December 7: "Holmes and Watson embark on a case which has supernatural connotations..." (from Hades Lord of the Dead)
A/N: I may have stretched the definition of the word "supernatural"…
…and the word "case"…
But hey, it was fun writing it. XD
It began, as all strange days began: with the misleading appearance of being an absolutely ordinary day.
Holmes and Watson had left their rooms in Baker Street early that morning, and had been investigating a case in the north side of London. It was just getting to be lunchtime when the two decided no more could be done at the scene, and all parties would be best served if Watson's ravenous appetite was abated.
So it was, that around a quarter after noon, the detective and his Boswell were seated comfortably in the back of a hansom cab bound for Baker Street. They were only a block away from their destination when a man in a lavender suit materialized in front of the cab and immediately crumpled to the ground as the hansom struck him.
"STOP!" Holmes yelled in a strident tone, though the cabbie was already doing so.
"Good heavens!" Watson exclaimed as the two clambered quickly out of the cab. "Where the devil did he come from, anyhow?"
The young man, thin and sporting a head of curly red hair lay sprawled on the cobblestone streets, obviously unconscious. Watson did a quick examination, and determined that the man had not broken any bones.
"Let's bring him to the flat, that way I can watch for signs of a concussion," said the doctor.
"Good idea," Holmes replied. "We won't be able to fit him in the hansom with us, though. I shall pay the cabman, and we can carry him the remaining block. Put that down—I shall carry his briefcase; you are already carrying your own doctors' bag."
Needless to say, the pair received more than the usual number of stares. It is not every day that one sees two dignified gentleman carrying an unconscious ginger in a purple suit down Baker Street. The stairs were the most difficult part, but the detective and doctor managed them fairly well; the unconscious man was unusually thin, and so not very heavy.
As soon as they had lain their patient upon the settee, Watson began a more thorough examination of his, and Holmes began a more through investigation of his belongings.
"Holmes, for goodness' sake, get your nose out of his briefcase!"
"I was only curious as to what sort of business a man with such a loud suit would be doing!"
Watson rolled his eyes, and returned his attention to his young patient. It had not been five seconds, when Holmes gave a cry of surprise, and his friend whirled round to see why.
The doctor gave a cry of surprise as well, when he saw that Holmes had his arm—all the way to the shoulder—reaching straight down into the briefcase!"
"Holmes—what are you—?! Why, that's impossible!" Watson spluttered.
"It is larger on the inside!" the detective exclaimed, reaching farther into the case. He lost balance, and fell headlong into the bag. "Agh!"
"Holmes!" Watson yelled, diving towards his friend, but he was too late. There was a resounding crash as the detective struck the bottom of the case. The doctor looked in the bag, and experienced the dizzying realization that the briefcase, which appeared to be about four inches thick, contained a space the size of a small room. Holmes seemed to have fallen at least six feet.
The detective groaned. "That hurt!"
"Just a moment Holmes, I'll get you out of there! Let me find a rope or something…"
It was just then that the man on the settee gave a loud grunt, and began shifting positions and muttering to himself.
Watson wasn't able to catch all of what he said, but what he did hear did not make much sense.
"Apparation lessons…blasted waste…better off taking the knight bus…good heavens, where am I?!"
The man had opened his eyes, and was now sitting bolt upright on the settee.
Watson quickly approached his patient's side, and spoke calmly, though he felt anything but calm. Nothing made sense about this! "You're in the sitting room of 221b Baker Street. Our cab struck you in the street, so we brought you in here to be sure you were not suffering from a concussion. I am Dr. Watson, and my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes…well…he is in a bit of a predicament." Watson glanced apologetically towards the open briefcase.
"Watson? Watson, what's going on?! I can't see a thing, and I can't make out a word you're saying, old man! Get me out of this blasted thing!"
"Just a moment, Holmes! Our new acquaintance has woken up," Watson shouted at the briefcase.
The redhead looked horrified for a moment, then his expression changed to amusement. "I thank you for going to the trouble of picking me up off the street, but I do with your friend was a little less nosy." He muttered something that sounded like "bloody Muggles" but Watson couldn't be sure. "My name is Dumbledore, by the way. Albus Dumbledore."
"A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Dumbledore, though I wish it had been under other circumstances," said Watson.
"Yes, well, such is life," returned Dumbledore. "I do like your carpet, by the way. The combination of the colors and floral pattern is very calming."
Watson looked a little bewildered by the random comment, but Dumbledore appeared oblivious.
"Now, how about we see about freeing your nosy fellow-lodger." The odd man pulled an ornately carved and varnished stick out of an inside pocket in his suit jacket, and turned to the briefcase.
"What are you—?" Watson began
"Wingardium Leviosa!" Dumbledore exclaimed. The doctor watched in transfixed horror as an equally terrified Sherlock Holmes floated out of the briefcase and landed gracefully on the carpet.
"What—?" began Holmes.
"How—?" began Watson.
Dumbledore hushed them both. "Shh. I think I shall be off now."
Holmes and Watson stood in stunned silence as the strange young man closed his briefcase, picked it up, crossed to the doorway, and turned to face them again, his hands held aloft.
"Thank you once again, gentleman," Dumbledore said. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, but I'm afraid you are going to have to forget this particular adventure. Obliviate!"
The doctor and the detective stood across a few paces from each other, blinking, as though they'd been blinded by a bright light.
"I say, Holmes," said Watson, rubbing his temple. "Why do I feel as though I've forgotten something important?"
"I haven't the foggiest notion," the detective replied. "But it would be appreciated if you could tell my why the devil my back hurts so much!"
"…I think you were hit by a cab," Watson replied slowly.
Holmes frowned. "Was I really? My recollection is vague at best. But that is to be expected if I was concussed. Do I have a concussion?"
"I—I don't know," Watson replied. "I don't remember. Do I have a concussion?"
"Were we both hit by a cab?" asked Holmes in disbelief.
"I don't know!" Watson replied in a frustrated tone. "That's it, we need my friend Dr. Clarke! Perhaps he could tell us what the devil is wrong with us!"
A/N: Poor Dr. Clarke is going to be a very confused man very soon. And Dumbledore needs to work on his Apparation!