accused me of murder; I would have directed you to someone else. But little did I know your family would track you down from the future," Doyle rolled his eyes, almost asking forgiveness for not thinking of every possible element.
"And then you climbed on board the train and came here to 1985."
"Yes, a whole innocent community to prey upon. London was full of drunks, prostitutes and dirty workers. That may be good enough for Jack the Ripper, but Spring-heeled Jack should have some class. And I have found it here, in this colourful Utopia."
An evil smile filled Doyle's face.
"You should have stayed in London. Your crimes were never found out and you were knighted by the Queen," Holmes stepped closer.
"Ah, but I haven't been found out here either," Doyle stepped aloofly away and around Holmes.
"Ironic isn't it? I located you by the deductive instincts you taught me. I'm willing to return you to London and give you back to history," Holmes hoped this compromise would appeal to Doyle.
"Ah, but I haven't showed you how I leapt tall buildings in a single bound, or breathed fire on my victims."
Doyle opened a closet and took out a device that looked like a double pogo stick; he fitted the straps to his legs. And sure enough he had what looked like springs on the bottom of his boots.
"This spring apparatus was my second greatest invention. Sherlock Holmes was, of course, my first," Doyle gloated.
"And how did you burn your victims?" Holmes asked, curious until the end.
Doyle grabbed a stick from behind him, striked it on the wall and it shot up into flames, he then, seemingly, swallowed the flames on the stick.
"You've mastered fire-eating," Holmes realised.
Doyle did not answer; he simply grabbed another stick, striked it alight and blew the flames towards Holmes.
Holmes fell to the ground, hiding his face from the enormous heat that blew up to him.
He then stood back up to find Doyle gone.
Doc ran up the stairs and out of the court house, just in time to see Doyle leaping out of the town square and behind buildings and trees. Holmes headed back inside the court house and up the stairs to the roof of the clock tower.
He then waited a moment before he spotted the time train speeding towards him, the locomotive slowed down and hovered above the tower, Doc climbed on board with some help from Marty, and then they were off, flying in chase of the springing author.
They followed him over shops, under bridges and into backyards. They descended closer to Doyle.
"Clara, we're close enough, activate the magnetic plate!" Doc shouted as he kept his eyes on the leaping Doyle.
The round magnetic plate underneath the train's base, suddenly lite up with a blue glow.
Doyle raced across streets, but suddenly felt himself slowing down, and then going backwards! He was being pulled up towards the locomotive and there was nothing he could do.
A huge thud almost deafened him as he connected to the plate. He then felt the locomotive accelerate. He closed his eyes, hopping not to fall off.
Three sonic booms later, he found himself gliding through slightly colder sky; he knew where he was, back in London, home.
Doyle felt himself being lowered to the very same pier where he had began this time travel journey. Then suddenly the magnet lost its pull, and he fell to the wooden hardness of the wharf.
He stood up as quick as he could to show his protest, but all that accomplished was allowing him to see the locomotive shoot up into the air and disappear.
Doyle looked around, he no longer had the real Sherlock Holmes anymore, but he could still write about him, he thought.
And after all, Spring-Heeled Jack wouldn't be caught for another 90 years. He laughed with that realisation.
Marty once again found himself, back in school, back in English class and back in the same seat again. Doc and Clara had left 1985 the previous afternoon, bound for the 19th century. But this time he had a promise from Doc that he would return.
Doc's 'Sherlock Holmes' personality had vanished as soon as they left 1895. Mr. Holmes had served his purpose and was now back in the library books.
Marty was now glad to be back in the same English class room, sitting in the same chair. Janice once again sat to his left, painting her nails, and Jesse on his right, also painting his nails.
Everything was back to normal.
Stability in a world that is raging mad with characters such as Sherlock Holmes and Spring-Heeled jack is a very attractive thought indeed.
THE END