I fell on the ground, my scream ringing in my ears. I was drenched in a cold sweat. The gramophone was spinning; the record had ended. The champagne glass lay on the ground, shattered into small pieces.

I held a hand to my head, trying to gather what had happened. I had been dreaming... I had fallen asleep on my throne, had then fallen off the throne, taking the champagne glass with me. I realized that the shots, which had sounded like breaking glass, was actually when the glass had fallen to the floor.

I was here. I was back in London, in 1902, where I belonged. I was not some evil regime's tool. Basil was not in some death camp. Death camp? Germany had death camps? Fidget... he had died five years ago, on the night of the Queen's Jubilee. He was not alive. It was all just a dream... or was it? A nightmare? That's what it was, a nightmare.

"I am here," I said, trying to reassure myself with those words. "Of all the absurdities! You're the most infamous man in the civilized world. Getting yourself worked up over a dream!"

'A nightmare,' my mind said. 'It was a nightmare.' Or rather, it will be a nightmare…


The next day I saw an elderly Jewish man with his funny wide-brimmed hat walking down the street. Several young boys were throwing stones at him.

Chills went down my spine. 'He just had to be Jewish,' I thought angrily. Then I felt anger of a different sort. I grabbed one of the boys by the collar. "Leave him alone, you juvenile imp!" I barked. "How would you like it if I threw rocks at you?"

The boy struggled out of my grasp and ran off with my friends.

I sighed and continued on my way. The Jewish man started to come towards me. I quickened my pace and tried to avoid eye contact. The man ran up to me. "Sir," he said eagerly, as I tried to pass, "sir, I want to thank you for what you did for me. Sir..." He put a hand on my sleeve to stop me from walking off "Not many people would have done that."

"It's nothing," I said uneasily, trying to shake him off. "Nothing."

He nodded. "Thank you." He walked away.

An indescribable feeling came over me. I thought of the Chinese boy. I thought of my own childhood, the other boys calling me, "sewer scum," "big, ugly sewer rat." And I wished that someone back then had spoken out for me.


Yes, it was all a dream for Ratigan. How else could I make him a Nazi? I mean, in that time period, Basil (judging from Sherlock Holmes' birthday) would be almost ninety years old! According to me, he'd be at least twenty years younger, but that's still too old for him to be chasing after Nazis.

Thank you for being patient with the historical inaccuracies and placing GMD characters in an entirely different time period. I hope the story was informative and entertaining.