A/N: Hey everyone! I'm BearfootTruck. I'm usually known for fanfics in the Sonic, Naruto, My Hero Academia, Miraculous and - to a certain extent - Mario fandoms, but I also write for other fandoms.

A little backstory about this idea: I remember a decade ago on Tumblr finding out about the live-action Sherlock Holmes series Sherlock and Elementary, and then I had the idea of "what if Holmes and Watson were in 1970s New York City?" I actually finished this one a couple of years ago, and I intended to publish this as a series seeing as how Sherlock Holmes is now public domain, but I figured I'd upload a couple of stories here and on Archive of Our Own as a sort of test run. If I get anything wrong about the characterization of Holmes and Watson or the depiction of 1970s New York City, I apologize and promise to fix it however I can.

A word of warning: This story contains instances of language that may not be considered politically correct nowadays. I didn't put this in for shock value, but rather 1. To illustrate how far we've come since the 1890s and 1970s, and 2. To contrast the values of Holmes and Watson with those of New Yorkers in the 1970s. If such language offends you, please turn away from this story and read something else. Otherwise, read on to find out how Holmes and Watson

June 2, 1894

For me, Dr. John Watson, it was just another day at 221B, Baker Street, but for my most esteemed friend Sherlock Holmes, it was anything but ordinary as he immersed himself in a tome with the title On the Origin of Magick, by a gentleman known as H. Albert Crestwood. I had known Holmes to be a disciple of many an esoteric field of study, but even this baffled me. Such was the degree of my bafflement that I was quite tempted to inquire as to what drew him to this particular book, but I knew better than to arouse the attention of my friend when he was so deeply engaged in such an intellectual pursuit as this. It was at this moment that I remembered that the post was due to arrive, so I walked out to the postbox and retrieved it for Holmes. Most of the letters were of no great consequence to me, save for one that was without a return address, a recent guideline recommended by the Royal Mail. This one in particular held my intrigue, although I was conflicted in the matter of dealing with this letter. My better judgment warned me that the lack of a return address was a signal that the sender was not a man to be trusted. However, I felt strongly about permitting my dear companion to investigate the matter, and thus I brought it in with the rest of his letters. Upon my re-entry, Holmes set down the book.

"I see that my post has arrived," said Holmes. "Well, give it here."

I handed the letters to my dear Holmes, who proceeded to go over each and every one of them with that trademark detail-oriented eye that only he could possibly have possessed. Most of these he cast aside without much thought or analysis, but when it came time to analyze the mysterious one that was wanting in a return address, he ceased to pore through the other letters and instead scrutinized this one as thoroughly as possible.

"Watson, take a look at this envelope. Tell me what you see."

"The only thing of any consequence to me is that it is lacking a return address."

"Perhaps for you it is, but for me, I can thoroughly ascertain that the sender is one who harbors malicious intent for both of us, or why would they have inscribed a return address upon this envelope? The handwriting, while not entirely familiar to me, suggests a man who is well-educated, if ill-bred. Note that each letter is carefully drawn and neatly in line with each other. While I cannot ascertain the exact contents of the envelope, the weight of it suggests that they are minuscule…that is, if the sender has enclosed anything within it."

"And what do you propose to do with this envelope?"

"The answer is quite simple, my dear Watson: it must be opened."

"Surely, you cannot seriously intend to do that!"

"I do. Were there anything of appreciable lethality within, it is my stance that the envelope would be of greater weight."

Without question, Holmes opened the envelope. While I cannot speak for his state of mind, I was shocked to discover that the envelope was entirely empty, and I could scarcely help but wonder aloud to my companion in regards to this development:

"Holmes…what does this mean?

"It could mean any number of things. Perhaps the sender intends to threaten me. Perhaps it is a malicious yet overall harmless prank. As we both well know, we must work to exclude the impossible, and whatever remains – however…"

Before Holmes could conclude his sentence, a bright, blinding light enveloped the room, and we were drawn into nothingness.

UNKNOWN DATE AND TIME

When Holmes and I came to, we found ourselves in an environment entirely alien to us. Here, the buildings were not only far more numerous than they were in London, but also grander in height, and their lights were brighter to such a degree that it was impossible for us to perceive any stars in the night sky, not that we could perceive any with the clouds covering the heavens tonight. This city that we were in also clamored with sounds not entirely familiar to our ears, and the streets were not only smoothly-paved, but populated by what appeared to be various forms of horseless carriages with bright lights attached to the front of each one. Not only did these carriages give off a constant rumble of a sound that resembled a low growling, each one with its own in the manner of a human voice, but they would frequently assault our ears with the sound of what I could only presume were horns of some sort. The people here were also outfitted in fashions and hairstyles not entirely familiar to us. I could only speculate as to what happened:

"Holmes…where do you suppose we are?"

"There is no doubt that somebody used some sort of arcane magic to transport us to this foreign locale, my dear Watson."

Suddenly, I felt a chill overtake my spine as an evil sort of laughter emanated before us. Standing before our very eyes was a man whose facial features were obscured by black stripes on his face, the only distinguishing feature being his brown eyes and his short black hair, closely cropped to the scalp. His attire consisted of what appeared to be a knight's armor, but midnight black in color, such that it obscured any distinguishing features, with a black cape bearing gold trim. He responded to Holmes thusly:

"So, you have ascertained the primary stage of this sojourn upon which I have set you. I congratulate you…Sherlock Holmes."

"Who the devil are you…and how do you know my name?"

"I am Lord Belzub, Destructor of Souls. I comprehend that you derive an appreciable degree of amusement from solving improbable mysteries. It is as a consequence of this that I lay before you your most improbable mystery to this juncture. Discover the solution to my riddle, and I shall return you to your proper locale and era. Fail, and you shall be incarcerated here for all eternity."

"I would gladly accept your challenge, but I have some questions that must be answered satisfactorily prior to my undertaking."

"I permit you to make these inquiries of me."

"First of all, where and when are we?"

"You are in New York City, on the evening of September 23, 1973."

"1973?" I said. "No! How is this even possible?"

"My capabilities are vast, far beyond your comprehension," said Belzub.

"Now then, what is this riddle that you intend for us to solve?" said Holmes.

"Listen to me, and listen punctiliously, for this is the riddle that you must solve: 'I am him, and he is me.'"

"'I am him, and he is me'. And if we refuse to play your diabolical game, what then?"

"Then I shall terminate you both."

"Very well, we accept your challenge, Lord Belzub."

"A most judicious selection. You are required to attain the solution to this riddle by the stroke of midnight on January 1, 1980. Fail to do so by that exact date and time, and you shall be imprisoned here until your demise. I am a being of my word."

With that, Belzub dissolved into nothingness. While I had indeed once visited New York City, it was not nearly as grand or gargantuan as this, and it left me bewildered in every respect. My first instinct was to ask Holmes about the riddle:

"Holmes, this riddle…what do you suppose it means?"

"No doubt it means that this Belzub is in reality an alternative identity for someone who is known to you and I. However, we've no time to waste; we must investigate our new environment."

And so, I followed Holmes as we ambled about the streets of New York City, A.D. 1973, a year that I had previously never believed I would be alive to witness. A street sign near us read "EAST 47TH STREET", and the other one running parallel to our course read "PARK AVE", so there was no doubt in my mind that we were on Park Avenue. Aside from the persistent cloud cover, there was nary any precipitation, and the weather was somewhat cool but not oppressively cold; in short, seasonable for the time of the year and the time of the day. As our journey continued, I could scarcely help but be drawn in by the sights and sounds of our new environment, and I found myself so lost in them that I failed to perceive anything else, only being drawn back to my senses when a man bumped into me.

"Hey, watch where you're goin', pal!"

The man was a fellow of average height and build whose facial features and close-cropped, partially-greyed hair suggested one who had gotten well-acquainted with Father Time. His outfit consisted of a gray trench coat over a suit of similar color, a black cravat and black shoes.

"I dearly apologize!" I said.

The man simply continued on his way, but not without uttering some frustrated, almost inaudible grumblings, most likely furious about bumping into me. In the meantime, Holmes and I resumed our walk. Aside from the gentleman who collided with me, the pedestrians largely ignored us and went about their business. This was a most intriguing matter to me, for when I was in London, passers-by would display concern for me had I accidentally bumped into them, and I would afford them the same. Even so, I decided not to give too much thought to it and instead concentrate on attempting to help my companion solve this great mystery. Our endeavors were nearly cut short, however, when we were crossing one street and one of the horseless carriages nearly collided with us, sounding its horn at us. This particular one was yellow and had an illuminated sign on its roof that said "TAXI", so it was no leviathan task to determine that this was a taxicab. The driver – a young man with unruly black hair, wearing a red shirt and a gray flat cap – leaned out his door and yelled at us:

"Hey assholes, get outta the road!"

"Dearest pardons, my good sir!" said Holmes.

The taxi driver sounded his horn twice more. "Come on, move it!"

Deciding that the best course of action was not to obstruct the taxi, we continued crossing the street. It was at this juncture that I had deduced two facts without the assistance of Holmes: 1. Crossing the streets here was a risky venture, likely to get one run over, and 2. New Yorkers in 1973 were by and large less polite than Londoners in 1894. Nevertheless, I vowed not to let either fact deter me in my pursuit of the truth. For a time, it seemed that our walk – despite the inherent riskiness of crossing the streets – would be a largely uneventful matter…that is, until we had another interesting encounter:

"Hey there! Either of you two hunks lookin' for a good time?"

The young woman who had thrust this inquiry our way had blonde hair in a bouffant style, and not only had she had applied far more makeup than any decent woman in London would ever apply, but she'd left more skin exposed than should have been legally allowed by law, in particular leaving the cleavage of her large bosoms exposed. Her attire was rather scant, consisting of a red top held on by two straps that could've scarcely been more than an inch thick each, denim short pants held up by a black leather belt with a circular gold buckle, and black thigh-high boots with high heels. I deduced by her ostentatious appearance that she was what one might term a "lady of the night". I found myself tempted to indulge in the carnal pleasures that she was peddling, but then I recalled that not only was I already legally married, but that I had no time for such acts, so my answer came thusly:

"Unfortunately, Miss, my dear companion and I must refuse your request. We are engaged in trying to solve a great mystery."

The woman smiled. "Come on! Since you two are from outta town, the first round's on me!"

"Dr. Watson is right; we haven't any time to spend engaging in such frivolities," said Holmes.

The woman frowned. "OK, whatever ya say. You're probably a couple of faggots anyhow."

"Miss, why do you draw a comparison between us and bundles of wood?"

The woman gave a dismissive flap of her hand towards Holmes. "Look, just get outta here and quit wastin' my time!"

Needless to say, we obeyed the painted lady's command and continued on our way.

"These New Yorkers are a queer lot if I do say so myself, Watson."

I nodded. "Yes, quite."

Soon enough, it was evident that the queerness that we had been continually exposed to was not about to abate anytime soon:

"Aight, let's be cool here! Hand over the money, suckas!"

The gentleman who had addressed us was a young, tall Black man with short afro-textured hair, a moustache and a scar on his right cheek. He wore a black collarless shirt of some sort, a green jacket, blue denim pants that appeared to be dirty and equally dirty black and white shoes. What especially drew my attention was that he was pointing a small knife at us. Without hesitation, Holmes gave his response:

"Watson, let us give this gentleman our money so that we may avoid further trouble."

While I hated to part with my honestly-earned money, I complied with Holmes' command and gave the robber everything I had on me. Unfortunately, this appeared to be unsatisfactory to the robber's liking:

"Man, what the hell is this!? I ain't askin' for no Monopoly money! I want green! Bucks! Dough!"

"Bucks? Doe?" said Holmes. "What use could you possibly have for the various biological genders of deer?"

The robber thrust his knife at Holmes. "Man, don't play with me! Gimme your money or I'm-a cut you!"

"You'll do nothing of the sort!"

In one swift move, Holmes deftly sidestepped the robber, grabbed him by the outside of his arm and brought his elbow down on his arm. With a quick yelp, the robber dropped the knife, and coming round, Holmes quickly bent down and threw the robber to the ground.

"Shit, this ain't worth it!"

Sensing that neither Holmes nor I were the easy prey that he'd anticipated, the robber scrambled to his feet before running away in the opposite direction from where we'd travelled. Having evaded such a terrible fate, we then proceeded to recover our money before resuming our trek. Thanks to the jezail bullet I'd involuntarily received while campaigning in Afghanistan, this trek was becoming a grueling endeavor for me.

Fortunately for us, we went what felt to me like a half hour without befalling some other terrible fate. We were no closer to solving the riddle than we had been before, but I was yet determined to persist. Then, as if provided by the heavens, Holmes and I came upon a scene that seemed promising: a crowd of people had formed around one building, and parked in front of it were four more of those horseless carriages, only they had been equipped with revolving and flashing lights on their roofs. One had a white roof and was painted French blue, with a metal bar that supported two revolving lights and two white, can-shaped flashing red lights in addition to what appeared to be a white bullhorn of some sort, while the remainder had white roofs and were painted black and green, being equipped with a single revolving light behind a chrome apparatus of some sort. Closer inspection of these horseless carriages revealed that they had the word "POLICE" painted on each of them, meaning that these were vehicles of the New York City Police Department.

"Watson, look at those horseless carriages. Tell me what this means."

"No doubt a crime has been committed here."

"Elementary, my dear Watson, and where there has been a crime committed, therein lies an opportunity to solve it."

Thus, Holmes and I managed to navigate the crowds and attempted to gain entry to the building. However, our attempt would be thwarted:

"Hey, what are you two doin'!? You can't go in there!"

The gentleman who addressed us was a young man of average build with short, unruly brown hair. His attire consisted of a dark blue peaked officer's cap with a silver shield on front, a light blue short-sleeved shirt with another shield over the left breast pocket and a black nameplate with the surname "SMITH" in white letters, plus an insignia of some sort on the right sleeve, dark blue pants with a black leather belt that appeared to hold all sorts of equipment – including a revolver of some sort – and black leather shoes. I deduced that he was a New York City police officer, as did Holmes:

"Pardon me, my good sir, but are you with the New York City Police Department?"

"Yeah, and you ain't supposed to be here! Hit the road!"

"I beg your pardon, but I am a detective. My name is Sherlock Holmes, England's greatest consulting detective. This is my partner, Dr. John Watson."

"Yeah, and I'm the Queen of England!"

"But you bear no resemblance to her."

"Cut the jokes, pal! You're interferin' with the crime scene! Beat it!"

"I am sorry, officer, but I am greatly compelled to solve whatever crime has occurred here. Come, Watson."

Holmes and I once again attempted to gain entry, but Smith grabbed Holmes, and I too found myself apprehended by another officer.

"OK, you two ragbags are under arrest!" said Smith. "Up against the wall and spread 'em!"

The two officers forced us face-first against the nearest wall and forcibly spread our legs apart, upon which they patted most every square inch of our persons, apparently attempting to search us for weapons. They could find none, so they proceeded to handcuff us.

"It is my duty to advise you two of your Constitutional rights," said the second officer. "You have the right to remain silent. If ya give up the right to remain silent, anything ya say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If ya cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for ya without cost. Do you understand each of these rights I have explained to ya?"

"We do," said Holmes.

"Having these rights in mind, do ya wish to talk to us now?"

"No, but I must insist on speaking to whoever is in charge."

One thing was for certain: Holmes and I were trapped in what could rightfully be described as "Hell on Earth".

Criticism is gold. Negativity and nitpicking are pyrite.