Our first port of call is to visit Mycroft, in the hope of finding charity. I present my card at the door of the Diogenes Club, but am denied entry on account of having a woman with me.

"This is a matter of some import," I tell the irksome fellow on the door quietly. "Now, you can either permit me to speak with Mycroft without a fuss, or I shall... create a scene as only a younger brother can." I say this when I remember Miss Lestrade - a gentleman should never speak of 'raising Hell' whilst he is in the company of a young lady (what am I thinking of?). "What will it be?"

My reputation is not lost on the imbecile, for he admits us all without further argument. Ha! I remind my companions to be silent with a finger to my lips and we then proceed.

My elder brother is at the window with his back to us, when we enter his private room. I quietly clear my throat, expecting him to acknowledge our presence in some way.

"I was told that you had gone to Cornwall, Sherlock."

"And that is where Watson and I are," I reply, knowing that my voice is bound to sound different to him. "But we are also here. I find myself to be in need of your help, brother mine."

He turns sharply from the window at my words.

"What have you done, Sherlock?"

I smirk, discovering myself to be somewhat amused by his inability to deduce it.

"When I last saw you, you looked positively sickly," he now remarks. "Now you look at least half your age. I say again: what have you done?"

Only half my age! Dear me! How little he knows! I chuckle and then dissolve into a fit of helpless laughter.

Watson steps forward. "Holmes is laughing because," he casts me a doubtful expression, "I think it is because the situation is far from simple. We are much older than we appear..."

"And David and I haven't actually been born, yet," Brett adds brightly, as if he expects that revelation to be helpful. He is as optimistic as my Boswell.

Mycroft scrabbles for his chair and collapses into it, before turning his eyes in the direction of the door for a moment (no doubt contemplating calling for assistance). "Not born yet? You look older than my brother."

"Before anyone tries to explain, I should make introductions. Mycroft, you already know Doctor Watson. To his left are two very skilled thespians - Jeremy Brett and David Burke. The young lady is Miss Beth Lestrade."

He stiffens, clearly noticing Beth (unsurprisingly, as she is the shortest, is dressed in black and is standing to the back of the group) for the first time.

"Sherlock! This is a gentleman's club - women are strictly forbidden. You know that - how dare you! I shall ban you, henceforth."

"Dear me," I chuckle. "I shall be confused - I am to be banned for an offense which I have not committed yet."

"You are talking absolute piffle, Sherlock! You are standing here with her right now."

I give another peal of laughter. "I am, at this very moment, in Cornwall - upon the insistence of two doctors; one of whom is Watson. Watson is with me; no doubt trying to keep me in a relaxed state and out of mischief, if memory serves me."

My brother merely snorts - as, I notice, does Mr. Brett.

"But you are also here."

"Look, Sherlock, let me explain," Beth volunteers, stepping forward to rest a hand upon my arm.

Mycroft arches an eyebrow at her, but if she sees him she cares not a jot.

"Mycroft - Mr. Holmes - I'm Inspector Beth Lestrade. I'm descended from an acquaintance of Sherlock's. You've heard of Inspector G. Lestrade, right?"

His second eyebrow joins the first.

"Well, anyway, I was - or I will be - born in August, 2078. Being a Lestrade, I inherited Watson's journals and I knew Holmes - and Watson - pretty well, through reading 'em. Cutting a long story short, I needed your brother's help, so I had him and Watson brought back to life as young men."

He shakes his head, clearly trying to make sense of this information. "That explains almost everything," says he after a moment of silent contemplation.

"Really? What did I miss?" she asks of him.

He gives a long-suffering sigh. "How you come to be here."

"Ah! That is my doing," I announce with a smile. "I stole a time machine from a criminal - would you care to see it?"

"No," he snaps. "I should like some peace. What do you want, Sherlock?"

I chuckle nervously, spreading my hands in an appeal. "A loan. My other self would appear to have left no funds in the house and my credit card is not going to be worth the plastic that it is made from."

I see him mouth the words 'plastic' and 'credit card', as he considers my words. "Has your 'other self' neglected to pay the rent?"

"No. He has taken all of the best clothing - as has Watson (the other Watson). Our companions also have only the clothes which they are standing up in. And we shall want money for food."

Mycroft glances at each member of the company, one to another and back again. "I am not made of money, Sherlock."

"I have no doubt that we can pay you back," I reply. "My faculties remain unchanged - should the right client call, I could pay you on my own, with funds left to spare."

He shrugs and tosses me his cheque-book. "Do not spend more than you must - my funds are not without limits."

I remember those very words in written form from him, when I requested an increase in funds during my hiatus. Mycroft has always been mean with his money.

"There is one more request, brother mine," I add, as if by some after-thought. "Five of us cannot comfortably fit at Baker Street - there are only two narrow beds."

"You should not have a young lady staying in a house with four unmarried men, anyhow," he reminds me.

"Actually," begins Burke.

"David and I are happily married," Brett pipes up indignantly, at the same moment.

Mycroft addresses them with a nod. "Thank you, then, for leaving your wives at home."

"I was going to ask, brother mine, if you could permit Brett and Burke to stay with you. I can assure you that they make far better lodgers than I ever have."

He frowns at me for a long moment and then nods. "Very well. But I shall expect to be left alone, without disturbance, and without having my affairs pried into."

"We're actors, not detectives or spies," grumbles Burke.

"You might want to have a chat with them, Mycroft," I tell him, as we prepare to take our leave. "Both have some diverting stories to tell, without a doubt."

"At which time will you be expecting us?" Burke asks of him.

"I dine at eight. You may join me, but you must inform me of your intentions first, so that enough food can be prepared. Today is Thursday, so dinner will be roast beef."

"Thank you, Mycroft, but we shall be dining together - we shall no doubt still have plans to make."

He frowns at me. "I think I should like to be privy to these plans, if my house and my funds are to be at your disposal. You shall be expected at half past seven - no excuses. See that you are on time."

"How I have missed you, Mycroft." Escapes me entirely. He is too lazy to join us, so he expects us to fit our affairs around his.

"And, Sherlock," he calls to me, diverting my attention away from my hat, coat, muffler and gloves (my other self has been good enough to leave some warm clothing, at least).

"Yes?"

"Leave your new toy behind, if you please."

I do not please. I plan to show Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis to him and tell him of how I came to possess it - I have not had the opportunity to tell of my daring theft, yet.

"Very well," I reply with a smile.

We escort Beth back to Baker Street and then we gentlemen set out together for my favoured tailors. I have missed them!

I select a dinner suit and three daytime outfits - all of which are ready made and require only slight alterations. Watson, Brett and Burke then follow my lead.

"When will these be ready?" I enquire.

"I shall have them delivered to you tomorrow, in the afternoon, Mr. Holmes."

I tut quietly, shaking my head. "Could you not have the dinner suits, at the very least, ready before this evening? We shall have need of them."

The assistant nods. "We can do that, Mr. Holmes. Will you want any of the day suits earlier, if we are to prioritise some of the items?"

"One from each order would certainly be appreciated," I reply. "Thank you."

From here, we purchase fresh collars, undergarments, socks, hats (to match the suits) and I insist that Brett and Burke should at least consider purchasing a new coat, muffler and pair of gloves - both look cold and I doubt that their costumes are as warm as the Victorian articles which they are designed to resemble.

At last, we begin the long trudge back to Baker Street. The weather is still cold and we hurry homeward as quickly as can be managed.

"Ugh," Brett mutters, thrusting his hands into his pockets with a shudder, as he steps over something and turns to ensure that Watson and I have seen it. "These streets are filthy."

At least they are not dotted with spittle, discarded chewing gum and half-chewed sweets.

"Don't walk with your hands in your pockets, then," warns his companion. "If you slip or trip on something, you won't be able to stretch your hands out in front of you."

"Very sound advice, Mr. Burke. You would do well to listen, Brett."

Burke draws closer to his friend and slips an arm through his. I decide to follow the example of the men in front of us, drawing closer to Watson and inviting him to put his arm through mine.

"The stench is dreadful," the doctor whispers. "I cannot remember it ever being like this."

"Nor I. I suppose that we were simply accustomed to it."

"Is that the river that I can smell? I thought that it was bad enough, in the 22nd Century."

I shrug. I would rather not dwell upon the miasma. "It is difficult to say." What ever the source is, it is putrid - enough so to quite sicken me.

Upon reaching Baker Street, I ask Mrs. Hudson for tea and go on pouring four brandies, knowing from experience that that will ease the churning of my stomach and that it should fortify my companions just as much.

As I nurse my drink, I feel a hand at my shoulder.

"You OK?" Beth enquires. "You look white as a zedding sheet."

I take another sip of my restorative drink. "I am unaccustomed to the smells of Victorian London. That the streets were dirty I have not forgotten, but I was never so aware of the stench."

"And I'm supposed to be going out in it again, right after lunch. I don't think I want to."

I suppress a shiver of revulsion. "Yes, we could do with some money for cabs."

"You should've asked your brother."

"It was somewhat of a miracle to get his cheque-book from him; I was hardly going to press my luck any further."

I receive a series of smirks and knowing smiles from my friends, but choose to take no notice.

"If a case presents itself, will you take it?" Brett enquires, changing the subject (slightly).

Before I can respond, both Watson and Beth have assured him that I would not hesitate.

"Provided that it holds interest," I add, nonchalantly.

"We need money," Miss Lestrade reminds me.

I smirk. "Then a case is much more likely to hold interest, is it not?"

Brett squirms slightly. "What I wanted to ask is... what are we - David and I - meant to do, while you work?"

"Hum. I think I should prefer to leave you out of it - you are unfamiliar with Victorian London, its streets, its criminals... You could become lost or get attacked."

He nods, admitting that that would be sensible, but his shoulders droop slightly.

"Did you want to take part?"

He shrugs. "It doesn't matter."

"Mycroft might be able to find you work," I suggest.

"Thank you, but I think I'd rather audition at the local theatre. Are you coming, David?"

I stop them hastily. "Have some lunch and settle down, for goodness sake. We should make some plans. I would rather you did not go out alone, for the reasons I already gave - besides, you could fall foul to a case of mistaken identity; you do look quite like me."

"Oh! You do care," says he, with a lopsided smile. "I'm very touched."

I slam my eyes shut and drum my fingers on the seat upon which I am sitting. "Can we please be serious?"

He immediately wipes the grin from his face.

"Thank you. Now, I understand your frustration - I myself would want to work. However..."

Watson touches my arm. "Perhaps Brett and Burke could work here, Holmes. They could interview clients for us, take messages and so on. It would be as if we were in two places at once."

I turn my attention back to Mr. Brett. "What do you think?" I enquire of him. "Would you know what I would look for, or the questions that I might ask?"

"Put 'em to the test," Beth suggests. "Get them to interview you 'n' decide for yourself."

Brett looks somewhat nervous, but agrees readily enough. Without another word, he directs me out onto the chilly landing, to wait outside of the sitting room door to be called back in. I can hear the cheeky fellow giving orders from the other side of the door.

"Watson, Beth; would you sit over there, at the table? I'll do better if I'm less conscious of being observed. David, take Watson's chair, if you would."

When I enter my sitting room, Brett is standing beside the fireplace; he has his back turned to me and is leaning nonchalantly upon the mantlepiece as if I do not interest him one iota. How dare he!

He turns his eyes upon me in a bored manner, all but orders me to sit down on my settee and then proceeds to take to my chair with his hands behind his head and his eyes closed, as if he were going to sleep.

"State your case," says he.

Where to start? "Mr. Brett, I can assure you that I would never be so impolite."

He opens his eyes to gaze back at me. "Watson's descriptions of you say otherwise."

I hear my Boswell attempt to stifle a snigger at the table. Brett smiles pleasantly at me.

"Watson, did I do it right?" he asks of my friend, deciding not to listen to me at all.

The doctor clears his throat. "Well, you were a little bit brusque."

"A little bit?" I repeat, becoming quite incensed by now. "A little bit? When have I ever behaved like that?"

"When you have been in a temper, when you have been under the weather..." Watson begins to list, helpfully. "Actually, I would say that your behaviour was usually rather like that - you would be curt, impatient, brusque and, on occasion, downright difficult."

I lower my eyes to my lap. "I had no idea that I was so very lucky that you continued to work with me - let alone live with me."

"Well, we both had our tempers," my Boswell replies. "What right had I to protest or complain, when I could be worse than you were? Besides, you could also be very patient and kind - when I was most in need of it, you were very good to me."

I feel my ears turn hot and hastily turn away with a shrug my shoulders, before I again meet Brett's gaze. He is addressing me with a small smile.

"I'll try it again, shall I?" he offers. "Perhaps, if you could play the part of a distressed client, I might find it easier to respond appropriately."

I again step out onto the landing. On this occasion, I concentrate upon thinking of a story, as opposed to listening to what ever might be being said within my sitting room. I also untuck half of my shirt and ruffle my hair, before unfastening my collar and removing a cufflink from one sleeve. What might my double make of that? When I enter, I do so with a stagger, while I puff and wheeze.

This time, the actor's behaviour is much more to my liking (though he still insists upon beginning our interview by standing beside the fireplace with his back to me, when he calls me in. Did I ever do that?).

When I take a seat on the settee, I let my hands and fingers tremble and grasp the arm to my side, as if I were trying to hide it, while I slowly permit my breathing to return to normal.

"You're shivering, I see," Brett notes. "It is indeed cold out. Won't you take some tea, to banish the chill?"

Very good, Mr. Brett! Much better! "Thank you. A cup of tea might be just the thing. I have had a trying morning."

His eyes widen ever so slightly and his eyebrows twitch. "Dear me! Please, tell me all."

"Just a moment," Burke intervenes, handing me my cup of tea, which I discover that he has added a dose of brandy to, upon taking a sip. "Drink this and collect yourself; take your time."

"Thank you."

I can see that Brett is making a study of me. Good. I am tempted to ask him what he can deduce from the mess that I am in, but I would rather not put him off.

"I do believe that you've been manhandled," he announces at length. "And that you've ran here in some haste."

I feign surprise, as if I were one of the particularly dense Scotland Yarders. "Good heavens! How ever did you guess?"

I hear Beth chuckle at the role reversal and gesture impatiently for silence.

Brett smiles, though he looks more relieved than anything. "I never guess. Your clothes are in a state of disarray - and so is your hair. No gentleman would go out in such a state, so you've obviously been in some sort of a struggle. But not a fight, because there isn't a mark on you."

"Incredible," I reply, before I begin to babble, as if I were still suffering with nerves. "You are quite right. I only just escaped by good fortune and I came directly here because I have heard something about you."

"I'm glad that you aren't hurt," says he, patiently. "But I'm afraid you aren't making much sense. From whom have you escaped?"

"Bravo, Mr. Brett! Much better!" I clap my hands. "That was much better."

He gives a long, relieved sigh. "I don't think I can do this."

"Of course you can!" I reply, vehemently. "Come on, we shall try again. Shall we continue from the moment that I interrupted you?"

By the time Mrs. Hudson serves lunch, I have coached Mr. Brett and his friend until they are almost perfect.

"Jeremy won't need a script at all, when we go back to Granada Studios," Burke remarks with a cheerful smile.

"Neither will you," observes Watson. "You are both doing very well."

Which can only be a good thing - a very good thing. Some of the scripts are inaccurate drivel, if anyone would care to know what I think of them. Not all of them, of course; there are others which are incredibly accurate (sometimes, embarrassingly so). On reflection, I think I prefer the inaccuracies over those - I hope that we are not teaching our new friends too much which might be incriminating.