Elementary, my dear Obi-Wan-- a SW/Sherlockian London crossover

Maybe Moriarty is really a Dark Jedi in disguise, using his own twisted version of the Force to keep Sherlock Holmes from finding him, and Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan have been sent to hunt him down and eliminate him before he kills Holmes and changes the course of history. (Or maybe I've just watched too much Star Trek in my life.)

I second the guess about Obi-Wan levitating, though why he should be doing it, I can't imagine. Or maybe he's glowing blue while he meditates.

 

ROFL!!! Oh, you guys, you have no idea how much this brightens my day! Thank you! Never fear, with some luck and help from the Force, there will be another post today!

 

Allrighty.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was one of the few times in my life I had ever seen Sherlock Holmes startled enough to make an unguarded comment. It had teken me a long night of observation to notice the change in our guest, but Holmes, with his near-inhuman skills of observation, had noticed almost instantly.

When we had brough the young man in hours earlier, I had judged from the relative seriousness of his injuries that he would be days, if not weeks, in recovering. Yet in the short space from the time we brought him in and now, the gash on his forehead had healed to a white scar that would vanish in time, and the bruising on his face had faded almost to nothing.

Glancing at me for permission, Holmes crossed to the bed and carefully lifted the gauze pad I had placed on my patient's shoulder. His breath hissed sharply through his teeth as he saw what had most disturbed me. The wound, though not so well healed as the other injuries, was nonetheless in far better condition. It now looked weeks, not hours, old.

Replacing the gauze, Holmes lifted his gaze to mine. "Well, Watson," he said with a trace of black humour, "You are either a miracle worker who has been keeping secrets from me, or this young man is an unusally fast healer."

"Not 'unusually', Holmes. Unnaturally."

He raised an eyebrow. "Superstitions, Watson? Come, now. Surely there is another explanation."

Nettled by his mockery, I folded my arms stubbornly. "Very well then. You explain it, Holmes."

The corner of his mouth quirked, the only apology I would get for his catty remark. "I don't think I can, Watson," he admitted, sinking into the chair I'd placed next to the bed. He looked suddenly weary, his grey eyes troubled. The soot and street-grime brought the spare lines of his face into sharp, unkind relief. Black hair, usually neatly slicked back, fell over his forehead. He looked as though he had just spent the past several hours dragging himself face down on London streets. Suddenly remembering where he had gone, that was a likely possibility.

"Your meeting didn't go well," I hazarded.

He smiled thinly, humourlessly. "You might say that. In fact, that would be stating it mildly."

"The contact wouldn't give you the information?"

"He...died." It was said in such a matter-of-fact tone that it took me a moment to comprehend his meaning.

"What--dead? How?"

Briefly, Holmes outlined the events of his evening. Though his voice was level, even cool, the look in his eyes told me he was deeply worried by the strange events. When he finished, I sat silent for a long moment, contemplating what he had told me. My gaze wandred to the man on the bed. I had to agree with Holmes; a link between Moriarty and our young guest seemed awfully coincidental.

As if on cue, the young man stirred for the first time all night. Holmes came alert like a hound on point, all weariness and concern forgotten. I straightened from my position against the doorframe, and moved closer to the bedside.

Blue-green eyes opened in the pale face, staring unfocused at the bed's canopy for a long moment. Then he blinked once, twice, and turned his head to look me directly in the face. Though still cloudy from his long unconsciousness, I found his direct, penetrating glance a little unsettling. It was a great deal like Holmes's, when he was measuring someone to analyze, and yet there was a subtle difference to it that I could not put my finger on. Somehow, that indefinable quality made it even more unnerving than Holmes's.

"Where am I?" he asked softly. His voice was a light baritone, husky still from sleep, and laced with an accent that seemed at once an odd mix of British and Scottish and something else entirely.

"Baker Street," Holmes supplied, "in London."

There was no flicker of recognition in his eyes as he turned to look at my friend. "Do you remember your name?" I inquired gently.

He looked back to me. "Yes."

I saw Holmes's mouth twitch as he supress

 

Yep. Healing the wounds quickly makes a lot more sense. Keep it up! This is my favorite fic on the boards at the moment (I'm a sucker for Holmes).

 

The last sentence of the sixth paragraph from the end, I couldn't understand it. You might be missing something in there somewhere.

Next: I was laughing so hard when I read the name of that bar!!!! ((Inside joke folks)) Krelo will be be tickled pink when she reads this.

I also love the way Obi-wan and Holmes sparred verbally with each other. I can't wait until we see Mrs. Hudson interact with Obi-wan. ::snicker, snicker:: ((Don'tcha just love inside information?))

 

Holmes vs the Dark Side! Force user or not, I feel sorry for those poor little sithlings already!

 

I like the way that Holmes came alert like a hound on point. Excellent imagery! And the way it pains him to admit that he cannot determine anything about the young man. But what tickled my fancy the most is the last sentence, the way he knows that, no matter what she thinks, Mrs. Hudson will feed their young guest. Lilith, you've whetted my appetite for the interaction between Obi-Wan and Mrs. Hudson. When's it coming?

So Qui-Gon is still out there, tracking down the plans for the ship/weapon, and the man who stole them. Why does the phrase "The Death Star plans are not in the main computer" spring to mind?

 

somehow I figured that Obi was healed (or mostly) already.

I liked how the worried tone carried across in the one sentence "We got seperated."
and the way that Holmes can't pin down where Obi is from based on his appearance.

So where is Qui and how do they fit into all of this!??!

More Please!!!!

 

Well, everyone's already said what I was going to say, so I'll just add that I can't wait for the next post!

This is such a good thread!

 

Lil-- While I was trying to think of a good name for a seedy bar, that was the first one that sprang to mind. I'm glad you liked it. Of course, I had to change half-ton Hilde's appearance, as a ten-foot Clydsedale centaur-woman would be even more conspicuous in London than two Jedi. <grins> If any of y'all want to know what I'm talking about, go to www.angelfire.com/wy/caldera and see! It's located in the People section under Places of Interest. (I'm sorry. That was a shameless plug, but I couldn't help it.)
Er...could you let me know what sentence that was? I'm rotten at counting sentences; I always lose my place.

Hopefully I will have the next scene by tomorrow. Thanks so much for the support!

 

Once we were in his study, he shut the door, dimmed the lamp, and threw himself into the basket chair, eyes closed. I remained by the door. "What was that all about, Holmes? I've never avoid asking questions so determinedly in all my life!"


That last sentence doesn't quite jive. I'm sure there's a pronoun missing in there, but I haven't a clue which or where. In fact, I think there's a verb missing too, but I'm not sure.

 

Perhaps "I've never avoided..." instead of "I've never avoid..."

 

Oops. I meant to say: "I've never seen you avoid asking questions so determinedly in all my life!" I was tired when I wrote that. Can you tell?

 

See? A verb and a pronoun! I was right! Okay, I'll stop gloating now. Go write some more, Frosty. Goodness knows I am.

Oh, and since you have so much time to be posting here multiple times without a story bit, you can at least answer your email.

 

Post more please.

 

I'm sorry, Lil. The computers here at school really hate hotmail. Every time I try to do *anything*, even just open up a message to read the dumb computer kicks me off the 'net, and I have to reboot to get a connection again. I'll try to respond tonight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Morning found me but little refreshed, and wishing I had not drunk that extra brandy-and-splash the night before. I lay in my bed for a moment, thinking about nothing in particular, when the events of the previous day came back in a rush. I dressed hastily and hurried downstairs to see if our guest was up and about.

I found Obi-Wan Kenobi in the dining room, dressed in his own clothing, which I assumed had been rescued from my associate's clutches. Holmes's assessment of Mrs. Hudson's reaction was proving correct. She was busily plying him with enormous amounts of food, and although he was eyeing the kippers with deep suspicion, he was doing admirable justice to the rest of it. "Good morning, Doctor," he greeted me politely. He still held himself a little stiffly, and I judged that, despite his unusual recovery, his shoulder still pained him.

"Good morning, Mr. Kenobi," I replied.

He pushed the salver of kippers towards me with the air of someone offering an uncertain gift. "Please, Doctor, call me Obi-Wan. Or," he corrected, "you could follow Mrs. Hudson's example and call me Ben."

I glanced sharply at the housekeeper. She was usually the very soul of propriety, and despite keeping house for Holmes and I for several years, still referred to us as 'Mr. Holmes' and 'Doctor', respectively. This was somewhat out of character for her.

Holmes breezed into the room then, looking disgustingly well rested. He could function better on four hours of sleep than most men could on ten. "Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," he said airily. "Breakfast looks especially delectable this morning."

She raised an eyebrow at this. Holmes almost never bothered to notice what was put in front of him, if it was edible, and I half-suspected he wouldn't notice if it weren't.

Ignoring her patent disbelief, he continued. "I trust you are feeling better this morning, Obi-Wan?"

"Call me Ben, Mr. Holmes. And thank you, I am."

My friend stabbed a forkful of eggs, his face studiously innocent. "Doctor Watson was certain you would be weeks in recovery."

I concealed my start of surprise in a gulp of tea. I hadn't said anything concerning that to Holmes. How had he-? But no, I could guess. Holmes could read thoughts simply from an expression or gesture, and he knew me better than most.

"I've always been a fast healer," Ben replied laconically.

"Really."

It was impossible to read the young man's reaction to that loaded response. Like Holmes, he let few unwanted emotions show on his features. "Perhaps you should tell me more about your work, Mr. Holmes," he said. "For instance, who is this man you are hunting?"

*Touché*, I thought approvingly as I caught the brief flicker of surprise cross Holmes's face. I did wonder how Ben had known, though. Had Mrs. Hudson told him? That was unlike her, if it was true. She never discussed her employer's business with strangers, and as likable as this young man seemed, he was still a stranger.

Holmes recovered quickly, leaning back in his chair and tapping a pattern on the table surface with long fingers. "You are well informed suddenly."

"I have my sources," Ben replied with a small smile.

My friend shot a faintly accusing glance at Mrs. Hudson. "Then you are a far more persuasive man than most."

Mrs. Hudson looked offended. "'Ere, now, Mister Holmes!"

"Never mind. As to your question, ah, Ben, I am willing to answer it. But," he raised a finger, "only if you answer one of mine."

"That, Mr. Holmes, will depend on the question."

Holmes snorted softly. "Very well. His name is James Moriarty. Outwardly, he is a professor of mathematics at Oxford, but I know him to be something far more sinister. He is a criminal mastermind.

 

::happy claps:: Another post!! Okay, you can tell I am easily entertained, but that's not necessarily a bad thing.

Now, I must say: More!

 

Keep it coming!



And thanks to Red Dwarf, I know what a Kipper is! Yay! That show really is edumacational!

"Smoke me a kipper, I'll be back in time for breakfast"
-Ace Rimmer

 

I can't help wondering why Mrs. Hudson calls him Ben, or rather, which of them suggested it to the other. But no matter. Ben is a man after my own heart. I hate fish in all its forms, and kippers sound especially odious at the breakfast table. But the question is, is Ben just drawing inferences and predicting Holmes' death in an offhand way, or is there a real warning in those words?

 

yay a post! the idea of fish anytime isn't appealing, and the thought of them for breakfast makes me want to hurl. eww.

great post, I love how Obi is keeping Holmes on his toes!

looking foward to more as always...

 

Another well written post! Yes, kippers were extremely popular at breakfast and are still on breakfast menus all over England today. (Not that I'd touch them.)

I love how Obi's on an equal footing with the intellectual sparring! More soon, I hope!

 

I've never had kippers, nor do I intend to. I like fish, but not for breakfast.

Also, just a little something I wanted to make clear: When I say 'gentleman's clubs' I am *not* referring to what passes for such in this day in age (ie-topless bars or something). In the Victorian period (and the Regency, for that matter) it was where gentlemen went to drink, play cards, billiards, etc. Okay, yes, there *were* some like the ones I referred to earlier, but the Diogenes isn't one of them. It's for gentlemen intellectuals or, in Mycroft's case, spies.

Also, I don't have the faintest clue as to what London's population was in the late 1800s. If anybody knows, tell me, if you would. <grins>

One more thing. Lil? What's the name of Kre'isa's master? You know, the Wookiee?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Diogenes Club, where Holmes's older brother spent his days, was located not too far from Pall Mall, on a street comprised mainly of gentleman's clubs. It was closing on noon when Holmes, Ben Kenobi, and myself stepped down from our hired carriage outside the Diogenes, and most of the crowd around us was comprised of gentlemen on their way to business or entertainment, with here and there small eddies of color that were women on their way to pay calls.

Before we had left Baker Street, it had been determined that Ben would require less-conspicious clothing. That had proved something of a problem, as Holmes was taller and leaner and I was shorter and heavier. A thorough search of both my wardrobe and that of Holmes had resulted in a reasonably presentable outfit for the young man, so long as no one looked closely enough to see the less-than perfect fit. A workman's cap, unearthed from Holmes's disguise closet, looked at odds with the rest of Ben's attire, but served to cover his strange hairstyle. The braid, refusing to remain tucked under the hat, was stuffed down the back of his shirtcollar.

The heavy fog of the previous night had burned off, and the sun shone in kind autumn warmth over the city. Ben--I found it easier to think of him as Ben, though I had not yet learned just how Mrs. Hudson came about calling him that--Ben looked about him with open interest. "How many people live in this city?" I heard him ask Holmes.

"A little over a million," Holmes replied.

"So few?"

I turned to stare at the young man incredulously. "What do you mean?"

Holmes, too, was watching him closely. Perhaps sensing he had let more slip than he'd intended, Ben changed the subject. "This man we're going to see--you said he was your brother, Mr. Holmes?"

For a moment, I didn't think Holmes would let him get away without an explanation. His grey eyes were keen on the younger man's face. Then, he seemed to relax. "Yes. My older brother, and my superior in intellect and observation skills."

"Is he? And is he also a consulting detective?"

Holmes laughed at that. "Heaven help us if he were! No, he is an accountant."

Now Ben's eyes were a sharp as Holmes's had been moments earlier. "But he is more than that."

"I will let you form your own conclusions about Mycroft Holmes," my friend replied. His voice was suddenly cool, giving nothing away.

The interior of the Diogenes Club was dim and plushly furnished. The porter, recognizing Holmes and I immediately, ushered our small group into the room where Mycroft spent most of his time. It was empty, but the man informed us that Mr. Holmes's brother would be along shortly.

I seated myself on the sofa, pausing to pour myself a snifter of brandy. Holmes accepted one as well, though Ben, taking a sturdy chair next to the window, declined. Holmes took up a position by the fireplace, resting one long arm on the mantelpiece. The room was silent, save for the soft ticking of the clock above the mantel. I sipped my brandy, allowing my gaze to wander about the comfortable, ornate room. As I did, it struck me again how very different these two brothers were. Where Holmes had little use for personal possessions--the clutter dominating

 

ROFLOL!!!!!


I love it!

Mycroft knows exactly who he is and probably has Qui-gon stashed in some back room somewhere!!

 

What does he mean another one?
Is it Qui-Gon?
Oh write more soon!