Mr. Lestrade is deeply interested in Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis. I have already told him the story of how I came by it (he does not like the thought of my stealing it from beneath the very nose of a dangerous criminal, however).

"Really, Lestrade! The criminal from whom I... acquired it... was going to use it to pillage and plunder - once he had used it to ensure that I was forever out of his way, naturally. Do you mean to say that I should have permitted him to keep it?"

He frowns and breathes a weary sigh. "Of course not, Mr. Holmes. I have to ask, though... Did you take the blueprints, as well?"

Up until now, I have really been feeling rather proud of myself. I had given not a thought to "Blueprints?"

He huffs impatiently and folds his arms, much like his descendent. "Yes, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the blueprints - you know, to stop this dangerous criminal from making another one."

"No," I confess, suddenly feeling quite sick. "I did not. I was rather too busy making my escape."

"Well done, Mr. Holmes, you have probably surpassed yourself. For such a clever man, you can be incredibly stupid!"

I stare at him in disbelief. Never before have I been so abused by this little man.

"Don't you dare look at me like that!" he snaps. "Do you realise what you have quite probably brought on yourself and your friends? If you get Beth killed I'll..."

I meet his gaze and take his hand earnestly. "If anything happens to Beth through my failings - misjudgement, oversight, inability to act quickly enough... anything at all - I would never forgive myself. I would see her hate me first."

For a moment, he stares back at me, shocked by this revelation, but then he calms himself.

"Please, Mr. Holmes, just keep safe. As you are already aware, the best way to keep those that you care about safe is to protect yourself. See that this enemy - whom-so-ever it is that wants to be rid of you - can never hurt you."

I nod and glance away, finding it difficult to face those earnest, dark eyes.

"Are you going to destroy your time machine, once you've had your fun with it?" he now asks.

I gape at him. "Are you mad? No! No, I am most certainly not going to destroy it. How could I offer Mr. Brett and his friends my assistance, knowing that I might be unable to go to them?"

He clears his throat. "God gives us all the means to face our difficulties, Mr. Holmes. Your friends from the 20th Century are no different."

"That is rather callous of you, Inspector. To whom do you turn, when you find yourself to be in need of a friend?"

"Men from my own time, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Well... I cannot argue with that. "All well and good, Mr. George Lestrade. However, who put Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis within my reach? Was that not also God?"

"Perhaps He meant for you to rid the world of it."

I feel my eyes blaze. "Then He knew not what He was doing, which is unthinkable. No, I cannot believe that, Lestrade. He knows well enough what I am - what I would do with it. My nature has always been to interfere."

It is true and he cannot deny it. "Well, if that is how you feel about it, might I give you some advice?"

Not more advice! I begin to protest.

"Please, listen. If you really believe that you're doing what God wants - working for Him, as it were - pray, before you set off, eh? Meditate on Him - ask Him to guide you."

I snort impatiently. "I could not remain still nearly long enough! My brain is still the racing engine that ever it was."

"My point exactly. You can't justify what you do by claiming to be doing God's will if you are not. Either destroy the thing (nice as it is), or use it as God wants you to - it is your choice."

But... "Surely what ever I might decide to do is already a part of His plan? My maker knows me - He has always known me and what my thoughts and actions will be."

"The almighty knows you," repeats Lestrade, thoughtfully. "That's your argument, is it? Well, what about the garroters? Do you suppose that they were not made by God's hand? Do the murders and conmen work for God?"

I lower my gaze. "No."

"I should think not."

Dash it all! I never knew that Lestrade was such a religious man - it is like arguing with a priest!

"What does Doctor Watson think?" he asks. "He always was the voice of reason."

I shrug with a frustrated flourish of my hands. "He sees no harm in time travelling. In all honesty -"

"You should like to know why I do?" he smirks. "That's easy enough. I know you, as well. Sooner or later, you will go too far; I am trying to tell you - now - to think about your actions (and the consequences of them), before you do something that you shouldn't."

"Such as..?"

His dark brows knit as he considers me for a long moment. "Such as killing Moriarty, so as to avoid being forced to leave the doctor to mourn for three years. That sort of thing. I know you, Mr. Holmes - sooner or later..."

I am tempted to admit that I like the thought of killing Moriarty before he and Moran forced my hand. But I know that to kill the man in the past would mean that Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis would never have been built, because Moriarty would never have been cloned by Martin Fenwick. No. Sadly, I have to leave the past as it is.

"Then I promise to consider the consequences of my actions before I act. What more can I do?" I say instead.

He lifts an eyebrow (as his descendent often does - particularly when she says something along the lines of "seriously?") at me. "I have already told you what you can do."

"Yes, well... I would imagine that Beth would like to have you present at our wedding - if you would be so good as to give us your blessing, of course."

"Are you trying to blackmail me?"

I press a hand to my heart. "You wound me, Inspector - deeply. You of all people must surely know how I feel about blackmailers."

He huffs and narrows his eyes at me, but says nothing more.

"That would be my delivery," I note, leaping from my chair. "Mr. Lestrade, I beg of you - not a word of this conversation to anyone else. I promise to keep it in mind - I give you my word. But Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis might prove to be much too valuable to destroy."

He shrugs his shoulders. "I can see that any further discussion would do no good. At least I can say that I've warned you."

I smile brightly, feeling that a heavy weight has been lifted from my shoulders. "Yes." With that, I run down the stairs in order to claim my package.

Upon returning to the 19th Century, I assist Lestrade in loading the cab between hasty gulps of tea.

"I have another question about how the time travelling works," says he, when we stop to take another quick sip of our drinks. "How do you always return to the correct moment?"

"Oh, that is very simple. When ever I leave a time which I need to be able to return to - or to return someone to - I docket it on the inbuilt computer, rather like a page marker. The computer can store up to ten page markers at a time."

He looks somewhat impressed. "How many do you have stored at the moment?"

"I have 1984 marked for Brett and Burke's return and 2112 marked for the return of Beth, Watson and myself. When I took you to 2105, I marked the moment from whence we left here, as well. Personally, I see no reason for ten markers, but perhaps five would prove to be too few."

"I suppose it all depends upon what you mean to use it for," says he. I must confess that he is right.

I cannot help but feel some relief, when Mr. Lestrade has left. He might well have promised not to speak of our private discussion, but his presence still made me somewhat nervous.

Having seen the little man off with a wave, I make my way back up the seventeen steps to the sitting room. Mr. Brett is curled upon the settee beside Mr. Burke, a rug about each of them, both either sleeping or resting his eyes. It has indeed been a long day, but we at least have cab fayre now.

I glance at the clock regretfully. I myself should be glad to rest a moment, but we really must dress for dinner and prepare to make our way to Mycroft's. I already miss my car of the 22nd Century - particularly it's speed.

Beth touches my arm. "Don't wake 'em up," she whispers. "They're dead beat, Sherlock."

"How the deuce do you think I feel?" I snap at her in a hiss. "I have not stopped at all."

Only now, I realise just how done up I am. My arms and back ache from carrying boxes about. My legs ache from relentless walking and my head has been aching for quite some time, but I had barely noticed until this moment.

She takes my hand in hers. "How old would you say they were?"

I gaze at Brett and Burke thoughtfully. Each looks quite content and relaxed, sharing my settee like a pair of bookends. "I would say that they were either in their late thirties or early forties - around about the current age of my other self. Why do you ask?"

"Because they aren't," says she. "They're at least ten years older than they look."

I search for signs of it, but they look no older to me than they did when I first set my eyes upon them.

"Also, Jeremy's got a heart condition - that's probably why he gets tired out faster than David. He probably really needs a rest."

"Why did you not say so before?" I demand to know, being careful not to raise my voice. "Come to that, why did he fail to mention it?"

She shrugs. "It didn't feel right to tell you, if he didn't want to. But I thought maybe you should know."

"Of course I should know! I have been expecting far more of the chap than is fair. I had no idea at all - he runs and dives about as if he were a young man."

"Don't say anything about it to him, OK? It'd probably upset the guy. He's had the condition since he had some kind o' fever, as a kid. I guess he's used to it."

My mind has already leapt ahead. "Rheumatic fever?"

"I think so. Why?"

I shake my head. "I suppose that it matters not. I knew someone, once, who had had rheumatic fever as a boy and was left with a heart condition, that is all."

"You won't say anything, will you? It'd be mean. I don't think he'd like the thought of us talking about him behind his back like this."

I touch her arm. "I give you my word that I shall say nothing to him upon the matter until he touches upon the subject. All the same, I do think that Watson should know."

"I guess."

"Does Burke know, do you think?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. I guess I could have a chat with Jeremy - in private. Tell him that I know about it... maybe let him know that I just want to know he'll be OK. Maybe tell him that I think you 'n' Watson need to know about it."

I nod. "That might well be a good idea."

"You keep looking at the clock," she notes.

"Mycroft told us not to be late," I remind her. "The carriages of today are not nearly as fast as the motorcars of tomorrow - let alone your flying motorcars. We have to dress for dinner and get there before seven this evening - we are fast running out of time."

"Let's take your time machine," she suggests. "I know your brother told you not to, but it'll mean that you can get some rest, too. You don't look too good."

I frown at her. "I am all right."

She raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, right. Look, Sherlock, you're paler than usual 'n' you keep rubbing at your forehead. Sure you feel OK?"

"Yes," I growl as I lower my hand and clasp it behind my back.

"Seriously? You don't look it."

I am unused to being around cigarette smoke and Mr. Brett was quite right when he said that that was amongst the less harmful things that we are likely to breathe in Victorian London. My nose feels as if it is becoming blocked, not helped by the chill March air.

"That's what I thought. Go on - go lie down. We can make the time up."

With an amused smirk, I submit. "Yes, nanny."

It is after seven when I awake. I still feel weary, but a little better than I did - I suspect that I shall want a lie-in, tomorrow morning.

Burke rubs at his eyes and Brett groans, when I wake them - they will probably want a lie-in, as well. I apologise for being forced to disturb them, naturally, but remind them that we really should ready ourselves for our dinner appointment.

"Yes, of course," Burke mutters with a stifled yawn, while his friend stalks into the washroom with his dinner suit in a disgruntled manner.

I note with gratitude that Beth and Watson have already dressed for dinner, clearly having realised that it would be difficult for everyone to dress at the same moment.

"Mr. Burke, you are welcome to use my bedroom, upstairs," Watson offers kindly. "I have a washstand and everything that you might need."

Our new friend thanks him and permits him to show him upstairs to his room. That leaves me to get ready in my own room, as I have done so many times before. While I freshen up and dress, I take a moment to clear my bed of books and goodness knows what else, for I am no longer accustomed to sleeping in such a mess (John the Robot always tidies my room before I sleep and ensures that I have all that I might need - I am beginning to miss him).

Once we are all ready, I share out the coinage equally. It should be enough.

"By the way, Watson," I offer him a lightning-quick smile. "I believe that I have solved a little mystery. Do you recall, while we were holidaying in the New Forest, that I had to contact our bank, because somebody had had the nerve to hack into my account and order for something to be delivered in London?"

My friend gasps. "Good heavens!"

"You mean you've stolen from yourself," says Beth. "And ruined your holiday."

"Oh, not really. The bank reimbursed the money - I must confess that I did threaten them with bad publicity and a thorough investigation, but what was I to think? I then changed my passwords and that was an end to it. Truth be told, I had forgotten all about it until just now."

Watson chuckles and that sets me bursting into laughter in turn, which would appear to prove infectious.

"We should go," I note as I stand, dabbing tears of mirth from my eyes with a clean handkerchief, while I thrust my coins into the pocket of my overcoat before pulling it on.

"Now, have we got everything? Mr. Burke, have you and Mr. Brett packed your clothes?"

Burke nods with a smile. "Doctor Watson leant us a hand, while you were loading Mr. Lestrade's cab."

"Capital. See that you bring everything. Would you like me to carry anything? Yes, I'll take that. Oh! Brother Mycroft's cheque-book! Well done, Beth. Excellent! No, we must not forget that. Is that everything?"

Eventually, we pile into Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis. We step out into Brother Mycroft's parlour mere seconds later. The clock on the mantlepiece tells us that the time is only half past six and thus we are now early. Ha ha!