Character(s): BBC!Lestrade, BBC!John, BBC!Sherlock, Ritchie!Holmes, Ritchie!Watson, Ritchie!Gladstone
Fandom: Sherlock BBC and Ritchie Sherlock Holmes crossover
Spoilers/Warnings: Some mention of drug use
Summary: In which there are two Sherlock Holmes and neither one is the right one.
Notes: Written for consci_fan_mo, and moved over here now that I remembered it exists. Written for the prompt: "Sherlock Holmes(Ritchie)/Sherlock (BBC); (Ritchie)Holmes and/or (BBC)Lestrade; anomaly".
Dates in the second half are based loosely on the actors' ages. I've gone with a sort of a magicy crossing over of parellel universes thing, rather than a time travel thing.
Lestrade blamed Sherlock.
Well, he would blame Sherlock, were Sherlock there. The fact that he wasn't there was very much part of the problem. He had been there until about half an hour previously, and now he wasn't there. Instead, there was another bloke claiming to be him; a posh sounding twat who was dressed like a Dickens character and didn't seem to know what the hell was going on any more than Lestrade or John did.
Still, Lestrade's policy was to always blame Sherlock. It was easier and usually correct.
“I shall reiterate,” the posh twat said, poshly. “No matter how often you ask, I can only answer with the truth. I am Sherlock Holmes and therefore I know precisely where he is, which is here. I cannot possibly hope to solve this problem if you insist on retreading over the same territory. ”
He had a wild look to him, his eyes moving quickly and open to their fullest as though he couldn't widen them enough to see everything he wanted.
“Stop saying that!” John exclaimed, exasperated. “You aren't. You aren't Sherlock Holmes.”
The man gave him a withering glare. “I counter you thus: I am Sherlock Holmes and you, sir, are not John Watson. I grant that you are clearly some sort of army surgeon, but you are approximately four inches too short, lack the appropriate facial hair and seemed to have miraculously healed your crippling leg wound. Also, you have no regard for your personal appearance and you have been injured in the wrong shoulder. You are certainly not my Watson, nor are you my Lestrade, though you do share his levels of incompetence, I congratulate you. And given that I have the keenest mind in London, if not the world, which of us do you think is wrong?” He folded his arms and looked superior.
John opened his mouth to retort, but Lestrade pulled him back into a corner of the room before things escalated. “You have to admit, he may not look like him, but he has the personality down,” he said.
“So, you think he's Sherlock Holmes, and we're not who we think we are?” John snapped.
“No, I think he thinks he's Sherlock Holmes and he thinks we're not who we think we are,” Lestrade replied. “So maybe we should just go along with it and humour him, and we'll get somewhere in finding out what happened to Sherlock.”
John reluctantly nodded. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “You're sure there's nothing on the cameras?”
“No, I came here to ask him for help with a case, but he couldn't be arsed because he wanted to work on whatever he was doing,” Lestrade said. “I finally managed to convince him to come after his test had been run, and I went to get a coffee while I waited. When I got back, he was gone and this nutter was there. All the cameras in the room went static for about five minutes, and there's no sign of him going out or this guy coming in on the hallway cameras. We have nothing. That's when I called you.”
John frowned and shook his head, as bewildered as Lestrade.
During their aside chat, the man had procured a pipe from his trousers and was now puffing on it.
“You can't smoke in here,” Lestrade told him. “Put out your pipe.”
“You put out your pipe,” the man said, with a petulant look.
Lestrade rolled his eyes. “I don't have a pipe,” he said, patiently. “Put it out.”
The man frowned. “I'm afraid I must respectfully decline,” he said. “This is a three-pipe problem and requires all my focus.”
“A three-pipe problem, that's cute,” John muttered.
“It's against the law to smoke indoors in public buildings,” Lestrade pointed out.
“Since when?” the man asked.
“2007,” Lestrade said.
The man gave him a very odd look and it suddenly occurred to Lestrade that he thought them as mad as they thought him. “Interesting,” he murmured. He put out the pipe, pouting.
“Now, explain to me again what happened,” Lestrade said. “Let's see if it makes any more sense the second time 'round.”
“As I said, I was examining this artefact,” the man said, gesturing to a blue glass orb that was on a nearby examination table. “It was given to me by a Roma acquaintance of mine. The object began to glow, and I found myself in this establishment. I can only assume it has some sort of trance-like effects, as I don't remember coming here. Although, it's possible this is a hallucination. It's been some weeks since I've seen the world beyond my lodgings, but I doubt it has changed this much.”
John frowned and picked up the orb, examining it. “Sherlock's been obsessed with this thing for days,” he said. “He says it's giving off some sort of weird energy. That's why he was here—he was trying to figure it out.”
“Yes, precisely,” the man said, excitedly. “It appears to be its own power source. It's quite remarkable. I attempted to open it up and examine in the inner workings, but the glass is impenetrable. Even bullets simply bounced off. I've never seen the like. It's an anomaly.”
John handed the orb over to Lestrade. It looked like a paperweight. He couldn't see anything remarkable about it.
“That's the same word Sherlock used,” John said. “Anomaly. He sounds just like him but... not. I don't know.”
“It's probably some experiment,” Lestrade said. “He's probably off somewhere watching us through the security cameras and laughing.”
“Yeah,” John agreed. “Well, I hope he's having fun.”
Watson very carefully lowered the man to the settee and made sure he was pulse was steady. He had been rather combative and Watson feared he might have been slightly too liberal with the sedative.
All seemed well, though, and he relaxed and smoothed out his clothing, wiggling his jaw to ensure it wasn't broken. He suspected it would be very bruised in a short time, along with his ribs and an eye. Putting that aside, for now, he set about trying to discern who this man was and where Holmes might have gone.
Watson had seen a bright light under the door to the living area and when he entered to see what madness Holmes had concocted this time, he found only the strange man there.
He was quite insane, the poor fellow. He seemed to have no idea where he was and to be under the impression that he was Holmes. He had grown extremely agitated when Watson tried to correct him and even more agitated when Watson introduced himself. Then he had glanced out the window, seemingly in an attempt to orientate himself and, at the view he saw, went quite apoplectic. The more Watson had attempted to calm him, the more agitated he became until Watson was forced to sedate him for fear of his doing himself--or someone else--an injury.
“I wonder where Holmes finds them all,” Watson said to Gladstone. “Or perhaps they simply find us.”
Gladstone lifted his head slightly and then set it down again. He hadn't even twitched during the altercation. Not quite the guard dog Watson had promised in convincing Holmes to let the bulldog puppy stay all those years ago.
Now that the man was unconscious, Watson was able to get a good look at him. He was in his 30's, dressed in his shirtsleeves, as though he'd hurried out of the house without having finished getting dressed. His hands weren't those of a working man but did have little odd patches of skin like chemical burns. Perhaps a scientist of some sort? His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and Watson could make out faint scars on his arms, similar to ones Holmes had from his cocaine use. That might explain the man's odd behaviour.
Watson rifled through his pockets for some sort of clue to his identity. The first thing he found was a sort of billfold with an emblem for 'ERII' in an obvious homage to the Queen's emblem and proclaiming the man to be Detective Inspector G. Lestrade of the Metropolitan police, which he most certainly was not. A further investigation found another billfold with odd-looking money in it and a series of cards made of some sort of material Watson had never seen before but suspected were from the horn of some animal. They all claimed the man to be Sherlock Holmes. Some form of elaborate calling cards?
One had a remarkably clear photograph of the man himself on it and purported to be a 'driving license'. This one not only said the man was Sherlock Holmes but was a resident of 221B Baker Street, London NW1 6XE. It also had Holmes' birth date, but claimed he was born in '76 and not '45, as it should be. That would make the man only fourteen years old and that was hardly possible. It also had a series of letter and number codes along the bottom that didn't make sense to Watson at all.
The last thing he found was an odd object with a bit of glass on the front. He couldn't make heads or tails of that and put it aside.
“Well, I lack Holmes' level of talent for deduction, but if I can hazard a guess, I would say you are some sort of confidence man,” he said. “Pretending to be both Holmes and Lestrade, though I don't know how you planned to succeed given how obviously false your credentials are. I suppose Holmes might have hired you to play him. He could have found a better physical match if that were the case. Though, given his ego, maybe someone younger, taller, and thinner appealed to him. Or he's been into the formaldehyde again. Perhaps you both were.”
He sensed he wouldn't have any answers to the riddle of the man's identity until Holmes re-emerged. He walked over to the desk to see what he had been working on and where it might have taken him. That blue orb was still on the desk. Seeing as Holmes hadn't been able to tear himself away from it for days, not even to eat or sleep, it seemed odd for him to leave it behind.
He picked it up and examined it. Holmes had been guarding it like a magpie, as though Watson's touch might contaminate it.
It seemed to draw his gaze in, and he couldn't look away. It started to glow in his hand, and the next thing he knew, he was in a white room. Holmes was sitting in front of him, puffing on an unlit pipe. There was another man there, dressed strangely and gaping at him.
“Ah, Watson, there you are,” Holmes said. “How good of you to join me.”
Lestrade found himself in some sort of BBC costume drama. As he had only a moment ago been in an examination room at Barts, this was very confusing and more than a little terrifying. He looked around, wondering if he'd finally gone insane. Sherlock was draped over some sort of sofa, his hand being licked by a bulldog.
Well, whatever was going on, at least now he could blame him in person.