Disclaimer – I own no rights to the world of Sherlock Holmes or Batman, or to any related characters. This is merely a tribute to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and to DC Comics.

Baka Gaijin30 – I too have seen, and enjoyed, "The Seven Percent Solution." In fact, that was the reason I included the bust of Sigmund Freud in Holmes' study back in Chapter 2. I'll assume Holmes broke his addiction as he did in 7. There will be references to the addiction, of course. But it's not going to be a major part of the plot.

Unseen Watche – I also find your pen name "scary but intriguing." Hope you enjoy the things to come.

A/N – I'm back. I promised you I would be eventually.

To paraphrase Mark Twain, "Forgive this long chapter, for I had no time to write a shorter one."

Sherlock Holmes & Bruce Wayne

in

"The Case of the Celebrity Impersonator"

Archie and Jack were two young boys who would never forget the day they saw Sherlock Holmes.

Another boy, most likely a wealthy, stuck-up brat, had trashed a perfectly good ball, and Archie and Jack were lucky enough to find it while searching for their breakfast.

An Inverness cape floated past Jack. The boy looked up to see a gaunt man wearing the cape. A deerstalker was perched on the gaunt man's head, and a Calabash pipe was hanging from his mouth.

The ball hit Jack in the head.

"Hey! What'd you do that for?"

"You should 'ave caught it!" snapped Archie.

"Do you know who just walked by?" asked Jack. "That was 'im!"

" 'im who?"

"Just come on and follow me!"

The two boys ran down the street, meeting disgust and disdain as they ran past the better off ladies and gentlemen along the street.

Sure enough, a man in an Inverness cape was walking ahead of them.

"Let's follow 'im!" said Archie.

The two boys followed the cape from the city into the country.

"It does look just like 'im," admitted Archie. "But I thought he lived on Baker Street."

"He's retired now, you little fool," said Jack. "I 'eard he was livin' as a beekeeper in Sussex."

"Do you think it's really 'im?"

"Has to be. Who else'd dress like that? And look! There's the bees."

The man in the cloak and deerstalker was, in fact, walking past a series of beehives and entering a country house. The boys waited until the man had entered the house and closed the door behind him before opening the picket fence and running in to the yard for themselves.

"Wa's he doing, you s'pose?" asked Jack.

"He's obviously taking care of some very serious detective business upstairs," said Archie. He pointed to a second floor window, where a figure in deerstalker and cloak was grabbing hold of the curtains and drawing them closed.

"C'mon!" commanded the ever-courageous Archie. "I'm sure he's got a back window."

The two boys ran into the back yard. A rather large oak tree was growing right outside of a second story window, behind which the curtains had yet to be drawn. Jack, not being much of a climber, was reluctant at first, but Archie finally convinced him, under threat of violence, to begin his ascent.

The two boys looked through the glass window. They could see several pieces of mail suspended to the wall with a jackknife. The man in the deerstalker was pacing around the room. The pipe in his mouth wobbled up and down as the man spoke, still keeping the pipe clenched tightly between his teeth. Another man stepped in front of the window. His appearance wasn't nearly as memorable as that of the great detective.

The man in the Inverness cloak removed his deerstalker, threw it on the ground, and began to stomp on it emphatically.

Then the other man lifted a vase.

CRASSSHHH!

The vase broke into several small pieces in the air. Blood splattered against the window. Sherlock Holmes fell to the floor.

The other man was preoccupied with examining the body of the man on the floor. He didn't seem to noticed Jack and Archie, who quickly ducked out of view.

"Should we tell a copper?" asked Jack.

"No," said Archie. "Let's just get out of here."

They intended to live the rest of their life carrying a terrible secret. They had witnessed the murder of Sherlock Holmes.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

" 'Onomatopoeia' refers to a word which both resembles and indicates a sound, such as…"

Phhtwack! Sherlock Holmes shoved the blade of the jackknife deep into the wall, a series of unopened envelopes in front of it. The hair on the back of Bruce Wayne's neck stood on end.

"Couldn't you just burn the mail you don't read?"

"You disapprove of my habit?" said Holmes.

"I disapprove of loud noises while I'm trying to study," said Bruce. "You're disturbing me."

"What are you studying now?" asked Holmes.

"The Brittany Tyler case," said Bruce.

"I feel sorry for you, then," said Holmes. "It was a rather dull case, involving language arts and poetry much more often than science. I had to acquaint myself with all sorts of linguistic terms and poetic tools."

"I find it fascinating," said Bruce, more than a small amount of spite in his voice. "What about the mail? Cases you refuse to take?"

"Occasionally," replied Holmes. "Mostly fanmail."

"Fanmail?"

"Letters from fanatics," said Holmes. "Insipid writers who want to be my friends, who tell me how much they admire my methods, who want to know aspects of my personal life."

"Why don't you just write them back?" said Bruce. "After all, it's the fans who pay the…" He stopped. "Not in this business, I guess."

"Not at all," said Holmes. "If I were an actor or a professional musician, I would find these letters flattering. As things are, I'd prefer to be left alone to remain focused on my own business."

Holmes began to look over the mail remaining.

"Hmm. Interesting," said Holmes. "A letter from Dr. Watson."

Bruce was shocked. From what his host had told him, Bruce had believed that Dr. Watson was dead. As he looked over Holmes shoulder, he noticed that the envelope was addressed from a "J. Watson."

He was about to ask Holmes for more details, but he was interrupted by a loud knock on the door.

"I'll get it," groaned Bruce, before Holmes could make it an order.

Chief Inspector Gregson, whom Bruce had recently made the acquaintance of, entered. He muttered a greeting towards Bruce and then raced towards Holmes.

"Excuse me for barging in like this, Holmes," said Gregson. "But there's been a little incident not far from here, and I think you might want to take a look at it for yourself."

"I'm quite sure you can manage on your own, Gregson. If you keep dragging me along to your work, a rumor will circulate that I'm not really retired."

"I wouldn't normally ask you, but this case is… bizarre. Well, not so much bizarre as, I think it concerns you. You'll just have to see for yourself."

The Inspector looked paler than usual. His eyes were pleading. He looked frustrated and helpless.

"Just take a look," he asked.

"Very well," said Holmes with a sigh. "Come, Master Wayne. Consider this an object lesson."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Holmes and Bruce slid into the back seat of Gregson's automobile and soon arrived at a large country house. They passed a white picket fence, they passed bee hives, and they climbed up a flight of stairs to a study.

They were greeted by the sight of a trim figure in a dress suit. The figure was bent over, suit pants stretched tight against a magnificent posterior, floating above two thin, shapely legs.

"Either that's a woman," thought Bruce, "or I'm getting my head examined."

The figure straightened up and turned around. Much to Bruce's relief, she was a woman. Blonde hair hung down to her shoulders and bangs ended just above her deep blue eyes. She smiled. A delicious smile. For a brief moment, Bruce thought the smile was for him.

"Uncle Sherlock!"

The moment ended. The young blonde ran up to Holmes and embraced him. Bruce could see a body lying in the spot the girl had left, but he turned away from it. The live woman interested him more than the dead man. She was chattering excitedly with Holmes.

"This is my friend Bruce Wayne," said Holmes, gesturing towards Bruce. "Mr. Wayne, may I present Dr. Jamie Watson, M. E."

"There's a lot of blood," said Gregson. "Dr. Watson, I'm sorry…"

"I had to see this?" finished the doctor. "Don't worry, Inspector. I've spent most of my life studying blood. You don't need to worry just because I'm a woman."

"Definitely a woman," muttered Bruce.

It wasn't until Dr. Watson looked at him that Bruce realized he had spoken aloud. Dr. Watson's expression turned all business.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Wayne," said the doctor, shaking Bruce's hand.

"Mr. Holmes must have mentioned you," said Bruce. "I just though he was talking about a different Watson."

"John Hamish Watson," said the blonde. "My father. I'm the result of his marriage to his second wife."

Bruce turned to Holmes, who was now studying the corpse on the floor. Bruce walked over and was surprised to see an Inverness cape flowing across the floor, covered in blood, a deerstalker lying nearby. For the first time, Bruce really paid attention to the room around him. A large jackknife was protruding from the wall next to a chart of dancing men.

Bruce looked down at the corpse again.

"It's you!" he exclaimed.

"Certainly not," said Holmes. "He has a pug nose. Also, note the cheap, imitation material used in his outfit. Also his pipe tobacco. It's a cheap, generic brand. I'd quit the habit before smoking such tobacco. This man is nothing like me at all."

Holmes raised the man's sleeve.

"You'll also notice the lack of needle marks."

"His name was Robert Smith," said Gregson. "He went by Bob, when he wasn't going by Sherlock."

Holmes snorted as he flipped through the pages of a book by Arthur Conan Doyle, one of several on the dead man's shelf.

"I can see what you meant by bizarre," said Holmes.

"Not too bizarre, though," said Gregson. "There are a lot of people like Smith out there. Just a week ago we looked at the suicide of a woman who claimed to be Queen Victoria."

"That's weird," said Bruce.

"It gets odder," said Gregson. "She was married to a man who claimed to be William Shakespeare. He swept her off of her feet with his love sonnets."

Another man entered the room. He was tall and slender, yet distinguished, with graying black hair. He looked at the odd assortment of characters in the room, his eyes stopping at Jamie.

"What's a woman doing in here?" demanded the newcomer.

"This is Dr. Watson," said Gregson. "She's with us. This is Mr. Allan Gates."

"And who is this?" asked Gates, turning to Holmes.

"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Is it really?" asked Gates incredulously. "The real Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I'm sorry, but poor Bob made it seem like he was."

"He was really convinced that he was him?" asked Bruce, gesturing from the body to Holmes.

"Oh, no," said Gates. "At least, he knew he wasn't born Sherlock Holmes. One day he just got tired of being Bob Smith and decided to be the great Sherlock Holmes instead. It's a miracle he never lost his job as a banker. He'd wear that deerstalker to work. It would make some of the patrons nervous."

"They still let him keep the job?" said Bruce.

"Yes. It turns out many of the men he made nervous had been plotting bank robberies. The bank promised they'd keep him employed as long as he promised not to smoke that ridiculous pipe of his in public."

Holmes leered at Gates as he took his own pipe from his pocket and placed it between his teeth.

"No offense," Gates quickly added.

"He was able to afford this place as a banker?" said Bruce.

"Hardly," said Gates. "I own this place. And the place next door. As a matter of fact, I live in the place next door."

"What do you do for a living, Mr. Gates?" asked Holmes.

"I design typewriters," said Gates. "Or rather, I used to. Now I own a company that designs and produces typewriters. Revolutionary typewriters ahead of their time. Very high in technology."

"You were Mr. Smith's neighbor?" said Bruce.

"And brother-in-law," said Gates. "That's why I let him live in this house. I offered to find psychological help for him, but Cathy, my wife, said it was a harmless hobby. She loved her brother in spite of everything."

"Would you mind telling Mr. Holmes how you discovered the body?" asked Gregson.

"Bob called me and asked me to come visit him. Told me to come at quarter past noon. He was like this when I found him."

"That will be all," said Gregson. "You may go now if you'd like Mr. Gates."

Holmes stopped Gates before he could walk out the door. He pulled a long hair off the other man's collar.

"Blonde," he observed.

"It must be Cathy's," said Gates. "Good day, Mr. Holmes."

Gates paused in the doorway.

"Funny," he said. "Bob always asked that I say that to him."

Bruce turned his gaze from Gates to the body. He looked at the wall behind him and then jumped back.

"What the Heck…?"

"I thought you'd be most interested in that, Mr. Holmes," said Gregson.

Holmes looked at the wall behind the body. His eyes showed a quick spark of emotion and then died down into indifference. He looked as though it wasn't something he hadn't seen before. In fact, it wasn't.

"What's it mean?" asked Bruce.

He was answered only by silence.

Smears of blood crossed the wall and formed the scarlet letters R-A-C-H-E.

"I got it," Bruce continued. "It stands for Rachel. I knew a Rachel once."

Holmes turned to Gregson.

"Doesn't he bare a striking resemblance to our old friend Lestrade?"

He turned to Bruce.

"Not that that's necessarily a negative thing. Lestrade was a solid professional. He just lacked any sort of imagination. Or, on occasion, he possessed it in too great of quantities."

" 'Rache' is 'revenge' in German," said Jamie Watson.

"I encountered this writing before," said Holmes. "In one of my earliest cases. The same word, in the same shade of scarlet, on a very similar wall. Is there anything else you'd like to draw to my attention, Gregson?"

The Chief Inspector shook his head.

"Then I'd very much like to go now," said Holmes.

"I'll drive you back. Good day, Dr. Watson."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Holmes was visibly shaken, though he tried not to show it. Bruce noticed he was trembling as they sat down.

As they were leaving the house, an arrow shot through the air. The head and shaft broke through the window, the feathers catching on the glass. The tip of the head pointed at the tip of Holmes' prominent nose.

Bruce grabbed the shaft and felt a piece of paper wrapped around it. He removed the paper and unrolled it, showing the lettering inside to Holmes.

The simple word "Rache" was written in big, black letters.

Bruce saw a lump rise in Holmes' throat. The great detective looked out the window. He saw a stout man covered in dirt leering back.

"Take us home, Gregson," he requested.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Holmes entered his own home, followed by Bruce Wayne. Holmes immediately lit his pipe.

"I think this may be a three pipe case," he said calmly. "Maybe even a four-piper."

"I don't see anything that difficult about it," said Bruce.

Holmes ignored him.

"What I can't figure out is why anyone would want to kill Mr. Smith."

"Come on, Great Detective!" cried Bruce. "I know that arrow made it perfectly clear to you. Whoever killed Smith really wanted to kill you."

Holmes took a long drag from his pipe.

"What about this earlier case of yours?" asked Bruce. "With the writing in blood? Tell me about it."

"It was a murder," said Holmes.

"Who was behind it?"

"I've forgotten."

"Like Hell you have!" said Bruce. He grabbed the stack of papers he had been studying from a table nearby. "It must be in Watson's accounts somewhere. What did he call it?"

"A Something-or-Other in Crimson, I believe," said Holmes.

Bruce eagerly flipped through page after page, but couldn't find anything.

"Wait!" Holmes declared suddenly. "That was the name the magazines gave it. Watson called it 'A Tangled Skein.' And the killer's name was Jefferson Hope."

"Where is he now?"

"Quite dead," said Holmes. "Complications with an aneurism before he could even go to trial."

"Did he have any realatives?"

"Not as I recall."

Holmes extinguished his pipe and sat down.

"I'd like to go over the house where Smith was killed more carefully," he said. "I believe I should after I've had time to digest the details."

"I don't think you should leave this place."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Someone out there obviously wants you dead. It's not safe for you. Let Gregson work this out."
"And be a prisoner in my own home in the meantime?"

"You've been living like a hermit for years. It didn't bother you before."

"Young man, just because I chose not to leave my household doesn't mean I didn't value the freedom to. I'm going to see to it personally that I clear this little matter up."

"Then I'll go with you," said Bruce. "To protect you."

"To protect me?"

"I've started learning to fight. I plan on learning all 127 major combat styles."

"How many have you learned so far?"

"Two or three," said Bruce.

Holmes gave him his most piercing look.

"Okay. Two."

"I was going to bring you with me anyway," said Holmes. "Not for protection. Because you need the extra study time."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

When the two returned to the house that had been occupied by Robert Smith, they found Allan Gates standing outside with a tall, platinum blonde woman, in her late forties, but still very attractive. Gates introduced the blonde as his wife, Cathy Gates. Cathy's attractive face was flawed by red eyes with heavy bags underneath, the result of prolonged sobbing.

Holmes asked Gates for permission to examine his property, and Gates consented.

Holmes entered the house and returned to the room Smith's body had been found in. Bruce carefully studied everything, and he was ashamed he was unable to find anything significant. He felt better when he realized Holmes didn't seem to be having any more luck than he was.

Holmes then led Bruce to the backyard. Holmes merely glanced at the ground and pointed out a series of footprints to Bruce.

"Young men," said Holmes. "Two of them. Both under ten years of age. Very poor, probably homeless. Note how one set is made by bare feet while the other seems to be made by shoes missing several sections of their soles."

Holmes opened his cloak, revealing a series of test tubes. He removed one and opened the lid.

"This formula…" he began.

"Creates a plaster," said Bruce. "One that can be poured as a liquid but will harden in about an hour's time. I was somewhat of a chemistry whiz at Gotham University."

"Really?" said Holmes. "I'll have to allow you to assist me in my experiments sometime."

The two followed the footprints to a large tree. Holmes looked towards the top and then turned to Bruce.

"Climb it," he instructed him.

"Why me?"

"Because I'm obviously much too old to be climbing trees."

Bruce leapt into the air and caught a branch. He swung himself to another branch, and then leapt to another. In a series of swings and leaps and bounds he made it to the top, in only a matter of seconds.

"You're very agile and graceful," said Holmes.

"Thanks," replied Bruce. "It's a gift."

"You'll have to do it again," said Holmes. "Unfortunately, you must assume you do not have that gift. You must assume you are a very small child and that you can only move among the branches that are very close to each other."

Bruce groaned and made his way back to the bottom of the tree.

"As you climb this time," said Holmes, "carefully examine every branch you touch."

"Are you sure you don't want to do this?"

"Physically impossible."

Bruce climbed the tree again, this time taking several minutes to reach the top.

"I find nothing."

Holmes rested his chin in his hand for a brief moment. He then called up.

"Examine the wall of the house."

Bruce didn't need to look very long. There were dirty smudges below the ledge of the window.

"Fingerprints, I think," he called down.

"How are you at catching things?"

A bag shot through the air. As Bruce swung his hands out and grabbed it, a white powder flew in the air, causing Bruce to sneeze.

"What'd you do that for?"

"Fingerprinting dust," said Holmes. "Apply some to the wall."

Holmes then tossed Bruce a notebook and a roll of tape. He slowly instructed Bruce on how to remove fingerprints. Bruce removed several but then had to stop. He swung himself beneath a branch, suspending himself in the air just below the window's ledge.

"Someone's coming," said Bruce.

"Hurry down!"

Bruce made it down several branches before the window opened. An arrow flew through the air. Bruce jumped out of the tree and tackled Holmes to the ground. A second arrow flew right over them.

The first had struck Holmes in the shoulder.

Bruce looked back towards the window. It was now closed.

"You need a doctor," Bruce said.

Bruce saw the stout man that had leered at him the other day approaching.

"Help me!" he called.

The man just looked down at Holmes and spit in his face.

Bruce quickly jumped up and threw his fist into the stout man's face. The stout man responded by grabbing Bruce's arm and twisting it behind his back. Bruce fought back tears. He felt certain the man had dislocated his shoulder. Then he watched the man walk away.

A/N – The conclusion will be coming soon. In the meantime, let me know what you thought of this chapter.