Welcome to the 22nd century, a world where brick walls don't kill you, villains talk with French accents, and greatcoats deflect lasers. Sure, it's one strange era, but we love it anyway.
What follows is a Sherlockian's spoof of SH22. Bear in mind, dear reader, that this is done out of fondness for the televison series and the author's own irrational drive toward satire. This tale will follow the series' plot, but will take a while getting from scene to scene because a) the author only has the first four episodes and b) you'd be surprised at how much randomness can be fit in there.
The plot is the same as the show's: a recently resurrected Holmes aids Lestrade to eradicate crime in New London. The twist? He's the original, Conan-Doyle, canon Holmes, complete with sardonic wit, eccentric nature,and Victorian sensiblities. Basically, canon Holmes meets not-so-canon world.
Ready for wackiness, fashion, deduction, and high adventure? Put on your deerstalkers and keep your New Scotland Yard badges on at all times--the game's afoot.
(Scene opens on a panorama of the Alps, glowing almost purple against the pale sky. Two men leisurely make their way up a trail, while a third follows. )
Wat. (narrating to himself) Thus, Sherlock Holmes and I came to vacation in the Swiss Alps, weary of the criminal element. Holmes, I suspected, had some ultior purpose for visiting the area, no doubt. But, like a loyal friend,I--
Holm. Begging your pardon, old boy, but your narrating is beginning to get distracting.
Wat. Ah. Terribly sorry, Holmes. (glances at the surrounding area) Are you sure we're taking the right path? I could have sworn that the man said Reichenbach Falls was the other way...
Holm. (to himself, mysteriously) Ah, but did the other way have footprints leading out onto it from beneath a ledge? I think not. Clearly something is in motion.
Wat. (unknowingly slipping back to narration) I had known Sherlock Holmes long enough to recognize one of his deductive periods. He required nothing but clues, his brilliant mind, and--
Holm. (with an sigh, though an amicable one, as though he's used to this) --silence, preferrably. (noticing) It appears we have a visitor.
( The visitor in question is an old man, henceforth referred to the the MESSENGER. He wears clothing eerily resembling WATSON's: greenpants with brown shirt and boots. Running at a good clip, he is able to reach the two men without visible difficulty.)
Wat. (proudly, rather pleased with his choice of dress) Well, Holmes, my ability in the art of disguise seems to be improving. I blend right in with the locals.
(HOLMES appears unconvinced. The MESSENGER takes a quick glance to the detective to check if he's watching and then adjusts his face before speaking a tad over-dramatically.)
Mess. Please sirs,there's been a bout of influenza at the lodge. A fair young lady fears for her life! Please, doctor, you must--
Wat. (heroically) Have no fear, my good man. I'm on my way.
( WATSON proceeds to walk away, yet is still within shouting distance. The MESSENGER and HOLMES both seem to be sizing up the other before speaking.)
Holm. (breaking the silence icily) Well, well. Fancy seeing you here.
Mess. (innocently and with a thicker accent) I 'ave no idea what you mean, sir. All I wanted was tuhget someun to come down tuh th' lodge to 'elp andDr. Watson was--
Holm. Aha! And there you've done yourself in. As per our usual method, Watson and I gave false names at the lodge. Had you paid attention to that, you would have remembered to address him as Dr. Baker, not Dr. Watson.
(Upon hearing this, the incensed MESSENGER growls and glares at HOLMES, who is smiling mockingly as he explains everything.)
Holm. (quietly, yet still retaining a hint of triumph) No, my dear Moriarty,merely deduction.
(The MESSENGER, henceforth known as MORIARTY, attempts to remove the mask from his face. Unfortunately, due to the great amount of force he exerts on the material, the mask rips into shreds. Instantly remorseful, MORIARTY looks at the pieces in his hands.)
Mori. Oh, drat! Blast it all! (forlorn) I worked really hard on this one, too. Why is it that I can never take oneoff without destroying it?
Holm. (watches as MORIARTY mourns his ripped mask) But...don't you want to hear a detailed explaination of how I knew you'd entered our room at the lodge and how long you were following us?
Mori. (deeply depressed) Oh, what's the use of it, Holmes? You know, I know, there's no need for explaination. (trying to piece the mask back together) I'm in no mood for a lengthy sequence of deduction right now. Besides, I was awfully fond of this one...I made it out here, even with the limited resources and everything!
Holm. (disdainfully) A true villain would have brought his disguise from his lair.
Mori. (offended, mask forgotten) I'm a codebreaker, not some petty costumer!
Holm. As my so-called greatested adversary, I expected more of you: more challenges, better deceits. (sigh) I suppose I'll have to unearth a new arch-nemesis. Perhaps Irene Alder...
Mori. (infuriated) Are you so confident that you can replace me? That shall be your undoing, Holmes!
(HOLMES and MORIARTY extract a cane and cudgel, respectively. Both proceed to duel, as WATSON, nearing a turn in the path, happens to turn around and see them.)
Wat. (narrating once more, now that HOLMES hasn't stopped him) I chanced to turn around and what did I see? Holmes, locked in mortal combat with Moriarty! Holmes appeared to be winning at first, forcing his attacker back. But, no! Just before going over into the falls, I distinctly heard Holmes say, "Irene would never have been so sloppy!" , though I absolutely cannot fathom why. With that Moriarty lunged at him and plunged the two of them into an icy onslaught of water,a lethal abyss which no man could survive
( Both men, continuing to criticize each other's criminal and crime-solving methods, fall in seemingly slow motion. The scene then changes to a journal page. The words on the page are blurred and unclear.)
Wat. in the background I was in complete shock when I got back to the lodge. Slowly, I began to realize what I would have to do. Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and all the Irregulars would have to be notified, there would have to be a memorial service arranged, and most pressingly, I would need to find an alternative means of acquiring finacnes.
(The page now is clearly visible. It is not a journal's page at all, but rather an exerpt from an adventure novel detailing an encounter with chimps. It has been taped into a larger journal with other such pages.)
Wat. So distraught was I that I began to write on any surface I could find. It was quite a task finding all my notes when it came time to publish this last chronicle, make no mistake. My source of income was gone. I could no longer continue writing about the adventures of my friend and he certainly was not going to be paying the rent at Baker Street in his current condition. My practice had been lagging, and I began to hope that Mrs. Hudson would be kind enough to either give me an extended time to pay next month's dues or that in her grief she might forget.
Without Holmes, though, how would the world function? He had solved their cases, brought unsolved crimes into the light. London would be overrun with criminals, a new age of crime would rise, worse yet, I would go into debt--oh, it was all too horrible to think about.
Yes, things had begun to look very grim. Very grim, indeed.