Our Inherent Home - (2/?)
"This is ridiculous! It's improbable, impossible, inconvenient, inconsiderate, and-"
"Should I be taking this down?"
"Shut up, Sherlock."
"Terribly sorry. Pray, continue."
I threw my hands up in the air. "We're in Victorian London! Does that mean nothing to you?"
Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "Fascinating, isn't it? Though entirely devoid of reason, and so therefore must constitute a severe anomaly in-"
"Oh God, I'm trapped in the past with a madman," I buried my face in my hands with a groan. This was just not my day.
"Or your century," Sherlock added.
My head shot up and I stared at him. "What?"
His mouth flickered into a smile. "You were thinking of how today was not your day."
I blinked. "And you felt the need to correct my thoughts."
"Certainly."
I briefly wondered if jumping in front of a horse and cab might mercifully zap me back to the future. Or just mercifully trample me. Either one.
I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. "All right, where do we go from here?"
Sherlock reached into his pocket. "If we track our location with GPS, we-" He froze and I saw much of the color drain from his face. "John…"
I nodded. "Inconvenient, wouldn't you say?"
Sherlock's mouth twitched and he pulled that ever-present phone of his from his pocket. Its screen had gone black. The inward snap in him was almost audible.
"Inconvenient! Inconvenient?" He whirled on his heel. "Hell, we've been marooned in the Stone Age!"
I cocked an eyebrow. "Fascinating."
His eyes narrowed and I saw his jaw clench tightly. "I cannot function here. My mind will-no, I will stagnate! Do you not see? Information now comes at a leisurely pace by…by a damned horse-drawn wagon! I'll have to wait hours, days, weeks for the slightest bit of evidence, and even then it would be pure gossip or blundering on the part of-oh!"
"What?"
"Scotland Yard. They're utterly idiotic in this age!"
I rolled my eyes. "And when have they not been idiots to you?"
"I had had some hope for Lestrade. Dashed now."
A sudden chill wind blew through the alley, and I wrapped my jacket closer about me. It was early evening and dark clouds began silently gathering across the sky. Combined with the weak light from the gas lamps, the district looked positively ghostly. A distant roll of thunder lingered in the west, and I fought the urge to shake a fist at the sky and at my unmerited bad luck.
"Sherlock, it's going to rain. Of all the hellish things-"
"What do I care?"
I paused from zipping up my jacket. "Excuse me?"
"What care could I possibly have for the weather when I don't have a working phone?"
"I cannot even begin to see how that's relevant."
"Or Internet. Search engines. E-mail. News reports. Telly…"
I shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. "I'd love to help you with your grocery list, but we're going to get poured on in a few minutes. Soaking wet with no place to go."
"Let it rain. So what." He crossed his arms and stared obstinately into the distance, as if daring the storm to strike him dead. At the moment, I would be inclined to bet on the detective. Take away his technology, and he was a fearsome thing to behold.
I sighed. "Amazing as it may seem, Sherlock, we mere mortals consume this stuff called 'food' in order to survive. You will not die without your phone."
"I beg to differ."
"Then beg to differ out of the rain."
"Fine."
I shut my eyes and tried to rub the headache from forehead. "Let's just figure out where the hell in nineteenth-century London we are."
Sherlock mutely held up his phone with an indignant look.
This was just sad. "What? Still no service?"
"Not funny, John."
"Typical Victorian technology." I reached for his mobile. "Maybe if you hold it to the side and-hey!"
"Don't touch my phone."
"Sherlock, you can't just go around slapping people's hands."
"I can when they touch my stuff."
"God, you're such a child."
"Thank you, Mycroft."
"Any time." I eyed the approaching clouds. "We need to find Baker Street."
Sherlock scoffed as he tucked his phone away in his pocket. "What? You can't mean 221B."
"It's the closest thing we have to home. Find it." The closing dark and coming storm had struck a sudden need in me for familiarity. Baker Street had remained a small constant amidst a city of infinite change, and it became my sole focus to reach those rooms in that flat at any cost. Something in this time period had to be the same.
"Fine, we'll get a hansom," Sherlock growled, stepping from the alleyway and striding toward the bustling main street, myself following close behind. A few moments later we had managed to stuff ourselves within a hansom, give the driver the address, and begin on our way.
"Stop banging your head against the window, Sherlock."
"So slow," he groaned. "This could take all day. And the next. And the-"
"Why don't you just look out the window and deduct something?"
"Dull. Boring. Monotonous."
I gritted my teeth. "Has it occurred to you that you may have the opportunity of investigating your own murder?"
Sherlock shifted to stare languidly at the ceiling. "And how would I die?"
"I haven't decided yet."
The cab finally halted on a strange street, so foreign it was to the Baker Street we knew in modern times. Having paid the driver in what we hoped was an acceptable form, we walked slowly up to a familiar door, almost identical in every way to the one we had rushed out of only hours ago.
"Remarkable," I breathed. "Almost like coming home, hmm?"
Sherlock blinked. "Yes. Except for the little matter of-"
Ignoring his newest rant, I grasped the knocker and rapped sharply on the door.
"John, what the hell are you doing?"
"Finding shelter."
The doorknob turned and the door creaked backward to reveal an older lady, primly dressed in the proper Victorian attire.
I started violently, almost falling backward into the street. "Mrs. Hudson?"
"Of course, dear. Did you forget your keys inside again? Oh, Sherlock, you too? Gracious, I don't know how you two make it about."
Except for the clothing, she looked exactly the same as she had this morning, one hundred and eighteen years in the future. I glanced over at Sherlock, who simply stood staring at the woman before us.
"And what are these ridiculous clothes, Sherlock? John? You didn't leave in these this morning."
Sherlock frowned, his eyes glinting in his intent perusal of our landlady. "Of course we did, Mrs. Hudson."
"Don't be daft, love. You two left in pressed black suits, cravats, top hats, all of that. Your usual attire."
I shook my head, utterly bewildered. "You were here this morning, Mrs. Hudson?"
"Of course, dear. You've been renting my rooms for years now. Why wouldn't I be here?"
My mind whirled, and a sort of drum began beating in my temples that seemed to drown out even the cadence of approaching thunder. We were the only ones who traveled back, though it seemed as if we had been living here all our lives. How could-
"Stop it, John," Sherlock's crisp command came at my side. "Don't waste time trying to figure it out now. Just get inside." His tone had become animated, and the Sherlock Holmes I knew so well had finally sprung to life again. He skirted past Mrs. Hudson and began taking the stairs two at a time.
"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called up as I hurried to follow him. "You have a guest waiting for you. I brought him some tea while he was waiting. I hope you don't mind that he stayed."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!" he called back from the top landing. He then strode over and threw open the door to the sitting room.
He immediately recoiled against the wall. "Mycroft?"
CHAPTER THREE
"Should I be taking this down?"
"Shut up, Sherlock."
"Terribly sorry. Pray, continue."
I threw my hands up in the air. "We're in Victorian London! Does that mean nothing to you?"
Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "Fascinating, isn't it? Though entirely devoid of reason, and so therefore must constitute a severe anomaly in-"
"Oh God, I'm trapped in the past with a madman," I buried my face in my hands with a groan. This was just not my day.
"Or your century," Sherlock added.
My head shot up and I stared at him. "What?"
His mouth flickered into a smile. "You were thinking of how today was not your day."
I blinked. "And you felt the need to correct my thoughts."
"Certainly."
I briefly wondered if jumping in front of a horse and cab might mercifully zap me back to the future. Or just mercifully trample me. Either one.
I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. "All right, where do we go from here?"
Sherlock reached into his pocket. "If we track our location with GPS, we-" He froze and I saw much of the color drain from his face. "John…"
I nodded. "Inconvenient, wouldn't you say?"
Sherlock's mouth twitched and he pulled that ever-present phone of his from his pocket. Its screen had gone black. The inward snap in him was almost audible.
"Inconvenient! Inconvenient?" He whirled on his heel. "Hell, we've been marooned in the Stone Age!"
I cocked an eyebrow. "Fascinating."
His eyes narrowed and I saw his jaw clench tightly. "I cannot function here. My mind will-no, I will stagnate! Do you not see? Information now comes at a leisurely pace by…by a damned horse-drawn wagon! I'll have to wait hours, days, weeks for the slightest bit of evidence, and even then it would be pure gossip or blundering on the part of-oh!"
"What?"
"Scotland Yard. They're utterly idiotic in this age!"
I rolled my eyes. "And when have they not been idiots to you?"
"I had had some hope for Lestrade. Dashed now."
A sudden chill wind blew through the alley, and I wrapped my jacket closer about me. It was early evening and dark clouds began silently gathering across the sky. Combined with the weak light from the gas lamps, the district looked positively ghostly. A distant roll of thunder lingered in the west, and I fought the urge to shake a fist at the sky and at my unmerited bad luck.
"Sherlock, it's going to rain. Of all the hellish things-"
"What do I care?"
I paused from zipping up my jacket. "Excuse me?"
"What care could I possibly have for the weather when I don't have a working phone?"
"I cannot even begin to see how that's relevant."
"Or Internet. Search engines. E-mail. News reports. Telly…"
I shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. "I'd love to help you with your grocery list, but we're going to get poured on in a few minutes. Soaking wet with no place to go."
"Let it rain. So what." He crossed his arms and stared obstinately into the distance, as if daring the storm to strike him dead. At the moment, I would be inclined to bet on the detective. Take away his technology, and he was a fearsome thing to behold.
I sighed. "Amazing as it may seem, Sherlock, we mere mortals consume this stuff called 'food' in order to survive. You will not die without your phone."
"I beg to differ."
"Then beg to differ out of the rain."
"Fine."
I shut my eyes and tried to rub the headache from forehead. "Let's just figure out where the hell in nineteenth-century London we are."
Sherlock mutely held up his phone with an indignant look.
This was just sad. "What? Still no service?"
"Not funny, John."
"Typical Victorian technology." I reached for his mobile. "Maybe if you hold it to the side and-hey!"
"Don't touch my phone."
"Sherlock, you can't just go around slapping people's hands."
"I can when they touch my stuff."
"God, you're such a child."
"Thank you, Mycroft."
"Any time." I eyed the approaching clouds. "We need to find Baker Street."
Sherlock scoffed as he tucked his phone away in his pocket. "What? You can't mean 221B."
"It's the closest thing we have to home. Find it." The closing dark and coming storm had struck a sudden need in me for familiarity. Baker Street had remained a small constant amidst a city of infinite change, and it became my sole focus to reach those rooms in that flat at any cost. Something in this time period had to be the same.
"Fine, we'll get a hansom," Sherlock growled, stepping from the alleyway and striding toward the bustling main street, myself following close behind. A few moments later we had managed to stuff ourselves within a hansom, give the driver the address, and begin on our way.
"Stop banging your head against the window, Sherlock."
"So slow," he groaned. "This could take all day. And the next. And the-"
"Why don't you just look out the window and deduct something?"
"Dull. Boring. Monotonous."
I gritted my teeth. "Has it occurred to you that you may have the opportunity of investigating your own murder?"
Sherlock shifted to stare languidly at the ceiling. "And how would I die?"
"I haven't decided yet."
The cab finally halted on a strange street, so foreign it was to the Baker Street we knew in modern times. Having paid the driver in what we hoped was an acceptable form, we walked slowly up to a familiar door, almost identical in every way to the one we had rushed out of only hours ago.
"Remarkable," I breathed. "Almost like coming home, hmm?"
Sherlock blinked. "Yes. Except for the little matter of-"
Ignoring his newest rant, I grasped the knocker and rapped sharply on the door.
"John, what the hell are you doing?"
"Finding shelter."
The doorknob turned and the door creaked backward to reveal an older lady, primly dressed in the proper Victorian attire.
I started violently, almost falling backward into the street. "Mrs. Hudson?"
"Of course, dear. Did you forget your keys inside again? Oh, Sherlock, you too? Gracious, I don't know how you two make it about."
Except for the clothing, she looked exactly the same as she had this morning, one hundred and eighteen years in the future. I glanced over at Sherlock, who simply stood staring at the woman before us.
"And what are these ridiculous clothes, Sherlock? John? You didn't leave in these this morning."
Sherlock frowned, his eyes glinting in his intent perusal of our landlady. "Of course we did, Mrs. Hudson."
"Don't be daft, love. You two left in pressed black suits, cravats, top hats, all of that. Your usual attire."
I shook my head, utterly bewildered. "You were here this morning, Mrs. Hudson?"
"Of course, dear. You've been renting my rooms for years now. Why wouldn't I be here?"
My mind whirled, and a sort of drum began beating in my temples that seemed to drown out even the cadence of approaching thunder. We were the only ones who traveled back, though it seemed as if we had been living here all our lives. How could-
"Stop it, John," Sherlock's crisp command came at my side. "Don't waste time trying to figure it out now. Just get inside." His tone had become animated, and the Sherlock Holmes I knew so well had finally sprung to life again. He skirted past Mrs. Hudson and began taking the stairs two at a time.
"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called up as I hurried to follow him. "You have a guest waiting for you. I brought him some tea while he was waiting. I hope you don't mind that he stayed."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!" he called back from the top landing. He then strode over and threw open the door to the sitting room.
He immediately recoiled against the wall. "Mycroft?"
CHAPTER THREE