Author's Note:
Well, thank you all for the encouraging feedback and the story alerts! At least I'm not failing miserably, hmm? ^^
Big thanks to teenelizabeth, who caught a detail error. *hugs*
To my reviewers:
Brazeau: Thank you! Hope I can keep your interest!
LA Suka: Again, I hope to retain your interest, thanks!
Pearlmaidenredskyla: Well, well, well, lookie there—heya, hon! *hugs* Holmes & Watson are indeed lovable. ^^ Excited to see you reading this—I'm sure you'll love it!
Historian1912: Heeey, no moanin' 'n' groanin'. ;D I'll finish Breakaway—I promise—I just need time, is all. Go bug my muse and see if you can get her going. ^^ Oh, you should read all the stories (am still working my way through)—they're just so good! And I'm sincerely flattered that you'll follow a premise from me that you normally wouldn't. I have to admit that I really love the concept of time-travel, and I like it even better in a well-written story. *glances around* Nooo… no dead ends here. Nope. And yeah, Holmes and Watson get off a lot easier than Erin, don't they? Of course, that's not to say nothing will happen to them in the future… I won't forget my other stories, promise! Thank you!
teenelizabeth: Well, I already said thank you, but I'll say it again: thank you! *hugs* Can't wait to give you more! ^^ My muse is very excited about this one. Angst, h/c, and fluff are pretty much my favorites, too—just as long as the angst isn't overdone. ^_^
==Chapter II==
A Most Intriguing Continuation
I've heard it said
That people come into our lives
For a reason
Bringing something we must learn
—"For Good," Wicked
(John H. Watson, M.D.)
Mrs. Kathleen Duran stood as my companion spoke, and beckoned us back to her. "Tire's changed, so I'm just going to clean my hands, make a call, and then we can go, all right?"
I blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
Mrs. Duran looked momentarily nonplussed. "Sorry. I meant that I'd take you back to my house—I mean, I can't just leave the two of you out here in the middle of nowhere. Besides which, you're in unfamiliar territory in an unfamiliar time—I think some seclusion is in order for adjustment, yes?"
"I believe that would be a prudent course of action, yes," Holmes agreed, nodding sharply.
"If it's no imposition," I said hesitantly.
She waved a careless hand. "No, no, not at all. I have two guestrooms back home—you're more than welcome."
"What about your husband, Mrs. Duran?" I persisted. "What will he think?"
Grief passed fleetingly over her features. "He would have doubled the welcome, Doctor," she said quietly, "were he still alive."
"I'm sorry," I said sincerely.
She gave me a small, sad smile, the kind that does not reach one's eyes. "It was a few years ago, Doctor—you learn to cope."
You do, indeed. I inclined my head slightly in agreement. Holmes stood off to the side, his own expression grave as he doubtless knew which way my thoughts turned. It had only been ten years ago this January that I had lost my own precious spouse to complications in childbirth.
Mrs. Duran's mouth parted in an o. "Doctor, I said that without thinking—I'm sorry—"
"No apologies necessary, Madame," I assured her. "As you said, you learn to cope."
She looked momentarily discomfited. "…Please, call me Kathleen." She hastened to add, "People these days aren't exactly so formal."
She took advantage of my surprise by ducking into her motorcar and pulling out a small, strange-looking bottle, from which she squirted a globule of clear liquid onto her hand. She closed the bottle and rubbed the liquid around her hand like soap. "Hand-sanitiser," she said by way of explanation. "Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I'm going to call home really quick."
"I beg your pardon?" Holmes asked, cocking an eyebrow.
She held up a small, sleek, shiny… thing. I had absolutely no word for it. "Cell-phone," she clarified. "It's a small, portable version of a telephone."
I believe I gaped. "Surely not! That thing—a telephone?"
Our hostess-to-be laughed lightly. "It's a whole new world, Doctor Watson, as the two of you have probably already realised." She affectionately patted the door of her motorcar. "Things like phones and cars have become incredibly efficient over the years."
Holmes's previous curiosity faded to something akin to distaste. The London he had left behind to take up bee-farming was not the London we had known, a London in which motorcars were replacing hansoms, electric lights gaslights, and a new generation replacing our own Victorian age. Sherlock Holmes, no longer the world's only consulting detective, could not believe that he had a place anymore in the dawning new era, and so had retreated from it to the safety of a (mostly) anonymous life in Sussex.
I, however, had refused to escape from the changing times, choosing to adapt rather than to ignore. When Holmes had left London, I bought a practice on Queen Anne's Street and faced the winds of change. I had my own telephone in my office (this was Holmes's only willing concession to the modern age, for he had a 'phone in his sitting room). I had also been in the process of being taught the fine art of motorcar driving by Stamford. I did not always appreciate the change, but I could endure it.
I would do so now—and I was uncertain as to how exactly my old friend would react to this day and age. Would he be unable to cope with even more drastic change, or would facing a world perhaps entirely different from our own be easier to handle? Either option was a possibility.
Kathleen Duran shrugged slowly and slipped back into her motorcar, shutting the door behind her and opening her cell-phone. She held up her finger in a one-minute gesture as she brought the phone up to her ear.
"Holmes?" I said quietly.
"Hmm?"
"Let's give her some privacy," I advised. "No doubt it will be difficult for her to explain our arrival."
He smirked slightly. "I can't even imagine."
We strolled away from the motorcar, and I turned my gaze to the not-so-distant mountains. The sun was bright and high, and the air fresh with the scent of pine. "This is beautiful country," I murmured.
Holmes merely nodded, thrusting his hands into his pockets and staring out into the distance, as if his gaze could pierce straight through wood and stone. I could not help but remember our case with Miss Violet Hunter: taking that train ride out through the countryside to Winchester, and Holmes remarking on how he could only see the country's remarkable capacity for crimes committed in secret. I smiled slightly and shook my head—that case had been fourteen years ago this spring, and Sherlock Holmes had changed gradually over the years… a little bit softer, a little bit wiser. Certainly, he now had a much keener appreciation for life away from cities and towns.
We stood there in the sun, silent and unmoving, content just to be together.
The clicking of a door opening behind us broke that silence, and I turned to see Kathleen emerging from her motorcar once more. She blew at a loose strand of hair and quirked a smile. "Well, that was one of the more interesting conversations of my life," she said wryly. She opened the second door and gestured at it. "Gentlemen…?"
"Coming," I smiled. Holmes leaned back on his heels, glanced over his shoulder, and nodded. I returned to the motorcar, limping slightly, Holmes a couple of paces behind me. I climbed into the motorcar and shook my head in awe at the luxurious interior. Holmes raised an eyebrow as he seated himself beside me, but his expression was inscrutable, revealing nothing of his inner thought processes.
Kathleen shut our door, then hurried over to the driver's side and climbed in. "Seatbelts, gentlemen," said she, showing us how the fabric straps tucked into the seats served as a harness to keep oneself in place while driving. Then she buckled her own seatbelt and started the motorcar. It revved to life with much less noise than the automobiles of our day, and I noted that the driving controls were also far more complex. The vehicle started forward, and I marveled at the absolute quiet of the machine. Yes, there was noise, but it was a sound that quickly became background noise, easily ignored. And the luxury of driving in a completely covered vehicle was nothing short of wonderful.
"Mrs. Duran," Holmes called, "might I inquire as to your profession?"
Kathleen glanced in what I would later learn was the rearview mirror and said, "What makes you think I have a profession?"
"You're testing me," Holmes said coolly.
"I'm honestly curious," she retorted.
"Your occupation, whatever it may be, is an odd one that you would be leaving for home in the wee hours of the morning after having been awake for at least a full twenty-four hours," he told her. "The lack of luggage says that you have not been traveling a full day's journey, nor have you been visiting with family. The case beside your seat smacks of business rather than travel. Your clothes are obviously in favor of practicality and durability more than looks."
I shut my eyes, hoping that Kathleen Duran was not a vain woman—that last observation could have been better worded.
"Touché," Kathleen conceded. "I don't think you'll believe me, though."
"As you say here in America, try me."
There was a pregnant pause. "All right. I'm an independent investigative consultant."
Holmes processed that declaration only one moment quicker than I did, and blinked. "An independent investigative… a private consulting detective?" he said, surprised.
"Good Lord," I murmured.
"That would be correct, Mr. Holmes," she replied. There was a slight smile to her voice as she said, "May I say what an honour it is to meet the father of my profession?"
I chuckled. Holmes's face settled back into impassivity, and I wondered what precisely he thought of the compliment, coming as it did from a woman. I also wondered, briefly, if Kathleen Duran could match Irene Adler in the admiration of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
"I've been on my feet, more or less," Kathleen continued, "for the past seventy-two hours, on a case in Brooklyn—excuse me, New York City. Case closed, heading home, and looking forward to two cups of coffee and a home-cooked brunch. The both of you are welcome to brunch if you want."
"Breakfast was light," I told her. "I would not mind."
From where I sat, I could see her nod. "All rightie. I should warn you gents, though—I have a big family. Eight children, twenty-three to five. The eldest is out of the house, but all the rest are still at home."
Holmes looked distinctly uncomfortable, and I could not blame him. "Are they…" I faltered, trying to think of how to phrase my question diplomatically.
I did not have to. "Wild, loud?" Kathleen finished. "Ehhh, sort of—not anymore than any other batch of children in the world. And, well, my family is always getting compliments on how well-behaved the kids are. I'm not lying or falsely proud when I say that my children are, on the whole, very good kids. They're considerate, and they get along better with adults than they do with most children their ages."
"I shall take your word for it," I smiled.
She chuckled. "You'll see."
The rest of the hour-long ride passed in relative silence, broken only by a few attempts at conversation on the part of myself and our hostess. Holmes remained absolutely silent, seemingly lost in the complexity of his own mind.
The path from the road to the Duran home wound long through the woods. "This is quite a private drive," I remarked.
"That's the idea," said Kathleen. "When David and I bought this property, we had privacy and security in mind." A shadow seemed to fall over the motorcar in accordance with her sudden solemnity. "Criminals have not hesitated in the past to try to use my children against me."
I shivered, trying to imagine what kind of life Kathleen Duran had inadvertently burdened her children with by her career. A life of worry, jumping at shadows and living in fear of being used against their own mother. I did not discover till later how mostly untrue that notion was; nonetheless, it was a sobering concept.
Holmes's voice quietly broke into the conversation. "Was that how your husband died?"
Kathleen answered promptly, but her voice almost broke as she did so. "Yes."
A few moments later, we emerged into a clearing, and Kathleen pulled to a stop before a large, sprawling stone house. She pulled the key out of what I would later learn was the ignition, and sank back into her seat, running her hand over her face and resting it over her mouth.
After half a minute of silence, I ventured quietly, "Mrs. Duran?"
She stirred and gave me a small smile. "Kathleen, Doctor, please."
I nodded. "Kathleen."
She exhaled heavily. "I'm sorry." She reached for a well-worn black fedora that I now realised had been resting on the passenger seat, settled it onto her dark head, grabbed her business case, and clambered out of the motorcar, opening the door for us once more. "C'mon." She turned and jogged up the stone steps to the house, leaving us to exit the automobile alone. I shut the door behind us just as she disappeared inside the house, and we could hear a chorus of enthusiastic, affectionate greetings as the children welcomed their mother back.
I glanced at my companion. "Well?"
He scowled. "Nothing I should enjoy more than an indefinite stay in a house full of children." Holmes stalked up the steps ahead of me, thus not seeing my amused head-shake.
The broad oak door of the house swung open again, held in place this time by an attractive girl no older than twenty. She looked at us with a mix of wonderment, respect, and genuine affability. "Come on in," she smiled.
Holmes gave the girl a brief nod as he passed her, and I gave her a rueful smile before following him into the foyer. The door shut behind me, and the girl leaned against it, her arms folded behind her back. I turned to see six children all but staring at Holmes and myself, the youngest a small girl in the arms of her mother.
"Kids," Kathleen said slowly, smiling, "this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. Mr. Holmes, Doctor, my firstborn Christy over there—" she nodded to the girl that had let us in—"Jeremy"—a lad in his late teens and nearly as tall as Holmes—"Cameron"—a lad of about fifteen—"Ruth"—a girl only a year or so younger—"Kirk"—a lad right around thirteen—"Edward"—an eight-year-old—"and Aubrey." Aubrey was the girl currently clinging to her mother.
All seven children smiled rather shyly at us, and I nodded back genially, bending down when little Edward stepped forward, wriggling with suppressed energy. "You're really Dr. Watson?" he asked me.
"Yes, sir, Master Edward," I smiled. I glanced over my shoulder at my companion, who simply stood there by a bookshelf, looking rather at a loss.
The small lad followed my gaze and bounded over to Holmes, looking up at him with a beseeching expression. "Mr. Holmes, can I be a Baker Street Irregular?"
That was the key we needed to unlock the tension, and everyone but Holmes burst out laughing. Holmes merely smiled in genuine amusement, chuckled, and said gently, "I'm rather afraid that's impossible, dear boy. This isn't the right time or place for you to do it, and I wouldn't let you if it were."
"Why not?" Edward pouted.
Holmes lowered himself to rest on his haunches, so that he was looking up slightly to meet the child's eyes. "Well, for one thing, I live in the country now, not in London—that is to say, I did live in the country. And another, you obviously have a warm home and a loving family, and I wouldn't want to take you away from that."
"Bummer," Edward muttered, looking down and kicking at the wooden flooring.
I heard Kathleen's fondly exasperated sigh as she came to relieve Holmes of his little fan. "All right, honey, that's enough. Gentlemen, are you ready to eat?"
"Certainly," said I.
"I suppose," said Holmes.
"All right, Aubrey," Kathleen said to her youngest, "down you get."
"Nooo," the little girl moaned, burying her face into her mother's shoulder.
"Come on, honey," Kathleen wheedled. "I've gotta eat! I haven't had breakfast yet! Once I'm done, I'll be with you, okay?"
"Okay…" Aubrey slipped slowly out of her mother's arms and down to the floor.
Another woman, possibly a few years my senior, appeared in the foyer. "Food's ready," she told Kathleen, receiving a thanks before turning to Holmes and myself. "Hi," she said, eyeing us a bit warily. "I'm Clarice Evans—I watch after the children while Kathleen's away." Her tone, her expression, and her stance all said that she would put up a good fight protecting them, too, if it came down to that.
"A pleasure to meet you, ma'am," I greeted, extending my hand. After an infinitesimal pause, she shook it. I noted that my companion did not extend the same courtesy, and neither did she attempt to proffer it herself.
Across the space of a few yards and beyond the tension between an irate retired detective and a doubtlessly well-meaning caretaker, I met Kathleen's solemn gaze. After a few moments, she beckoned us back towards the door and began to pull off her coat, indicating that we should do likewise. I turned to hang my coat on the nearby coat-rack, and when I turned back, I saw my companion staring at our hostess.
She was removing a sidearm shoulder-holster, hanging it up beneath her leather coat on the rack so as to make it invisible.
In all my many years of investigation with Sherlock Holmes, I had never seen a woman carry such a large handgun so well concealed. Judging from the look on my friend's face, neither had he. The thought occurred me that, had she been so inclined, she might have shot one of us before he or I could react.
Kathleen appeared to take no notice of our astonishment, and led us into the dining room. "Coffee or tea, gentlemen?" she asked in a brisk, business-like tone as she moved around the table.
"Coffee, please," Holmes replied, moving to one of the three places set at the long table.
"Tea, thank you," I answered, taking the second set place.
Kathleen nodded as she hurried to a door opening into what I guessed to be the kitchen. "What kind, Doctor? I have… several different fruit flavors—" at this point, she was in the other room and calling through the open door—"mint, ginger, chamomile, bla—'scuse me, Darjeeling…"
"Darjeeling will do," I told her.
"All right, just a minute, then."
As we waited, I turned my gaze to the food spread out on the table. Flapjacks, maple syrup, biscuits, butter, scrambled eggs, sausage, and bacon awaited us, making my mouth water.
I glanced up to see Holmes's sharp grey eyes fixed on the open kitchen door. "Notice the comfort of our surroundings, Watson," he said quietly, "the subtle touch of affluence. Surely Kathleen Duran is rich enough to afford a housekeeper—possibly a full staff—or at least a maid, rather than leaving it all in the hands of a friend when on a case."
I blinked. "Now that you mention it, that is strange. Perhaps they had to let their servants go over financial difficulties?"
Holmes's eyebrows drew together in contemplation. "I don't believe so. Did you observe their clothes?"
"Aside from their absolute peculiarity?"
One corner of his mouth pulled back. "No, no, the state of their clothing. Those clothes are well-made and recently-bought—very little wear and tear. Would a family in financial difficulty spend money on new, good-quality clothing when they could fix up their old garments to remain adequate?"
I frowned. "Well, that is a good point, old chap. But then how do you account for the lack of hired help?"
Holmes leaned back in his chair, his expression rather smug. "Quite possibly, such hired help is no longer used, anymore. We have come a hundred and twenty-one years into the future, Watson—who is to say that servants are no longer conventional in a family of good means?"
"Good heavens," said I, collapsing against the back of my seat. "Mrs. Duran was certainly right when she said it is a whole new world."
"Quite so," a distinctly amused voice floated from behind me. Holmes jerked forward in his seat in the same instant as I, and we stared in guilty surprise at our hostess, who stood leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded, face creased in an amused smirk. "At ease, gentlemen. Doctor, Mr. Holmes is entirely correct, and your tea will be finished in half a minute." She disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving us all but gaping after her.
"Holmes," I said cautiously, "I think we had best save deductions for a more private setting."
"I concur."
Before even half a minute had passed, Kathleen returned, bearing a tray of two mugs of coffee and one mug of tea. She handed out the mugs, then set the tray further down the table before taking her seat. "Shall we pray, gentlemen?" she asked quietly.
I nodded, lowering my head and closing my eyes.
"Dear Lord," she began, "thank You for this food, thank You for this day. Please bless this food to our bodies and give us a good day. Lord, give our guests peace as they adapt to their new surroundings, and guide them as to what You would have them do. In Your precious Son's name we pray—the name of the Lord Jesus Christ—amen."
"Amen," Holmes and I echoed. I proceeded to fill up my plate and attack it with vigour. Holmes, once he had taken a few bites, was scarce less enthusiastic, and I feared lest his table manners slip up as they had so often on Baker Street. Whoever had produced this meal was obviously an excellent cook.
Kathleen seemed to pay little attention to us, just to look at her, but I was often aware of her keen intelligence trained upon myself and my comrade. "After we're done here," she said at last, "I think I should introduce you Victorian gents to the computer." She nodded at a strange… machine?… sitting on a desk directly behind her. "I think you'll like it, Mr. Holmes," she continued. "It's a tool for information."
"Indeed?" said he, arching a dark eyebrow.
"Mm." Kathleen took a bite of her eggs and swallowed before pressing on. "Think of it as a successor to Mycroft." She winked at us—not in an untoward way—and I chuckled. "With the computer, you can reach the Internet, a worldwide…" Pausing, she looked at the ceiling, obviously trying to find the correct words for something she took for granted. "A worldwide data system," she finally decided. "Completely electric. You can input a search for just about anything and find it on the Internet."
"Completely electric," I repeated, and shook my head. "How far you've come in science, Mrs. D—Kathleen."
Her expression went somber. "Technology is not the only field in which we've progressed, Doctor. Our medicine, too, is very superior—and our medical morals anything but. New diseases have sprung up due to moral mistakes and mishandling of food resources. The twentieth century witnessed more than a hundred different wars and conflicts worldwide, and time has only increased our capacity to destroy places and people. Crime is more rampant now than ever."
She looked down. "If I could have chosen when to be born," she said quietly, "it would have been into your own time. It was a kinder age, never mind some of its disadvantages. The world… the world is only getting uglier, every day." Her eyes lifted and locked onto Holmes's. "Our war—yours and mine—for justice, is a losing war. We're fighting the Long Defeat."
The silence that followed was deafening. Holmes said nothing, his grey eyes trained on his female counterpart in an expression that was a mix of incredulity, empathy, and comprehension. He likely understood her words better than I myself did, no doubt catching meaning in them that I simply did not know. Kathleen Duran merely stared at her food morosely, her previous good appetite gone.
When the silence was broken at last, it was by the voice that I least expected to hear. "If you truly believed that," Holmes said quietly, "you would not continue to fight."
A thought occurred to me: Holmes, too, had fought the Long Defeat against the changing era, and retreated when he knew it was hopeless. But one look at Kathleen told me that he was actually wrong.
She shook her head slowly. "No… No, I… I keep on fighting because, well—" she laughed shortly, humorlessly—"for one thing, I'm just too stubborn not to. Giving up isn't in my nature. And more importantly… I was called to this life, just as surely as God calls a minister or a missionary. And He never gave me orders to quit."
I nodded slowly, recalling a slightly similar feeling of calling that I had had when first choosing the medical profession.
Holmes had brought his steepled fingers up to his mouth, his steely gaze still trained on our hostess, and I read genuine respect in his face. Then his expression hardened, the cold, calculating mask he showed the world slipping perfectly into place. "I admire such resolve, but, Mrs. Duran, please understand that I am not here to aid you—I am here to find a way home."
Kathleen's own expression did not harden so much as it merely calmed, her voice cool as she said, "I hadn't expected you to help, Sherlock." I wondered at her slip into using his Christian name, but he himself gave no indication of noticing. "I brought you here to help you, not the other way around."
"However," I interjected, not wishing to witness a conflict between two great intellects, "as you've been so kind as to put us up for the time being, I don't see why we can't repay the favor in whatever way we can." Seeing Holmes's incredulous but irate gaze turn to me, I hastened to add, "Within reason, of course."
"Of course," Kathleen echoed, her brown eyes suddenly twinkling with amusement at the brief exchange between Holmes and myself. She took a sip of her coffee, and added, "Let's just finish this meal so we can start our computer lessons."
I eyed the machine—or was it machines? for there were several strange objects upon that desk—behind her, intrigued. "Certainly."
Author's Note:
Well, that was a much longer chapter than the first! But the only other stopping point I could settle on was too early—this is going to be a longish fic, and I don't want it chopped up into little pieces.
The next two chapters are actually all but finished (getting sick can give you some good writing time), so they should be posted up soon! =D
Btw, the "successor to Mycroft" line is not mine, hence this acknowledgment so I'm not accused of plagiarism—it's fellow fan-author Catherine Spark's, from her wonderful fic Holmes from Home, in which Sherlock Holmes finds himself briefly in London, 2012. (Quite possibly, Kathleen is quoting the fic, since she's part of the fandom herself.) My own fic here was not inspired by the other fic, but I will admit that I'm rereading it to make sure that I don't miss observations Sherlock would naturally make about the 21st century in favor of the story. Now go read Holmes from Home—it's good!
Please review!