Surprise by Maureen S. O'Brien (mobrien at dnaco.net) 5/6/00 Lestrade's com chimed for attention, and she sighed and pushed her plate back. That chime meant the call was from Holmes, and -that- meant she wasn't likely to get any more time for dinner tonight. She strode briskly to her console and touched for acceptance. "What do you want?" she said baldly. "I don't think I want to say over this comlink," Holmes said calmly, but his eyes stared into hers with steady purpose. "However, I think that if you drop by Baker Street -- take the tube -- you might find something of interest to you. Wear civilian clothing," he added as an afterthought. "Something formal. Something white." "White?" He said nothing in reply. "Civilian clothes? Something interesting me personally, then?" "Yes. Coming, Lestrade?" That same damned inquiry, the one he always made when she wasn't moving fast enough to suit him. He -knew- just how annoying she found that tone of challenge in his voice -- so annoying she'd damn near kill herself to prove she could keep up. "Yes," she scowled now. "Just let me finish dinner first, okay?" "Oh, finish your supper first, by all means. You'll need to keep up your strength." He gave her that amused look, the one that said 'too bad you don't know what's going on', and blanked the screen. "That's Holmes," she told herself. Then she sat down and tried to eat her dinner at a reasonable speed instead of the breakneck gobble she usually used to down her food when on cases. But now curiosity was eating her alive, exactly as Holmes had intended. She shoveled down a few more bites, then threw her plate into the stasis box and fished out a yummibar to fill out her nutritional needs for the night. Yummibars in her opinion weren't, but they were quick and stuck to her ribs. She ate a lot of yummibars. After a quick rummage, she found some actual white formal civilian clothes -- a dress, even. Thank God for summer dinners with Dad's professorial cronies, 'cause she didn't wear dresses or white as a general rule. Her Yardie whites invited more than enough stains. She brushed her teeth and got the taste of the yummibar out of her mouth. Holmes now, Holmes didn't eat yummibars. Of course, Holmes had Watson as a roommate, and Watson loved to cook. She wasn't sure why. One of those creative impulses robots weren't supposed to have. You could've argued that the writing was part of his attempt to perfectly simulate the original Watson, but John H. Watson, M.D. would probably have been happier if he'd never touched a pan in his life. John H. liked eating in pricy restaurants. This Watson, obviously barred from tasting his own creations, loved nothing better than to watch other people make them disappear. Maybe it was a performance art thing. Maybe he'd have some leftovers around, if Holmes was in picking at his food mode and the Irregulars hadn't been around real recently. Yeah. Maybe. She entered the monorail as it hit the station, and promptly lost control of her train of thought. What was Holmes up to? What did he know? What did he want from her? Holmes, Holmes, Holmes, Holmes, Holmes. She made an annoyed face at herself in the window as she watched the lights of the city go by below her. Before she'd revived him, she'd been a workaholic, overachieving, slightly crazed New Scotland Yard inspector who still occasionally had thoughts to call her own. Now they all revolved around that damned Holmes and his schemes and his deductions and those dark blue eyes staring out of that entirely overhandsome face.... The computer voice softly announced that this was Baker Street, and she belatedly woke up and pushed herself out of the car and onto the platform before the automatic doors had time to shut her in and whisk her off to the next station. She much preferred her cruiser. It kept her mind on...kept her professional. Besides, it was more fun. But she supposed it would be too noticeable for whatever Holmes had in mind. Going undercover, maybe? She unlocked the door of 221 and walked up the seventeen steps to 221B with unusual restraint, but Holmes opened the door to her before she could reach for the knob. He'd either heard her or had been watching out the windows, so he really was eager to get moving with whatever he had in mind. "Ah, finally," he said, and took in her clothes. "Quite suitable." "So what's all the mystery?" Lestrade asked. "In a minute...now, Tennyson, you were saying?" he added over his shoulder. Tennyson could have had a voice synth like anyone else's, one which spoke ordinary English and sounded exactly like a human voice. She'd never figured out exactly what the hell system his synth did use, but sometimes she could almost understand him. Not tonight. "So you can still penetrate the County of Sussex's security? And make a specific record only appear when requested in a specific coded way." She could understand that amused affirmative. "Excellent," said Holmes, and clapped his hands together with satisfaction. "Then you shall accompany us, and create the record when I tell you." "Tell him what?" she questioned. Holmes didn't reply. "'Ey! What about us, Mr. 'Olmes?" Deidre and Wiggins were standing around demolishing the last of a plate of fresh-baked biscuits. She could smell them, as well as something else sweet, and her tummy rumbled. "What do we do?" Holmes looked speculative. "I suppose you would do for witnesses. You're both of age for these purposes, and it's less likely that Moriarty would aim at you...yes, I suppose you should go as well." "Witnesses!" Lestrade's mind churned out scenarios, each worse than the last. "What are you planning, Holmes?" she demanded. "You still haven't said what's going on, Mr. Holmes," Wiggins pointed out. "Indeed," Watson agreed, emerging from the kitchen in bare metal, his robotic equivalent of shirtsleeves. "You've been most mysterious." "Well, I could hardly inform you before the Inspector arrived," Holmes returned patiently. "First I need to obtain her consent, after all." "My consent for what?" Lestrade put her hands on her hips. "Computer records? Witnesses? White civilian formalwear for me and you're wearing...." She boggled. "Where did you find a top hat?" "A theatrical costuming shop." His eyes twinkled. "Has none of you deduced it? Perhaps this will help." He uncovered a box on the table. A wreath of flowers lay inside. "Does that help?" He obviously expected some reaction. Lestrade shrugged. "Nope." Holmes frowned and looked around. "Watson?" "Analysis indicates orange blossoms, but how does that help?" Holmes sighed. "Well, I suppose I shall just have to get to it. Come, Lestrade. I'd rather have no audience for this." Lestrade pretended shock. "It must be a felony at least!" Holmes' eyes got that amused look. "It does involve a certain restriction of freedom...." He led her into the kitchen and closed the door behind them, but she could still hear the Irregulars out in the sitting room. She started to speak, but Holmes shushed her to silence. With those long ears of his, he loved to eavesdrop. "There they go, flirting again," said Deidre. Lestrade felt the blood rise to her cheeks. Holmes' face remained impassive. "The Inspector and Mr. Holmes? You're spacehappy," Wiggins said scornfully. "They don't do anything but argue." "That's a sign of passion," Dierdre declared. "You see it all the time on the netsoaps. Like when Storm Azul and Genji Nyota...." Tennyson interrupted with a burst of tones. "See! See! I told you!" "No way," Wiggins said numbly. "It is a reasonable hypothesis," Watson agreed. "And Tennyson, before you attempt electronic surveillance on the kitchen, be aware that this flat is fully provided with state-of-the-art jamming equipment. Deidre, go any closer to the door with that water glass and I will ruin your coiffure." "Not my hair!" "Then leave them alone." Watson turned on the console, which was almost on the other side of the rooms, and turned the volume up loud. Lestrade turned to Holmes. "All right, so I'm the last to know again. Spill it, Holmes." "Tennyson's deductive skills are coming along nicely," he said smugly. "Although I suspect he was considerably assisted by the nature of the records in question." "That's not the answer, Holmes." His long face sobered. "You are the only one who knows the answer," he said. With his usual grace, he knelt down before her, and he hesitated slightly as he spoke. "My dear Le-- Beth, will you do me the honor of giving me your hand?" She stared blankly at the appendage in question. "What for?" "I knew I should have used the other speech," he muttered to himself. "Your hand in marriage," he clarified in a louder voice. "I asked Watson. There's nothing in Yard regulations against it, as long as we comply with the guidelines and refrain from...harassment," he added quickly, looking down and conspicuously leaving out the adjective. "But I suspect it would be best if Moriarty remained unaware that we had...joined our families. He has entirely too much interest in you, and has already shown too much disregard of your status with the police for my comfort." Lestrade tried to swallow and found her mouth dry as a bone. Talking to Holmes from up here was going to give her a crick in the neck, so she stepped back and knelt down too. "What are you up to? You don't have some weird plan to try to protect me, or leave me your money tax-free or something, do you?" He looked away, his jaw setting. "I am quite aware that I cannot protect you," he said, his voice tight. "That was why I followed your wishes the other night when Moriarty took you hostage." "All right, all right," she soothed. "And that was great. You took me seriously and didn't treat me like a civilian." "Ah, but afterward I had no right to...." Unexpectedly, Holmes' ears turned red. Lestrade took it in with fascination. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?" Part of her was screaming with happiness, while part of her just wanted to scream. "Are you sure?" "Beth," Holmes said, his eyes meeting hers slowly, "if young Deidre is aware of the state of things between us, I could hardly remain oblivious -- any more than you did," he added. "I will spare you the list of occasions upon which we behaved anomalously, as I am certain you know it nearly as well as I." "I thought so," she said slowly, "but it didn't seem professional to bring it up. Especially when you were so new to our world. I didn't want to take advantage." She put out her hand and tentatively traced his jawline. "I could have been imagining things. Sherlock," she added. It seemed as strange as hearing him call her Beth. He captured her hand in one of his own and fervently pressed it against his cheek, as if testing its reality. "Your observations were entirely accurate. As were mine, I trust." Except for the number of bristles, his cheek had the texture of a teenager's. She mentally noted that he'd probably skipped pimples too, and wondered if that one book'd been right about genetic engineering and time travel. He leaned into the heel of her hand, and she felt the pulse in his neck beating as wildly as her own. They knelt there on the kitchen tile, surrounded by cabinets, and she said yes and leaned forward and kissed him. She didn't know what the hell she thought she was doing. Cultural differences were bad enough and time differences had to be a marriage killer. But her gut told her it was going to be all right and that was good enough for her. "That was different," he said quietly after they'd pulled apart and were unnecessarily helping each other up. "From?" "Kissing on stage, or as part of a cover," he said absently, looking into her eyes as if they were some precious clue. "Putting some feeling behind it seems to improve the sensation markedly." "I should hope so!" she said, and kissed him again just because she could. "So what's the hurry? Why get married tonight, and what's all the rigmarole about the records?" "As for the latter, Moriarty is considerably distracted at present, the church is available, and with luck the marriage can remain private until such time as we choose to make its existence known. As for the former...." He kissed her with considerable passion, but she noticed dimly that his hands trembled with something that was not. "Scared of losing me?" she inquired gently. "There must be a reason that I'm alive," he tried to joke, "and I've already caught Moriarty once. But I almost forgot." He removed a box from a pocket and opened it. An emerald ring glittered greenly. "It was a gift from a certain gracious lady, as you know. Considering the lecture she once gave me on my duty to marry, I'm certain she'd be pleased to see it on your hand." "Yeah, but would she really approve of me?" "She had certain theories about the identity of the Ripper and rather definite opinions about everything...." She snorted. "We'd better go rescue Deidre from all the suspense." She turned for the door, then stopped in her tracks and turned back. "Hey, just for the record...I love you." He endorsed her sentiment and kissed her again, and this time she almost decided to leave Deidre in suspense. But there'd be plenty of time for that. So out they went. Deidre had changed. Her new outfit was cut in a formal style Lestrade wouldn't have minded wearing herself, if it hadn't been quite so violent a yellow. "Took you long enough," said Deidre. "I made it home and back before you two even got ready. You know," she added, "-normal- people do some of that kissing stuff -before- they propose." Holmes looked at Tennyson suspiciously. Tennyson looked innocent. But then, he always looked innocent, which he found highly useful. First thing we do tonight, Lestrade decided, is sweep for bugs. More data, that boy doesn't need.... Speaking of data, she'd have to remember to ask Watson to file a vacation request for her. Zed, Grayson was gonna chew her a new one when she came back from -this- vacation. Not that she cared, you know. She was just thinking. ------------------------------------------------------------------ Author's Note: During Victorian times, orange blossoms were synonymous with weddings. Orange blossoms and weddings: http://www.victoriana.com/bridal/powell/blossoms.htm Here's a Victorian wedding manual for middle-class brides: http://www.lahacal.org/wed.html Here's an article about orange blossoms: http://www.gardenguides.com/articles/orangeblossoms.htm ------------------------------------------------------------------ http://www.dnaco.net/~mobrien/holmes/