I come to my senses with a choke and a gasp, sitting up before I even know what it is that I am doing, to find myself on the floor of Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis, just inside of the door. I am no longer in pain, but I am feeling somewhat disorientated. Have I been unconscious? Dead? I suppress a shiver at the thought.

"Hang on, Sherlock. We'll get you to Sir Evan, OK?"

Lestrade is staring down at me with concern from the seat at the controls.

"Do you know how to control this machine?"

She nods. "Didn't take me long to figure it out. We're here, now. Can you walk?"

I pick myself up slowly, gingerly, feeling much the way that I did when I first awoke in this century - confused, with the disconcerting suspicion that I really should not still be amongst the living.

"Here, let me help," says she, as she crouches beside me. "What d'you feel like? D'you still need to throw up?"

"No. I actually feel all right."

She raises her eyebrows. "Sure? You're pretty pale and you're shaking. Talk to me - what d'you feel like?"

Odd, if I am perfectly honest. I lean against the back of one of the chairs while my head slowly rights itself.

"Your jacket isn't ripped, any more. Take it off?"

With a frown, I remove my coat and we then examine the garment carefully - it is impossible! There is not a mark on it - no blood, no tear, nothing - it is as if I had never been attacked at all.

"Lemme see your back," the Yarder then requests. "Strip to the waist."

"What?" I yelp in response, as I attempt to evade her reaching hands. "No! Why? It is not appropriate for a gentleman to bear his flesh."

She snorts. "I'm not asking you to show me anything - I just wanna see the place you were stung. Don't be such a baby, Sherlock!"

I feel my face flush with embarrassment. "I am not being childish - a gentleman of my era would simply not uncover his chest in polite company."

"Zed! You're a lot more sensitive than I expect, ain't ya? Look, just turn your back and pull the back of your shirt up, OK? I just wanna see where you were stung."

I do as directed, though I still feel that I am behaving like a cad.

The Yarder runs a finger over the area, causing me to flinch. "Not a scratch! No swelling, no nothing! That's amazing!"

"Beth," I groan with a shiver as she continues to examine me, "I should like to tidy myself up, now." This unwanted attention is causing an even less welcome reaction and I should like very much to escape for a moment.

She rests her hand at my shoulder and leans forward to study my face. "You OK? You're shaking more now than you were when you came to!"

I grimace under her gaze.

"You need a bathroom, don't you? You always shut right up, when you really have to go."

Not particularly, but it would be nice to have a door between us, for a moment or two.

"Why don't you just say?" she is asking. "One day, it'll get you in trouble - even you can't wait forever! You need to learn to say something. Go on, tidy yourself up and we'll find somewhere for you to go."

I tuck in my shirt and pull on my under and overcoats without meeting her gaze, while my ears become increasingly hot.

"You're sure you feel OK, are you?"

I nod while still refusing to meet her gaze. I suspect that she believes that I am embarrassed for entirely the wrong reason.

The Yarder escorts me to a staff lavatory as if I were a small child and then insists upon waiting outside. I do wish that she would leave me be.

I freshen up, washing my hands and face and taking the time to calm myself and to put myself in order. I have not felt like this since we were first courting! I had thought that I was quite over this, now. Why do I suddenly want to be close to her, to kiss, to hold? Is it due to the near death experience, or simply a reaction to the attention that I received from her, while I was in a state of undress?

"Feel better?" the irksome woman asks of me, when I step back out, into the corridor. "You looked like you really needed it."

I simply admonish her with a glare. She knows how I feel about such talk - particularly in public areas, where we could easily be overheard.

"What? Even the King has to pee, Sherlock."

I am not going to answer her until she changes the subject. Briar learns quickly enough, when I ignore him following a misdemeanour - if I am very lucky, the same might apply to young women.

She shrugs her shoulders. "I know you seem to be OK now, but I think you better see Sir Evan Hargreaves anyway. I wanna know that you aren't gonna collapse, or something."

I shrug in return. "If you insist. I do feel as well as can be expected, however."

"Yeah, right. What does 'as well as can be expected' mean, exactly?"

I smirk at her. "It means that I am feeling 'OK', naturally. Well, shall we?"

"Huh."

She takes the arm that I offer to her and we set off in search of Sir Evan together.

When we find the gentleman, Sir Evan Hargreaves is not very pleased with us - that is, me. How could I be so stupid, that I could decide to steal a time machine without even considering the danger?

"What danger?" I enquire, with a shrug of my hands. "How could I possibly imagine that I might be stung by a gigantic wasp? I am not clairvoyant! Besides, I knew nothing of the existence of oversized insects and bugs during the days of the dinosaurs."

He pierces me with a glare that reminds me of my old chemistry professor. I wonder whether he might be one of his descendants.

"Mr. Holmes, there are things more dangerous than deadly creatures that you should consider. Have you tried to meet yourself?"

"I am not narcissistic. Why do you ask?"

Beth snorts under her breath. "You've got an ego. Maybe you might've thought about it, given enough time."

"Thank you, my dear." What a charming young lady she is!

"That's quite enough bickering, I should think," interrupts Sir Evan. "You must never attempt to meet yourself - there is a theory that it could rip the entire universe apart."

How interesting! I wonder why.

"No, Sherlock," Lestrade snaps, wagging her finger in my face. "No. That definitely isn't an invitation to go ahead and try it!"

Hargreaves breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness one of you has the good sense to listen to me!"

"OK, so meeting ourselves is out," Lestrade hastens to interject, interrupting my insulted response. "Got any more advice for us?"

"Yes. Avoid your own timelines, to begin with - I'm not sure what might happen to you, should you become hurt or unwell, whilst exploring your own timeline."

What the deuce is he talking about? "What do you mean?"

He takes up a piece of paper and draws three lines, labelling one 'SHD', the second 'SH' and the final one 'IL'.

"You, Mr. Holmes, are going to be awkward, as you have two timelines - here is your first one, beginning with your birth and ending with your death. This second one is your second life. Now, if you deviate from your current timeline..."

"When we deviated from our timelines, we continued to live."

He nods and meets my gaze. "Yes, of course. But, anything that you experience outside of your own timeline can't be attributed to your timeline when you resume, as if you had never left. That's impossible."

That would explain my remarkable recovery, as well as the puzzle of the unmarked clothing. I nod and steeple my hands. "I see..."

"Which means that you must always return to your present - that's vitally important."

I nod slowly. "Must I avoid both of my timelines? What might happen to me? Surely time could not become confused - it does not think, does it?"

"It is possible that your lines could become crossed or tangled, with adverse affects."

But this is just a theory, is it not?

"Sherlock," my fiancée rests a hand upon my shoulder. "Let's not go testing theories, OK? Sir Evan's just told us what we should avoid doing - I think we should listen."

I shrug. "Very well. Then what should we do, while the theories are tried and tested in the safety of a lab?"

She shrugs her shoulders. "I always wanted to go back to 1984."

Why? "1984. An interesting choice. Do you have an exact date and place in mind?"

"Naturally! Come on, my dear Holmes. I'll drive."

I hope that she can drive a time machine better than she can drive her police car! What have I got myself into?