Chapter 2
Setting the stage
Sherlock opened his eyes in the same position and the same room he had closed them what felt to have only been moments before.
He was in his bedroom, which looked quite similar to the one in modern times. This was the room that was the least different form the modern version of his reality.
Case, there was a case, he needed to get up.
The moment he pushed back the extra heavy duvet that must have been made of some kind of animal hair due to its weight, he winced.
It was February, which meant it was cold.
Very cold in fact.
He must have let the fire die. His breath condensed and he sighed.
Right.
Mrs Hudson was not his housekeeper... and - he exhaled noisily – his Victorian self must have taken cocaine the night before, he felt the aftermath of it quite vividly as well as the leaden tiredness the drug left in its wake - or at least this was what fitted to his mental scenario.
Maybe it had been a bad idea to come here, he was as uncomfortable as he was in reality.
Distraction, right.
Take care of this era's problems to get his mind off his awkward real life.
He needed that.
All inconveniences would be less horrible than the real ones.
Also, he could vent his frustration at his mind palace version of Watson, but he would - under no circumstances - burden the real John with any more distress than he was already dealing with.
So this was the place to be for letting it go wild.
The warm beige dressing gown was draped over a chair nearby.
Right, he needed to set the stage, but was it really time to get up?
Obviously, it was early morning. He had slept then... or just skipped the night?
With the dressing gown on, he curled back into bed, surely he could use his own illusion of being able to rest to get some more sleep.
And he slept.
.
He woke some time later.
Someone was loudly hammering at his bedroom door.
"Holmes!"
It was John - or more precise - his alter ego.
"I'm awake, what is it?"
The man sounded as if his hemline had caught fire.
"I was just wondering when you'd finally get up. Lestrade is waiting."
Oh, someone else must have set the stage, then.
He opened the door, ruffling through his hair. He should have taken a long hot shower before coming here... and he also needed to stop thinking in his modern mindset! Believing there were those kind of contraptions easy available in every home would do him no good.
He should think of cleaning himself in terms of a bath in a gas heated bathtub that needed forever to heat up and was a serious fire hazard as well as a danger to any user's 'behind'.
"Good grace, what happened to you?" Watson said the moment he saw his flatmate.
"What?"
Right, his Victorian ego kept his hair neatly greased back and was always clean shaven.
When he rubbed his chin he realised that for some reason he still wore the itchy stubble he had grown in real life.
Why was it so hard to set the stage this time?
Probably because he was too exhausted to do it properly. His ailments were making him sloppy.
His mind was so very tired.
This time he'd keep anyone out who criticised the stage and the silliness of it all. He was well aware he was ridiculous, no need for Moriarty to remind him. But it was beyond the point, he was here as a relaxation exercise, not to solve an urgent case.
No pressure.
No, that wasn't true; there was a fair amount of pressure – to get back to his feet. People like Lady Smallwood and all the others who were involved in granting his pardon were still waiting for results.
Not to mention Mycroft's pressing expectations. He would surely get on his nerves quite frequently in the next days and weeks, and not only with the Moriarty thing. He'd show up to 'visit' him. Sherlock hoped he hadn't informed their parents on one hand, on the other, if he hadn't he would use that as blackmail material sooner or later.
"Holmes?"
Right, he needed to focus on the Victorian reality. Watson was there, he should make tea.
He shuffled past his friend to his laboratory table and turned on the Bunsen burner.
"Holmes, can you hear me?"
"Of course, I can. Be quiet."
"Demanding night?"
"You could say that."
"You took cocaine, didn't you?"
"Yes. I needed to think, apparently."
Watson huffed in annoyance. "About what?" The other man had followed him and turned the burner off again. "I asked Mrs Hudson to make proper tea."
He looked down at the newspaper, the date was Monday, February 11th, 1867.
'Aftermath of snowstorms still causing problems,' The headline stated.*
"So, we have a case," John pointed at a folded sheet of paper and fetched his pipe, then sat in his armchair.
"Oh," he picked the note up from the table and read the handwritten words, someone must have brought it by earlier. "As you said, Lestrade is waiting for us. But we have time for tea," Sherlock sat down with his own pipe and started to stuff it.
A moment later Mrs Hudson came in with a tray.
.
When they climbed into the cab Sherlock was glad Scotland Yard was on this side of the Thames, crossing it would have taken ages.
In 1867 it was just around the corner, Nr 4 Whitehall Place, even easier to reach than in modern times coming from Baker Street. They moved to 'New' Scotland Yard in 1890...
The historical facts washed over him. Knowing history was so very ensuring - in contrast to living through the present, or the future from his current view - which was unwritten and therefore an unsecure place.
History was so much more predictable, very relaxing.
He watched the houses on Regent Street pass by and tried to ignore the obnoxious smells of Victorian London at the end of winter.
They needed almost an hour to reach Scotland Yard, the weather was bad and temperatures had started to melt the mass of faeces, sewage, rotting food, and waste that had frozen to a solid cover on the ground in the past two months.
The winter had been cold and long*², but now it was getting warmer and that was creating the usual horrible mess of a town suffocating from overpopulation, industrialisation and clogged streets – and it was the late 1860s, the work on the new sewer system caused permanent traffic jams, but the intercepting sewers had been finished three years ago. Nevertheless, currently extensive works were done at Victoria Embankment that now caused traffic issues in addition.
Sherlock felt nausea stir in his stomach and wondered if it was something that was slopping over from the real world or if it was related to the overwhelming smell.
He managed to gulp down the raising bile twice.
"Holmes?" Watson's voice was near his face.
He realised he had closed his eyes.
"Hmm?"
"Are you sick?"
"Of course not."
"You look unwell."
"Might be caused by the stench."
"Right, I forgot. Your overly sensitive senses," Watson said with a huff of disbelieve.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Real John had needed some time to understand how difficult it was handling his sensory input and how overwhelmingly intense it could be. But a doctor in the late 1860s must be sceptic that this was a real issue at all, back then the nervous system and how the five senses worked was overall quite unresearched.
"Although I have to admit, they are getting worse. Before, the smells must have been immobilised by the low temperatures," Watson added.
"Obviously," Sherlock added, glad that in this decade the theory of the 'Four Humors' was not really an issue any longer. This was the era of invention and research, things like bloodletting and purging were no longer up to date, albeit a decade earlier they were standard treatments. People did no longer believe in things like that. Nevertheless, he needed to keep in mind that medicine and forensics were far from being as 'advanced' as they had been during his first stay in this era, in the 1890s. This was a decade where people only started to try to understand the mechanisms of the body.
.
Half an hour later they arrived at Scotland Yard and picked up Lestrade and headed for the crime scene, located in one of the less densely populated areas of suburb London.
The first thing Sherlock observed at the site was that it was probably not the where the victim had died.
A boy was lying face down in a rubbish dump. Some policemen were carefully removing the dirt from the body, obviously not happy they had to do this.
Even after inspecting the body closely with the good doctor's help they weren't able to find the cause of death.
"He's from a family who's wealth is sufficient to pay two maids and live in one of the better areas, though not from around here," Sherlock deduced.
Of course this statement had to be discussed, as usual Lestrade needed an explanation and all the constables stood there and watched in disbelieve. Sherlock was unnerved, his patience worn thin by being cold and low spirits.
Why didn't they just believe him?
Most of them were unable to understand even with proper explanations.
"The clothes are in a well kept state. They were washed and ironed at the house, not folded but hanged neatly, which means not elsewhere and then transported to the home, so more than one maid. Also, the dirt on his shoes is not from this area, it's from further southeast, but of course your training failed to teach you things as important as earth compositions in the town where you work, so..."
"Holmes..." Watson interrupted and Sherlock understood he was rude, although he had just wanted to point out this was needed and people responsible should be informed by students or Lestrade or whatever that this was necessary.
Right, he needed to live up to Watson's standard of professionalism and show he was well behaved, so he forced himself to be polite.
"Clearly not an accident. Boys his age have all kinds of things in their pockets, this boy has nothing in his pockets at all. So it must have been taken. Probably not a robbery, because at his age children usually don't carry an amount of money that is worth the crime; but none of the last can be sure, it is just a temporary working thesis."
He looked at his flatmate with a questioning look.
John shrugged, not understanding what he wanted.
"As soon as we find the family we can ask them from what sickness he recently recovered, since Dr Watson seems to be unable to diagnose it, which is not surprising, since he – by the time of his death – had mostly recovered from it," Sherlock finished.
"What?" John asked, irritated.
"His pallor makes it quite clear."
.
Watson's sulking on their way home was sign enough he had said something wrong.
Sherlock spent all the way back wondering what it might have been. The doctor was not forthcoming when he downright asked about the reason.
But the mental pouting disappeared suddenly when Sherlock felt his stomach twist once more due to the unbelievable disgusting smells on the streets - the dumpster hadn't smelled this bad - and he swayed when they exited the cab in front of 221b.
"Holmes? Do you feel faint?" Watson was steadying him before he even realised he had moved towards him. "May I advice not using any substances tonight due to the fact that you already suffer from a bit of ill health? Or is this problem caused by those substances?"
Sherlock winced and was happy that the spell was over.
"More by the lack thereof," he answered.
"What?"
"Nevermind."
They entered the house.
To their luck Mrs Hudson had kept the fires going and the house seemed well heated.
God, modern heating was such a luxury.
Sherlock wished everybody knew what a difficult thing heating*³ was in the past and how lucky people should be the Victorian era was over. Then he scolded himself for wasting so much time on thinking about creature comforts.
But he was stressed and he knew it, withdrawal always worsened the sensory issues he struggled with on a daily basis. Everything felt much worse, the lights in his eyes, normal sounds in his ears - even wind or cold on his skin. And it was bound to get worse over the next days.
Which meant he'd need a lot of energy just to try to keep it out of the mind palace's reality.
The next moment he silently cursed, he wanted his 'modern' thoughts to be gone, they interrupted the illusion.
Why couldn't he manage to keep them out?
Right, he wasn't as high as he needed to be for that and also his body kept reminding him of the actual present, the very one he tried to leave behind for a bit.
Then he realised, that maybe trying to block out symptoms would be unwise, would suck away precious energy and by that weaken him further, maybe integrating them into the Victorian era would be the better choice.
This would be harder than his first visit to this era, which – in his personal timeline – also happened before and after the Ricoletti case.
Before in the sense that it was earlier in the century and that Watson was again living with him as a flatmate.
Later in the sense that they both had all the memories of his first stay in the past, including Mary and her death. They would both remember her as something from their past... a temporal paradox they'd ignore, for the sake of not needing to set the stage from scratch again. But this Mary had been dead for three years, he decided, for Watson's sake, made it less fresh.
He needed his companion to remember those things... and wanted to remember them himself. They had been so distant due to the dynamics of the decade... and so very close. He couldn't put it into proper words, but he needed this closeness to get through withdrawal. And maybe even a save room for his own grief he couldn't confront the real John with.
Damn the mechanics.
Right, he was a gentleman, he shouldn't curse... but he felt like shit and some part of him was beyond caring for that.
"Holmes? Can you hear me?"
He blinked and found he was staring his friend right in the face.
"Alright, let's get you upstairs."
Sherlock felt a hand under his armpit, helping him up the first step.
"Can you make it up the stairs?" Mrs Hudson was there, too.
"Of course," he straightened and started to slowly put one foot on the second step. He felt an astounding wave of tiredness and exhaustion hit him hard, his limps felt leaden and stiff. Although he had doubts he could do it at first he managed to then lift his other foot on the next step.
While he slowly moved up the stairs he heard them whisper behind his back for a moment before the doctor hurried to follow him in case he might slip.
It was ridiculous, he wasn't that bad.
So he mobilised some energy, born out of frustration and sped up. A few moments later he was in his room. He let his coat and hat fall, kicked off his shoes and then sank into the bed, which was quite not following proper etiquette, but he didn't care.
He turned away from the door but sleep eluded him.
The clothes were too restricting and tight. Modern shirts were so much more comfortable when it came to sleeping than starched collars and waistcoats.
He was still trying to decide if he'd manage to fall asleep when he felt Watson nearby.
Without speaking the doctor helped him out of the collar, removed the sock suspenders and unbuttoned the waistcoat.
Once it was all gone, sleep took him within a few minutes, although the original plan had been to just lie down for a few moments.
.
.
*In early January 1867 Britain was hit by a big snowstorm that caused enormous railway traffic problems (6m high snowdrifts). Some regions were completely cut off.
*² Author made that up, due to a lack of information about 1867's entire winter. Writer's freedom.
*³ Friendly wave to Ashblood, who wrote a very nice story about Sherlock and heating, go check it out, the title is: 'Nightmare Sherlock' and it's on Ao3, username
Radar_Girl
.
A/N:
I am not an historian but I did hours and hours of research. So the facts mentioned about traffic, locations, construction zones, technologies and all other things Victorian are as accurate as possible - for the year 1867.
If there is any historian out there who spots inaccuracies I am open to constructive criticism, would be happy to learn more in fact.
Of course I'd also like getting feedback from everyone else :)
Thank you for reading.