Fic for graycardinal: Echoes of the Past
Title: Echoes of the Past
Author: gardnerhill
Recipient: graycardinal
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes and Beth Lestrade
Word Count: 3082
Rating: G
Warning: None
Summary: There’s more than one way to connect with a previous century.
Author's Notes: Written for graycardinal.
Sherlock Holmes had often been called a man ahead of his time, and his revivification had proved the adage correct; he had been a boon to New London, and an invaluable asset to Inspector Lestrade in the months since.
Holmes had eagerly and enthusiastically employed the means of travel and communication of his own centuries as they had developed, and had lived in the heart of an empire that had embraced speculation about future developments as well. To live in the current time was to live in a world speculated into existence by writers of his own time - his friend John Watson included.
This century was a good match for the way Holmes’ mind worked, it turned out, providing enough stimulation to keep his brain wholly occupied; “The old man’s levelled up his game,” Wiggins had once jocularly put it.
But one day Inspector Lestrade called upon her unofficial consultant and found him stretched upon the couch in the parlour, still and silent. The lights had been dimmed to bare-minimum capacity.
“He has been like this since last night, Inspector,” the compudroid told her where it stood behind the sofa.
“Watson?” Beth Lestrade stared at her former police assistant in disbelief. She had gotten so used to the ‘droid wearing the holo-mask of John Watson that it was unnerving to see once again that blank smooth robot face worn by all the police units.
“At his request I have turned off the mask.”
“He is also in the room with you,” Holmes’ voice rose up from the sofa. “You disappoint me, both of you. You claim you read John Watson's accounts and his diaries, and yet you do not recall a trait upon which he discoursed more than once.”
Beth did in fact recall the passages very well. I get down in the dumps sometimes, and don’t move for days on end. Just leave me alone, and I’ll be all right…My friend would lapse into his black moods, alleviated only by…
Oh bilge, she thought.
There were any number of mind-altering substances - narcotics, hallucinogens, wires, depressants - available for the recreational user. Cocaine was as legal as it had been in Holmes’ original time, and could be abused as much as alcohol or a braintap. Had this, too, returned to Baker Street?
Lestrade approached her unofficial partner. “Melancholy, I think they called it in your time. But Holmes, you don’t have to just tough out a bout of depression. It’s not a moral failing, the way Victorians thought - it’s an imbalance of brain chemicals, and nothing for which to be ashamed. The right medication can -“
“Bring John Watson back to life - the real one? Or my brother Mycroft? Your great-great-many-times-grandfather Giles Lestrade?” Holmes had not moved from the sofa. His voice was wearily angry. “Because that is all that assails me now, Inspector. Simple grief. Not even this time has a cure for that.”
After a long silence, Beth said softly, “No. We don’t.”
“Well, you may go.” Holmes flapped one hand in her direction. “I do not share this current century’s propensity to ‘talk about it’. My original time’s term for obsessing about our sorrows when nothing could alleviate them was ‘self-pity,’ in which I prefer not to indulge.”
There was nothing to say to that. He might be from a bygone class and era, but there was a pride attached to it. She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her face from this angle, and left the room. The ‘droid stayed behind - it might not be wearing Watson's face, but it was still operating under a very similar mindset to the original man who had been Holmes’ closest true friend, as well as the primary directive of all compudroids to serve.
She returned to her car and for a long time just sat in the driver’s seat, not moving.
This was … not her division at all. Give her a chase, a shootout, bad folks to cuff and bring in - work that needed only a fast car and a charged stunner, not the slow methodical eyes-and-brains that was Holmes’ specialty. She’d never been one for a lot of physical affection - not a huggy child, not one to offer a touch - and that distance had kept her from adapting well to anyone she’d been partnered with, before this. But perhaps that was precisely why she got along so well with Holmes - she’d had to go back 200 years to find someone who matched her personality, but she’d found one.
Now her partner was hurting and she couldn’t help him - she was, in fact, the cause of his anguish, because she’d dragged him into this world without his consent.
Think, Beth. Think. What’s different? Can it be as simple as his loss catching up to him after all these months of activity?
What did the man say? Eliminate the impossible. So she’d start there.
She thumbed open the channel that linked directly to her former compudroid. “Watson, please correlate all important dates in John Watson's journals with the past week’s worth of dates.”
“Working. No matches.”
All right, strike that theory, easiest to track. Next easiest.
“Watson, match the past week’s worth of dates with bio dates of the following historical people: John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, and Giles Lestrade.”
“Working. Chief Inspector Giles Lestrade, died 4 September 1915 at the age of sixty-nine. Today’s date is 5 September 2103.”
She sat back and blinked. Well, that was fast. Granddad, a dozen generations removed - a man who had once sat in those very parlour rooms upstairs and talked about murders and strange stains with the man who was up there now.
In the journals and writings of Dr. Watson, there had been hints at the end that the adversarial relationship he and Holmes had had with Lestrade at the outset had turned into a genuine friendship - very likely the reason Watson had bequeathed his journals to Lestrade’s family as none of his own marriages had produced children, and Holmes had remained single his whole first life long.
She huffed out a sad laugh. No wonder he’d had Watson turn off the mask and asked her to leave. She was like the compudroid - both appreciated for what they were, but no substitute for the things they replaced.
Thanks to the Great Whatever that she was of a like mind with her centuries-older partner. She hated people trying to “comfort” her when she was sick or downhearted, so she understood Holmes completely. All she could do now was stay away and check in with the compudroid for when it would be best to show herself.
And maybe… the thought made her freeze up a little … maybe do a little research herself.
And by research, that meant… She shuddered. But she had to show her courage, her real stuff. She could do this. She knew what her goal was, but her police instincts required her to start at the outer edge and work her way in.
***
“Dad? Yeah, it’s Beth. Yep, still rounding up bad guys in New London. Nope, I’m not dating anyone right now. Listen, Dad, I wanted to ask you…”
“Grannie? … I kind of prefer Beth to Little Bit now, Grannie. Yeah, I grew up when you weren’t looking. Yes, I’m still with the police. No, I haven’t gotten married yet. Grannie, I’m actually looking for some family stuff you might know about, or have in your house. Dad said you might…”
“Gee-Gee? It’s good to hear you too! Yes, it’s been a week. Really? Oh I like the holo-zoo too, Gee-Gee. I like the birds, the big ones. Uh huh. Oh, that’s too bad, maybe they’ll have the elephant fixed the next time you go. …Really? Oh what fun! You’ll have to tell me all about your trip with your friends when you get back from the Moon. I’m fine, Gee-Gee. No, I haven’t found someone to marry yet. Yes, I’m looking. … Gee-Gee, do you remember those old books you gave Betty, and she gave them to me? Yes, those ones. Are there any other things you have in the house that were also with those books? …Gee-Gee, I’d love to come for dinner.”
Less than a week’s worth, all told.
***
“What’s the buzz, Watson?”
“By that archaic term I assume you wish any new information on Sherlock Holmes’ status.”
There was no point in rolling her eyes alone in her car. “Nothing gets past you. Well?”
“’Well?’ is not a question.”
“Now who’s being archaic, Orac? I know you’re capable of more inference than that box ever was.”
“Very well, Inspector. Sherlock Holmes remains in his room, or playing the synthelin. He has not spoken for sixty-seven hours. His playing does not resemble any historical music I am able to access.”
“So he’s still in a mood.” She exhaled in exasperation. “I have something I want to show him, but not if he still doesn’t want company.”
“You could simply visit, Inspector, and ask him.”
Beth blinked. That was far less compudroid-Watson and far more Dr. Watson. Extrapolation based on human behavior and characteristics? It took her a moment to recollect what the droid had actually said. “No. No, he’s too much like me, Watson. What are my standing orders when I tell you I’m in a foul mood?”
“Not to speak to you nor interact until you initiate.”
“Exactly. I have a feeling he’s told you something similar.”
“Correct. However, I have a duty as a mechanism to obey a human’s orders. You do not.”
Lestrade stared at her comlink. “Watson. Are you inviting me to come to Baker Street? And telling me to disregard Holmes’ feelings on the matter?”
“That would be counter to my programming as a compudroid, Inspector Lestrade.”
But not counter to the original Dr. Watson's “programming” as Sherlock Holmes’s friend at all. Not at all. Her cheeks hurt, she was grinning so hard. “Your secret’s safe with me, Boswell. Whatever that means.”
“James Boswell - “
“That was not a request for information. On my way.”
***
Watson’s minimal description of the synthelin sound emanating from the 221b flat did not encompass the nature of what that sound entailed. Uncharitably, Beth let the thought whip through her mind: I’m in a great deal of pain, and now it’s your turn. Gritting her teeth against the noise like an entire psychic-punk concert, Inspector Lestrade walked through the ground-floor door and headed for its source with her calling-card under her arm. She walked into a wall of sound when she opened the door.
“Perhaps you misunderstood my request, Inspector,” Holmes called over the synthelin’s razor-whine. He stood alone in the room - Watson must have made itself scarce or was recharging in the bedroom or something. “I stated that I did not wish to be disturbed.”
You’re disturbed enough already, honey. Aloud (and loud, to be heard), Lestrade said only, “I found something that might pique your interest, Holmes.”
“I am not interested in a case right now, Inspector.” He kept not-using her name.
“Not a case, old man. An artifact.”
“Unlike the rest of the items in this museum?” Holmes snapped.
“Something from my family. Yes.”
The sudden loss of noise was almost as much of a shock as the cacophonous air had been. Beth tried to keep the relief off her face as Holmes turned around to face his police liaison.
“Something I know for a fact you have never seen,” Beth said. “Ever.”
Top to bottom. She could see his eyes and brains working. His voice had the old heavy cadence of intelligence at work. “Something personal. Letters, very likely. Possibly photographs, but more likely letters.”
She waited a few extra seconds for the final pieces to fall into place. She saw the exact moment when the spark returned to his eyes.
“Personal letters from Giles Lestrade to his family - in all likelihood to his wife.”
She smiled. “You explain how you do it every time, and every time it knocks me out of orbit.” She held out the case she’d had under her arm, in both hands. “Two of them. Turns out my great grandfather is a bigger pack-rat than we’d thought. These were found between the pages of an antique family Bible.” And her hunt hadn’t been as painful as she’d feared, either - or perhaps what translated as annoyances from younger relatives felt more excusable in a pluscentenarian. Or she just got on better with Gee-Gee than with her other relatives. “Would you like to see them? Not even Dr. Watson ever laid eyes on these.”
He laid down the synthelin without taking his eyes off the case.
Someone before Gee-Gee’s time had preserved the letters in clearfilm, allowing them to be handled without damaging them. Lestrade watched as Holmes first held the letters up to light to check for watermarks, peered with a glass to look for fingerprints and other signifiers. “We could run these through a scanner if you like.”
“When I’m done. Agreed.”
She understood. Grannie liked to work out her credit balances in her head before checking her calculator. “I’m sorry it’s only two letters.”
A lip-twitch of Holmes’ own. “The Inspector Lestrade I originally knew was not a profusely literary man - the only time I saw his writing was on police reports. But this is most assuredly his hand. Hm. Each letter is printed on the same cheap stock, most likely bought at the same time. The dates on them are within the same month and year, August 1901. I recall reading about him travelling to North England in his capacity as Chief Inspector; he had been requested due to his sterling conviction record.” Another lip-twitch.
“Which I’m sure you had nothing to do with,” Beth added, pleasure from viewing that touch of humour.
“With which I had nothing to do,” he corrected absently. He brought the letter closer to his face, eyes unfocussed. He wasn’t trying to read the letters, not yet. What was he looking for now? He looked disappointed.
Eyes and Brains, Lestrade, eyes and brains. Or in this case, that aquiline nose. “I’m afraid any scent that would have remained on the letter would have been long gone before they were preserved.”
“Of course.” He said it a bit too quickly, though - he was clearly disappointed that he missed one sense’s input. Very likely old Giles’ favored tobacco, or perhaps a bit of tea.
She waited. She’d had the same reaction herself, just from what she’d known of her ancestor and her family history. This man actually had known the fellow.
Astonishment. It softened those sharp features so much. He’d finally read the letter. He took up the second one, eyes rapidly assessing the same markers - water-mark, handwriting, date, names - before perusing the body.
She smiled as Holmes turned to her. His face was nearly as open as she’d ever seen it. “Who knew that old bulldog was such a romantic, huh?”
“Certainly not I.” Almost a whisper. “I never knew.”
That was one way to get something past Sherlock Holmes - an aromantic, possibly an asexual, from a time that did not have those terms, who did not comprehend romantic love. Lestrade looked over her partner’s shoulder at the missives. “He kept his private life away from the police station. Very likely because this sort of thing wouldn’t fit the image of what a chief inspector had to be like in your time.”
“An interesting comment from someone who professes to dread family encounters, but who visits her maternal great-grandfather every week.”
Suddenly the room was hot - or it was just her face. Only then did Beth catch the twinkle in his eye. “You… perceptive man,” she grated, doing her best to make the word sound like an insult. “Just for that, I ought to drag you along…”
Click.
“Scratch that. You are coming with me the next time I visit Gee-Gee.” Why hadn’t she thought of this before?
Her reward was the momentarily flustered look on Holmes’ face.
She kept going, because it sounded better the more she thought about it. “I think you’d like to meet him, Holmes. Gee-Gee isn’t your time, but he was born only about 50 years after you died. But he’s sharp as a tack, he can even remember the end of the 20th century the way you remember the beginning of it. You should bridge the gap.”
Holmes’ eyes lit up. She saw the brains working. “So he is in his early hundred-and-teens, I surmise.”
“One hundred twelve this past August.” She grinned. “Dinner at his center every Thursday night unless I’m on stakeout or the like. I hope you like rice pudding.”
“I love rice pudding,” he said. “What time do we go? I must consider what to ask him.”
Without raising her voice, Lestrade said “Watson?”
“I am in the kitchen, Inspector,” the droid responded - still in the “Watson” voice. “You normally schedule your visits to Gee-Gee to begin at seventeen-hundred on Thursdays unless you are detained or occupied. Am I to add your name to the reminder, Holmes?”
“Do so. And, Watson? You may rejoin us.”
The compudroid appeared at once. It was still showing the blank metal veneer rather than Watson's holo-face.
“Good to see you, you old bucket of bolts,” Beth said. “Got a couple of new pieces of data to add to your stores when your boss gets through deducing them.”
“However, I was not asked if I desired rice pudding,” the droid said in a sulky voice.
Both humans stared. But it was Holmes who burst out laughing first. “Oh, that sense of humor is very familiar, my dear Watson!”
“Well done, Holmes,” Watson replied in his usual cheery tone.
Lestrade beamed. She knew a visit to one old man and a couple of letters were no substitute for Sherlock Holmes missing his lost friends, but also knew that Holmes was indeed like her - the prospect of new work or new discoveries did wonders to brighten his mood. And he’d just been reminded that his connections had not ended with his old friends’ deaths; that he had family of a sorts here too.
“To Scotland Yard and its scanner,” Holmes said cheerily, heading toward the door with the two letters without so much as looking back at his companions. “Come along, Lestrade. Watson.”
“Good heavens, Holmes,” Watson protested, trudging behind.
She kept her lips tight-shut as she took up the rear. Yep - he was back to normal.
Author: gardnerhill
Recipient: graycardinal
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes and Beth Lestrade
Word Count: 3082
Rating: G
Warning: None
Summary: There’s more than one way to connect with a previous century.
Author's Notes: Written for graycardinal.
Sherlock Holmes had often been called a man ahead of his time, and his revivification had proved the adage correct; he had been a boon to New London, and an invaluable asset to Inspector Lestrade in the months since.
Holmes had eagerly and enthusiastically employed the means of travel and communication of his own centuries as they had developed, and had lived in the heart of an empire that had embraced speculation about future developments as well. To live in the current time was to live in a world speculated into existence by writers of his own time - his friend John Watson included.
This century was a good match for the way Holmes’ mind worked, it turned out, providing enough stimulation to keep his brain wholly occupied; “The old man’s levelled up his game,” Wiggins had once jocularly put it.
But one day Inspector Lestrade called upon her unofficial consultant and found him stretched upon the couch in the parlour, still and silent. The lights had been dimmed to bare-minimum capacity.
“He has been like this since last night, Inspector,” the compudroid told her where it stood behind the sofa.
“Watson?” Beth Lestrade stared at her former police assistant in disbelief. She had gotten so used to the ‘droid wearing the holo-mask of John Watson that it was unnerving to see once again that blank smooth robot face worn by all the police units.
“At his request I have turned off the mask.”
“He is also in the room with you,” Holmes’ voice rose up from the sofa. “You disappoint me, both of you. You claim you read John Watson's accounts and his diaries, and yet you do not recall a trait upon which he discoursed more than once.”
Beth did in fact recall the passages very well. I get down in the dumps sometimes, and don’t move for days on end. Just leave me alone, and I’ll be all right…My friend would lapse into his black moods, alleviated only by…
Oh bilge, she thought.
There were any number of mind-altering substances - narcotics, hallucinogens, wires, depressants - available for the recreational user. Cocaine was as legal as it had been in Holmes’ original time, and could be abused as much as alcohol or a braintap. Had this, too, returned to Baker Street?
Lestrade approached her unofficial partner. “Melancholy, I think they called it in your time. But Holmes, you don’t have to just tough out a bout of depression. It’s not a moral failing, the way Victorians thought - it’s an imbalance of brain chemicals, and nothing for which to be ashamed. The right medication can -“
“Bring John Watson back to life - the real one? Or my brother Mycroft? Your great-great-many-times-grandfather Giles Lestrade?” Holmes had not moved from the sofa. His voice was wearily angry. “Because that is all that assails me now, Inspector. Simple grief. Not even this time has a cure for that.”
After a long silence, Beth said softly, “No. We don’t.”
“Well, you may go.” Holmes flapped one hand in her direction. “I do not share this current century’s propensity to ‘talk about it’. My original time’s term for obsessing about our sorrows when nothing could alleviate them was ‘self-pity,’ in which I prefer not to indulge.”
There was nothing to say to that. He might be from a bygone class and era, but there was a pride attached to it. She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her face from this angle, and left the room. The ‘droid stayed behind - it might not be wearing Watson's face, but it was still operating under a very similar mindset to the original man who had been Holmes’ closest true friend, as well as the primary directive of all compudroids to serve.
She returned to her car and for a long time just sat in the driver’s seat, not moving.
This was … not her division at all. Give her a chase, a shootout, bad folks to cuff and bring in - work that needed only a fast car and a charged stunner, not the slow methodical eyes-and-brains that was Holmes’ specialty. She’d never been one for a lot of physical affection - not a huggy child, not one to offer a touch - and that distance had kept her from adapting well to anyone she’d been partnered with, before this. But perhaps that was precisely why she got along so well with Holmes - she’d had to go back 200 years to find someone who matched her personality, but she’d found one.
Now her partner was hurting and she couldn’t help him - she was, in fact, the cause of his anguish, because she’d dragged him into this world without his consent.
Think, Beth. Think. What’s different? Can it be as simple as his loss catching up to him after all these months of activity?
What did the man say? Eliminate the impossible. So she’d start there.
She thumbed open the channel that linked directly to her former compudroid. “Watson, please correlate all important dates in John Watson's journals with the past week’s worth of dates.”
“Working. No matches.”
All right, strike that theory, easiest to track. Next easiest.
“Watson, match the past week’s worth of dates with bio dates of the following historical people: John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, and Giles Lestrade.”
“Working. Chief Inspector Giles Lestrade, died 4 September 1915 at the age of sixty-nine. Today’s date is 5 September 2103.”
She sat back and blinked. Well, that was fast. Granddad, a dozen generations removed - a man who had once sat in those very parlour rooms upstairs and talked about murders and strange stains with the man who was up there now.
In the journals and writings of Dr. Watson, there had been hints at the end that the adversarial relationship he and Holmes had had with Lestrade at the outset had turned into a genuine friendship - very likely the reason Watson had bequeathed his journals to Lestrade’s family as none of his own marriages had produced children, and Holmes had remained single his whole first life long.
She huffed out a sad laugh. No wonder he’d had Watson turn off the mask and asked her to leave. She was like the compudroid - both appreciated for what they were, but no substitute for the things they replaced.
Thanks to the Great Whatever that she was of a like mind with her centuries-older partner. She hated people trying to “comfort” her when she was sick or downhearted, so she understood Holmes completely. All she could do now was stay away and check in with the compudroid for when it would be best to show herself.
And maybe… the thought made her freeze up a little … maybe do a little research herself.
And by research, that meant… She shuddered. But she had to show her courage, her real stuff. She could do this. She knew what her goal was, but her police instincts required her to start at the outer edge and work her way in.
***
“Dad? Yeah, it’s Beth. Yep, still rounding up bad guys in New London. Nope, I’m not dating anyone right now. Listen, Dad, I wanted to ask you…”
“Grannie? … I kind of prefer Beth to Little Bit now, Grannie. Yeah, I grew up when you weren’t looking. Yes, I’m still with the police. No, I haven’t gotten married yet. Grannie, I’m actually looking for some family stuff you might know about, or have in your house. Dad said you might…”
“Gee-Gee? It’s good to hear you too! Yes, it’s been a week. Really? Oh I like the holo-zoo too, Gee-Gee. I like the birds, the big ones. Uh huh. Oh, that’s too bad, maybe they’ll have the elephant fixed the next time you go. …Really? Oh what fun! You’ll have to tell me all about your trip with your friends when you get back from the Moon. I’m fine, Gee-Gee. No, I haven’t found someone to marry yet. Yes, I’m looking. … Gee-Gee, do you remember those old books you gave Betty, and she gave them to me? Yes, those ones. Are there any other things you have in the house that were also with those books? …Gee-Gee, I’d love to come for dinner.”
Less than a week’s worth, all told.
***
“What’s the buzz, Watson?”
“By that archaic term I assume you wish any new information on Sherlock Holmes’ status.”
There was no point in rolling her eyes alone in her car. “Nothing gets past you. Well?”
“’Well?’ is not a question.”
“Now who’s being archaic, Orac? I know you’re capable of more inference than that box ever was.”
“Very well, Inspector. Sherlock Holmes remains in his room, or playing the synthelin. He has not spoken for sixty-seven hours. His playing does not resemble any historical music I am able to access.”
“So he’s still in a mood.” She exhaled in exasperation. “I have something I want to show him, but not if he still doesn’t want company.”
“You could simply visit, Inspector, and ask him.”
Beth blinked. That was far less compudroid-Watson and far more Dr. Watson. Extrapolation based on human behavior and characteristics? It took her a moment to recollect what the droid had actually said. “No. No, he’s too much like me, Watson. What are my standing orders when I tell you I’m in a foul mood?”
“Not to speak to you nor interact until you initiate.”
“Exactly. I have a feeling he’s told you something similar.”
“Correct. However, I have a duty as a mechanism to obey a human’s orders. You do not.”
Lestrade stared at her comlink. “Watson. Are you inviting me to come to Baker Street? And telling me to disregard Holmes’ feelings on the matter?”
“That would be counter to my programming as a compudroid, Inspector Lestrade.”
But not counter to the original Dr. Watson's “programming” as Sherlock Holmes’s friend at all. Not at all. Her cheeks hurt, she was grinning so hard. “Your secret’s safe with me, Boswell. Whatever that means.”
“James Boswell - “
“That was not a request for information. On my way.”
***
Watson’s minimal description of the synthelin sound emanating from the 221b flat did not encompass the nature of what that sound entailed. Uncharitably, Beth let the thought whip through her mind: I’m in a great deal of pain, and now it’s your turn. Gritting her teeth against the noise like an entire psychic-punk concert, Inspector Lestrade walked through the ground-floor door and headed for its source with her calling-card under her arm. She walked into a wall of sound when she opened the door.
“Perhaps you misunderstood my request, Inspector,” Holmes called over the synthelin’s razor-whine. He stood alone in the room - Watson must have made itself scarce or was recharging in the bedroom or something. “I stated that I did not wish to be disturbed.”
You’re disturbed enough already, honey. Aloud (and loud, to be heard), Lestrade said only, “I found something that might pique your interest, Holmes.”
“I am not interested in a case right now, Inspector.” He kept not-using her name.
“Not a case, old man. An artifact.”
“Unlike the rest of the items in this museum?” Holmes snapped.
“Something from my family. Yes.”
The sudden loss of noise was almost as much of a shock as the cacophonous air had been. Beth tried to keep the relief off her face as Holmes turned around to face his police liaison.
“Something I know for a fact you have never seen,” Beth said. “Ever.”
Top to bottom. She could see his eyes and brains working. His voice had the old heavy cadence of intelligence at work. “Something personal. Letters, very likely. Possibly photographs, but more likely letters.”
She waited a few extra seconds for the final pieces to fall into place. She saw the exact moment when the spark returned to his eyes.
“Personal letters from Giles Lestrade to his family - in all likelihood to his wife.”
She smiled. “You explain how you do it every time, and every time it knocks me out of orbit.” She held out the case she’d had under her arm, in both hands. “Two of them. Turns out my great grandfather is a bigger pack-rat than we’d thought. These were found between the pages of an antique family Bible.” And her hunt hadn’t been as painful as she’d feared, either - or perhaps what translated as annoyances from younger relatives felt more excusable in a pluscentenarian. Or she just got on better with Gee-Gee than with her other relatives. “Would you like to see them? Not even Dr. Watson ever laid eyes on these.”
He laid down the synthelin without taking his eyes off the case.
Someone before Gee-Gee’s time had preserved the letters in clearfilm, allowing them to be handled without damaging them. Lestrade watched as Holmes first held the letters up to light to check for watermarks, peered with a glass to look for fingerprints and other signifiers. “We could run these through a scanner if you like.”
“When I’m done. Agreed.”
She understood. Grannie liked to work out her credit balances in her head before checking her calculator. “I’m sorry it’s only two letters.”
A lip-twitch of Holmes’ own. “The Inspector Lestrade I originally knew was not a profusely literary man - the only time I saw his writing was on police reports. But this is most assuredly his hand. Hm. Each letter is printed on the same cheap stock, most likely bought at the same time. The dates on them are within the same month and year, August 1901. I recall reading about him travelling to North England in his capacity as Chief Inspector; he had been requested due to his sterling conviction record.” Another lip-twitch.
“Which I’m sure you had nothing to do with,” Beth added, pleasure from viewing that touch of humour.
“With which I had nothing to do,” he corrected absently. He brought the letter closer to his face, eyes unfocussed. He wasn’t trying to read the letters, not yet. What was he looking for now? He looked disappointed.
Eyes and Brains, Lestrade, eyes and brains. Or in this case, that aquiline nose. “I’m afraid any scent that would have remained on the letter would have been long gone before they were preserved.”
“Of course.” He said it a bit too quickly, though - he was clearly disappointed that he missed one sense’s input. Very likely old Giles’ favored tobacco, or perhaps a bit of tea.
She waited. She’d had the same reaction herself, just from what she’d known of her ancestor and her family history. This man actually had known the fellow.
Astonishment. It softened those sharp features so much. He’d finally read the letter. He took up the second one, eyes rapidly assessing the same markers - water-mark, handwriting, date, names - before perusing the body.
She smiled as Holmes turned to her. His face was nearly as open as she’d ever seen it. “Who knew that old bulldog was such a romantic, huh?”
“Certainly not I.” Almost a whisper. “I never knew.”
That was one way to get something past Sherlock Holmes - an aromantic, possibly an asexual, from a time that did not have those terms, who did not comprehend romantic love. Lestrade looked over her partner’s shoulder at the missives. “He kept his private life away from the police station. Very likely because this sort of thing wouldn’t fit the image of what a chief inspector had to be like in your time.”
“An interesting comment from someone who professes to dread family encounters, but who visits her maternal great-grandfather every week.”
Suddenly the room was hot - or it was just her face. Only then did Beth catch the twinkle in his eye. “You… perceptive man,” she grated, doing her best to make the word sound like an insult. “Just for that, I ought to drag you along…”
Click.
“Scratch that. You are coming with me the next time I visit Gee-Gee.” Why hadn’t she thought of this before?
Her reward was the momentarily flustered look on Holmes’ face.
She kept going, because it sounded better the more she thought about it. “I think you’d like to meet him, Holmes. Gee-Gee isn’t your time, but he was born only about 50 years after you died. But he’s sharp as a tack, he can even remember the end of the 20th century the way you remember the beginning of it. You should bridge the gap.”
Holmes’ eyes lit up. She saw the brains working. “So he is in his early hundred-and-teens, I surmise.”
“One hundred twelve this past August.” She grinned. “Dinner at his center every Thursday night unless I’m on stakeout or the like. I hope you like rice pudding.”
“I love rice pudding,” he said. “What time do we go? I must consider what to ask him.”
Without raising her voice, Lestrade said “Watson?”
“I am in the kitchen, Inspector,” the droid responded - still in the “Watson” voice. “You normally schedule your visits to Gee-Gee to begin at seventeen-hundred on Thursdays unless you are detained or occupied. Am I to add your name to the reminder, Holmes?”
“Do so. And, Watson? You may rejoin us.”
The compudroid appeared at once. It was still showing the blank metal veneer rather than Watson's holo-face.
“Good to see you, you old bucket of bolts,” Beth said. “Got a couple of new pieces of data to add to your stores when your boss gets through deducing them.”
“However, I was not asked if I desired rice pudding,” the droid said in a sulky voice.
Both humans stared. But it was Holmes who burst out laughing first. “Oh, that sense of humor is very familiar, my dear Watson!”
“Well done, Holmes,” Watson replied in his usual cheery tone.
Lestrade beamed. She knew a visit to one old man and a couple of letters were no substitute for Sherlock Holmes missing his lost friends, but also knew that Holmes was indeed like her - the prospect of new work or new discoveries did wonders to brighten his mood. And he’d just been reminded that his connections had not ended with his old friends’ deaths; that he had family of a sorts here too.
“To Scotland Yard and its scanner,” Holmes said cheerily, heading toward the door with the two letters without so much as looking back at his companions. “Come along, Lestrade. Watson.”
“Good heavens, Holmes,” Watson protested, trudging behind.
She kept her lips tight-shut as she took up the rear. Yep - he was back to normal.