Posted by Bowen Cates on 3/7/2008, 9:34 pm, in reply to "Chapter seven both parts"
24.207.121.197
Chapter 8: Which You Should Read Very Carefully
An hour later Theodore - wearing a set of well fitting futuristic clothes - and the six other original occupants of the living room at 221B Baker Street of 2103 were to be found sitting round the large oak dining table that Theodore had knocked over upon his first visit here in the 1800s. In the midst of piles of overturned furniture and lamp fixtures like some strange birds nest.
It had been an hour full of introductions, ideas and clearing a space for the table.
Theodore had been introduced to the three other kids in the room, Wiggins at age sixteen was the oldest, tall and imposing upon first glace, but really sweet as sugar, he couldn’t have been kinder, nor more muscular, which he explained was because of his profession: boxing. He was also completely bald and had two golden hoop earnings in his left ear. He had been the one who loaned Theodore his present garments as he had grown out of them a few years back but had never got around to throwing them out.
The girl, Deirdre, was twelve, had spiky brown hair and multi colored fingernails. She wore a light brown coat and red shirt with a multitude of belts and a pair of kneepads. Which Theodore assumed must be for some sort of skateboard thing with jets or something; one never knew what kids did for fun in a place like this.
Tennyson was the youngest, eleven; he couldn’t walk, talk or hear without the aide of machines. However, he was so intelligent - as Theodore gathered from the translations the beeping youth made on his keyboard, as translated by Wiggins and Deirdre. - and so witty that it was impossible to think of him as being disabled, it was like Watson had said about Holmes’ brother Mycroft: one forgot his body and focused only on the mind.
These three completed a group of modern ‘Baker Street Irregulars’ of which Wiggins was the leader. They spent a lot of time around Baker Street, exchanging ideas, eating lunch, sharing clues they had gathered…so on and so forth.
Then there was the woman…Theodore didn’t like her much, tall and thin with dark brown hair that had one light streak down the side, she was undoubtedly American in spirit, even though British by heritage, being amazingly a descendant of the inspector Lestrade from the stories, she had indeed been born and raised in America, Nevada or some place. She was pretty, there was no denying that, but she had a pushy way about her that got under his skin.
Holmes, on the other hand, who was sitting across from this abomination, seemed to find her considerably stimulating, and enjoyed correcting her whenever she said something that was a little out of place or slightly off the mark, which happened quite often.
She had blue eyes, and pale skin which didn’t seem to fit her profession, you would expect someone like her to be tanned through and through in her line of work.
Quiet dominated the group as Holmes sat with his eyes half closed and finger tips together, leaning back in his chair, deep in thought. All at once, he opened his eyes and looked strait at Theodore, even in 2103; his eyes still retained that remarkable sheen, that inward fire still burning at its maximum intensity.
“You are sure that everything you have told me is correct?”
“Yes sir” Theodore sighed.
Holmes and Watson exchanged meaningful glances.
“Fenwick” Lestrade intoned forebodingly.
“And Moriarty” agreed Holmes.
“Um….whose that?” asked Theodore, nervously
Holmes raised an eyebrow and Theodore was reminded irrevocably of the detective’s and his first meeting in the nineteenth century “the former or the latter?”
“The latter…uh…no…I mean former….uh…Fenwick, I already know who Moriarty is, I saw him at the hat shop remember? And I’ve read about him…sir” he finished awkwardly.
“Yes, that is why I was surprised by the question, Fenwick is the one responsible for Moriarty’s, shall we say…return? And therefore indirectly, for mine as well.”
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