Naturally, our first port of call is Baker Street. Brett immediately sits on the floor, cross legged, to greet and play with Briar. Then, when the dog follows John down to the kitchen, the irksome actor explores as if he owns the place, which amuses my Boswell as he feels that the fellow is behaving much as I would, in a stranger's home. Utter piffling nonsense!

John makes tea (and attempts to persuade me to eat something), while Watson shows Burke our computer and other such devices. I must confess that I have some reservations - should we encourage them to play with the Internet?

When the refreshments are ready, we sit down together in the sitting room, Brett and Burke taking the settee, John a dining chair from the table and Watson and I our armchairs. Lestrade would appear to be content with sitting upon the arm of my chair and leaning at my shoulder.

The compudroid pours the tea and passes around the biscuits, which I partake of somewhat impatiently. I am beginning to feel hungry, but I want to call on New Scotland Yard - we could have some fun with Grayson!

"Chemistry sets have... evolved, haven't they?" Brett remarks as he casts his curious gaze towards my latest experiment. "What's the screen for? Watching TV, while you work?"

"Leave it alone," I growl at him, when he moves as if to stand. "I have been working on that all night."

"You promised me that you would not!" John scolds. "Holmes! Must I send you off to bed, like a small child, before I go and charge? Really! You are most certainly old enough to know better."

I can feel my ears becoming hot. Why must he talk to me in such a way, when we have guests?

Brett sets aside his teacup as he begins to laugh uncontrollably, tears of mirth streaming down his face.

"It is most certainly not amusing."

It would appear that I am the only one that is unable to find anything remotely funny about the situation, because even the dog looks as if he is grinning, while everyone else is all but falling about.

"Jeremy's laughter always has been contagious," Burke gasps at last, in a manner that sounds almost apologetic.

I simply sniff and turn away - I do not enjoy being laughed at. Brett is fortunate that he is a guest in my house, though I could always throw the chap out...

"What's this?" I hear Brett's voice ask suddenly, causing me to slowly turn my head. What is he doing now?

The bothersome fellow has found the instrument that Lestrade bought for me as a replacement for my original violin and is holding it up with an expression of curiosity upon his face.

"It is a keytar," I tell him. "An electronic musical instrument."

He turns his gaze upon me, one eyebrow raised. "Do you play this? I thought you had a violin!"

"He plays both," Beth tells him, on my behalf. "He's a musical genius - show 'em, Sherlock."

Must I?

"Go on," she encourages. "Please?"

With a sigh of exasperation, I set aside my now empty teacup in order to take up the instrument and play a few notes. One of the things in the favour of the keytar is that it never is in need of tuning - all that it will ever require is the occasional change of batteries.

As inspiration strikes, I go through a short repertoire of songs - some simple, others more advanced and all from quite a variety of eras.

Brett's eyes light up, quite suddenly. "I recognise that - it only came out a few years ago. ...In our time..."

I stop playing to meet his gaze. He has slowly sank down into a chair and looks a little faint.

"Are you all right?" I ask of him, because he does not look it.

He nods and offers me an embarrassed smile. "Oh, I'm just trying to grasp it - what's modern and current to David and I is old hat to you."

I chuckle. "Not quite. What I have always considered to be new - telephones, the flicks and so on - is far from new to you. The idea of being able to watch a film at home - with sound and in colour, no less - would have seemed far fetched to the extreme, in my era. And then there are videophones (only talking to a friend over the 'phone is a long-forgotten memory, these days) - which can be portable and fit into one's pocket - and..."

"Stop!" the fellow gasps, holding up his hands. "Please, it's all too much."

I spread my hands. "And how do you think I felt?"

He considers this and nods. "I see what you mean."

I show them my portable telephone and then get John to call it, so that Brett and Burke can see what it was that I was talking about.

"It seemed strange to me, how easily you've adapted here," Brett remarks. "But I suppose it's only right - you and Watson both embraced every modern convenience in your own era, after all."

"Naturally," Watson nods. "To be a good doctor, one must keep informed - there were new discoveries almost every day, if memory serves me."

"And it was not only medical science that was advancing daily," I add. "At the beginning of my career, it was not common knowledge that fingerprints were unique. There were, of course, advances that I made myself, but there were many others that were being made by scientists and criminologists around the world, that were of benefit to me in my work."

Brett smiles to himself. "Yes. Of course." With that, he clears his throat and straightens his back. "I'm sorry I interrupted you. Please go on with your demonstration, if I haven't completely spoilt it."

I shake my head and set aside the instrument. "I shall entertain you again later, if you would like. I think we should show you some of London, before it gets too late."

After much cajoling - and what seems an age - we make our way out into the street.

"It looks as if someone's taken the wheels off your car, Mr. Holmes," Brett notes as he studies it doubtfully.

"It flies," Watson informs him.

He and Burke immediately step away with a gasp of alarm.

"Oh, really! It is quite safe!" I retort impatiently. I have no time for this! "You are worse than Watson was."

My Boswell frowns at me. "Thank you, Holmes."

"The weather is fine - we will have arrived and parked at our destination within fifteen minutes," I add. "You must not fear."

True to my word, we arrive at New Scotland Yard and park without incident, though Watson is no longer the only one who looks somewhat pale, when we step from the car.

"Now," I rub my hands together. "We shall have some fun, shall we? Let us see just how unobservant the New Scotland Yarders are! Come along with me."

Watson touches my arm. "I think our guests might want a moment or two to themselves," he whispers. "They look somewhat unnerved."

"Very well," I grumble, just as quietly. "Show them around, if you must. Perhaps they will feel better after freshening up and taking some tea - I shall order some and find a quiet table in the canteen."

I wait for the return of Watson and our charges at my preferred table, with John and Beth, while my Boswell gives them a brief tour. I had wanted to begin to play tricks before we were seen together, but perhaps nobody will notice our 'look-alikes' wandering about with us.

"What're you planning?" Beth asks of me. "I know you, Sherlock - you've got something in mind."

John nods. "Mischief."

I ignore them both - all will soon be revealed. Hum! Mischief, indeed! They clearly do not know me as well as they think that they do.

As it turns out, Mr. Brett is eager to have some fun. Dressed as he is, he might be able to pass for me (if he happened upon a chap in need of spectacles) and he would appear to be anxious to find out just how convincing he can be. There is only one way to find out, as far as I can see.

With a smirk, I point the fellow in the direction of Chief Inspector Grayson's office and ask Watson to accompany him.

"Grayson's horrible!" Beth shakes her head with a grimace. "He'll probably just insult you, Jeremy."

His eyes narrow. "Not to worry - I can give as good as I get and it's not my reputation or job at stake. See you later."

I stop him hastily. "On second thought, perhaps you could go and see if there is anything of interest in the archives - Quirke will be there. Go with him, Watson."

Mr. Burke accompanies me somewhat nervously, when I call on Grayson. I pat his arm and suggest that he take to a seat.

"What do you want, Holmes?" the chief inspector demands to know. "You've only just solved the case I gave you, two days ago - you can't be bored already!"

I shrug with my hands. "Why not? Two days is an absolute age! An eternity."

"I don't know how you live with this loony," Grayson says, turning to the chap that he clearly believes to be my Watson. "He'd drive me nuts!"

Burke raises his eyebrows, falling into character with surprising ease. "Holmes is my friend," says he. "Besides, he's not mad - there is method to all that he does; even those things that seem odd."

The chief inspector merely sniggers. "You mean there's a method in his madness? I'm not so sure - I'd say there's a madness in his method!"

I stand and go to the door. "Come, Watson. The chief inspector will be quick enough to call us up, when he requires some help from a 'loony'."

"I think you should think twice, before helping him with anything at all," Burke remarks, as the door closes behind us. "He's very rude!"

"Well, one must make allowances for imbeciles," I respond with a chuckle. "One should not expect too much from them. Now, shall we regroup?"

He gestures for me too lead on. "By all means. I wonder if the chap in charge of the archives recognised that Jeremy wasn't you."

I give another chuckle. "I very much doubt it - Quirke is seldom at work. It appears that he has at least a dozen grandmothers - six of which have sadly passed away, in the time that I have known him, while the others are often unwell. Interestingly, it would seem that nobody has ever queried this with him - I most certainly would have."

When we find Watson and Brett, Quirke is telling them some sort of woeful tale, to which they are listening intently. This actor seems far too kind-hearted to survive in this wicked world and - for the first time since meeting him - I feel protective toward him (possibly even more so than I ever have for Watson or even my fiancée) and I approach his side swiftly.

Quirke stops in mid-sentence and looks from one of us to the other, clearly confused. "Amazing," I hear him whisper.

I greet him with a cold smile. "Mr. Quirke! How is your dear grandmother?"

"Uh... uh... She's OK, thanks, Mr. Holmes, thanks for asking," he stammers. "Are you clones? You look nearly the same, but he's taller 'n' he's got greener eyes. And..."

How dare he call me short! I am exactly six feet tall - very tall, for a Victorian gentleman. Besides, I am taller than Watson.

Brett eyes me carefully. "I am only marginally taller - an inch or so," says he quickly. I suspect that he is trying to make me feel better. It is not going to work.

"Which one o' you's which?" he asks, still looking from one to the other.

"If you spent more time at your post, so that I could find you when I have need of you, you would not need to ask."

Brett pokes me in the ribs with a sharp elbow. "He's been unwell, Holmes."

"An' my gran got rushed into hospital, with her heart - she's OK now, though," he adds, when I open my mouth to speak.

"Which grandmother?" I ask of him, rather sharply.

I am tired of his excuses and complaints! When I have been unwell (a rare occurrence, these days, now that I have grown accustomed to the illnesses of this era) my colleagues were not given all of the details - or any at all. The Yarders only know when I have been taken seriously ill because Beth, John or Watson will tell Grayson as much.

"My dad's mum," he replies promptly.

"I thought you said that she had died." At least twice, as a matter of fact. Strange woman!

"Oh! No. That was Dad's stepmother."

"Ah!" I smile and nod. "Of course. That makes perfect sense."

It does not, however, explain how she could have passed on twice - unless, of course, his father had more than one stepmother. Perhaps I should not try to work it out - he is not my employé, dash it all, and if his superiors are too dim to realise that he is taking advantage, that is their affair. I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies!

"Have you any cold cases of interest?" I ask of the irksome gentleman.

"I think you've seen 'em all," says he, scratching his chin. "Lestrade usually gets copies of 'em sent over to your place when you're hurt or sick. Heh! Wish I could understand you - last thing I'd think about is work, if I was zedding sick."

I am surprised when Brett answers for me. "Some of us need to work - we live for it, relish it, revel in it. If you are unable to enjoy the job that you do, perhaps you should find something that you can enjoy."

"Such as acting?" I ask of him, with a cocked brow.

"Whether you see it as work or not, it is work," he defends himself. "It might not save lives, or... or..."

I touch his arm. "Mr. Brett, do please calm yourself. I was... tormenting you. And I apologise."

He regards me with a surprised expression for some moments and then gives a subtle nod.

"You're an actor?" Quirke stares at the fellow anew. "That mean one of the Watsons is, too? Which one's which?"

I think that it is obvious, but Quirke never has been the sharpest knife in the drawer.

"Mr. Burke, Mr. Brett, meet Mr. Quirke."

Quirke nods to each of them in greeting as I indicate them and then turns to Watson. "I thought you were the real Watson - you're a bit more muscular."

I am short and Watson is muscular. Why could he not find a single compliment for me? I sniff.

"Watson does enjoy sport."

The doctor nods with a bright smile. "I have been trying to encourage the Yard to start a cricket club - amateur, of course - but they are not very interested," he informs our friends. "I wish I could understand it! They have a small football team. Humph! They are not even interested in rugby!"

Poor old Watson. I suppress an amused chuckle. "Well, I think we have taken up enough of Mr. Quirke's time. Come, gentlemen - and Lestrade, of course."

"So what was that about?" Lestrade asks. "What were you trying to prove?"

I smirk and shrug with my hands. "Aside from the fact that Quirke truly is never on hand when he is needed, nothing at all. I just wanted to see the look on his face. Now, I believe we agreed to show Brett and Burke our own era - are you coming? We could stroll along the banks of the Thames."

Brett grimaces. "I'm tired," he confesses. "I've been up since the early hours. What time is it now, David?"

His companion suppresses a yawn. "It must be getting late... I think we left Granada Studios at about four o'clock - we were just about to return from a break."

Brett covers a near-silent yawn of his own and nods. "I can't carry on running about London like this. I need a rest."

Lazy fellow! I snort impatiently. "Really! I have been awake all the night and I am not tired."

Watson takes my arm. "All the same, there is no harm in taking a moment. You did say that we shall return our friends to the very moment from whence they were abducted, so they can stay for as long as they wish, surely?"

Brett brightens considerably. "Do you mean that we can stay here for years and nobody would notice? We won't be missed?"

I would have thought that a 'star' such as he would want to be missed. This fellow has surprised me again!

"How long do you want to stay?"

Brett addresses me with a somewhat cheeky grin. "Long enough for you to learn to call me Jeremy, perhaps. I don't really like formalities amongst friends."

I resist the temptation to raise my eyes skyward. "Forgive me, but I do. In my day..."

"But surely today is your day, now?" Burke protests. "You've embraced the technology easily enough."

How can I explain?

"Holmes and Watson are Victorian," Beth says, coming to my rescue. "Technology's one thing; manners and stuff is different - they were taught that stuff as kids 'n' probably had a lot of it beaten into 'em. You can't expect them to change, just like that."

Brett regards me thoughtfully. "What was your childhood like?" he muses.

I know not whether he is talking to me or himself, but I am going to pretend not to have heard. Perhaps it is high time that our guests partook of a siesta - anything to cease the questioning!

Back to Baker Street we go, to be greeted by an enthusiastic Briar.

John the robot is quick to make up beds for our guests in the sitting room, while I retire to my own bedroom (to study something, I lie - I do not enjoy admitting it, when I am weary).

I accept the compudroid's offer of tea, before taking to my bed, but decline food; I am far too done up to feel hungry now.