Prompt from Hades Lord of the Dead - Write Holmes and Watson into a different time period (and don't just copy from BBC Sherlock, Elementary or Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century!) - could be anything from the Stone Age to the distant future.

AN: You have got to be kidding me.

The Case of the Fourth Universe

Dr. John Hamish Watson didn't know what to think. Neither did anyone else in the room, from the looks on their faces. He and Holmes had just stepped through what they had a moment before been sure was the door to their flat in 221B Baker Street. They now stood in a very different room, though somehow it felt familiar.

"Either we're in the wrong place or Mycroft did some serious renovation," said the rather attractive Asian woman. She was most striking, but dressed in an entirely scandalous fashion. She wore trousers!

"Mycroft?" the tall, austere and unnaturally quiet man in the long dark coat asked. "Mycroft Holmes?"

"My brother, yes," replied the young man with the nervously darting eyes who was in need of a shave. He'd entered the room slightly ahead of the Asian woman complaining of how the key had jammed in the lock and saying something about needing to get better ones installed.

"Look here," the short man said stepping forward. "Who are you people and just what did you do to our flat?"

"Your flat?" asked the unshaven man.

"John, it's not our flat," said the tall man in the dark coat. He was looking around in a very familiar fashion. "The doors are all wrong. The windows are wrong. This cannot be our flat."

"And it is not ours, either," said Sherlock Holmes, speaking for the first time.

"Indeed, it is not," agreed Watson emphatically.

"It's not mine, either," said the unshaven man.

"Look," the Asian woman said. "Who are you people?"

"I asked first," the short man said, though not in a confrontational way.

"Fine," the Asian woman said, raising her hands in a placatory manner. "I'm Joan Watson and this is my… friend, Sherlock Holmes."

"What?" demanded the short man.

"John," growled the tall man in the dark coat.

"Sherlock! This is some prank your brother is playing on us!" the short man shot back.

"Your name is also Sherlock?" the unshaven man asked and peered closer at the man in the dark coat.

"Yes," said the man. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Interesting," murmured Sherlock Holmes.

"What about you two?" asked the Asian woman. "You look like you just stepped off a sound stage for Downton Abbey."

"I know not of what you speak, madam," said Holmes and looked more closely at her and then turned his keen gaze on the short man who seemed so aggravated and confused. "Your name is John Watson, is it not?"

"Yes," the short man replied and did a double take, glancing from Holmes' feet up to the top of his head twice before crossing his arms and pressing his mouth shut.

Everyone went back to staring at each other in silence for a long moment and then the tall man in the dark coat stepped closer to Holmes and Watson, his eyes traveling over them in a way Watson knew well.

"These are not costumes," the tall man said when his inspection was complete.

"What, they're wearing antique clothing or something?" the short John Watson asked.

"No," said the unshaven Holmes. "It's fairly new. Hand stitching combined with some machine stitches."

"The cut is distinctly Victorian in character," added the Holmes of the dark coat. He turned his gaze hard upon the other pair. "You were born in England, but you've been living in the United States for some time. In New York. And you, miss, are a native of that city. Your parents are both Chinese. I'd say you're first generation."

"And you're a Londoner," rejoined the unshaven Holmes. "Your companion there is a doctor and served in Afghanistan."

"In what regiment?" Watson asked immediately.

"What? oh... The Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," replied the shorter Watson.

"I'll be damned," Watson swore softly and very much out of character.

"What's wrong with that?" the shorter Watson demanded, a little pridefully.

"Nothing," said Watson and stumbled to a seat. "It was my regiment when we fought there. I arrived too late. They'd already been shipped off at the outbreak of the war. I was sent on to Kandahar where I was attached to the Berkshires."

"You?" the shorter Watson asked disbelievingly. He took a step forward across the Persian rug and looked with confusion and concern on the slightly older man. "You fought in Afghanistan?"

"I was wounded at the battle of Maiwand," Watson said and looked up into the younger man's eyes. "I still carry the jezail bullet that nearly took my life. The surgeons couldn't remove it from my shoulder without doing greater damage. I was wounded in the leg, also."

"Maiwand?" The short Watson stared incredulously at Watson. "Maiwand?"

Short Watson shook his finger in Watson's direction, his smile turning cynical.

"I'll say when you commit to a part, you really commit to a part," he said. "You sound like you believe it."

"Watson?" the tall Holmes asked.

"Sherlock, that battle was fought in the nineteenth century!"

"And what century, pray tell, is this?" Homes asked, coolly.

The four strangers turned to look at him with variously speculative and disbelieving expressions.

"I look about this room and many things are familiar," Holmes went on as if explaining himself. "I see correspondence pinned to the mantelpiece with a jackknife. I see a Persian slipper with tobacco in it. I see over there a table with chemical apparatus on it. The shelves of books so similar to my own and yet very different. V.R. in bullet pocks. So many things are familiar and yet there are things that are strange. I presume this is a telephone, though, I have never seen a model of this kind and the ones I have seen were in government offices or the private homes of the very wealthy."

"Most of these things look like they come from the thirties," said the woman.

"Thirties?" Holmes asked her politely.

"The nineteen thirties," she explained and narrowed her eyes on him in a calculating manner. "Your clothes look like late Victorian Era."

"Why of course they are," Holmes replied with a smile. "I just purchased this suit three months ago."

"At an antique shop?" she asked.

"Cohan and Dunwood," said Holmes. "My haberdashers."

"You're name is also Sherlock Holmes and this man in the chair is named Dr. John Watson," the tall Holmes stated emphatically. "You are Joan Watson and you are Sherlock Holmes, both living in New York and in London on a visit for some reason of importance."

"And you are Sherlock Holmes and that is your Dr. John Watson and the two of you live here in London as flat mates," the unshaven Holmes said with glinting eyes. "You are a consulting detective and the doctor is your… partner."

"I'm not gay," short Watson sighed.

"Holmes, what is going on?" Watson asked looking around again.

"I do not know, dear fellow, but I think our friends here are coming to it," Holmes said and found a decanter of brandy. He poured a measure into a snifter and handed it to his friend.

"Sherlock, this is nuts," Joan said and walked over to look out the window. "Holy shit!"

The four men who were standing rushed to her side and peered through the glass. Out on the street, motor cars from the late twenties and early thirties were trundling by below. A bobby in an old fashioned uniform strolled along twirling his baton and whistling a jaunty tune. A paper boy called to passersby. Men and women in suits and dresses in the fashions of the early twentieth century strolled along on business of their own.

"It looks like a Hollywood back lot," Joan breathed into the uneasy silence.

"That smell is no special effect," the unshaven Holmes observed.

"These motor cars are quite advanced," Holmes said. "Very sleek looking. Very powerful. Much better looking than any of the clunking and clattering contraptions I ever saw."

"They're nearly a hundred years out of date," shorter Watson said, shaking his head.

"Incredible," Sherlock said.

Joan looked up at him and smiled.

"You've got a nice voice," she said.

"What?" Sherlock said and shot her an uncertain look. "Oh. Um… Thank you."

They all stared at the street below but Watson was busy looking at a copy of the Times.

"Holmes, look at the date on this," Watson said and held up the paper for his friend. The unshaven Sherlock snatched it from his fingers before Holmes could take it.

"7 July 1930," he read. "Who is this Sir Arthur Conan Doyle the headline is about?"

"He wrote those stories about Brigadier Girard," John said instantly. "I read them when I was a boy."

"He wrote the 'Lost World', too," Joan said and took the paper from unshaven Sherlock to glance over the article.

"I thought that was Michael Crichton," unshaven Sherlock said.

"He did too, but Doyle wrote one a long time ago," Joan said and passed the paper to Holmes who accepted it absently. His eyes were unfocussed as he continued to gaze out of the window.

"Can you prove you are Sherlock Holmes?" asked Sherlock of the unshaven Sherlock.

"Can you?" retorted unshaven Sherlock.

"Touché" said Sherlock and turned away to examine the mantelpiece. He picked up a large pipe from the rack and reached into the Persian slipper, fishing out some tobacco to load it.

"I can prove who I am," Joan said and dug in her purse, coming out with a thick wallet. She unsnapped the clasp and held her New York driver's license out to John. "See? That's really me. I'm Joan Watson."

"Yeah," agree John and produced his own driver's license. "John H. Watson. Me with a moustache. I shaved it off."

They turned to Watson as he sat finishing his brandy and debating if another might do him good.

"What about you?" Joan asked.

"I beg your pardon, miss?" he asked, uncertain what they were wanting.

"Have you got any form of I.D.?" John asked patiently.

"I.D.?" Watson shook his head, still not understanding.

"They mean a form of identification," Holmes told him. "Berth records and the like."

"I suppose if I were home I could fetch you a copy of my discharge papers, miss," said John apologetically. "But I'm not in the habit of carrying such things on my person. I have a calling card, if that will do."

Joan took it and read the text:

Dr. J. H. Watson

Surgeon

221B Baker Street

London

"May I see that?" asked Sherlock, puffing out a cloud of rich grey smoke. He glanced over the card, giving it a sniff and a flick and even tore the corner off. "Strong scent of tobacco. Embossed. Good quality paper with a high rag content. Oil based ink. Very expensive."

"Sherlock, why are you smoking?" John demanded in a disapproving tone.

"Because I don't have any patches and the residents of this flat clearly will not mind," Sherlock replied.

"That's a good idea, I think," Watson said and took out his own pipe and tobacco.

"Yes," agreed Holmes.

"Oh god," John sighed and found himself a seat.

"Gentlemen," said unshaven Sherlock. "Are we three in agreement that we are each Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock and Holmes glanced at each other and then back to unshaven Sherlock and nodded.

"And can you three agree that each of you is Dr. Watson?"

"Are you a doctor, young lady?" asked Watson.

"Formerly a surgeon, by the look of her hands," Holmes told him and lit his pipe.

"I can accept that she is, but him?" John said, pointing at Watson.

"And why not me, sir?" Watson demanded, rising to his not inconsiderable full height.

"Because you're dressed like you should be playing a role in 'A Christmas Carol'!" John snapped, not backing down.

"John, he is Dr. John H. Watson," Sherlock said firmly.

"How can you say that?" John demanded.

"The cut of their clothes," Sherlock said easily. "The smell. The way they move. The way they speak. They are genuine."

"The smell?" asked Watson, unsure if he should be offended.

"You're obviously from a time before deodorant, Doctor," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Is he always that rude?" Joan asked John.

"You have no idea," John replied.

"I think I do," she said and shot a meaningful look at unshaven Sherlock.

"Yeah," John shrugged. "Maybe you do."

"Getting back to the point," unshaven Sherlock interrupted. "I think we are currently experiencing something highly improbable."

"Stating the obvious," Sherlock growled and puffed out another cloud of smoke.

"I sometimes find it useful to state the obvious," Holmes said and began examining the shelves of commonplace books. "We each came through different doors to arrive here. Where were you all going?"

"To our flat," John said.

"To my old rooms," unshaven Sherlock said.

"We, ourselves, were returning to our rooms," Holmes said and pulled out the volume labeled M. "We had just returned from assisting Inspector Lestrade with a case. A man was breaking into people's houses and absconding with busts of Napoleon only to smash them."

"Were the pieces scattered and trampled?" asked unshaven Sherlock.

"No," Holmes replied finding the entry he was looking for. "There were signs he was looking for something."

"Did you say Lestrade?" John asked.

"You know the good inspector?" Watson asked.

"I don't know that I would call him good," Sherlock snorted.

"He's better than most," unshaven Sherlock put in.

"Ours is the best of a bad lot," Holmes told them. "Know you also a Moriarty?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, his attention suddenly focused entirely on Holmes.

"As do I," unshaven Sherlock said.

"As do the residents of this flat." Holmes held up the book and showed them.

"What's this mean?" Joan asked, seeing the expressions on the three detectives' faces.

"It is only more evidence," Holmes said. "It is not a conclusion."

"I think I'm going to have some brandy," said John.

"Me too," Joan said and followed him to the decanter.

"I'll join you," said Watson, retrieving his snifter from the little table.

The Holmeses began to talk animatedly, trying to understand what had brought them all to this place and for what reason.

"I don't know about you two, but I don't care so much about how we got here," Joan said and sipped her brandy. It was quite good and she drank a little more.

"I'm more interested in getting home," John agreed.

"Yes," said Watson. "How's the question."

"We all came in from different doorways," said Joan, glancing around the room.

"Yes, but Holmes and I were going through the door to our flat." Watson pointed to the main door leading out into the rest of the house.

"We were, too," John said and drank more brandy.

"Us too," Joan said. "But Sherlock and I came through that door. It looks like it leads to a bedroom. And you and your partner came from that one."

"Looks like it goes upstairs or something," John said. "And, just to be clear, Sherlock and I are partners in solving crimes."

"Okay," she said and shrugged. "And Victorian Dr. Watson, you and your Sherlock came through that doorway."

"Miss… Doctor, in my day we do not call other gentlemen by their first names," Watson corrected her. "You are correct, though. The doorway gives on to a closet, I believe."

"What good does that do us?" John asked with another sip of his brandy.

"Have you ever heard of String Theory?" Joan asked.

"Sure,' said John with a nod. "Multiple universes and all that."

"String Theory? Multiple universes?" Watson wondered. This was all very confusing.

"Some physicists think there are as many universes as there are possibilities," Joan explained. "They all exist side by side. A few of those physicists think the universes sometimes bump up against each other."

"Right!" John put in. "When they do that things can transfer from one universe to another!"

"I don't follow you," Watson said and poured more brandy for each of them.

"Well, let's say there are three universes like there are three brandy snifters," Joan went on and put her snifter next to Watson's. John, in support of her, touched his snifter to both of theirs. "Now most of the time nothing happens because the walls between the universes are strong and nothing can pass through them, like no brandy can pass through this glass."

"I understand," said Watson. Holmes had derided him for reading Jules Verne's scientific romances, but now they were paying off.

"Sometimes, though, something happens and a little from one universe spills into another like brandy spilling from my glass into yours or John's," she continued.

"I see," said Watson. "But Holmes and I did not spill into your universe, nor John's."

"He's right," said John and drank from his glass. "We all spilled into a universe from the nineteen thirties."

"Where, presumably, another Holmes lives," Joan finished for them.

"How does this help?" John asked and looked over at the three intensely arguing Holmeses. "I don't think they're getting anywhere."

"What if we all went back out the doors we came through?" Joan asked.

"It can't be that simple," John said.

Watson frowned and considered a moment. He took the brandy decanter and very carefully poured a few drops from his snifter back into it.

"Alright," John nodded. "Don't have anything to lose, really."

"What if it kills us?" Joan wondered. "Or takes us somewhere else?"

"I'm more concerned about it doing nothing at all," Watson said. "What if Holmes and I open that door and walk into a closet? There is a young lady I am very much interested in and would not wish to stay here if it can be helped."

John pinched his mouth shut and gave a nod. "I'll risk it."

"Me too, I guess," agreed Joan. "With everything that's getting ready to happen in the next few years. I don't really want to be around to live through the Blitz."

"Granddad lived through Normandy," John said and glanced out the window. "It's really something, isn't it?"

"Not much changed from my time," Watson said. "The air seems less thick. Can't say that's a bad thing. What do you mean by the Blitz?"

"Oh," Joan looked uncertain and glanced at John. He shrugged and then shook his head. "I don't think I should tell you. It might change something. Maybe we couldn't get home if I do."

"I see," Watson said and frowned in thought. "You may be right."

"How do we tell them?" John asked. "I doubt Sherlock will listen to me."

"Holmes will listen to me, but I don't know that he will agree," said Watson.

"I'll tell them," Joan said. "You two, just back me up."

"Watsons," called unshaven Sherlock. "We have it!"

"Have what?" asked Joan dubiously.

"The way home, Doctor," Holmes said mildly.

"If it works," Sherlock purred, skepticism dripping from his words.

"You agreed it is worth a try," unshaven Sherlock said.

"That doesn't mean I believe it will work," Sherlock snorted.

"Let us test the theory," said Holmes.

"What do you want to do?" Joan cut in before they could start debating again.

"Each pair of Holmeses and Watsons will walk back out the door they entered this room through," unshaven Sherlock said.

"That seems the likeliest way to return home for each of us," Holmes said.

"If it doesn't work, we return to discuss the matter further," Sherlock put in.

Joan glanced meaningfully at her counterparts and they shared a brief smile.

The three pairs wished each other luck and then simultaneously stepped back through the doors they had entered by. Joan and Sherlock found themselves on the landing outside his old rooms. Holmes and Watson blinked around at the familiar wallpaper of the stairwell of 221B under the glow of gas lamps. And Sherlock and John stood at the top of the steps leading up to the flat above Mrs. Hudson's.

Back in the room they had all just left two men entered through the front door. A tall, lean man with a hawk's nose and a fedora hat and a portly, older gentleman walking with a cane and smiling bemusedly at a joke only he had heard.

"Watson!" said the hawk-nosed man. "Someone has been here!"

"What's that?" Watson asked, blinking around. "By Jove! You're right Holmes! There's smoke in the air!"

"And they've been at the brandy!" said Holmes, hurrying to the decanter. "Three glasses!"

"Look, Holmes!" Watson cried in surprise. "They left your M volume out."

"M?" Holmes said archly. "Morgan the poisoner. Moran and Meridew. But look here, old friend. M for Moriarty."

"Moriarty, Holmes?" Watson said in alarm. "I thought he was dead."

"As did I," Holmes said staring off into the middle distance. "It seems he may be back."

"Then it's a good thing we have you, old friend," said Watson staunchly.

"And a good thing I have you, Watson," said Holmes and took his friend by the hand.

The End