A/N: Hello readers! first off I'd like to thank you for giving my story a try. :D I promise not to be disappointing. Secondly, I can't promise that I will update every week. Unfortunately college homework is ten times worse than Highschool HW, and with that said my writing muses also tend to randomly stop working for short periods of time. I'm not entirely sure where this is going, and I'm sure there are other fanfics with this same idea but give it a shot. All the ideas are my own, I haven't read any Sherlock/SherlockHolmes fanfictions, just so i don't copy other authors. . . .any way. I hope you enjoy this, and please leave me a review, I'm only gonna go on with the story if I get 10 reviews. . . I love to hear your incite.



Chapter One


"One sip 'tis all it takes and I can send you sailing into the distant future! Come, I ask you. What lies in our future?"

Sherlock Holmes sat alone on the park bench eyeing at the old gypsy woman shouting across the street to everyone that passed. Not a soul was paying any attention to her beckoning's except the detective. No one would have known, but he was picking her apart in his brilliant, jumbled head. Analyzing every movement she made, the tone of her voice, how she kept balancing her weight from foot to foot awkwardly. She stood in a most uncomfortable hunched over position, with a small sack of something, salt, no flour perhaps hidden under her shawl over her right shoulder. Her dark raven hair stuck out from under the gray façade, and her skin appeared to be more wrinkled than is should be. Obviously, it was a young woman hiding beneath a rather un-needed disguise. Her expression was strained from the heavy sack on her back, but she did well to hide it. What Holmes was uncertain of, was why the woman needed the costume at all. Perhaps she was attempting to hide from someone in particular, or perhaps the reason was more miniscule. Maybe for some bizarre reason she liked dressing like an old hag with a ten pound bag of flour positioned on her back. Holmes's mind raced through all sorts of possibilities until his curiosity won out and he strolled over to the street vendor.

"Care to go on a trip sir? I can-"

"Why are you wearing a disguise?" Holmes stated blatantly. He wasn't one for being subtle, that wasted too much time in his book.

The woman, caught off guard, was quickly defensive. "I assure you sir, I don't know what you mean. . ."

"Ah. . .now see you're lying to me. . ."

"I would never-"

Doctor Watson, who had been watching the entire banter from across the street, decided he'd better make his way over before things got completely out of hand, knowing just how impudent his friend could be.

"I leave you alone for ten minutes to pick up my pocket watch from the repairs and here you are harassing this poor old woman. I'm sorry ma'am."

Watson grabbed his friend's arm and tried pulling him away, but Holmes slapped the doctor's hand away. "Look again Watson! Any doctor should be able to see that this is no elderly woman!"

The doctor narrowed his gaze and focused on the woman. At first he, like the rest of the passer by s, couldn't see past the makeup, but using the deductive skills he procured while spending an unwarranted amount of time with his friend, everything became obvious.

"Alright explain." He demanded.

The woman's bright green eyes scanned the crowed before she whispered.

"Follow me. . ." She gestured, disappearing inside the small covered wagon she lived out of.

Holmes and Watson followed her inside the cramped space and sat where she told them to.

"Sherlock Holmes. Your reputation precedes you." The woman mused in her thick accent, removing her haggard disguise.

"And how, might I ask do you know my name?" he pushed, eyes narrow.

She smirked but said nothing to answer him. "And Doctor Watson, I presume, your friend does not give you enough credit. You are indeed quite cleaver." She removed a kettle from the stove and poured both men a cup of tea.

"Your accent, Transylvanian , am I correct? Or is that part of your little frontage?" Holmes asked taking a sip of the strong tea.

"You don't miss a thing do you Mr. Holmes?" she smiled, mildly impressed.


Watson rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry. But what did you say your name was?"

"Anthea. And yes, I was born in Transylvania." She paused and allowed Holmes and Watson to sip their drink. "But those facts are far too dismal for you to want to approach me Mr. Holmes. What did you really come over to me for?"

Holmes cleared his throat and sat his tea cup back in his saucer. "At first, I was merely intrigued by your appearance. A young woman dressed like an old hag? Seemed interesting enough. Now as I set here in this . . . residence I find myself interested in that potion of yours. Some sort of drink that takes you into the future…?" he laughed humorlessly.

"Does it work?" Watson asked, brows furrowed.

Before Anthea could speak, Holmes interrupted.

"Hardly. It is surely a mixture of various hallucinogenic drugs, notorious for making people believe what they are told to believe."

The doctor couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for Anthea. Holmes had a bad habit of making people feel like complete and utter idiots.

"Do you believe in magic Mr. Holmes?" Anthea asked, leaning forward gazing deep into Holmes' brown eyes.

"I believe in logic."

Anthea shook her head, disappointed. "Logic is dull. Where is the adventure in logic? Some of the most interesting occurrences are illogical. Someone of your genius, Mr. Holmes, should venture into things more riveting."

Holmes glared at her for a long while, causing Watson had to make sure his friend was still breathing.

"If I'm not mistaken my dear Watson. Miss Anthea here is questioning my methods."

"Oh God. . ." Watson sighed, knowing what kind of rant was sure to rise.

"Never have I been so insulted! I assure you that my intellect is of the utmost superiority among the humanoid species. Why would I waste it on trivial babble like magic!" Holmes stood up and downed the last of his tea before storming out.

Watson didn't leave a quickly as his friend, who he was sure was standing outside pouting like a small child. He finished his tea and thanked Anthea, apologizing.

"Te in futurum Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson." Anthea murmured as the doctor left after his friend.


"What the hell are you doing!"

One would think that after living at 221B Baker Street, with the one and only Sherlock Holmes for over a year, John would be used to anything and everything. Yet somehow the detective still managed to conjure up things and scenarios that surprised him.

Unfortunately for the doctor, a god awful stench was fumigating from the kitchen all throughout their flat. The hideous smell made both his eyes and his nose burn; the fumes were far worse than anything he'd ever encountered. With one step inside the kitchen he knew why. A clothesline web suspended from the wooden cabinets supported many body parts known to man. They were hung with wooden close pins and dripped vile organic excrement onto the unprotected floor below. But the worst was yet to come, for lying on their kitchen table was the owner of the organs and limbs , with none other than Sherlock's head stuck in the dead man's chest cavity.

He wore no form of protection apart from the skin tight latex gloves on his hands; no face mask or hair net or apron to shield his clothes. Just his usual trousers and shirt.

His head was still submerged by the time John decided to ask again, clearing his throat.

"Sherlock. What it god's name are you doing?" in all honesty he wasn't expecting a reply for perhaps an hour, thirty minutes least. When Sherlock was hard away at work he usually only spoke to himself, mumbling incoherent obscenities that seemed irrelevant to the case he was working on at any given time. Somehow though, it all made perfect sense – to Sherlock

"Got him from Barts' Morgue." Sherlock mused, finally removing his head from the dead man. "Told Lestrade he was innocent, but he insisted on gunning him down . Although I couldn't be sure he was innocent until I had the proper evidence, Lestrade wouldn't let me look at the body in the morgue at the time . ." his voice trailed off as he studied something he'd apparently pulled from the body.

John shook his head, stopping as he realized how Sherlock had brought the corpse into their flat. "You stole his body from the hospital!"

"Of course." Sherlock stated. "How else was I supposed to get to it?"

"You obviously got to it somehow." John gestured to the body. "It's in our kitchen!"

"Yes thank you for that fact. Can I please get back to my studies now?"

John stepped farther out of the kitchen, growing tired of the discomfort growing in the pit of his stomach. One time, just one time it would've been nice to come back to the flat they shared and not have some sort of purified corpses or angry Siberian assassins waiting for him. Luckily the assassins thing hadn't happened yet as far as John was aware, but he didn't doubt for second the possibility of that one day happening.

"You do at least plan on taking it back to Bart's, don't you?" John asked, placing himself in his usual chair. He waited a long time for an answer before finally just opened the post.

"Yes of course," Sherlock assured his friend. "as soon as I'm thoroughly finished."

"Which will take how long exactly?" John pressed.

Sherlock clenched his jaw and composed himself quickly. "Centuries if you don't shut up this second!"

John sighed and decided to save his breath and sanity, as there was no arguing with Sherlock when he was busy.

By nightfall, the flat still reeked of decaying human flesh and Sherlock was still shoulders deep inside of the dead man's body. John knew it should be crazy, in fact, he was certain that it was crazy, but he'd passed caring a longtime ago. In the beginning everything Sherlock did was both odd and fascinating, while verging on terrifying and psychotic; John now just found everything … Sherlock. There was really no other way to describe the things he did. Sherlock was Sherlock and that wasn't about to change, not even in the slightest.

"What could you possibly be doing for it to take this long?" John called from his usual seat. He refused to go into the kitchen while Sherlock had his head in a corpse.

"I've been done for an hour or so. Just examining his vertebrae."

"What? Why?"

"He suffered from a rather mild case of Scoliosis, although he never had it treated before he died. . ." his voice trailed off.

"Yes, and why does that matter?"

For the first time all evening, Sherlock emerged from his 'laboratory/morgue'. Unfortunately the putrid odor followed him like an invisible, thick fog and lingered where ever he stood. John's nose wrinkled, but Sherlock didn't seem bothered by it.

"Future reference John!" he spouted, he tapped his head a few times. "Hard drive remember? Gathering new information is always a good thing."

"Oh right." The doctor huffed. "Hard drive."

Sherlock paced back and forth momentarily while John followed him with his eyes. The longer his friend stayed in the room the worse the smell became and finally John couldn't stand it any longer.

"Take it back."

Sherlock stopped and looked at him quizzically.


"The dead man. Take him back to Bart's and then take a shower. You smell bloody awful"

Sherlock frowned but surprisingly didn't say anything. Instead he slumped back into the kitchen, and appeared five minutes later with a solid, plastic crate containing the dead man's organs. Before John could ask, Sherlock thrust the container into his friend's arms then disappeared into his room only to return into the kitchen with a white lab coat. John didn't move, partially because of the container he was forced to hold, and also because the ruckus coming from the kitchen was quite disturbing.

"Come along John. Bring the organs." Sherlock bellowed as he hauled something down the stairs.

"Jesus…" the doctor sighed and went after his friend.

With a large trunk placed by his feet, Sherlock hailed a cab. John got an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, as he looked down at it. A taxi pulled to the cub and Sherlock lifted the trunk into the seat with a grunt and got in. John hesitated then handed Sherlock the crate of various organs and got in as well.

"Please tell me you didn't put the body in that trunk." John whispered so the driver didn't hear him.

". . .His body's not in the trunk . . ." came his slow response


"How else was I supposed to get it back!" Sherlock argued.

"Well how did you get it to Baker Street?" John asked lowering his voice again.

Sherlock eyed his friend knowingly, and it didn't take long for John to realize that the trunk was the key suspect in the whole operation. The doctor had to admit that he was impressed by Sherlock's ability to sneak the body of a full grown man out of a morgue using a trunk while wearing a lab coat, but that was beyond the point.

A/N: Don't forget to review! xD