The tunnels beneath London smelled remarkably dreadful, a thick, cloying air that seemed to stick in one’s lungs. This was not a great surprise, John Watson reflected, but that did not make it any more pleasant. He splashed through the shallows, resolutely not thinking about the constitution of the liquid lapping at his shoes, and when he stopped to listen, he heard nothing. No answering splashes, no breathing, no shouts; only the quiet running of something that wasn’t quite water. There was no sign of his quarry, and certainly no sign of Holmes.
“Holmes,” he hissed quietly, and as if someone or something had been waiting for a sound, splashes echoed off the tunnel walls from around the corner just ahead. Watson glanced down at his service revolver, held steadily in his hand and pointed at the wet ground, and he began to make his way forward as quietly as possible. He did not dare call out again; he simply had to trust that if the rapidly approaching footsteps belonged to Holmes (and from the loud approach in the vast amounts of liquid being kicked up, he strongly suspected that they did not), his companion would not shoot him between the eyes in error.
The figure that came around the corner was certainly not Holmes. Watson found himself holding his service revolver on a bright red neck, and when he automatically adjusted to bring the barrel up to head level –
Watson’s eyes grew enormous.
“Damn!” said the red horned creature, which was pointing a pistol of tremendous proportions at Watson’s knees. It – he, from the deep American voice, the build, and the hair on his face – holstered its weapon. “You’re not a man-eating alligator.” He sounded, of all things, disappointed.
Watson opened his mouth; closed it. Then he tried once again. “Holmes,” he called, not daring to glance away.
“You can put the gun away, pal,” said the creature, which Watson answered by slowly backing away, his arm still raised.
“Holmes!” he barked over his shoulder as loudly as he dared.
“Terrible stealth, man; simply bottom rate,” echoed Holmes’s irritated voice. The fact that he had responded at all – and was coming closer – spoke to just how much of a desperate edge had been in Watson’s shout. “Moretti is just going to casually saunter out of the tunnels at this—” Sherlock Holmes turned the corner, and stopped in his tracks. He blinked. “Good God.”
“Oh,” said the creature, looking from one man to the other. “Crap.” A moment passed. “Hey babe?” he called over his shoulder.
“What?” shouted a quite annoyed, quite American, quite female voice. Watson and Holmes exchanged a swift glance. Watson slowly began to lower his weapon.
“I think we took a wrong turn somewhere.”
“How wrong?” she asked, louder, accompanied by the sound of quiet splashes.
The creature took another look at the two of them. “Realllly wrong.”
A slight woman in an entirely-black, form fitting costume ducked out of a side tunnel, a very strange gun held casually at her side – and she stopped in her tracks when her eyes fell upon Watson and Holmes. “Shit,” she said. “Did we time travel?” She said it as though the phenomenon were an everyday irritation.
“They are searching out a man-eating alligator,” Watson told Holmes, his tone more than suggesting his startled disbelief.
“Fascinating,” said Holmes, without skipping a beat. “We will be sure to scream if we spot it. Tell me, have you seen a man running through these tunnels?” This last statement and then question, he turned on the woman and the creature.
The woman pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. “He went that-a-way,” she said sardonically.
“Capital! Come, Watson,” said Holmes, charging in the demonstrated direction, and Watson was left to protest, “Holmes!” while he was dragged along by his scarf.
“Watson,” said the creature thoughtfully, and then Watson could hear him brighten without even having to turn around to see it. “Hey! I think that was Sherlock Holmes.”
“We’re in Victorian England?” the woman demanded. “Red!” and then their voices were gone in the darkness behind them.
no subject
“Holmes,” he hissed quietly, and as if someone or something had been waiting for a sound, splashes echoed off the tunnel walls from around the corner just ahead. Watson glanced down at his service revolver, held steadily in his hand and pointed at the wet ground, and he began to make his way forward as quietly as possible. He did not dare call out again; he simply had to trust that if the rapidly approaching footsteps belonged to Holmes (and from the loud approach in the vast amounts of liquid being kicked up, he strongly suspected that they did not), his companion would not shoot him between the eyes in error.
The figure that came around the corner was certainly not Holmes. Watson found himself holding his service revolver on a bright red neck, and when he automatically adjusted to bring the barrel up to head level –
Watson’s eyes grew enormous.
“Damn!” said the red horned creature, which was pointing a pistol of tremendous proportions at Watson’s knees. It – he, from the deep American voice, the build, and the hair on his face – holstered its weapon. “You’re not a man-eating alligator.” He sounded, of all things, disappointed.
Watson opened his mouth; closed it. Then he tried once again. “Holmes,” he called, not daring to glance away.
“You can put the gun away, pal,” said the creature, which Watson answered by slowly backing away, his arm still raised.
“Holmes!” he barked over his shoulder as loudly as he dared.
“Terrible stealth, man; simply bottom rate,” echoed Holmes’s irritated voice. The fact that he had responded at all – and was coming closer – spoke to just how much of a desperate edge had been in Watson’s shout. “Moretti is just going to casually saunter out of the tunnels at this—” Sherlock Holmes turned the corner, and stopped in his tracks. He blinked. “Good God.”
“Oh,” said the creature, looking from one man to the other. “Crap.” A moment passed. “Hey babe?” he called over his shoulder.
“What?” shouted a quite annoyed, quite American, quite female voice. Watson and Holmes exchanged a swift glance. Watson slowly began to lower his weapon.
“I think we took a wrong turn somewhere.”
“How wrong?” she asked, louder, accompanied by the sound of quiet splashes.
The creature took another look at the two of them. “Realllly wrong.”
A slight woman in an entirely-black, form fitting costume ducked out of a side tunnel, a very strange gun held casually at her side – and she stopped in her tracks when her eyes fell upon Watson and Holmes. “Shit,” she said. “Did we time travel?” She said it as though the phenomenon were an everyday irritation.
“They are searching out a man-eating alligator,” Watson told Holmes, his tone more than suggesting his startled disbelief.
“Fascinating,” said Holmes, without skipping a beat. “We will be sure to scream if we spot it. Tell me, have you seen a man running through these tunnels?” This last statement and then question, he turned on the woman and the creature.
The woman pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. “He went that-a-way,” she said sardonically.
“Capital! Come, Watson,” said Holmes, charging in the demonstrated direction, and Watson was left to protest, “Holmes!” while he was dragged along by his scarf.
“Watson,” said the creature thoughtfully, and then Watson could hear him brighten without even having to turn around to see it. “Hey! I think that was Sherlock Holmes.”
“We’re in Victorian England?” the woman demanded. “Red!” and then their voices were gone in the darkness behind them.
The game was afoot.