Another Countryby Maureen S. O'Brien(mobrien at dnaco.net)
This story takes place during "The Fall and Rise of Sherlock Holmes"
"The past is another country; they do things differently there,"
Holmes quoted absently as he looked at himself in the mirror.
Men in Town now apparently wore neither the coats and top hats of his
youth nor the double-breasted suits of his old age.
Well, no matter.
Sir Evan Hargreaves had been an eccentric dresser in his youth, and
his closets had yielded some quite adequate shirts and pants, and
even an Inverness for traveling. Add a deerstalker to complete his
country dress and he became the man people expected to see when they
said 'Sherlock Holmes'. (That Gillette fellow, and the flickers, had
much to answer for.)
Of course, it meant that he had only to wear some ordinary tunics and
leggings to become anonymous. Useful. He chuckled to himself and
rubbed his hands together. The eye only saw what it expected to see.
Simple misdirection, no more, but human nature never changed.
"Hey, Holmes! You all right in there? Need help?"
And neither did woman's nature. He was nearly a hundred years past
needing a nursemaid, and yet this female kept pushing herself into
his affairs.
"Changing clothes is well within my powers, Lestrade."
"Well? Do they fit?"
"They fit well enough." The new styles weren't so embarrassing if you
pictured them as a longer version of court dress. His own grandfather
must have worn such tight-fitting clothes as a young buck among the
Sussex gentry.
"Aren't you going to show me how they look?"
"I am not a dressmaker's dummy nor a mannequin. So, no."
He had no intention of exposing himself to the female's intense
ferret-like gaze at the moment, no matter what the customs of the day.
Indeed, he should have seen how matters lay when he first awoke after
this 'cellular revitalization'. That intent stare had been the first
thing to meet his eyes, and the only time Inspector Lestrade had looked
at him with any sort of womanly concern. After that, she had been
nothing but information and demands for the same. In other words, a
typical denizen of Scotland Yard.
Lestrade sighed noisily. "You take all the fun out of shopping."
"Then I only complete the process your own people have carried so
far," he retorted, beginning to undress again. "No tobacco. Really.
Then you brainwash your own people out of being able to express their
dissatisfaction with their joyless existence through criminal acts. What
does one do these days that isn't regulated? I expect that even marriage
is only permitted for eugenic purposes."
Lestrade's reply was hushed for the first time since he'd known her.
"Not here." Then she continued, brassily, "Now, Holmes, I thought
you weren't interested in mushy stuff! Love's a piece of grit on
your magnifying glass, wasn't that what you said?"
"Something like that," he replied airily, while his brain raced.
So. The 22nd century had its problems, after all. "You would know better
than I, as you are the one who is a scholar of Watson's writings.
One would almost think you had a pash on me." He would have to
listen to her response carefully. Such a situation would be...
well, not unprecedented, but certainly awkward.
"Pash? Oh, yeah, like a crush or a twitch." She chuckled. "One
would be wrong, then. When I was a kid, I thought Dr. Watson was
absolutely gabowzers. But what do you expect when you give a kid
all his journals to read? So sympathetic, so strong, so well-
moustached...." She sighed theatrically. "Alas, so very married."
It wasn't hard to picture her as a gawky girl, and the thought
made him smile. "Indeed. My old friend was always too embarrassed
or too kind to notice, but Mrs Watson nee Morstan made short work
of any young girls trying to hang about their doctor. Your
younger self would have had little luck."
Holmes finished putting his shirt on. The cuffs buttoned together,
which was convenient if less stylish. He couldn't smell starch
and the material was soft enough, but the shirt refused to wrinkle.
"Hmph. You were always a big meanie to my poor ancestral Inspector,
too."
Experimentally, he crumpled it between his hands. As soon as he
released it, the fabric began to smooth itself, crawling outward
thread by thread. He watched fascinated, but couldn't help a bit
of a shudder. Shirts weren't meant to have a mind of their own.
"I was not 'mean' to him. I was merely chaffing him in a humorous
fashion. If he hadn't liked my company, he would scarcely have
stopped by so often in the evenings, consultation or no."
"That's what you say. I think he just came by to see Watson."
"If so, he spent a lot of time ignoring the man he came to see.
Though they became better friends after a few years had gone by."
He reached for his new traveling cape. Whatever it was really made of,
it at least felt like honest English wool. It seemed like the proper
thing to wear, given that he was going out into a sort of wilderness
where he didn't know the social climate. All his precious knowledge
of the minutiae of daily life was now useless lumber in his brain
attic. Fortunately, he also had his youth back again. But the time
it would take to learn the world anew!
Holmes adjusted the hang of the cape. He would have to try to
remember not to take off his deerstalker inside. Impolite and
useless as it was to keep his hat on, that was what these people
of the future expected of him. At least according to those 'vids'
Lestrade had shown him on her handheld computer's screen.
He stepped out the door with a flourish. Lestrade applauded. "You
look just like you stepped out of a Rathbone flick. Very detectival."
"Very foolish."
"Yeah, but now people will believe you when you say who you are."
She turned to Sir Evan Hargreaves. "Thank you for letting us use
your clothesmaker and dressing room, not to mention donating your
old outfits."
"Think nothing of it," the rotund scientist said quietly. He led them
downstairs and out to Lestrade's patrol car, a sleek vehicle with no
wheels or means of propulsion apparent. "Only let me know something of
your progress against Morgan Fenwick. My old colleague is more of a
menace than most realize. And if you experience any health problems or
complications, Mr. Holmes --"
"I will let you know. Thank you." Holmes watched Hargreaves vanish
into the house, then turned back to Lestrade. "Where now?"
"My place. I'll get you started on some more vids, so you can catch
up on what's happened in the last two hundred years." She opened the
car doors for him and then climbed in herself. He watched her actions
closely and copied them. When in Rome, do as the Romans do.
He looked down as the car rose above the green fields and even above
the trees. The strange architecture of the neighboring farmhouses
dwindled into insignificance. The higher they went, the more England
rolled beneath him, different only in details from the place he'd
seen on his first aeroplane ride. There was Hadrian's Wall beneath
them. Sometime in the intervening years since he'd seen it, the Wall
had been reconstructed to look like it had as an Imperial outpost.
The land had been inscribed by so many human beings even before the
Romans came, from the Paleolithic hunters to the Celts and Picts.
They had left their bones here to enrich the soil. Let these people
of the future do as they may, the land would have their bones too
in the end.
Unless this cellular revitalization became common, of course.
Then the people of today might never have to die.
What had this erstwhile Inspector Lestrade started? Did she realize
what she might have done? Did she care?
Holmes stole a glance at her reflection in his window. Thinking
herself unobserved, she had allowed her expression to sober. She
looked as young and vulnerable as she had when he awakened. Oh, yes,
she knew. But then she glanced at him, and smiled, comforted.
He groaned inwardly. For all her flippancy, she truly trusted that
she could put all her problems into his hands and get back nothing
but answers. If only she knew. This old man in a young man's body
felt just as frightened as she of this strange new world they were
entering. All the mysteries of the High Llama of Thibet were as
nothing to the mysteries of life and death, and travelling through
time.
But he was nearly as fond of travelling as solving mysteries.
"So," said Lestrade, asking the classic American question, "What
do you think of the 22nd century?"
He leaned back into his seat uncomfortably. "I am reminded of the
German philosopher, who told us that the stranger returning to
his home does not make strange lands homely, but makes home
strange."
Her combative smile faded. "New London's not all that different
from Old London, really. You'll do fine."
He met her gaze. For once, its directness seemed more friendly
than irritating. She appeared to be determined to prevent him
from falling into a brown study, and for that he was grateful.
"Besides," she added, "You're English. Your home's always been strange."
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