Is anybody still participating in this fandom?
About a month ago, I decided to check out Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century. I'd already seen the intro on YouTube, and it looked kinda weird, but I thought I'd give it ago. I could only find two episodes at the time, but I enjoyed what I saw. Well, I've… been hooked now. Still have seen barely any of the show, but… the idea came and wouldn't let go. Hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Inspector G. Lestrade, Dr. Watson, and Mary Watson were (allegedly) created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and reside within the public domain. The cartoon incarnations, Beth Lestrade, compudroid!Watson, and Martin Fenwick belong to their creators. Eileen, Helen, Sherlock, Hamish, and Maureen Watson belong to yours truly, without question.
==Requiem for a Friend==
"I did not speak lightly when I called Lestrade the best of professionals. He was a good man… more than that, he was a good friend." Beth Lestrade asks Holmes about her Victorian ancestor, and Holmes obliges. Fluffy one-shot.
"What was he like?"
Sherlock Holmes blinked himself out of his reverie. "Hmm?"
"My ancestor," Beth Lestrade clarified, handing him his coffee. Beyond the walls of 221B, the wind wailed with the heaviest blizzard New London had seen in decades. Beth had dropped by for a visit and was now stuck with one pensive detective and one powered-down, recharging compudroid. "The original Inspector Lestrade. What was he like?"
Holmes set his coffee down, pressed his fingertips together, and touched them to his lips. Not for the first time, Beth wondered what he must be feeling, to have lived a full lifetime, died, and returned to life as a young man with an old man's memories. "He was hardworking and tenacious," Holmes said at last, quietly, his blue-grey eyes distant. "Dedicated, certainly. Willing to listen to 'fantastic theories' even if unwilling to follow them up, willing to admit his mistakes…"
He smiled slightly at Beth over his fingertips. "I did not speak lightly when I called Geoffrey Lestraid the best of professionals. He was a good man… more than that, he was a good friend."
She raised an eyebrow. "Really? You two saw each other as friends? I mean, you chewed him out every chance you got."
Holmes glanced aside sardonically. "No more than he deserved, and comparatively no more than I gave the other Yarders. The only reason he was 'chewed out,' as you so poetically put it, so many times is because I worked with him the most often. Or rather, he with me." He shrugged.
Beth snorted. "Some friendship."
Holmes sighed and massaged his eyelids with his fingers. "My dear Lestrahd, has it ever occurred to you that history just might be repeating itself in your relationship with me?"
She chose to ignore that pointed question in favor of one of her own. "And that's another thing: why do you pronounce our names differently? You called me Lestrahd before I could even introduce myself, but when you talk about my ancestor, you say Lestraid."
"Ah, that is easily explained. Your ancestor insisted upon the Cockney pronunciation Lestrade, though many people used the Continental pronunciation Lestrahd. I used the latter because of your accent, Midwestern American—Americans would tend toward the Continental version rather than the Cockney."
Beth nodded her understanding. "Okay. What about figuring out who I was, though? The one photo the family still has of Geoffrey Lestrah—Lestraid—looks a lot like Colin Jeavons from the Jeremy Brett shows. I don't look much like that."
"True, and I believe my fans call that show the Granada series," Holmes grinned. "I must confess that it was more the features of your other ancestors that I recognized, rather than any strong resemblance to the patriarch of the family."
"My other ancestors?"
"I knew Geoffrey Lestrade's family quite intimately, my dear. More than that, however, it was the strong resemblance you bear to Helen that told the tale."
"Helen? Geoffrey's wife?"
Holmes shook his head, his large eyes suddenly sad. "No. Geoffrey's daughter-in-law."
Beth leaned forward from the sofa. "You knew her well, didn't you?" she said softly.
He nodded. "You really don't know your family history, do you?"
She winced. "'Fraid not. So, what was special about Helen?"
"She was… my goddaughter." Beth had never before seen the Great Detective come so close to… crying? For the first time, the fact really registered that she was speaking with a man who had seen about eighty years of life and experienced more in those eighty years than the average person would in three lifetimes. "Helen was John Watson's oldest daughter."
"Wait a second!" Beth leapt to her feet. "What the—but—you mean—I thought Watson never had any kids! Do you mean to tell me I'm a descendant not only of Inspector Lestrade but Dr. Watson—the Dr. Watson?"
"Watson did have children—several, in fact," Holmes said quietly. "But the first four by his first wife, Mary, died: two were miscarried, one was stillborn, and the fourth was killed with his mother."
"Mary Watson… was murdered?" Beth murmured. "I didn't know."
Holmes hung his head. "That is a time of my life I'd rather not relive, Lestrade. A few years later, however, Watson remarried, this time to a Northern Irish woman: Eileen Rennick. Again, not all the Watson children lived, but four survived infancy: Helen, Sherlock, Hamish, and Maureen. Helen married Geoffrey Lestrade's youngest son a couple of years after the First World War, and I knew, well, most of their children… Their youngest two were born after my death."
He paused to let that sink in. "When I first met you… well, you were obviously a Lestrade, but the resemblance to Helen was so strong it nearly took my breath away." He shook his head and looked up to smile weakly. "You're so much like her."
Beth blinked, unsure of what to say for one of the few times in her life. After a few moments, she managed a drawn-out "wow."
Holmes's smile grew fractionally. "Congratulations, my dear Elizabeth. You are a delightful combination of Breton, Anglo-Saxon, Scottish, and Ulsterman. And, of course, American."
She smiled, then frowned. "Bre…ton… are you saying that my name is Breton, not French or Norman English?"
Holmes burst into hearty laughter. "My dear woman, I don't believe a drop of French or Norman could ever have entered your bloodline until after my own lifetime! You must have had your poor ancestor rolling in his grave all these years with that faulty genealogical assumption."
Beth rolled her eyes at his mirth. "Yeah, yeah. So I was wrong about my very French last name—sue me."
"Ah, but the name does not the nationality make. Consider the English-sounding name Martin Fenwick, and yet the man is French to his core."
"True." She sighed and took a sip from her coffee. "So… I don't suppose you're in a story-telling mood?"
Holmes cocked his head. "What do you wish to hear?"
Beth shrugged. "Something about Geoffrey, I guess. Or Helen, maybe?"
Sherlock Holmes's bright eyes grew brighter with a life Beth typically associated with a new mystery. "Very well, then. Let me see… ah. March 1918. Watson was a Lieutenant Colonel in the RAMC, the Royal Army Medical Corps, and he was presumed missing. I was planning a search for him across the Continent—across Europe—and Helen wanted to come with
As ever, the name Geoffrey for the original Inspector Lestrade originated with the marvelous aragonite. (And the only reason I used Beth Lestrade's given name was to differentiate between the two.) =)
A fair amount of the back-story for this fic, Dr. Watson's family included, comes from my own Sherlock Holmes Kindle ebook, At the Mercy of the Mind: A Journey into the Depths of Sherlock Holmes. You can link to it from my profile.
Last but not least, expect to see more from me in this fandom in the future! Cheers!