let me count the ways

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

He wakes up, out of what feels like a feverish high, on a couch in 221B.

Only it isn't his couch.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and examines the ceiling.

Comments

[whatofthewarts]

Sherlock is also over by the window. He's between cases, and bored. In the past two days he's poisoned (and then cured) two ravens, and discovered a phosphorescent powder which only shows up under special lighting.

And now, he is bored, and strumming his out-of-tune violin, and drinking what might be cleaning fluid.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Am I dead?"

He asks the room at large, before sitting up like a shot.

[whatofthewarts]

"Not at present."

Sherlock says it slowly, each syllable being given careful weight. He looks at the stranger, and his speech picks up a bit.

"But I do wonder how it is you got into my room."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Then I'm high."

Scrubbing a hand over his eyes.

"Or not high enough. This is 221B."

[whatofthewarts]

"Correct."

About this being 221B. The rest, well, Sherlock has to give him a critical once-over that takes roughly 1.5 seconds.

"You are not inebriated, nor do you appear to have suffered any serious head trauma. So, I must inform you, you are not high enough."

He caps off his deduction with a swig from his flask.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

He shakes his head, then moves off the couch with familiar, crisp energy, surveying the room. His eyes flick- paper on the dresser, the date. Folded open to an article on crime- the shelves. Consulting detective.

Peculiar and varied interests. Tendency towards inebriation. The violin.

"What in God's name."

[whatofthewarts]

And for his part, he examines the bizarre fabric--too smooth and almost glossy to be simply cotton, or wool. The cut of it is unusual, as well. Too simplified for this year, and much too clean for this city.

"Tell me...do you know a man named Mycroft? Not a burly, heavy set fellow with an obnoxious laugh. A smaller one. Brown hair."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Of course he has something to do with this."

Arms folding defensively for a moment, but that doesn't last- he's into the chemistry cabinet, glancing at the compounds- yes, authentic to the period. The wall paper, even. The taste in the air.

"Where is he?"

[whatofthewarts]

"I believe he is somewhere one hundred years in the future. I had begun to believe he was merely a specter, some element of drink or chemical I had ingested."

He stands abruptly. The poor, battered violin is set carelessly on the floor.

"But now I see you."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

Ah. Sherlock glances over abruptly, turning his every iota of concentration on this version of- no, he still can't leap to that conclusion.

"And the taller, heavy set one with the laugh? Who would he be?"

Pressing, to forestall interrogation.

[whatofthewarts]

"Mycroft Holmes. The first."

He feels focused now, in spite of (or perhaps because of) the drink he had. Like a dog circling a suspicious newcomer.

In spite of what he learned from Mycroft, it takes a leap of faith for him to say what he feels is the most likely, if absurd, possibility.

"And you must be the other Mycroft's brother."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Sherlock."

He agrees, looking him in the eye with frightening recognition.

[whatofthewarts]

Even though he had suspected as much, getting confirmation is...

"How peculiar."

Terrifying.

"So am I."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Yes."

He agrees. He could tell.

Sherlock sits down, very careful not to let it be abrupt.

"Yes, I'm aware."

[whatofthewarts]

"Then tell me. What year do you remember?"

He needs to begin to put together a pattern.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Two thousand and twelve. How old are you?"

Confused. He didn't anticipate living that long.

[whatofthewarts]

"Forty-five."

Sherlock looked him over again, but more blatantly, because this time it wasn't about analysis.

"You are taller than I would have imagined."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"And a decade younger."

Blinking, feeling for a moment like a proper fool.

"Moriarty?"

[whatofthewarts]

Sherlock abruptly straightens up, and his expression darkens.

"How do you know that name?"

But even as he says it, he knows. If Mycroft exists there, with this version of himself, surely Moriarty would, too.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Honestly? From a murderous cab driver, a Chinese smuggling act and traveling circus, a dead boy's shoes, a very long game, a woman with more whips and leather than half the stables in London, and last of all, a tremendous confrontation ending in a suicide and a leap off of a building."

[whatofthewarts]

"I see."

He takes a deep breath and nods, but he is no longer looking at Sherlock.

"And is that the last thing you recall? This confrontation on top of a building?"

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"John talking to my headstone."

Glancing around.

"-a Doctor as always. Good."

[whatofthewarts]

"Watson."

He's equal parts curious and satisfied. It wouldn't be right if this Sherlock--any Sherlock--didn't have the good doctor nearby.

"How curious. I never had a headstone, but I did wait to reveal myself to him until after he had finished writing a beautiful memoir about our adventures together."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Who was he? Moriarty. It wouldn't be possible for him to be what he was in my world, the technology is too-"

Making a wobbling gesture.

[whatofthewarts]

"He was a professor. A brilliant mathematician, a scholar of the first order. Also someone entirely capable of maneuvering governments, a career which paid handsomely, if illegally."

He spouts this off, and is about to throw in a pithy remark about the Professor's ultimate demise. But technology.

"Tell me, what technology does Moriarty utilize?"