Beth Lestrade was not in a cheerful mood. The day had been on series of disasters after another, starting with the automatic toothpaste dispenser deciding it wanted to automatically dispense toothpaste whether or not the button that controlled it was pushed. At least she hadn't been dressed, as she usually was when she brushed her teeth, otherwise that would have been yet another uniform in need of cleaning, and she only had the one left.
She had rushed to get dressed before realizing that she had a whole extra hour because the clock had also gone on the fritz, and wound up ruining her one good uniform anyway, by ripping the sleeves of the black undershirt in her haste to get it on. Plain clothes were acceptable since she was an inspector, but the special shielded vest that was lightweight and comfortable wouldn't fit over anything save the specially made undershirts.
She wouldn't be allowed to handle any cases that might involve her falling, getting into fist fights, any of the stuff that normally happened to Inspector B. Lestrade, because she wouldn't be properly protected. It didn't matter that she could handle herself better than any other officer in the country, or that the vest sometimes inhibited her movements; it was against the rules, therefore she would have to either remain behind her desk all day, or go on routine traffic patrols.
Breakfast had consisted of a nutrition bar, rather than her preferred brand of cereal because she hadn't had time to go for groceries this week. It wasn't one of the good kinds either, but a rather disgusting mixture that tasted like sawdust and urine (not that she'd ever tasted urine or sawdust, but she imagined that they tasted bad enough). Finishing it off was the hardest thing she'd ever had to do in her life, and it nearly broke her when she realized she had no water to cleanse away the foul substance.
After breakfast, she had climbed into her cruiser, her mood slightly improved with being behind the controls of the vehicle, only to discover that some punks had thought it the height of good humor to break in to a cop's car, leaving their message in specially designed paint that could only be seen from the inside once all the doors closed, in shining letters across the view port.
Growling, she had swiftly and efficiently cleaned the stuff up, and in a rage that made her flying surprisingly controlled, she had made her way to the Yard.
Greyson had issued her another uniform, even though he had stated unequivocally the last time that she'd be getting no more until she learned how to take care of her stuff, because the Prime Minister himself had called and needed an officer to come and take away some idiot who had fallen asleep in his chicken coop.
Beth hadn't even known the man had a chicken coop.
Now, dressed in Yard white, she was sitting beside a man who smelled like bird poop and who was either the dumbest person in the world, or just a smart ass.
He was tall, probably an inch or so taller than she was, with receding brown hair and blue eyes. His mouth was lopsided, giving him an almost adorable quality; almost because he was a criminal, and because he wouldn't shut up.
"Look," he said, still trying to get her goat, "I haven't done anything wrong, well at least nothing that I see as wrong, I mean surely it isn't illegal to find yourself someplace you're not supposed to be." He paused, and, seeming to realize that he had said something wrong, tried to fix it. "I mean, yes being some place you're not supposed to be is illegal, but I meant some place that you didn't know you'd be at because you weren't there before…watch out! What are you trying to do, kill me?"
Lestrade smirked as she glanced at the man out of the corner of her eye. His eyes were wide with fright and he was clutching the panel in front of him as if it would save him from any more little maneuvers she might think up. Well, if she overcompensated or tried to override the safety features that the automatic pilot put in place, hanging on for dear life wasn't going to stop him from being as crushed as she was in the crash.
"Look, you can say whatever it is you want to say once we get to the Yard," she told him succinctly, "for now, just enjoy the ride."
She felt, rather than saw the scathing glance sent her way, and her smirk grew.
"Oh, I'm so glad you find my imminent death amusing," he snarled, then his voice took on a pained quality, "I will never complain about anything Sheppard or Zelenka or even Kavanaugh do again, if you'll just let me wake up from this nightmare."
Beth glanced at him again, making a mental note to check out those names, one of which she was certain was Czech. His eyes were closed and his face held an earnest expression, giving more credence to the 'adorable' theory. Something wasn't quite right here, and, making a quick decision, turned the cruiser in a 180 degree turn.
"Oh god…" the man whimpered, "you really are trying to kill me."
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Sherlock Holmes could be the most patient of men, a cat lying in wait of its prey, entire body attuned to the sounds and feel of the environment around it. However, that was usually only when a case presented itself, a case of interest. Other times, he was obnoxious, impatient, and sometimes downright rude. Which was why Watson, level 7 law enforcement compudroid welcomed the knock at the door with much enthusiasm.
Not that he didn't enjoy the Irregulars company regardless of Holmes' behavior, but the fact that they brought along a guest who promised something to take the detective's mind off his boredom had him going to the kitchen and mixing up a batch of biscuits that he knew Deidre and Tennyson preferred above all the others. The woman was a tiny brunette, her hair short and slightly wavy, with large green eyes and expressive features. Her clothes, consisting of a red shirt and black trousers of a style Watson wasn't familiar with, and which he couldn't find on any of the net circuits he tried, were muddy and torn.
Keeping his audio sensors attuned to the conversation in the sitting room, he carefully placed the mixture on a pan before transferring it into the oven. They tasted much better than the synthesized sort to be found in modern grocery stores.
"So tell me, madam," Holmes said in way of greeting, "how did you happen to get to the future?"
Watson nearly dropped the mixing bowl that he was in the process of cleaning, and he could hear the stunned silence in the other room.
"The…no no, this can't be right," the woman said, her voice strong, yet the undertones of weariness, "I must be dreaming…"
"All theories of mass hallucination aside, madam," Holmes responded, sardonic amusement lacing his tone, "I do believe what you are experiencing is quite real."
"I see," her voice held weary resignation, acceptance.
"'ow do you know she's from the past, Mr. 'olmes?" Deidre asked, and Watson wondered why the woman hadn't asked the same thing.
"One, her clothing is obviously early twentieth century material, using a cotton blend rather than the synthesized material that we use today. You can tell by the loose weave. Two, from what you told me about how she was found, she had no idea that she was in New London, but still knew things that a person from Earth would know. Knowing my name, for example, and what services I provide."
Watson stood in the doorway of the kitchen. The woman was looking at Holmes, not in surprise, but in speculation, her eyes troubled.
"My name is Elizabeth Weir," she said after a minute, "I really don't know how I got here."
"And yet you do not seem surprised that it could happen, Ms. Weir." Watson could see the wheels turning in the detective's brain, as surely as a well-oiled machine.
Something in the woman's eyes flickered, and then she smiled. "My boyfriend is an astrophysicist," she explained, "I'm not surprised by anything these days."
"Please get the door Watson, I really don't want Lestrade to break down the door in her obvious foul mood."
Watson blinked uncomprehendingly at Holmes, his circuits struggling to keep up with the abrupt turn in the conversation, before the sound of pounding feet on the stairs outside caught his audio sensors, and he quickly opened to door. Another voice filtered in from the stair well, masculine and whiny, but with an undertone of awe.
"This, it's an incredible replica of the original. Not that I've ever seen the original, or even believed that it was real, but from Doyle's descriptions, I imagine that this is an incredible replica. What did you say this guy's name was? Holmes? Funny don't you think? Taking the name of a detective? At least now I know I'm dreaming, probably drowning on the bottom of that lagoon…"
"Rodney?" Elizabeth Weir whispered in astonishment.
"Your boyfriend?" Deidre asked excitedly.
Everyone turned to the woman expectantly, and she stared at each of them in turn before nodding. "Yes. He's my boyfriend."
Holmes raised an eyebrow. "We shall see," he murmured as Lestrade burst into the room with the man following her.
(tbc…)