Author's Note:

A thousand apologies for not getting this out sooner! I actually had the first draft done early in the week, but my beta was so busy that she couldn't get back with me until yesterday (Friday). Good thing I waited for her, though, 'cause she pointed out a couple of things that needed fixing!

Also, I realize that the story may be moving a bit slowly here at first, but there's so much that Holmes and Watson need to adjust to. Don't worry, we'll pick up the pace eventually!

IMPORTANT NOTE: If you've ever read my profile, you know that I've written a fantasy novel (The Rise of a Legend. Well, I'm editing it one last time, and I've begun blogging about it at www (dot) theriseofalegend (dot) blogspot (dot) com. (Check my profile for better link.) Please check it out, and feel free to comment, or share it with a friend! I need to promote the book—this is my livelihood we're talking about, here.

To my reviewers:

17steps: Wow, thank you! Thank you very much for that lovely, lovely review! Thanks also for the honor of making me and this fic the first author and story you've favorited!

Brazeau: Thanks a million!

Pearlmaidenredskyla: THANK YOU! ^^ Poor Kathleen, she just wanted to comfort Holmes with that hug. =) Can you imagine Holmes's and Watson's reactions to I-MAX or 3D? Whoa. And hey, you should know by now that I love rambling reviews! They make my day!

==Chapter VI==

This Might not be so Easy

"This isn't going to work."

"Why didn't you say so before?"

"I did say so before."

—Han Solo and Luke Skywalker, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope

(Watson)

Within the book-blanketed walls of the library, I could still hear Holmes picking his way through Kathleen's song on the piano. Shaking my head fondly, I turned my attention to the wealth of reading before me, a specific author in mind. I stopped at a shelf entirely filled with the works of my hostess's pen (or computer, more likely).

The first title of a long series caught my eye almost immediately, and I pulled the book out. Independent Investigator, Case File 1: Under an Afghan Sky. The front cover bore a photo of a very young Kathleen Duran—Kathleen Stewart, she would have been then—standing against a desert sunset. I flipped the book open to the prologue and began to read.

It was bright and loud, and I had never been so scared or sickened in my life. Incredible that, in just a few seconds, a hijacked plane could turn the world upside-down. This was my generation's "day that will live in infamy." I was there to see it happen—I was there to be a part of it.

None of us could believe our eyes when that second kamikaze rammed into the Twin Towers.

Then I heard someone shriek, "Oh my God, it's falling!" One of the huge skyscrapers was beginning to fall in on itself.

For one moment, I stood frozen in place, the world shattering around me.

Then I sprang into action. Three years ago, I had made a promise that was just as binding as any oath ever sworn by a policeman, a doctor, or a soldier. I vowed to uphold justice and defend the innocent.

September 11th, 2001 saw that vow fulfilled under utterly hellish circumstances…

(Kathleen)

I was glad finally to discard my robe—said article of clothing was of the thick, plush, ultra-comfy variety, and utterly marvelous for winter months but a tad too hot when worn long into a typical spring morning. I had only worn it for as long as I had out of respect for Victorian decorum. I dress modestly and hold to an old-fashioned sense of propriety, but I was also used to greeting the police while still in my pajamas. I'd long ago reached a point where I wasn't bothered by it.

I smirked a little as I flung a set of clothes onto my bed. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were going to have to reach a point where they weren't bothered by modern standards, and quickly. Warm weather was coming up, and with it, shorts. I was definitely not going to sweat in jeans in ninety-degree weather just to prevent their blushing.

Good grief, that was a positively wicked thought.

Half an hour and one relaxing shower later, I was dressed and wandering the house while brushing my long, slightly-snarled hair. I came to stop at the doorway to the living room to watch Sherlock steadily perform the second chorus of "Going Home." Dr. Watson poked his head out of the library and flashed me a smile, which I returned.

As the final note sounded, I clapped quietly around the brush in my hand. "Bravo, Sherlock," I grinned. "Encore."

The Doctor ambled over and joined me in the doorway. "Good show, old boy."

Sherlock stood and bowed with a flourish. "Thank you all." Straightening, he gave me an amused look as he said, "It is common for people these days to call each other by their Christian names, is it not, Kathleen? You've called me by mine several times today already."

I colored. "Uhh, y-yes, yes, it is… I'm sorry!"

"If it is common courtesy in this age, think nothing of it," he assured me, waving a dismissive hand.

I resisted the urge to squirm, glancing instead at the Doctor, who smiled again. "You may call me 'John,' if you like."

I gave him a grateful look, instantly relaxing. Dr. Watson—John—reminded me sharply of David in that moment, and I think I must have started, for the next moment, he was frowning.

"Is something the matter?"

I was acutely aware, via my peripheral vision, of Sherlock Holmes sitting in one of the armchairs and watching us. I had the feeling that I was starting to pay for all those years I'd made people uncomfortable merely by looking at them. All this takes time to tell, but I'd thought this and answered John in two seconds. "Nothing," I said truthfully. Nothing was wrong—I had just been struck with a sudden flash of memory.

Seemingly satisfied with that, Sherlock pulled out a pipe and then paused, glancing up at me. "Do you mind?"

I winced. "Weeell… look, I know you two are avid smokers—" I began carefully.

"But you do not appreciate the smoke?" Sherlock finished calmly.

The Doctor entered the room, hands in the pockets of David's too-large robe. I made a mental note to take them into town first thing tomorrow for clothes shopping. "It's not just that," I said seriously, taking a seat on one of the couches. "One: smoking is medically proven to be dangerous. It causes lung cancer and knocks about thirteen years off your natural lifespan." John's face went slack with shock; Sherlock's expression was inscrutable. "Two: David was allergic to secondhand smoke, and that gene passed down to at least Cameron. He's the one in the family known to have allergies, so he was tested for it. None of the other kids have any readily apparent major allergies, but that doesn't mean that they won't have a bad reaction to smoke."

"I see," said Sherlock.

John merely frowned thoughtfully.

I shook my head. "Personally, I'd love to see the two of you quit smoking. Buuut if you don't want to… well, I understand that. I only ask that if you must smoke, you do it out of doors and away from the kids."

John nodded solemnly. "I think that's reasonable, eh, Holmes?"

"Quite." Sherlock made no move to rise from his seat.

I cocked an eyebrow. "Starting now, Sherlock," I said dryly.

He threw me an irritated look but acquiesced, stalking out the room and heading for the front door. Amused, John and I watched him go.

"Can you provide me with more information on the effects of tobacco?" John asked. "Even in our time, smoking is coming under fire, and I would be much obliged to get superior medical information on the whole thing."

I glanced aside at him. "Certainly, Doctor. Maybe you ought to get dressed, though, while I find the book." I grinned as he colored.

"Of course." He glanced down ruefully at his current clothes. "I suppose it's a bit late in the day to look like this, eh?"

"Quite so."

He pinned me with The Look, to which I responded with an innocent expression. "Is that phrase even used anymore?"

I grinned at his astuteness. "Nope. Your Victorianisms are just rubbing off on me, that's all." With that parting shot, I glided away, determined to finish brushing my stubborn hair before it died.

(Watson)

I spent several minutes rummaging through the odd clothes I had been given. Eventually, I settled for a pair of well-worn but sturdy trousers whose hems I had to cuff, an over-long grey shirt that I later learned was called a "T-shirt," and a long-sleeved green plaid shirt that Kathleen was quick to assure me afterwards was fine to leave unbuttoned. I looked completely outlandish, but the clothes were comfortable.

My next task was to pull Holmes back indoors and get him into a fresh change of clothing, himself. For him to wear the same set of clothes for days on end was nothing unusual (in his black bouts of depression, he would not even stir from his armchair, let alone change), but I felt it only proper to change since we were currently guests—even if our residence would be indeterminately long.

After a good ten minutes of alternately wheedling and arguing, I managed to get him into the room made up for him (which he had not yet so much as visited). "My dear Watson," said he, "if you think for one moment that I shall don such a ridiculous outfit as you yourself have done—"

Throughout the brief tirade, I had been rifling through the clothes Kathleen had provided, and stopped him short by triumphantly holding up a cream-coloured sweater and a pair of dark brown trousers. His dignity could hardly refuse that.

And it did not. Once the change had been affected, I tilted my head slightly, regarding him. The length of the clothes was perfect, though rather roomy as David Duran had possessed a sturdier build than Holmes did, but that was not what struck me. The clothes seemed almost to belong on Sherlock Holmes.

He regarded me quizzically. "What is it?"

I shook my head. "Nothing, old chap. The clothes suit you, that's all."

He snorted. "That, Watson, was a terrible pun most unworthy of you." I chuckled, and he shook his head. "And now, I am rather faced with a dilemma."

I knew exactly it what it was, and sighed. "My dear fellow, how can you possibly be bored now, of all times? We are in the 21st century, for heaven's sake!"

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently, "but without new wonders upon which to fixate, the initial novelty quickly wears off."

I sighed again—as impossible now as he had been twenty years ago. "Holmes, you've been fascinated with this new age up until just now, by which I can only conclude that your night without sleep has caught up with you and made you lethargic and irritable."

He shot me a peevish glare, confirming my conclusions. "Oh, you scintillate this morning, Watson."

"And you do not," I retorted, returning his glare sternly. "Go to bed, Holmes. I'll wake you when luncheon is ready."

He turned half away. "I shall do nothing of the kind."

I pursed my lips in irritation—of all the man's vices, it might be his sleeping habits (or lack thereof) that would kill him in the end. Criminals and cocaine need not apply.

A different approach was called for. I softened my expression and my voice and said, "Please, Holmes? For my sake?"

He glanced uneasily at me out of the corner of his eye, and I knew I had won.

"My dear fellow? Please."

He exhaled forcefully. "Very well, Doctor." He cast himself upon the bed, closed his eyes, stretched his long legs, and folded his arms beneath his head. He opened one eye to look at me, seeking my approval.

I shook my head and smiled. "Good morning, Holmes," I said, and shut the door behind me.

Out in the foyer, I bumped into Kathleen, who quickly recovered and flashed me an apologetic smile. "You got him to change and sleep?" she whispered.

I raised my eyebrows in amusement. "All right, go ahead and explain your deductions," I smiled indulgently, folding my arms and leaning against the wall. "If you're anything like your hero, I know that you want to."

She blushed. "It's, um, it's very simple, actually. You go outside, spend several minutes in what I suppose to be conversation, end it by practically dragging him into the house, and bring him to his bedroom. You obviously want him to change and sleep, since he's done neither and you're both his friend and physician. After several minutes, you emerge in evident content, sans Sherlock Holmes. The obvious explanation is that you succeeded in both your goals."

"I could have merely wanted him to get some sleep and not bothered with the clothes," I pointed out.

"You could," she nodded, "if it hadn't been that you were speaking with him for roughly ten minutes outside and another five in his room. I doubt that it takes so much effort to get even Sherlock Holmes to sleep—he'd probably cut you short before time progressed that far."

I shrugged my shoulders. "I'm afraid you have me there, Kathleen."

She grinned impishly. "Better get used to it."

I groaned good-naturedly, eliciting a silent laugh from my hostess.

"So, do you wanna see those case files now?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Right-o. This way, por favor?" As I followed her, I noticed her grimace. "Shoot, I used Spanish again, didn't I?"

"I believe you did."

She screwed up her face and kicked at the floor. "Ahhh, I'm sorry, D—John. I grew up speaking both English and Spanish—my mother is Spanish Jewish from Venezuela."

Curious, I said, "Really? You don't look Latin."

She shook her head. "No, I don't, but I have been told that I look European Jew."

I nodded. "Is it your family, then, that lives in Israel?"

"Hmm? Oh, last night. Uh, no, actually that's David's family, and even then, it's just his sister. Debbie went to Israel on a missionary trip one summer and ended up marrying an Israeli. David and Deb's parents died in a car accident when he was little, so they were taken in by their grandparents."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

She shrugged slightly. "If David were here, he'd say that was a long time ago and that he doesn't regret being raised by his grandparents." One corner of her mouth pulled back. "I actually helped him solve a mystery about his father the same Christmas season we got married. You can read about it in my autobiographical series… it's book four, A Christmas to Remember."

"What a floridly romantic title," I quipped lightly.

She laughed. "Ain't it the truth?"

(Kathleen)

Once the Doctor was settled with several box-loads of good old-fashioned cases-in-print, I headed back to my room to make a call to a friend in the UK. On the way, though, I couldn't help stopping at the door to Sherlock's room and peeking in. He was out.

He looked so utterly tranquil in his sleep, at peace with himself and the world. And... I rather thought he looked younger, that I was catching a glimpse of perhaps his thirties.

There was something almost a little sacred about a longtime fan-girl stealing a glimpse of the Great Detective asleep, and at the same time, there was something very normal about it. No, normal was not the right word, but very… very real. Between this and his emotional slip earlier, he was more human in my eyes than he had ever been before. Sherlock Holmes ceased to be an idolized legend and became a real person to me—a fallible, mortal man, with his strengths and flaws just like any other man.

I loved him all the more for it.

"Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes," I whispered, withdrawing. I knew that the image of him sleeping there would brand itself into my memory for a long time to come. And I was just fine with that.

A sigh resonated on the other side of the phone. "You're absolutely sure?"

"I'd bet my life on it."

"Sorry, wrong answer. You're a little too careless with your own life."

I rolled my eyes. "Fine, I'd bet my oldest boy's life on it. Better?"

"Mm. Now that gives me a little more certainty."

"So you'll send me the papers?"

"You'll have them by this time tomorrow."

Relieved, I let out an explosive breath. "Thanks, Mark. I mean, really."

"Don't worry, I'll think of some way for you to pay me back."

"I'm sure," I said dryly.

"Maybe a case here in London that the Yard can't solve—you could bring Holmes and Watson with you."

"That thought had occurred to me, yeah."

"Right. I'll talk to you later, Kathleen."

"Yes, sir. Goodbye. …And thank you so much."

The phone on the other end clicked off, and I snapped my own cell shut. Somehow, knowing that those identification papers were on their way made this whole wonderful-but-all-too-day-dreamish thing seem so much more real. This was really happening.

I wondered if it would last.

I wished it would.

(Watson)

Holmes might have slept all day had I let him, but I had said I would wake him for luncheon, so I did. He looked better for his nap, though I dared not say that aloud. The children were home by then, and all was noisy but well in the Duran household. After a smallish luncheon (of which Holmes partook), the children changed out of their Sunday best and into play clothes, and we all headed outside for a grand tour of the "Duran Homestead."

As it turned out, the family had chickens, and three Arabian horses. They had also owned a border collie that had died two years earlier and had never been replaced.

The property was five-and-thirty acres in all, and included a large vegetable garden south of the house on the side of the driveway and a brook merely several yards behind the house but almost hidden from view by the trees. One needed to walk only fifty yards from the house, the garden, or the horse pasture to enter very wild woodland. The place was alive with the cheer and beauty of spring, and though I had never heard of any fairies gracing the New World with their presence, it was not difficult to imagine that such creatures could exist here, to be seen only out of the corner of the eye.

We tramped through the place all afternoon, and all too soon, the children had to return to the house to prepare to return to church that evening. "It's a kids' Bible study," Christy explained. "They have different age groups like Sunday School, and our church does their kids' program on Sunday evenings from late September to mid-May."

"And what of the adults?" I asked.

"Wednesday night prayer meeting," she answered promptly. "And Tuesday morning men's Bible study, and Thursday morning women's Bible study."

"I don't often go, on Wednesday or Thursday," Kathleen admitted. "More often than not, I'm working." She shoved her hands into her pockets and shrugged.

"What is your church?" said I. "I have a feeling it's not the Church of England."

Kathleen laughed. "And you would be correct in that feeling. Our church is in technicality non-denominational, in practicality pretty much Baptist."

"Ah."

Holmes frowned. "Why non-denominational?"

Kathleen's expression sobered. "If a church is part of a denomination, it has to answer to some sort of hierarchy for that denomination. And sometimes, the people in charge in that hierarchy uphold ideas that aren't very Biblical. But if you're not in a denomination, you don't have to answer to those people. Hence the fact that while Grace Baptist Church is independent, it still upholds basic Baptist doctrine."

She smiled slyly. "It's like being a private consulting detective, actually. You uphold the same basic laws Scotland Yard does, but you're not strictly answerable to them when they're in the wrong."

Holmes shot her a sharp, assessing look. "Capital analogy," he said, without sarcasm.

"Thank you." Kathleen beamed briefly, and I could not suppress a small smile. Hero worship, indeed.

Clarice Evans returned once more to transport the children to church, sans Christy, who was too old to participate. Once her siblings were gone, the girl simply went upstairs to her room to get on her computer, saying that she had a chapter of her book to finish as well as a chapter of her "fanfic," and her "RPs" to check on. That is, she told her mother that. Holmes and I, of course, did not understand a word beyond "book."

Kathleen just gave us a smile that clearly said that the terminology would be explained in time.

The once-more quiet house found us settled in the living room, Kathleen spreading herself out on one of the sofas. It was then that I realized just how slender and athletic she really was, and I had half a mind to ask her if women in this time participated in sports and if so, if she herself did, when she spoke up. Her eyes were closed as one leg dangled off the sofa, and I was reminded very sharply of Holmes back at Baker Street, not so long ago.

Without opening her eyes, she announced, "I called a friend in London—he says those papers of yours will be in tomorrow."

"Oh." I glanced at Holmes before continuing. "That's… good news, I suppose."

"It is," she agreed, settling further into the sofa.

"You seem to think we shall be here for a very long time," Holmes remarked.

She opened her eyes at that, and looked directly at him, sitting placidly in an armchair. "I'm taking every precaution, Sherlock. It's entirely possible. We don't know how you got here, we don't know why, and we definitely don't know for how long. I think we should approach this situation as being permanent."

It was a possibility my mind had already considered, but it chilled me in my heart of hearts. I had no close friends back home, but there were still Mycroft and Lestrade and Gregson and Hopkins, and my heart was still tied to the London I had lived in and loved for more than two decades. I still had roots there.

Holmes had steepled his fingers and was studying our hostess. "I agree that we should take precautions, of course. Do you have any theories as to how or why Watson and I are here?"

Kathleen closed her eyes again. "In stories, there are two main types of time-travel. There's temporary, in which the time-traveler either brings knowledge from his time to make the other time better, or he takes knowledge from the other time back to his time to make home better. I would venture to say that the latter is the more common of the two, though, mind you, I haven't studied this stuff since before I starting having kids—ergo, a long time ago. Then there's permanent, in which the time-traveler fulfills the remainder of his destiny in the other time."

She hesitated, then continued. "Frankly—and I don't mean to be rude—the fact that you two are, well, getting along in years rather seems to lend credence to the permanence theory."

I did not speak, and Holmes looked very much lost in thought. Silence dominated the room for a good two minutes.

At last, Holmes spoke, though quietly. "You believe this to be supernatural."

"Until proven otherwise, yes."

"To the purpose of?"

Kathleen folded her arms. "That's God's business, not mine."

I winced at the rather curt rejoinder.

"That was a deplorable evasion."

"Sherlock, seriously—how am I supposed to know?" She huffed and folded her arms behind her head, then, as if an idea had occurred to her, flung herself abruptly off the sofa and grabbed a device that resembled a cell phone from a nearby shelf. She pulled a stylus out of the device and started rapidly tapping the glowing screen. "First thing tomorrow," she said almost absently, not looking up, her mind obviously on a new train of thought, "we're going clothes shopping for the two of you. When we get home, we'll have lunch, and then—" she looked up, and her dark eyes sparkled—"I'm going to put you boys through a one-week-long 21st century boot camp." She grinned roguishly.

Holmes and I traded blank glances. "Boot camp?" my friend echoed.

Kathleen snickered briefly before catching herself. She had the grace to say "sorry," but the amused glint in her eyes said otherwise. "There you go—that's the kind of thing you have to learn about. Boot camp… ah, in the vernacular, it means intensive training like you'd get in the army.

"In this case, five and half days of intensive training, in which you'll learn how to fully use a computer and operate other common devices, drive a car—" Holmes opened his mouth to protest, and Kathleen raised a hand—"a practical thing to know, and non-negotiable, Mr. Holmes." She cocked an eyebrow, her expression and posture daring him to try her. He pressed his lips together in irritation and briefly waved a hand for her to continue. She nodded. "Okay… 20th century history, current events, pop culture, modern British law and culture, modern American and British English, advances in science and medicine…"

I swallowed hard. "And, erm, you expect us to learn all of this in five and a half days?"

"At least have a working knowledge of all this, yes," she nodded in a no-nonsense fashion. "And church next Sunday will be your test—we'll see if you two can managed to act like modern people. So…" She leaned in, her expression both excited and challenging. "Think you're up to this?"

Holmes leaned forward, determined—of course, no one challenged him and won. "Absolutely."

Mere mortal that I am and unable to match the intensity of the two geniuses in the room, I merely shook my head. "If I drop dead of exhaustion when we're through, I'll come back to haunt you."

Kathleen laughed merrily. "You're on!" She pressed the back of her hand over her mouth to contain her mirth. "Say… How'd you guys like to watch a modern-day dramatisation of your adventures?"

"Modern-day?" Holmes and I echoed almost simultaneously.

I blinked. "I am curious as to what entertainment these days is like, anyway…"

"I'm rather afraid," Holmes frowned, "that they shall have ruined our story completely."

Kathleen cocked her head. "I… don't think they did. I've always enjoyed it, and I daresay you might, too. It's a good show."

I nodded slowly. "I'd like to see it."

Holmes drummed his fingers against each other briefly and sighed. "Oh, very well."

Grinning, Kathleen nodded and retrieved the proper case. And halted. "Oh. Umm… I should w—say, beforehand, that there are some… ehhh… inappropriate things. Profanity, of course, and some brief, uh, references to, um, homosexuality. Very brief," she added hastily, seeing the thunderstruck look on Holmes's face.

But he shook his head and said, "Now I'm curious. Go ahead, start it up."

Kathleen nodded again and started the show.

Watching it was… intriguing, to say the least. The television and the fact of the film itself were marvels in their own right. And though the fictitious Sherlock and John differed from Holmes and myself, they remained recognizably us. And yes, there were things that I did not appreciate. But I enjoyed it on the whole, and though Holmes maintained a stern expression throughout, I occasionally caught a glimmer of interest and even pleasure in his grey eyes.

As the end credits rolled, Kathleen turned to us with an expectant look. "Well?"

We were alternately discussing and arguing the show until the children returned. Then, after the younger ones went to bed, Christy and Jeremy begged their mother to let them watch the second episode of the drama. It turned out that we watched not only the second but also the third episode, by which time it was almost midnight. Christy and Jeremy were promptly shooed to bed afterward, leaving us adults to continue our discussion of Sherlock—until Kathleen also shooed Holmes and myself to bed.

To my amusement, Holmes was a bit too sleepy to debate the issue, merely shooting her a glare that he was honor-bound to give. I do not think she minded it at all.

Author's Note:

The sleeping scene was my fave. Of course, the last scene was fun, too.

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