I awake to loud masculine laughter (most certainly not Watson's), followed by a second fellow's hushing. What the deuce is the time? For how long have I slept?

"Jeremy, do be quiet - Holmes and Watson are probably trying to sleep," Burke's stage-whispering voice scolds.

"Oh, Holmes is probably shut away reading, or something," Brett's voice responds airily. "He never sleeps."

Cheeky blighter! I suppose he thinks that he knows everything.

I pull myself from my bed, inserting my feet into the slippers that I keep beside my bedside cabinet and pulling on my dressing gown. I should very much like to use the lavatory, but that will have to wait for the moment - I cannot possibly be seen to enter the washroom by my guests, for it is not polite.

With care, I enter the sitting room and take a seat in my chair, leaning back and crossing my legs until I am as comfortable as is possible, under the circumstances. This was a perfectly appropriate manner in which to sit, in my day; my predicament should not be obvious and I know that I can wait for at least an hour, as long as I remain quite still and drink nothing.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," Burke offers me a smile. I note that he and his companion have both already changed out of the night clothing that John gave to them.

I give a curt nod. "Good morning."

"I hope I didn't disturb you," Brett says, with the good sense to at least look embarrassed, as he refolds the rugs that have been draped over the back of the settee. I take it that he and Burke have been sharing those. "I got a bit carried away."

I doubt that I would have remained asleep for very much longer anyway, for, even in my current position, I am all too aware of the growing need to ease myself. Perhaps I was a little optimistic when I made the earlier assessment of my predicament and the calculation of just how long I am able to wait. I resist the temptation to fidget - I am a gentleman!

This, of course, is a part of the reason why a well-mannered gentleman should keep a receptacle in a discreet location in one's bedroom - one's guests have no reason to see one enter the washroom if one has an alternative. And, while a guest might guess, a guest would not know (particularly not, should one take something to or from the bedroom, with the pretence of putting it away or getting it out) why one might be seen to be entering or exiting said room. The washroom is a different matter entirely.

"Are you all right, Holmes?" Brett asks. "Have you even heard a word I've said?"

I blink and sniff. "Excuse me. I am not quite awake, just yet. No, you did not really disturb me."

Burke casts a glance at my fingers, which I had not realised that I have been drumming upon the arm of my chair. "Is something wrong?"

Yes! "No. Of course not."

"You don't seem quite yourself," Brett notes.

And I suppose that he sees himself as an expert, having played my part for television. Pah!

"Are you in pain?" Brett now asks of me, his growing concern evident. "Do you want me to get your robot friend up from the kitchen?"

John would know what is amiss in a heartbeat and would most likely scold me for behaving irrationally - in front of our guests. He does not understand the attitudes of my era, regarding such things. I am not being silly, I am being polite - as I have been taught.

"I'll get him," Burke volunteers, standing.

I gesture for him to be seated. "No, no! I am all right. Do sit down."

Both men exchange concerned glances, but do not press the matter. I do believe that they are trying not to annoy me.

After remaining still for as long as I can bear, I realise that I could take some clothes into the washroom and there dress. Our guests cannot know that I still have a perfectly good washstand in my bedroom. Standing as quickly as I dare (with a hasty "excuse me"), I take myself into my room, pluck the first suit that I can lay my hand on from my wardrobe and hastily retrieve a selection of undergarments. I choose not to worry about socks or shoes - I am in a hurry and my slippers will suffice.

As slowly as I can force myself to move (and as normally as possible), I enter the washroom. I am rather proud of myself for managing not to dance from one foot to the other like a small child until the door has been securely locked behind me. Now I can tend to myself - and not a moment too soon!

When I emerge, Brett and Burke gaze at me with expressions of concern and curiosity.

"Forgive me - I felt somewhat self-conscious, sitting about in my nightshirt, in polite company. I felt that I should dress."

"Of course," Burke stammers, still watching me as if he is waiting for me to lose my temper over something. Does he think that I am so very temperamental?

Brett turns to him, shrugs and then turns back to me. "Are we going to visit your own era, today?"

"Well, I miss it," I confess. "And I think - I hope - that my fiancée might better understand me, if she can see with her own eyes where I come from and what it was like."

"I can understand that," Burke says.

His companion nods. "But why do you want us to come along?"

How can I explain? "I do not want you to find it difficult to picture me - and Watson - in our proper atmosphere. We live here now - we have both tried to embrace this era - but we belong in the Victorian era. By the end of our previous lives, we both felt that the world had changed too much to accommodate us; we now live in a world that is almost unrecognisable and if we did not still have one another, I am sure that we would both have gone mad."

Brett nods and pats my arm. "I think I can understand that."

Truly, this chap is much more like Watson than he is me. He does, however, appear to share one or two of my traits - mischief being one of them. Watson goes along with me, but I suspect that Mr. Brett is more the sort to lead others into trouble, rather than follow anyone else.

"Oh, you're awake, Holmes," John says as he enters the room with a tray. "I have brought up some tea and coffee. What would you like for breakfast?"

Only now, I realise that I am famished. "Some toast, please. And two runny eggs. And ham."

"You are hungry!" says he, with a smile.

I nod. "I am starving!" I declare.

He snorts. "That is what happens when you go all day without eating properly. Really, Holmes! You should know better, by now."

"Today is another day and I shall try to be better," I promise him smoothly. "Now, have you asked our guests what it is that they would like? Guests should be fed first, you know."

He sniffs indignantly. "You shall be fed together. Mr. Brett has asked for a fruit salad and Mr. Burke has asked for a full English breakfast - are you sure that you would not like any sausages, or fried onions, tomatoes or mushrooms?"

"Perhaps some mushrooms, onions and tomatoes," I respond. "But no sausages, thank you."

"Why will you not try them?" the robot asks of me. "You might like them."

Hum! I very much doubt it - processed food never has appealed to me.

He sighs and shakes his head before turning to walk away. "Oh!" he turns back again before he has reached the doorway to the landing. "You said that you want ham. Did you mean ham or bacon?"

"Obviously, I meant bacon; that is what ham is called, these days. For goodness sake, John! I have only just awoke!"

He quietly apologises and returns to the kitchen.

"Eggs and bacon - that's your favourite breakfast, isn't it?" Brett asks. "I'm sure Watson talks of it, more than anything else."

I shrug. "It is quick and easy - and tasty and filling. Everything that I need, when I have to go out and know not when I might next have an opportunity to eat."

He considers this and nods slowly.

"Are you sure that you only want fruit for your breakfast?" I ask of him. "Everyone else is going to have something rather the more substantial."

Brett grimaces. "I'm not normally as... slender... as you are. Which means that I have to starve myself, if I want to even resemble Watson's description of you."

"You can eat what ever you like - and as much as you want - here," I promise him. "Even if you were to become quite fat, you would return to your previous state upon returning to your own time."

He had looked as if he might have been about to take offense, to begin with, but he is now nodding thoughtfully. "Do you think your robotic friend would be annoyed, if I change my mind?"

I stand with a smile. "I shall go and explain. I am quite sure that John would prefer that you did not starve yourself."

Burke smiles gratefully at me, while his irksome friend merely raises an eyebrow at me but says nothing. Damned cheek! If he means to imply that I deliberately starve myself, he could not be further from the truth. Not that I intend to let him know what the truth is.

The smell of breakfast cooking soon rouses Watson, who stumbles downstairs, change of clothes in hand, and begins his routine in the washroom. I must confess that I am slightly irked that he found a solution so much faster than I did.

As we settle ourselves at the breakfast table, John prepares to start washing the clothing that we have left off. I stop him, asking that he simply leave the items in the laundry basket and then return to the sitting room.

"Very well, Holmes. Should I go down and fetch up some more tea and coffee?"

"Yes please," I respond with a bright smile. ."But do come back and sit with us."

Once the compudroid has left the room, Watson quietly explains that the fellow has a habit of taking on the role of servant. "It is nice of him to spare Holmes and I so much of the work about the house," he says, "but he is our friend; not a servant."

"I suppose robots have more energy and also more time on their hands," Burke remarks. "I mean, that might be his argument."

"It is," my Boswell confirms. "But he could still easily wear himself out, looking after - and cleaning up behind - Holmes. Mrs. Hudson had a team of servants to assist her and she found it quite tiring enough."

I sniff. "There were two people sharing the sitting room."

"Indeed there was," the doctor responds. "However, my bedroom was always left as I wished to find it."

"As was mine," I snap.

He snorts. "Your room was like the sitting room - an obstacle course!"

I set down the butter laden knife and piece of toast in my hands to gape at him, for once quite lost for words, while Brett roars with laughter and Burke tries to conceal an amused grin.

"I should like to know how you know what my bedroom was like," I growl at last. "I never gave you permission to pry into my affairs. Brett! Do cease your infernal noise!"

The fellow slowly stops, save for the occasional giggle.

"That is better. Thank you. Well, Watson?"

He shrugs, calmly concentrating upon the plate before him without even bothering to meet my gaze for a moment. "I sometimes had to let you in, by way of your bedroom window, if you recollect. And quite an assault course it was - books all over the bed and floor, papers strewn about..."

Thank you, Watson.

Brett attempts to stifle another round of laughter.

"Will you please control yourself?" I snap at him.

He shakes his head and gasps for breath. "I'm sorry. I just... I always thought that you'd be an interesting character to play, but I had no idea that you and Watson could be so funny, when you're together. Ha ha!"

If he does not desist I shall be happy to show him just how 'funny' I can be. Perhaps he might like a little swim in the Thames... Would that amuse him?

Watson places a calming hand upon my arm. I snarl and brush it off - I am in no mood to be placated.

"Jeremy meant no harm," Burke assures me, while his friend offers me a rather nervous-looking smile.

"No doubt, this is all rather exciting," Watson reminds me in a whisper. "Anyone can become high spirited."

Well, I never would. Not like that.

After rather a lazy morning, spent mostly discussing Victorian etiquette, Jeremy and Burke follow Watson and I inside the Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis and we each take a seat.

I am glad that today is Sunday - tomorrow, my Boswell will have to attend his wretched course at St. Barts Hospital, which is now mostly used as a museum and training facility. Tomorrow, he will miss all the fun!

"Lestrade is working, today," Watson reminds me, when I announce that we shall first call for her. "She told us as much before she went home, last night. If you recollect, Holmes, she said that she is on the early shift and would start work at five o'clock. Does her shift finish now? It is only eleven thirty!"

"She will not be missed," I reply airily, because I would rather not admit that I had forgotten. "She will not be gone for more than a split second and I would have thought that she would like some fun, to break up the monotony - if she is not at her desk, we shall return when her shift ends."

I see Burke shake his head from the corner of my eye. He and Brett are becoming far too cheeky! What right do they have to pass their judgements on me?

Beth is surprised to see us. Well, I suppose that I would be too, if a mode of transport were to appear from nowhere, beside my work-desk, while I was absorbed in a task at my computer. But she is not entirely displeased and soon agrees to accompany us on our latest adventure.

"You can't wear trousers, Beth," Brett informs her, as I start Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis up again. "There'd be uproar! The gun, boots and... somewhat revealing top will attract some odd looks, as well."

I cast him a sarcastic glare. "Perhaps you could recommend a good dressmaker, hum? For goodness sake, do you suppose that the thought had not occurred to me?"

"Had it?" he returns cheekily.

"Yes, of course. We shall send Mrs. Hudson out for clothing, naturally."

Burke raises his eyebrows. "We're going to Baker Street? But... won't you be there?"

"No. Watson and I will be on holiday in Cornwall."

"Mrs. Hudson will be dreadfully confused," Watson remarks with a sympathetic shake of his head. "How are we ever going to explain?"

I snort impatiently. "Explain what?"

"Your sudden recovery, for one thing," says he. "I remember the holiday in Cornwall, Holmes - and my reasons for insisting upon it."

"Really, Watson!"

He wags a finger at me. "You have not thought this through."

I shrug. "I am more than capable of..."

"Lying through your teeth at the speed of light?" Brett suggests, with a chuckle.

"Just as well, isn't it?" says Beth. "We might be in trouble, otherwise."

I am beginning to think that Mr. Brett's flippant behaviour might be infectious. God help me! Am I truly expected to put up with this?