Author's Note:

Two more chapters after this one! And I want to say thank you to everybody who's still reading this story, despite all the depression. I promise you that this will have a happy ending—good things come to those who wait!

==Chapter 4: Impact==

Holmes stared up at the office skyscraper complex, one of the most important in New London. "This is where Tennyson works?" he asked in surprise. Despite the lad's genius with computers, he had not expected this, given the fate of his companions.

"Level 58, Mycomp," Watson replied.

Mycomp was Britain's foremost developer in computer technology. Holmes blinked in surprise and said, "Lead the way, old man."

They found the boy in his own office cubicle, still using a hoverchair (smaller, more compact) but dressed as a businessman in miniature. Holmes found the sight rather endearing, especially when the boy's long blond bangs fell into his electric-blue eyes.

The peace was shattered all too soon. "'scuse me," a man muttered, shoving past the Victorians and entering the cubicle. "Well, kid, do you have that program finished yet?"

"Not yet," a metallic voice replied, shocking Holmes nearly out of his skin. The voice had come from the mute boy's hoverchair. "I still have a few—"

Holmes knew what was coming before it happened, saw it in the man's eyes, moved forward to stop him, heard Watson's murmured warning…

And flinched at the slap.

"What kind of idiot you take me for, kid?" the man shouted. "Christmas morning, and you're still working on the program that should have been finished a week ago!"

"The plans for it wouldn't work!" Tennyson protested. "I had to work an extra week to fix the—"

The next slap brought tears to the boy's bright blue eyes. Holmes had never seen Tennyson cry. Furious now, he tuned out the man's rant and reached forward to grab his wrist as he made to slap Tennyson again. Caught, the man whirled on Holmes, spitting out several curses before demanding to know who Holmes was and why he was there. "I know this boy," Holmes said coldly, the fearful surprise in his boy's wide eyes fueling him on. And to blazes with paradoxes. "If you touch him again, I will report you to the authorities for abuse to an underage employee. I'm certain the media will love to get their hands on a story like that."

"Where've you been for the past few years, Io?" the man sneered, but with more bluster than bravery. "Fine, whatever."

Holmes let the wrist drop.

"You listen, though, kid. Finish this program by 8 am, or you're fired. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." The man glared at Holmes but slunk out of the cubicle.

Holmes turned to see Tennyson regarding him thoughtfully. "Are you an angel?" the boy said at last.

Holmes smiled sadly. "I only wish I were, so that I could protect you."

"I'll be okay."

"Does he hit you often?" Holmes asked, but he already knew the answer.

Tennyson shrugged. "Sometimes, but it's okay. Really. Could be worse."

Holmes recalled Deidre's plight and shivered. Much worse. He shook his head. "Take care of yourself, lad."

"I will." The computerized voice was toneless, but the pain and fear lurking just beneath the boy's Harrison Ford smirk fractured Holmes's heart further.

"What of Amanda?" Holmes asked, subdued.

Watson shook his head. "She was caught hacking into the Sussex records and was sent to a correctional facility."

Holmes nearly choked. "No…" Not little Mandy…

They were striding along the sidewalk once more, headed towards the riverfront. Watson stopped and gave Holmes a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry, old man."

"Don't be!" Holmes rounded on Watson, grey eyes blazing. "You can't possibly be sorry, so kindly cease those sympathetic looks." He jabbed his index finger in Watson's broad chest. "This is all your fault. I don't know what you did when you came to me in 221B, but it's ruined the four children I would give my life for."

"It's ruined more than them, Holmes," Watson said sorrowfully, gesturing at the street ahead.

The Strand.

Holmes felt his jaw drop. Rising on either side of the road were buildings the likes of which he'd never seen before… conglomerations of modern and Victorian architecture. Advertisements showcased a culture that was abandoned two centuries ago. Christmas decorations were incredibly Victorian in style and detail.

He knew who had brought about these changes, but he feared to voice it.

As they stepped out onto the Strand, Holmes caught sight of a News-on-Demand monitor and stopped. "…news, Potentate Moriarty continues his campaign for the revival of British culture." The top-right corner of the screen bore a photo of Moriarty, but it was so unlike the "mug shot" stored in NSY's database. This was Moriarty at his finest, the suave, charismatic gentleman bearing an undercurrent of steel in his Prussian blue eyes.

Holmes turned away. "So," he said quietly, eyes roaming the street, seeking a distraction. "Lestrade failed."

"New Scotland Yard's computer core was drained and then destroyed," Watson said quietly, "and Moriarty followed through on his lunar weapons strategy."

Holmes froze. That man huddled in the shadows of the alley nearby. That can't be… He took a few steps forward, ignoring Watson's call, and stopped. He knew the ashen complexion, the lanky blond hair, the face deformed of a cause that he had never deduced or discovered.

Fenwick.

The man was shivering and coughing inside a thin jacket—not his characteristic trench coat—and rubbing his arms to warm himself. Holmes wondered how long the man had been out in the cold like this, and how much longer he'd last. Considering the wracking cough plaguing Fenwick, Holmes did not give him good odds of survival.

So this is how you rewarded the man who gave you life, Moriarty.

Holmes had never liked Fenwick, of course, but it was Beth who'd always had it out for the Frenchman. Those two just rubbed each other entirely the wrong way, and they loved to insult each other every chance they got. Holmes typically concentrated on Moriarty, and, if he thought about Fenwick at all, it was usually to be sardonically amused at the man's incompetence in field work. Now, however…

Now, he saw a shell of a man, once a brilliant geneticist no matter his moral corruption… And Sherlock Holmes could only pity the wretch. He thought of The Lord of the Rings, of Frodo's first meeting with Gollum, and he understood it. Now that I see him, I pity him.

"Do you see now?" Watson asked as Holmes turned away. "Your life has affected so many others in ways not even you would ever have imagined." His tone grew stern, the voice of a commanding officer rebuking a soldier who should know better. "You are a focal point of history, Sherlock Holmes—you were before and you are now again. The lives you have touched number in the billions between your first lifetime and this one."

Holmes stepped back, thoughts and memories whirling a maelstrom in his head and him unable to grasp at a single one.

"You weren't brought back—you were sent back. You exist in this century because you are needed here, because what you do in this life makes an impact upon eternity. You have a family here, a family that depends on you and loves you." Watson's voice, expression… his entire being radiated earnestness. "Don't you see, Holmes? You've had a truly wonderful life—and you honestly want to abandon it? Abandon them?"

"Holmes, you're already letting this eat you alive. What happened tonight was not your fault. Quit trying to be God—you're human. You're fallible. You can't win every time, and, zed, you're over fifty years older than me—you should know this by now."

"Beth," Holmes whispered. He looked up at his old friend like a little lost puppy. "John, where is Lestrade? She's working to overthrow Moriarty, isn't she? Either from the inside or as an all-out rebel, but she at least cannot be completely ruined."

Watson remained silent, his dark eyes holding Holmes's light ones.

"Watson? Where is Lestrade?"

Still no answer.

Oh. No. Not that. Please not that. Holmes stopped and looked his friend squarely in the eye. "Watson. Where. Is. Lestrade."

Watson looked away. "You know where to find her."

A lesser man would have taken him to mean New Scotland Yard. Holmes knew otherwise. He broke into a run. He ignored the mishmash of culture around him, ignored the immorality, ignored all of it. One thought only whirred through his brain; one thought only mattered. Please be wrong. Please be wrong. Please be wrong…

Author's Note:

Poor Holmes. His heart is breaking…

And poor Fenwick. One might wonder why Moriarty didn't simply kill Fenwick outright if he wanted to get rid of him—the simple fact is that he didn't have to. Fenwick could do nothing against Moriarty. That was a sad bit to write, and it is like feeling pity for Gollum.

Next up, the climax of Holmes's heartbreak, and the beginning of the end! Stay tuned!

And please review!