Author: Cyberwolf PM
A SH22 fanfic. Holmes isn't feeling himself lately. ^_^ Involves H/L (later) comedy, a crossover reference or two, and many deus ex machina.Rated: Fiction K - English - Humor/Romance - Chapters: 3 - Words: 2,326 - Reviews: 19 - Favs: 3 - Follows: 1 - Published: 04-10-02 - id: 713607
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Right, my first SH22 fic...
(grins) Involves much Holmes suffering and several Deus ex Machina...and a crossover reference, see if you can spot it. ^_^
Well, onwards, I guess.
A SH22 fiction by Cyberwolf
H/L (coming up)
No serious mysteries
Disclaimer: I in no way own or have the least bit chance of owning the characters or situations of Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century. (though if they get tired of Holmes, I'll take him!) The puppy and the petshop and the American marine with two kids belongs to me. But you can borrow them if you want. =)
The New London night was cool, and bright with the illumination of both the city and the sky. Upon its streets both young and old (and the middle-aged, who are not generally noted) walked, some fast, some slow, some too lazy to walk and taking cars instead. But enough of them – let us focus on the one whom this story is about.
The man who strode through the crowd was very tall, and very lean. His facial features were sharp – in both the aesthetic sense, and in the sense that great intelligence was suggested. Blond hair was mostly hidden by a deerstalker, and he was set apart from the other New London pedestrians by (aside from his height) his rather old-fashioned clothing.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, fellow Sherlockians, fans of SH22. The man was our favorite resurrected detective, Sherlock Holmes – and he was shopping. Grocery shopping, to be more precise – a task usually delegated to the compudroid Watson, but a task he nevertheless was undertaking now, due to Watson's being at New Scotland Yard for the day, for the routine systems-check-up that all compudroids, whether or not they were assigned to famous almost-legendary detectives, were required to undergo.
Anyway, so here Holmes was. He'd been given the list by Watson, who calculated the exact amount of food that Sherlock would need for the next month (with very generous allowances for the possibilities of the Irregulars or the Inspector dropping in for tea…or supper…or lunch…) and had carefully and exactingly fulfilled the requirements of said list. He'd paid for the purchases and left, very assiduously ignoring the check-out clerk's attempts to flirt with him. He'd never dealt very well with such…things…especially when the woman in question outweighed him and whose hair was a most shocking shade of purple that was definitely not natural. (had to put that in, sorry – traumatic experience that happened to a friend of mine…would have loved to see our Victorian Holmes in that situation…)
Right, so where were we? Ah yes – Holmes was walking home from the grocery store, carrying his bagged groceries. He was idly looking at passers-by as he walked, and deducing their occupation and current situation in life, the same way you and I might make note of the colors of passing cars. It was a most entertaining pastime, though not one that particularly taxed him. Just as he had pegged a man as a soldier, most likely a Marine, a tourist from New New York (sorry – just had to put that) with two children – a toddler and a newborn – and who liked watching Saturday Night Football while eating caramel popcorn and Cheetos from the same bowl….IT happened.
Yes, indeed, IT happened – and in this case, IT does not refer to Professor James Moriarty.
A hovertruck was passing by New London on its journey to Surrey. In Surrey was the lab of Professor Utonium, Jr and the truck's cargo was his order of several barrels of Chemical X. It was called Chemical X because it was a chemical and X is pretty much a universal symbol for unknown variables in equations, whether real-life or mathematical. You know – 'Mr X, our mysterious benefactor…' 'X marks the spot…' and the most hated 'so if blah and blah, X equals….' – and since no one really knew the exact nature of Chemical X, they called it X.
The guy who drove the hovertruck was ordinarily a likeable enough fellow – a little short on the brains, but he was tall and strong and good-hearted, and his face was not quite as bad as an orc's. His name, by the way, was Sam Hanford, and wasn't it a strange coincidence that his initials were the same as Holmes'? Yes, it was a strange condition, and never you pay mind to that, because this has nothing to do with the story.
Anyway, he was a likeable enough fellow, but on this evening he had been driving for over thirty-three hours without a break, and his eyelids were getting droopy. And when drivers get sleepy at the wheel, little things called 'horrid automobile accidents' tend to happen. So poor drowsy Sam, who had not been getting enough sleep, succumbed to Murphy's Law, Special Corollary for Fanfic Writers – if something bad can happen, it usually will, and it will involve the fanfic-writer's chosen character in some way – and fell asleep at the wheel.
careened wildly, almost ran over (in order) an old lady out for a stroll, a
mailbox, two teenagers walking a bunch of dogs, a streetlamp, a hoverblader,
another old lady, a random nondescript pedestrian and a man in a giant purple
dinosaur costume before wrapping its entire front end around a lamp-post.
In doing this, the truck tipped over. In tipping over, the barrels rolled out. In rolling out, the contents of one of them were forcefully expelled, showering whoever was nearby in a rain of softly glowing golden liquid. And guess who was the single person nearby? Yup, that's right – Holmes.
Actually, Holmes wasn't the only creature nearby. A single puppy was there too, in spite of the fact that in New London 22nd Century, there were hardly such things as stray dogs. The puppy was light gold in color, similar to the coloring of a golden retriever, although a little more short-furred. Its upright ears and conformation suggested some Malamute blood, though whatever its pedigree was, it was clearly a crossbreed of two or more strains. And it, too, was showered with the rain of Chemical X.
Furthermore, the shock of the truck's collision with the lamp-post, and then the barrels of chemicals impacting against it, had weakened the rather rickety wall they were near. It crashed down on barrels, truck, detective and puppy (and bags of groceries) with a loud clatter.
Nobody noticed that the man and puppy had been glowing right before the wall crashed.