As I remembered all too well from my service in Afghanistan, time slowed to a crawl as the battle raged on. Perhaps 'battle' is too strong a word, but with only four of us—one still unsteady on his feet—and only a little over a score of the enemy, it felt like one.
The two Jedi were incredible—an army unto themselves, despite the older man's lingering disorientation from the drug. If we'd had even a handful of men such as them fighting for Her Majesty's army in India, perhaps we would have had fewer casualties, and the war would have ended much quicker. (Remembering the unfailing politeness I'd encountered so far, perhaps the war wouldn't have begun at all.) They seemed to sense every move our attackers would make, before they made it, and not only blocked ninety percent of the shots being fired at us, but anticipated and blocked a rush on our left flank, where our hasty barricade was weakest.
Moriarty's men were losing their morale by the bucketful. The pauses between volleys were growing longer, and we could hear muttering in the shadows. They weren't pleased with our resilience—and the fact that fully half of their men were down or wounded from the Jedi throwing their shots back at them, my revolver, and Holmes's growing accuracy with the blaster. They clearly had expected this to be an easy victory.
During one such pause, as I searched my pockets in vain for more ammunition, Qui-Gon ran a critical eye over Holmes's weapon. "The power pack is almost empty," he said. "If it weren't so dark, I'd try and get you another."
"I'm out of bullets," I said. "Unless I can get my hands on one of those blasters, I'm afraid I'll be of no use."
"It won't take them long to discover we've lost some teeth," Ben said grimly. "And when they do, they'll try to rush us."
As if on cue, they began firing again. "It's been nearly half an hour," I shouted over the noise, squinting at my pocket watch in the bursts of light. I peered cautiously over the top of our stack of crates—they were starting to look very sorry—and noted that our attackers were, indeed, creeping closer. "If your reinforcements don't hurry, all they're going to find are corpses."
A muted roar came to my ears then, barely audible through the sounds of the firefight. It grew louder, and it suddenly seemed that half a dozen huge black beasts suddenly dropped from the sky, scattering Moriarty's men.
"About damn time," I heard Ben mutter. "They're here, Master," he said, more loudly.
"Let's go then. Holmes, Doctor, you first. Obi-Wan and I will cover you." He kicked a path through the barricade, gesturing with his weapon. I was reluctant to leave them behind, but Holmes, ever practical, planted a hand between my shoulder blades and propelled me forward. The two Jedi, rather than remaining behind, flanked us on either side, both a whirling blur of motion as they deflected fire. Then Ben dropped behind as one of the enemy engaged him one-on-one. I stopped, wondering if I ought to go help him, but a hand suddenly grabbed the back of my coat and dragged me toward one of the rumbling beasts with surprising strength.
It wasn't really a beast, of course, though I had absolutely no idea what it was. It gleamed dull black in the fitful light, all long, low lines and sleek angles. A machine, of some sort, and I noticed as I was hauled toward it that it was hovering two feet from the ground, floating in thin air. I looked wildly around to see who had a hold of me, but saw only a tall, slender, faceless figure in black. For a moment, I thought it wasn't human, then realized that the strangely bulbous head was, in fact, a helmet of some sort. "Come on, Doc," said a muffled voice from behind its visor. "Time to leave." He assisted me onto the machine and climbed on in front of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Holmes and the two Jedi pairing up with three more of our rescuers. The others had blasters out and were holding off the enemy, and as I watched, one pulled out a lightsaber with a yellowish blade. "Put this on," my companion said, pushing another helmet into my hands. I fumbled it on reluctantly. The rider turned to help me with the unfamiliar strap that fastened beneath my chin, and pushed something just inside the helmet's bottom, near the left side of my jaw. "Can you hear me?" It was my comrade's voice, seemingly inside my ear, not so muffled now, but still distorted by the noisy chaos raging around us. All I could tell was that he had a very light voice, and the underlying accent seemed to be American. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. "Hang on." When I didn't budge, he pulled my arms around his waist, and turned away. "Shadow Lead, this is Shadow Nine," he said. "Can we pull out?"
MacEiver's voice—I was surprised to discover I recognized it even through the distortion—responded. "Nine, Three, Seven, and Eight, go. We'll keep them from hitting you. Meet us back at the Haven—and see if you can't raise Ilein up on ship. He's late reporting in."
"Yes, sir." Through the smoky visor on my helmet, I saw my companion look over his shoulder at me. "Hang on," he warned again. "I don't want to try and catch you if you fall off." And without waiting for response, he kicked something and the machine on which we perched roared, not down the street, but up into the air at a dangerous angle. I stifled a yelp and tightened my grip on the rider's waist so much that I could feel ribs compressing. The roar of the machine filled my ears, along with a near unintelligible babble from whatever it was in the helmet that allowed us to communicate. As we ascended, I caught snatches of conversation, and I began to listen more closely through the interfering noise. It took my mind off the knowledge that we were now hundreds of feet above the London streets, with nothing but a dangerously fast machine and empty air between myself and the ground.
"…swoopbikes. We don't want to attract more attention than we already have."
"Derry, that would be next to impossible—after a blasterfight like that? We're lucky it was in the slums."
"Don't be a doomsayer, Three," said my rider. "With the class distinctions here, who will believe any witnesses? They'll think they were all drunk or high on drugs."
"Shadows," another voice—MacEiver's—broke in. "This is Leader. Stay on course—I'm taking a short side trip. Something odd has caught my eye."
Though the thing on which we rode—I believe I'd heard one of our rescuers referring to them as 'swoopbikes'—was still traveling far, far faster than anything I'd ever seen and was making stomach turning dips and turns over the dark city, I found myself beginning to relax. There was something very thrilling about hurtling through the air at such speeds. I'd often imagined, as a boy, what it might feel like to fly like a bird. Now I knew. I wondered if the people of my world would ever achieve such wonders.
Talk dropped off among the riders, and I saw that we were beginning to descend. Looking down, I saw the long, sloping roof of a building, and recognized it as a boarding house—a rather large one. There was a sharp drop off on the west side, and I saw a wide terrace, big enough to land all of the machines on. 'Nine' brought our machine to a halt and turned it off. To my surprise, it remained hovering until we'd both gotten off—my dismount was not nearly so graceful as my companion's—and then it settled gently to the ground. "How do you hide all these?" I asked my rider.
"Cloaking device," he replied cryptically. "We won't turn it on until Taryn—you know him as MacEiver, I believe—gets back. The building is owned and run by us." I almost asked what a 'cloaking device' was, but decided that I really wasn't up to listening to yet another half-comprehensible explanation of an alien technological wonder.
One of the other riders—shorter and stockier than mine—approached us and slapped me on the back. "Welcome to Haven, Doctor," he said. "Tea should be waiting inside." He and Nine began walking toward an open door on the far side of the terrace. Fumbling my helmet off, I spotted Holmes near the doorway.
"That was exhilarating," I commented as I hurried up to him.
"Perhaps you found it so, Watson," he replied flatly. "But it is not an experience I'd care to repeat." I noticed, as we stepped into the lit hallway beyond the door, that he looked a little green. Apparently, Holmes did not take to flying. I wisely refrained from comment. Holmes does not appreciate having his weaknesses pointed out to him by anyone other than himself.
Our rescue party had paused inside the hallway to remove their helmets and heavy jackets. My rider pulled his off, and I stared. Grinning at me from across the hallway was not a man, but a tall woman—she had to be almost six feet without shoes on—with long red hair pulled back into a braid, strong features, and heavy lidded brown eyes. She seemed highly amused at my surprise. "My name here is Shannan Corym," she said, shaking my hand in a very firm, business-like grip. She had the same strange accent as the others, only it seemed mixed with American undertones instead of British or Gaelic.
"John Watson," I mumbled.
"I like your stories, Doc," She smiled again, removing any offense I might have taken at her familiarity. "And I admire your work, Mr. Holmes. You both have my welcome." I noticed that, in the thick-soled boots she wore, she stood eye to eye with my associate.
"Ah, leave off, Shannan," said one of the others—by his stocky build I guessed him to be the one who had welcomed me outside. "You can get their autographs later, but couldn't we eat first?"
"Not until you get Ilein on the comm., Derry-boy. And not until Taryn gets back. You won't starve before then. And the rest of you have better things to do than stand around gawping. Go on—you can ask all the questions you like later." She shooed them away, and despite some good-natured grumbling, they went. The red haired woman smiled and bowed respectfully to Qui-Gon. "Forgive our informality, Master Jinn," she said. "We've been isolated from the Order for almost five years. My name is Shannan Corym."
He bowed back. "No apology is necessary, Knight Corym. We owe you our lives."
The roar of an engine outside drew all our attention. "That must be Taryn—sorry, you two–MacEiver," the woman said, frowning. "He's upset." She moved swiftly to the door, with Qui-Gon and Ben following, and Holmes close behind them. I wasn't certain I wanted to know what the new crisis might be, but my curiosity would not be denied, and I found myself trailing them out onto the terrace.
MacEiver, clad like the others had been in jacket and helmet, had shut down his machine by the time I got outside. He dismounted gracefully, pulling his helmet off. His auburn hair lay plastered by sweat to his skull, and his expression was glowering. "Get everyone you can together, Shan," he said to the red-haired woman. "This has just gotten a lot more serious."
- - - - - - - - - -
A/N: There was a small expression of disappointment about Holmes' lack of reaction to the lightsabers. Well, in truth, they were busy fighting for their lives, and it was not the time to express awe or disbelief. :D As for after, well, the human mind is remarkably adaptable, and Holmes has a staggering ego. He might be awed, even intrigued, by the Jedi technology, but he's not going to let on if he is. He'll just accept it in stride, and make it look as though he expected it all along. That's what makes Sherlock Holmes so very good at what he does: it's eighty percent bluff. grins
Thank you for your support! If there are Stargate fans out there, then I highly, highly recommend the works of lembas7, namely Bushido and Shidachi. Frankly, anything written by him/her is top quality work, and there are couple of EXTREMELY well done Van Helsing fics in there as well. Even if you didn't like Van Helsing, they're worth reading!
I'm going to continue recommending other writers whose work I love on this site. Look for more to come!