a misplaced moment

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

221B will never be without a Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, not really.  Universe upon universe folds itself around and they occur, reoccur, vary, hunt vampires, send texts, fight lovecraftian monsters, do cocaine, get into bareknuckle boxing matches...

As important, but far less constant, is the ever looming James Moriarty.   Who, once thrown back through history and into the London where Holmes is Holmes, had made his way inexorably to Baker Street, and when Mrs Hudson had asked if he was here for a consultation regarding a case, had chirped an inspired 'yes ma'am!'

She leads him up the stairs- same set up, different wood, different wallpaper, same step that creaks- towards the cantankerous man upstairs.  Sherlock the younger is not in at the moment, has left no modern signs of himself in the flat, thanks to being predominately located off in the woods with his bees.  For now, it is just the two of them.

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[whatofthewarts]

It has been several weeks since he last saw Watson (though they've exchanged letters, some encrypted and some answering just to say how much Watson hates his encryptions). It has been nearly two months since he last saw Sherlock, who comes and goes and Holmes rarely knows where. Or when, rather.

And it has been slightly longer still since he's had a proper job. So he is bored, and experimenting with light while he chews on coca leaves. His current theory is that with sufficient focus, a beam of light could be as precisely powerful as a scalpel.

So far he has managed nothing more than a schoolboy setting fire to a hill of ants. Except instead of ants, he's got heaps of singed papers.

[napoleonofcrime]

Jim comes bounding up the stairs will all the excitement of a little schoolboy. His outward, casual demeanor hadn't changed from when he was in his own time, but behind his eyes, there was a myriad of calculations happening. He wasn't in his own time anymore, that was neat. He as almost certain that he wasn't on drugs. And while he could do boring things, like wait for the shock to set in, it was much more fun to explore his new surroundings, take in as much as he could, and wait to see what happened as a result.

A sharp rap comes on the old door (nothing like how Jim remembered it, and there were traces of otherness among this home, this remarkably cozy home, and the door said 'Holmes', but he'd believe that when he saw it). Without waiting for much of a response- he knew how Sherlock could be, if this was Sherlock- Jim turns the knob, sliding the door open just a little.

"...hello?"

[whatofthewarts]

"Don't...move...."

Holmes holds up a finger, and--there--manages to set fire to a moth. It lasts about a second; moth wings burn fast. And this will mean fewer little holes in his coat and slacks.

He glances at the man, taking in minute details, his mind working a few knots faster than usual. Which is why he doesn't react when he realizes where this man is from. He instead begins rummaging for things in the mess around him.

"You've come here for assistance. State your business."

[napoleonofcrime]

Jim watches with a muted appreciation for a moment, though his eyes widened a little in a fake shock, leaning forward and biting his lip for the poor little moth. Though when Sherlock looked at him, Moriarty similarly gleaned a few key things from the detective- the musty clothing, the hair, the bags under the eyes, the sallowness in the skin- and manages a little smile in turn, though the act forces a wry sort of desperation into it.

"This was the only place I knew to go."

He bites his lip, runs his fingers through his already unkempt hair. His clothes are modern- not the fancy suits that Moriarty usually wears, but the jeans and cardigans of Richard Brook, the five o'clock shadow and sag to his shoulders.

"221B, right? It's- well, it's home. I'm not sure where- or, when, I suppose- I am."

[whatofthewarts]

"And who are you?"

He shuffles through a book, frowning at a passage here, dogearing a page there.

"Where, and when, are you from?"

[napoleonofcrime]

"I'm- Watson."

He swallows hard, glancing toward the window, adopting the aura of John Watson, like it's a garment he can just put on and take off again.

"John Watson. I don't know what's going on- I was in a cab just- ten minutes ago-"

[whatofthewarts]

Watson is the Achilles heel that never heals. Had Moriarty said any other name, Holmes would have stayed on his guard. He might not have figured out who this really was, but he certainly wouldn't have put the book down.

"Watson. Dr. Watson. Surely you know who I am, then."

[napoleonofcrime]

"I- I'm not sure, really."

He takes a step back, shoulders tensing a little.

"I mean... you should be Sherlock, but you're not- Sherlock."

[whatofthewarts]

"You are caught in what seems to be a compression of time. You are not the first person to come from some point in the future, nor will you be the last."

He hopes. He has far too many questions left unanswered.

"Tell me, what is your 'Sherlock' like?"

[napoleonofcrime]

"Compression of time, great," he mutters, mostly to himself, "that just happens all the time around here."

But, focusing back on Sherlock, he sets his lips in a thin line. "Well, he's, erm. Tall." Because that totally counts. But he shakes his head and tries for more. "Um- curly hair? Rather insufferable."

[whatofthewarts]

"You're all very tall."

Holmes is barely over 5'6 himself.

"And I've been told that 'insufferable' is a trait any Holmes must have to be considered legitimate."

A joke, because it's Watson and who else would understand?

[napoleonofcrime]

Jim, topping at about 5'7", seems a little amused by this, and lets out a wry smile.

"I suppose so. And you've- met people before? From my time?"

[whatofthewarts]

"Several, in fact. Mycroft, yourself, and what I suppose you would call myself."

He moves to the counter, shuffling through things until he finds notes that he and Sherlock wrote together.

"Your departure may be as sudden as your arrival, but rest assured, if it is not, your Sherlock and I have been working tirelessly to find the cause of all this."

[napoleonofcrime]

"I- it's weird to call him my Sherlock."

He flushes a little, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"I haven't noticed him missing... you're sure that he's actually from the future?"

[whatofthewarts]

"But that is who he is."

Quirking a brow as he looks at him.

"I am positive that he is. I could even tell you the year he was last from."

[napoleonofcrime]

"Really?"

He does a little double take.

"From your own deductions, or has he told you?"

[whatofthewarts]

"From both. We have conducted extensive experiments, both together and separately. I have confirmed he is who, and when, he says."

[napoleonofcrime]

"And when, exactly- oh, I'm afraid I'm getting too far ahead of myself."

He bumbles a little awkwardly.

"I don't mean to take your time. I was just hoping you could help me... right myself. I'm not sure how I've gotten here, or how I can get home to him- in the proper home, mind you, not that this 221B isn't lovely.."

[whatofthewarts]

This John is so much nicer, gentler than the one Holmes is used to. He wants to be objective and judge Watson as he would any other visitor-slash-potential-client. But he can't. It's Sherlock's Watson.

"Unfortunately, at this moment I have neither the equipment nor the skill to send you to such a specific time. Sherlock is, as we speak, testing our latest calibrations. I expect to hear from him in a week at the most, assuming he survived the transition."

[napoleonofcrime]

Jim doesn't really know of any other sort of Watson- he plays the one he knows, plain and simple.

"-survived?"

And that's alarm.

"He could die?"

[whatofthewarts]

"Very easily, I'm afraid."

He doesn't sound afraid. He sounds detached.

"We make things as predictable as we can, but what we are doing here is unprecedented. He has needed to get back home, to you, and so we have taken risks I might not otherwise advise."

[napoleonofcrime]

"But- but I'm here now."

He turns, as if expecting him any moment.

"It defeats the purpose if he manages to get home and I'm not there, doesn't it?"

[whatofthewarts]

"You may flash out at any moment. And he is due back here; we have yet to find a way to make any of his trips permanent."

But he doesn't know if Sherlock will return alive or dead. Many of their experiments come back...mutilated. Not so many now, of course. They do take some precautions.

[napoleonofcrime]

He bites his lip, still obviously concerned.

"I do hope he's alright..."

[whatofthewarts]

"Tell me about him. He mentioned you haven't known one another long."

Steepling his fingers and listening.

[napoleonofcrime]

"I don't know, really."

He sighs, glancing off.

"I said insufferable already, right? Then I suppose- well, he's brilliant, but that much is obvious."

[whatofthewarts]

Holmes has his chin resting in his hand, a finger tapping the corner of his mouth thoughtfully.

"But why do you stay? Curiosity?"

[napoleonofcrime]

"No, it's..."

He frowns, as if unsure if he wants to tell him- but this is Sherlock, isn't it? He already knows.

"Well- he's a bit of excitement, isn't he?"

[whatofthewarts]

"A curious reason. A man such as yourself no doubt found endless excitement in the war."

And he knows just how terrible that excitement was for his Watson.

[napoleonofcrime]

"...And when the war is over?"

He offers, meekly.

[whatofthewarts]

"Some would be happy just to be home. To settle down with a wife in the countryside."

How disgusting.

[napoleonofcrime]

"...well, I suppose some would."

He makes a small face at that.

"So... why don't you tell me about him- yourself, I mean. Are people different on both sides?"