Of course you all know the story of Sherlock Holmes, his wife Gracie, and Dr. John Watson. Quite the tales those three have experienced together. However, what f something else was happening with the golden trio alternatively...in a different time perhaps? True there are very few that could know about both stories, and since there is no TARDIS in sight, I suppose it is only you, dear reader, that will know both parallels. Yes indeed, this is the story of Sherlock Holmes, his wife Gracie, and Dr. John Watson. This tale however, takes quite a different turn...the turning back of time perhaps?
1885 (More or less)
"Papers! Papers!" A voice called through the wet London snow. The coach pulled up beside the man.
"Here." John instructed the driver. "How's The Blue Carbuncle doing?"
"Very popular, Dr. Watson. Is there going to be a proper murder next month?"
"I'll have a word with the criminal classes."
"If you wouldn't mind. Is that them? Are they in there?" John groaned as he received a swift kick to the shin.
"NO. No, no, not at all." It was at this remark, merely to spite her husband as well, that Grace Holmes could not be silent any more. She leaned forward beside John, smiling at the man.
"Good day to you, sir. Enjoying the weather?" A hand clamped down on hers, but she ignored it, smiling broadly at the man. John signaled for the driver to continue on his path, and Grace was pulled firmly back into her seat.
"Merry Christmas, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes!"
"You did that only to spite me." Her husband spat. This was indeed, Sherlock Holmes.
"What? I only exist on this earth to please you dear." She replied, smiling up at him, which he returned with a glare that didn't quite reach his eyes. An idiot could deduce that, despite her plots to irritate him, the man loved her hopelessly, and she him as well. The coach stopped just outside of 221B Baker street, where Mrs. Hudson, their land lady, was eagerly awaiting to meet them.
"Mr. Holmes. I do wish you'd let me know when you're planning to come home." She cooed.
"So dearly sorry Mrs. Hudson. You see-"
"We hardly knew ourselves. That's the trouble with dismembered country squires. They're notoriously difficult to schedule."
"Must you be so morbid?" questioned Grace, slapping his arm lightly with the back of her hand.
"I do solve murders dear. It's a traditionally morbid occupation."
"Did you catch the murderer Mr. Holmes?" A young boy asked, assisting in carrying the bags into the flat.
"Caught the murderer..."
"Still looking for the legs however. Quite unfortunate really."
"I think we'll call it a draw." The couple replied together.
"And I noticed you've published another one of your stories, Dr. Watson."
"Yes, did you enjoy it?"
"No." It was at this moment that all three of them proceeded to enter 221B.
"Oh?"
"I never enjoy them."
"Why not?"
"Because, John. She doesn't say anything. All she does in your stories is show people up the stairs and bring you breakfast." Grace called down the stairs, feeling it was necessary to enlighten her dear friend to Mrs. Hudson's troubling thoughts; All of which she deduced, of course.
"Well, within the narrative that is, broadly speaking, your function."
"My what?"
"Don't feel singled out, Mrs. Hudson. I'm hardly in the dog one." chimed Sherlock.
"The dog one?"
"I'm your landlady, not a plot device."
"You mean Hound of the Baskervilles?"
"And you make the room so drab and dingy."
"Oh, blame it on the illustrator, he's out of control. I've had to grow this moustache just so people would recognize me."
Much like the Sherlock Holmes that you know and love, there are many cases that you, the readers, have yet to know about, simply because there are so many, one could hardly write about them all. But as John Watson describes it in his account, "No case pushed my friends to such mental and physical extremes as that of The Abominable Bride."
~~~Grace~~~
I yanked the curtain's open, filling the room with much needed light. I turned around to find a woman, dressed in black with a veil over her face. I let out a small shriek, jumping back into Sherlock's chest. His hands found my waist, steadying me.
"Mrs. Hudson, there is a woman, aside from Gracie, in my sitting room. Is it intentional?" He questioned, strolling over to the door.
"She's a client. Said you were out, insisted on waiting."
"Would you, uh, care to sit down?" John asked, pulling over a chair.
"Didn't you ask her what she wanted?"
"I do believe that's our job, Darling."
"Why didn't you ask her?"
"How could I? What with me not talking and everything!"
"For God's Sakes give her some lines, she's perfectly capable of starving us." He muttered in John's ear. "Good afternoon. I'm Sherlock Holmes. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. You may speak freely in front of him, as he barely understands a word-"
"Holmes."
"and this is my wife, Gracie Holmes."
"My name is Grace, however. Not Gracie." I corrected. "And I can assure you that before you even get a chance to talk, my husband will make some trifling observations. For example, you have an impish sense of humor, which currently you are deploying to ease a degree of personal anguish."
"Took the words right out of my mouth. You have recently married a man of a seemingly kindly disposition who as now abandoned you for an unsavory companion of dubious morals. You have come to this agency as a last resort in the hope that reconciliation may still be possible."
"Good lord, Holmes." John scolded.
"All of this, naturally, has become perfectly evident to him from merely your perfume." I explained.
"Her perfume?"
"Yes, her perfume which brings insight to us and disaster to you."
"How so?"
"Because we recognized it, and you did not." We said together as I removed the veil from her face.
"Mary?"
"John?"
"Why in God's name are you pretending to be a client?"
"Because I could think of no other way to see my husband. Husband." I joined my own husband by the window as he played a lovely tune on his violin. His eyes flicked to me occasionally, which I ignored as I peered out the window and eavesdropped.
"It was an affair of international intrigue."
"It was a murdered country squire."
"Never the less, matters were pressing."
"I don't mind you going, my darling. I mind you leaving me behind!" She argued.
"But what could you do?"
"What does Grace do? What do you do except wander around, taking notes, looking surprised." A sour note hit the violin and I averted my attention to my husband.
"Enough. The stage is set, the curtain rises. We are ready to begin."
"Begin what?" I, as usual, immediately picked up what he was trying to say.
"Occasionally, in order to solve a case one must first solve another."
"Well you have a case then? A new one?"
"An old one, very old. I shall have to go deep."
"Deep into what?"
"Myself."
"Oh dear, God help us all." I said, collapsing into the chair beside him. "Brother, do stop loitering by the door and come in." The door opened and my brother, Greg, entered.
"How did you know it was me?"
"Regulation tread is unmistakable. Lighter than Jones, "Sherlock started.
"Heavier than Gregson."
"Oh yeah, I just came up. Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to be talking." I looked up at John.
"Look what you've gone and done now!"
"I fear she has branched into literary criticism by means of satire. It is a distressing trend in the modern landlady. What brings you here in your off duty hours. Not your sister, I take it?"
"How did you know I'm off duty."
"You've addressed of 40% of your remarks to his decanter since you've arrived." I told him, walking out him and placing a hand on his shoulder. "John, do give my brother what it's obvious he wants."
"So, Lestrade, what can we do for you?" I moved now to the arm of Sherlock's chair, perching upon it. He took my hand as I did this, a usual routine we seem to follow.
"Oh, I'm not here on business, I just thought I'd drop by."
"A social call?" John handed him his drink.
"Of course, just to whish you the compliments of the season. Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas." Mary and I finished together.
"Thank God that's over. Now, inspector, what strange happening compels you to my door, but embarrasses you to relate?"
"Who said anything happened?"
"I believe that was you, you did everything except actually say it."
"Ah, ah, ah, Holmes' you have misdiagnosed." We both looked up at John with curious expressions. The same expression, as we've been told.
"Then correct us, Doctor."
"He didn't want a drink. He needed one. He's not embarrassed, he's afraid."
"My Boswell is learning."
"They do grow up so fast." I added, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing away at false tears. "Brother dear, do sit down. John, if you could restore the courage of Scotland Yard, that would be amicable."
"I'm not afraid, exactly."
"Fear, is wisdom in the face of danger. It is nothing to be ashamed of." I intertwined my fingers through the back of his, the palm of my hand resting against the top of his significantly larger one.
"Thank you." My brother said as Mary handed him another drink.
"From the beginning then." He said, with the spark of his pipe.
That very same spark of a pipe is where this story begins. Where does it end? You'll have to wait and see...Good luck to you, dear reader. Good luck.