Before - Legends Elementary, My Dear Obi-Wan (April 2006 Story of the Month!!!)

Wow. I'm so thrilled, I felt inspired to start reposting this elephant somewhere *other* than the Classic Boards. So here's to my fans old, new, and (I hope) soon-to-be!

Now on to the important bits.

Disclaimer: I own neither Star Wars nor Sherlock Holmes. Whatever my current beef with Mr. Lucas is, I am nevertheless grateful he created such a nifty sandbox for us all to play in. I have no beef with Mr. Conan-Doyle, aside from the rude comments he made about Mormons in A Study in Scarlet. Since he's dead, however, I can't write him a letter about it.


Now for the REALLY important bits, ie- the story.

***

The sound of a door slamming and feet pounding up the stairway alerted me that my friend and erstwhile housemate, Sherlock Holmes, was returning home after a night of doing who knows what on the foggy streets of London. I had returned to our rooms at 221B Baker street from paying a call to my fiancée, Mary, the night before, to discover no sign whatsoever of Holmes. Though I am by no means the genius at deduction that he is, I came to the conclusion that he had found something entertaining to pursue, and promptly went to bed. I had long ago learned that sitting up and worrying would only cost me sleep and irritate Holmes. He hated sentiment, even of the brotherly sort.


Now it was well after nine in the morning, and I was in Holmes?s cluttered study, enjoying an after-breakfast cup of tea Mrs. Hudson, our landlady and housekeeper, had brought up to me, and perusing the morning news. Having been alerted by the commotion on the stairs that Holmes had returned, I did not bother looking up from the paper as the door burst open.


?He?s back, Watson!? my friend said enthusiastically. He was slightly winded, and as I looked up from my reading, I could see that he had forgotten his hat. His black hair was sticking up in spots, and this, combined with his sharp, prominent features and mostly black clothing, made him rather resemble a crow that had gotten caught on the wrong end of a windstorm.


?Who is?? I asked, though I could only think of two ?he?s? off the top of my head that could get Holmes so worked up. One was his archenemy, Professor James Moriarty, and the other was Moriarty?s henchman, former spy Colonel Sebastian Moran. And though Moran was, in his own way, nearly as dangerous as Moriarty, Holmes?s obvious state of agitation made me place my money on Moriarty. He?d defeated Moran once, but only managed to foil Moriarty?s schemes thus far, and Holmes didn?t get this excited over someone he?d already beaten.


Holmes flung his long frame into the wicker chair he favored and lounged as only Holmes can. He ceased resembling a wind-tossed crow and became a rumpled cat instead, grey eyes narrowed on some ineffable secret. ?Oh, come now, Watson. Surely you can guess.?


I sighed. There were days when it seemed to me that my whole purpose in Holmes?s life was as a whetstone on which to sharpen his wits. But at least this time I could be reasonably sure that my guess would be the correct one. ?Moriarty??


?He has been spotted in Woking!? Holmes leaned over the side of his chair, rummaging through the accumulated clutter. After a moment, he emerged triumphantly with his pipe. Stuffing it with the vile shag he favored, he continued. ?He?s keeping a very low profile. No doubt he has some new, nefarious scheme to hatch!? He sounded disgustingly excited about it. This, from a man who scoffs at the Whitechapel murders as ?unimaginative? and ?boring?. It is little wonder that Scotland Yard is none too fond of him.


?And you, of course, are going to foil it.? I shook out my paper, trying to look disinterested. As fascinating as Holmes?s adventures can be, and as much as I usually enjoyed them, I?d no desire to tangle with Professor Moriarty again. He was probably the one man on the planet I would cheerfully tie to a rock and toss into the Thames, and not feel a single twinge of remorse.


?Of course,? Holmes replied, with that maddening arrogance of his. He lit his pip

 

Eeeee! *happy claps* I really love this story. It's just so much fun.

 

*Kitara does happy dance*


It's alive it's alive!

 

Can't wait to read this one again. I'd also like to request PM updates if you're doing them.

 

Hmmmm...it's been a good long while since I did any hanging out at the boards...how do I do PM updates?

 

Y'know, I love Mozilla Firefox, but it has the strangest habit of destroying 80 percent of my bookmarks at random and without warning.

*sigh* Now I gotta go find all my favorite fanfics again...grr. Thank goodness for search engines.

And now, Chapter 2. It's a lot easier since I divided everything up when I posted it over at fanficion.net.

_______________________________________________________________________________

Woking, compared to, say, Whitechapel, isn't all that bad. Lower middle class, as it were. It could be dangerous at night, though, and I kept my hand in my coat pocket as Holmes and I walked down the street. My old Army revolver was a comforting weight.


It was not yet full dark, and there were still a number of people out and about in the chill autumn twilight. Hansom cabs and carriages clattered over the damp cobblestones as people returned home from work or those with more money passed through on their way to parties and other entertainments. As an open carriage full of brightly dressed young women and their escorts passed I found my thoughts wandering toward my upcoming nuptials. Mary still wanted my opinion on linens for the wedding breakfast. I'd initially told her that it didn't really matter to me one way or another what the linens looked like, but she'd become so put out with me for some reason that I had agreed to help. I wondered if I could use Holmes and Moriarty as an excuse for getting out of it, then dismissed it hastily. I would have to have a death wish if I were stupid enough to put that to my fiancée.


A small noise from Holmes drew me from my thoughts. The street was nearly empty now. He'd slowed his pace, and caught my sleeve as I drew ahead of him. "Over there, in that doorway." A small jerk of his head indicated which doorway. Trying not to appear too obvious, I looked.


At first all I could make out was a vague person-shape in the deepening shadows. Initially, I thought it was a woman, for the figure was heavily draped in something flowing. Then it moved, and I realized that it was far too tall and broad-shouldered to be any such thing. A man, then, but very strangely dressed. The flowing drapery appeared to be some sort of robe, dark and unidentifiable in the poor light. I caught a glimmer of pale fabric underneath as he moved. "What is it?" I asked Holmes softly.


He shook his head. "I'm not certain. But he's being stalked." A flick of his eyes, and I noticed another shape, standing very still in the heavily shaded mouth of a nearby alley. As far as I could tell, this one was more conventionally dressed.


"What are we going to do?" I hissed.


"Nothing, for the moment." He drew me to the side, into the shadows of another doorway. "Just watch. I want to see this play out."


"But Holmes, if that man doesn't know he's being?being stalked, as you put it, shouldn't we?"

"He knows he's being watched," my friend said softly. For once, I forbore asking him how he knew that and turned my attention to the robed man. After a moment, I thought I understood. There was a furtive tension in his movements that suggested all was not well.


It was like watching a drama, so captivating was the tableau, but it was not a comfortable one. The knowledge that it was real, and not knowing what was going to happen was maddening. After a long moment, the robed man moved at a half-run towards the other side of the street, his hand darting beneath his robe.


Another movement caught my eye. The second man had withdrawn a strange object that looked vaguely like a pistol, though it was unlike any gun I'd ever seen. He raised his arm, and I felt Holmes stiffen beside me. I, too, tensed, ready to distract the armed stranger.


The other man seemed to sense the threat; he turned as he neared the street corner, and started to draw his hand out of his robe. Without warning, a carriage rounded the corner. I could hear the driver's curses clearly as he hauled back on the reins, trying to avoid running down the man standing in the street. The horse reared

 

Lol, I was so inspired by the revival that I stayed up later than I should have last night to read the whole thing over in the Classic Boards. The attention detail and word choice are just wonderful.

 

Woo hoo! An update!

I read parts of this story when it was nominated for SOM, and now I'm getting to read the whole thing. This is great, and a real treat!

 

I'm hooked! Holmes, Watson and Obi-Wan!

Brilliant.

Please add me to the PM list.

 

Apologies for the delay. I've been head-down in end-of-the-semester projects and have only just emerged for air. Fortunately, all that's left is the studying for the tests bit. Hah.

***


No doubt Watson will be put out with me for usurping what he sees as his sole domain as the chronicler of my 'adventures', as he so inaccurately calls them. I feel, however, that some facts require a first hand accounting. This will also prevent my associate from embellishing the situation, as he is so wont to do, particularly when taking it from a second hand account. The whole incident was bizarre enough without Watson getting his hands on it.


After leaving Baker Street, I walked a few blocks south before hailing a hansom to take me to the riverdocks. The driver gave my rough clothing an alarmed look, and insisted I pay him in advance. Falling into character, I swore affably at him, ignoring the sneer that had taken up residence on his face, and counted out the coins.


The night had grown chill, and the insidious fog had crept up from the Thames to blanket the city, mingling with the soot from factories and homes. I had the cab driver stop well before we reached the docks. A character of my class would hardly be wasting money on a hansom, and to be seen arriving in one on the docks would not only weaken my cover, but also mark me as a target for robbery. Despite Watson's opinion, I do not go out of my way to seek trouble.


Pulling the battered oilskin coat closer about me, I stood on the street corner until the hansom was out of sight. Moriarty had a reach longer than mine, and I would not put it past him to find the one driver in all of London who had seen my destination. Once I was certain he would not see me make for the river, I tugged my cap lower over my eyes and shuffled off to my destination, a seedy swill-bucket of a pub with the colorful name The Roll in the Hay.


The Roll was famous for its brawls, which the local constabulary could do nothing about, (and usually wouldn't take money to try) and its singularly disgusting atmosphere. Run by a huge woman named Hilde, who was taller than I was and twice Mycroft's size, its reputation made it an ideal place for shady dealings. I personally find it fascinating, though Watson does not need to know that. I had made certain never to place myself in a position where I had to take him to the Roll. Some things really do not need published in The Strand, and Watson has never quite learned when to stop.


My contact was a man I knew as Rat. I found his pseudonym uncreative and clichéd, but as he wasn't interested in my opinion of it, I kept it to myself. He was waiting for me at a stained, rickety table near the back, where Half-Ton Hilde, as she was known behind her back, was busy muscling a small fight off her bar. She was in her forties, an immigrant from Germany, ambidextrous, and fairly well educated, though she concealed that fact well. She had never been married, though she had four children, one deaf, and a deep dislike for me. She was half-convinced I was a policeman. It was her policy not to get involved with her patrons' business, however, so she kept her opinions to herself. I was greeted with a venomous glare from her as I stepped up to my informer's table.

Rat pushed a tankard across the grimy surface to me. I took it, feigning to take a swill. I am not so unwise as to actually drink anything from the Roll. I wouldn?t put it past Rat to do something to it?and if not he, then Hilde certainly was capable. "You're late," Rat snarled, with what he apparently thought was a threatening glower.


Rat, I might mention, has delusions of grandeur. He's a petty, American-born thief who's read far too many yellow-back spy novels, and fancies himself mysterious and dangerous. Hence the dramatic name. His image was spoiled somewhat by the weak, rabbitish face, myopic squint, and noticeable paunch. A snarl, for Rat, was more of a whine. Still, he got around, having spent time in Germany, France, Hungary, and Bohemia before washing up

 

"Dear heaven," I could not help myself exclaiming softly. "How is that possible?"

What?!?!?

This is such a cool story!

 

It's always such a joy to reel in new readers...

And now, a shameless plug for my brain twin's fics. If you haven't read Crash Course or Crash Course 2, do so. They're great stories!!

 

This is such a great story! I actually had to go and read one of your previous versions of it because I wanted more.

Will this version you're posting be any different from previous ones? This is the one I read.

 

I love how Holmes is so giddy about this new opportunity. Like a schoolboy. I know very little about the Holmes universe, so I can't wait to read more about it here. Please PM me when you update!

 

It is always a good day when there is a PM and post from Frosty

 

Princess of Naboo: Yes, this is the same version, though the posts are in larger chunks since I divided 'em up when I posted the story over at fanfiction.net.

Sorry, folks. I promise I'll post the next chapter later today, but I've got to go to class right now and survive a presentation. To make matters worse, I seem to have contracted a cold last night. (Which, I suppose, is what I get for staying up to DM a Ravenloft game...)

 

Good luck on that presentation!

 

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 taken 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. Of course, he?d also last seen the man hours earlier, and left. The change by now was dramatic indeed.


When we had brought 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 days, 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 unusually 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, and knowing Holmes as I did, 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 wandered 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

 

Dearie, do me a favor and make your dividing lines shorter. I have to scroll back and forth to see all the text...

 

Hmmm. How strange. It doesn't do that on my computer. How would I go about fixing that?

 

Edit the posts with the _________ stuff. It's those that're stretching the page for me. just edit the message and delete about half the line. That ought to do it just fine.