by Cyberwolf (wolf at mydestiny.net)
Right, my first SH22 fic...
(grins) Involves much Holmes suffering and several Dei ex Machina...and a
crossover reference, see if you can spot it. ^_^
Well, onwards, I guess.
A SH22 fiction by Cyberwolf
Disclaimer: I in no way own or have the least bit chance
of owning the characters or situations of Sherlock Holmes in the
22nd Century. (Though if they get tired of Holmes, I'll take
him!) The puppy and the petshop and the American Marine with two
kids belong to me. But you can borrow them if you want. =)
H/L (coming up)
No serious mysteries
Chapter I: Accidents
The New London night was cool, and bright with the illumination
of both the city and the sky. Upon its streets both young and old
(and the middle-aged, who are not generally noted) walked, some fast,
some slow, some too lazy to walk and taking cars instead. But enough
of them -- let us focus on the one whom this story is about.
The man who strode through the crowd was very tall, and very
lean. His facial features were sharp -- in both the aesthetic sense,
and in the sense that great intelligence was suggested. Blond hair
was mostly hidden by a deerstalker, and he was set apart from the
other New London pedestrians by (aside from his height) his rather
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, fellow Sherlockians, fans of SH22.
The man was our favorite resurrected detective, Sherlock Holmes -- and
he was shopping. Grocery shopping, to be more precise -- a task
usually delegated to the compudroid Watson, but a task he nevertheless
was undertaking now, due to Watson’s being at New Scotland Yard for
the day, for the routine systems-check-up that all compudroids, whether
or not they were assigned to famous almost-legendary detectives, were
required to undergo.
Anyway, so here Holmes was. He’d been given the list by
Watson, who calculated the exact amount of food that Sherlock would
need for the next month (with very generous allowances for the
possibilities of the Irregulars or the Inspector dropping in for
tea...or supper...or lunch....) and had carefully and exactingly
fulfilled the requirements of said list. He’d paid for the purchases
and left, very assiduously ignoring the check-out clerk’s attempts
to flirt with him. He’d never dealt very well with
such...things...especially when the woman in question outweighed him
and her hair was a most shocking shade of purple that was definitely
not natural. (Had to put that in, sorry -- traumatic experience that
happened to a friend of mine...would have loved to see our Victorian
Holmes in that situation....)
Right, so where were we? Ah yes -- Holmes was walking home
from the grocery store, carrying his bagged groceries. He was idly
looking at passersby as he walked, deducing their occupation and
current situation in life the same way you and I might make note of
the colors of passing cars. It was a most entertaining pastime,
though not one that particularly taxed him. Just as he had pegged a
man as a soldier, most likely a Marine, a tourist from New New York
(sorry -- just had to put that) with two children -- a
toddler and a newborn -- and who liked watching Saturday Night
Football while eating caramel popcorn and Cheetos from the same
Yes, indeed, IT happened -- and in this case, IT does not
refer to Professor James Moriarty.
A hovertruck was passing by New London on its journey to
Surrey. In Surrey was the lab of Professor Utonium, Jr and the
truck’s cargo was his order of several barrels of Chemical X. It was
called Chemical X because it was a chemical and X is pretty much a
universal symbol for unknown variables in equations, whether
real-life or mathematical.
You know -- ‘Mr X, our mysterious benefactor...’, ‘X marks
the spot...’ and the most hated ‘so if blah and blah, X
equals....’ -- and since no one really knew the exact nature of
Chemical X, they called it X.
The guy who drove the hovertruck was ordinarily a likeable
enough fellow. A little short on the brains, but he was tall and
strong and good-hearted, and his face was not quite as bad as an
orc’s. His name, by the way, was Sam Hanford, and wasn’t it a strange
coincidence that his initials were the same as Holmes’? Yes, it was
a strange coincidence, and never you pay mind to that, because it
has nothing to do with the story.
Anyway, he was a likeable enough fellow, but on this evening
he had been driving for over thirty-three hours without a break, and
his eyelids were getting droopy. And when drivers get sleepy at the
wheel, little things called ‘horrid automobile accidents’ tend to
happen. So poor drowsy Sam, who had not been getting enough sleep,
succumbed to Murphy’s Law, Special Corollary for Fanfic Writers -- if
something bad can happen, it usually will, and it will involve the
fanfic writer’s chosen character in some way -- and fell asleep at
The truck careened wildly, and almost ran over (in order) an old
lady out for a stroll, a mailbox, two teenagers walking a bunch of
dogs, a streetlamp, a hoverblader, another old lady, a random
nondescript pedestrian and a man in a giant purple dinosaur costume
before wrapping its entire front end around a lamp-post.
In doing this, the truck tipped over. In tipping over, the
barrels rolled out. In rolling out, the contents of one of them
were forcefully expelled, showering whoever was nearby in a rain of
softly glowing golden liquid. And guess who was the single person
nearby? Yup, that’s right -- Holmes.
Actually, Holmes wasn’t the only creature nearby. A single
puppy was there too, in spite of the fact that in New London in the
22nd Century, there were hardly such things as stray dogs. The puppy
was light gold in color, similar to the coloring of a golden
retriever, although a little more short-furred. Its upright ears and
conformation suggested some Malamute blood, though whatever its
pedigree was, it was clearly a crossbreed of two or more strains.
And it, too, was showered with the rain of Chemical X.
Furthermore, the shock of the truck’s collision with the
lamp-post, and then the barrels of chemicals impacting against it,
had weakened the rather rickety wall they were near. It crashed down
on barrels, truck, detective and puppy (and bags of groceries) with
a loud clatter.
Nobody noticed that the man and puppy had been glowing right
before the wall crashed.
Editor's Note: Professor Utonium belongs to whoever owns
the Powerpuff Girls (Genndy Tartakovsky, maybe?), but Junior is,
AFAIK, all Cyberwolf's invention.
On to Part 2!
Back to the Fanfic index