In A Fog - A Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century One-Shot
A big "thank you" to my friend and Beta, who goes by the name of Ems. She and her sister have been a huge support to me and I could not turn down her SH22 prompt:
[Spoiler (click to open)]
"Holmes catches Beth Lestrade by surprise on a foggy evening and soon discovers that she is a lady that can take care of herself."
I toss and turn in my bed, quite unable to sleep. Sir Evan Hargreaves has been very kind to me and the bed provided is spacious, warm and by far the most comfortable that I have ever had to sleep in, but my brain will not permit me to succumb to slumber.
To have been returned to life in a new era, with far too much to learn and acclimatise to is one thing; to have to face it alone, without dear old Watson's support is quite another. I miss him as one would miss one's right arm. I need him more than I have ever needed anyone and there is a stifling pain in my chest as if my heart has been torn from it when I think of him.
I drag myself from my bed and noiselessly leave Sir Evan's house. I have to somehow either bring my thoughts to order or else sufficiently exhaust myself so that I might be able to sleep. I muffle a quiet cough as fog assails my throat and wonder whether I should have thought to find my hat and cloak, or at the very least my shoes, as opposed to simply donning my dressing gown and slippers. I shrug my shoulders and press on, finding that I barely feel the chill in the air.
My thoughts turn to the young Scotland Yarder that is responsible for my new life in this young, revitalised body. I can scarcely believe that this is the 22nd Century, for I should be nothing but dust by now I am sure. Yet here I am, very much alive and terribly young and healthy for a Victorian gentleman that died of old age in the 20th Century. When Beth Lestrade, descendant of the Inspector Lestrade of my day, stands before me I feel a little less lost (even if it is difficult for me to keep in mind that she is also an inspector, like her ancestor, and not simply a woman with ideas above her station) for I can see the family resemblance in her and she has inherited some of "my" Lestrade's traits, such as his inability to give up.
Her robot is another matter. It may sound ridiculous, but I do not like the thing. Why Lestrade told it to read my Watson's journals I shall never understand, but she seemed not the least surprised when it apparently used those books to program itself to become (or at least try to mimic) my Watson. It is far too clumsy, emotional and obtuse to be anything like my companion of old, but still it insists on trying; even to the point of attempting to talk like him. It is painful and I am almost tempted to admit as much to that infernal Yarder.
I shiver and decide to turn back. Now that my emotions would appear to have run their course I would seem to be feeling the cold and I do not want that droid attempting to play doctor with me should I catch a chill. As I round a corner, I see a figure leaning against the house as the fog parts momentarily. I recognise her instantly and approach to rest a hand upon her shoulder.
What happens next is a blur. My wrist is grasped and then I am hurtling through the air before I am even able to give a cry of surprise. I then have a New Scotland Yard-issue boot on my stomach and a gun pointing at my head.
"Holmes!" Lestrade lowers her weapon and removes her foot from atop me. "What the zed are you doing creeping about out here in the middle of the night?"
"Couldn't sleep," I mumble as she helps me to my feet.
"You must be freezing," she remarks. "Why didn't you do what I do and have some warm milk?"
I grimace. "I have not drank warm milk since I was an infant."
"It's a lot healthier than going out wandering in your zedding sleepwear Sherlock."
"You are not my nanny Lestrade."
She folds her arms and glares at me. "I know that. Thank zed!"
Zed this and zed that! It has not taken me long to realise that 'zed' is the most commonly used swearword of this era. I am not quite sure what it means, aside from the 26th letter of the alphabet, and I am not at all sure that I wish to know either. I wonder whether I should threaten to wash this woman's mouth out with soap. Hum! In light of her self-defence techniques, perhaps not.
"What were you doing out there anyway?" I demand of the Yarder with annoyance as she escorts me back inside.
"I heard the front door close," she responds with a smirk. "I hadn't turned in, I was drinking a coffee in the kitchen, so I thought I'd check for intruders. I couldn't see anything wrong so I came on out here."
"Oh."
I am taken through to the kitchen, where the Yarder makes me a rather milky cup of tea, and we sit together in a comfortable silence. I might find the woman somewhat irksome, but at least I know that she knows how to defend herself now. Ugh! What a pity that she does not also know how to make an adequate cup of tea.