Chapter Text
The shore was swimming a little in Sherlock’s field of vision ‒ there was too much to take in at once. There was not a single officer that he recognised, no medical examiner, no crime tape, no nosey crowd. Wrong ‒ the only word for it was wrong.
“I don’t understand,” Sherlock mumbled. Dr. Watson put a gentle hand on his elbow and nodded knowingly.
“That’ll be the concussion ‒ not to worry. I’m heading to Bart’s now to meet an old friend. Come with me and I’ll tidy that wound up. You shouldn’t be left alone until you’re a bit steadier on your feet.”
Still slightly dazed, Sherlock said, “Alright.” Bart’s was good ‒ he knew the hospital like the back of his hand. He would be safe there from all this confusion. He did not care for confusion.
Watson gave a small wave to one of the officers who approached them with an expression of mild bewilderment. “Detective Gregson, I’ll be in touch once the postmortem is complete. But right now, I need to take this man to the hospital to be treated for a head injury.”
“Who is this person?” Detective Gregson asked, clearly affronted at Sherlock’s presence. Where was Lestrade? Where was Mycroft? Who was this Gregson to question Sherlock’s being at the crime scene?
“Sherlock Holmes ‒ who are you?” he demanded.
“I beg your pardon, but I am the chief detective on this case and I will not have civilians traipsing through ‒”
“I’m hardly ‘traipsing’,” Sherlock interrupted. “And I’m hardly a ‘ civilian ’. I was investigating this body and searching for the killer when ‒”
“Investigating? Who let you near the body? It’s only just been reported to us.”
“I don’t care to speak to you any more ‒ where is Lestrade?”
“Who?”
“Alright, alright!” Watson put in, his hands between the two men who were gradually advancing on each other. “Gregson ‒ we are leaving now. I will be in touch.” With that, he gripped Sherlock by the bicep and led him up the stone stairs and away from the beach.
“Who is that man?” Sherlock demanded in frustration, pulling his arm from Watson’s grasp as they marched away.
“Detective Gregson works for New Scotland Yard,” Watson explained calmly. “Don’t worry about any of that now ‒ we’ll be at Bart’s in no time.”
When they reached the main street, Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. There were no cars, only carriages. Women were wearing bustle skirts and bonnets, the streets were cobbled stone, all the street lights were gas. Sherlock’s mouth actually fell open. Wrong .
Watson directed him into a carriage and Sherlock climbed inside as though drunk. He put a hand over his astonished mouth and took a steadying breath. 1895, that’s what Watson had said. 1895. 1895.
The carriage jerked into motion and Watson’s voice drew Sherlock out of his reverie. “That’s quite the interesting suit, Mister Holmes.” Sherlock looked down and quickly compared his own ensemble to Watson’s. He was dressed in his usual clothes ‒ bespoke trousers and suit jacket, his favorite plum-colored shirt, Oxford shoes, and his Belstaff coat. Practically a uniform. Armour.
But Watson was far more formal by comparison. His tweed suit included a vest into which his necktie was neatly tucked. The chain of his pocket watch was pinned to one of his vest buttons and Sherlock even noticed a pocket square which coordinated in color with his tie. His heavy wool coat was several inches longer than Sherlock’s and the Derby hat he now held in his gloved hand even had a small arrangement of feathers in the band. The ensemble suited him, but was far more elaborate and far less fitted than Sherlock’s own.
“Yes, I ‒ ah ‒ got dressed in rather a hurry this morning.” He hoped that would be a sufficient explanation.
“A pity about the mud on your coat, though,” Watson commented. “We’ll tidy you up at the hospital.” From there, they were quiet, Watson staring placidly out the window as Sherlock tried to organise his thoughts. The journey to St. Bart’s hospital took nearly twice as long in a carriage versus a cab and Sherlock was growing more and more anxious by the minute.
The familiar sight of the hospital finally came into view and the driver pulled the horse-drawn carriage to a stop in front of Henry VIII gate. The people were no more normally attired here and Sherlock’s sense of relief at the sight of the hospital was short-lived. Into the building on the right, which looked precisely the same except for the lack of signage and bicycle racks, Watson led Sherlock through now-unfamiliar corridors and stairways. Gone was the hum of the electric lights, the shine of metal carts and tables, the tinny announcements over the intercom. It was too much ‒ it was all too much…
“Mister Holmes?” Sherlock started and realised that Watson had said his name more than once.
“Y-yes?”
“Come inside, won’t you? I’ll patch you up and you’ll be right as rain.” He was gesturing toward the door of a lab Sherlock had visited before, though under very different circumstances. “It’s not exactly clinic conditions, but we’ll make do.”
“Watson, my good man!” A portly man in a brown suit ‒ simpler than Dr. Watson’s but still more elaborate than Sherlock’s ‒ greeted them warmly. He had a rosey face and thin, round glasses that only accentuated the spherical shape of his face. “And who’s this, then?” The man held out a hand to Sherlock, who took it briefly.
“Sherlock Holmes,” he muttered, unable to make eye contact as he scanned the room around him. Porcelain basins, candlesticks, brass scales and instruments. Glass bottles containing mercury, arsenic, phosphorous, and chloroform. And laudanum. God, that sounds appealing at the moment. Just a few drops through a syringe and he wouldn’t care what year it was.
“Michael Stamford,” the man said, drawing Sherlock back from his dangerous thoughts. “Are you a friend of Watson’s?”
“We’ve only just met ‒ the poor chap’s gone and split his head.” Watson put his hand on Sherlock’s arm again ‒ that was pleasant. Steadying. He urged him onto a stool and quickly but calmly gathered a few tools while Sherlock removed his soiled coat. Armed with a needle and tread, a small basin of hot water, and a bottle of alcohol, Watson gently pushed back Sherlock’s hair. He took to cleansing the wound there, which was larger than Sherlock had initially determined. When Watson pressed an alcohol-soaked cloth to the cut, Sherlock hissed with pain. “Apologies, sir.”
“Not to worry,” Sherlock mumbled, his gaze drifting across the doctor in front of him. Watson was chatting quietly with Stamford about who-knew-what and Sherlock took the opportunity to observe more about his new acquaintance.
Medical doctor, obviously. Likely trained at Bart’s, given his familiarity with the place. Short-cropped hair gone slightly longer than he prefers, upright stance, parade rest. Military. So an army doctor. Obvious stiffness in the left shoulder, but a limp in the right leg. As he observed, Sherlock noticed Watson rest his cane against a cabinet and move unencumbered around the room. Ah ‒ psychosomatic. Injured under traumatic circumstances. He had taken to stitching Sherlock’s wound with a steady hand. A good doctor, then.
“I’ll just pop out and get a paper while you finish up, shall I?” Stamford stepped jovially from the room, leaving Sherlock and Watson alone.
“You’ve got quite the injury here, Mister Holmes. Are you sure you don’t feel ill at all?”
“No, not ill.” Not exactly. “Sherlock.”
“Pardon?”
“Call me Sherlock, please. ‘Mister Holmes’ sounds far too much like my brother and I do so hate to be formal.” Watson gave him a lopsided grin.
“Sherlock it is, then. You can call me John, if you like.” Watson ‒ John ‒ added another careful stitch to the side of Sherlock’s head.
“John. Where did you sustain your injury?” John paused.
“I haven’t any injury.”
“Your shoulder,” Sherlock elaborated, distracting himself from the sting under John’s needle. “It’s clear that you’ve been injured there. How?”
“Clear?”
“Clear to me.” Another pause followed by some curious blinking.
“Afghanistan,” John finally answered. “Kandahar, about fourteen years ago.” His shoulders stiffened as he remembered. “I was shot in my service as an army doctor in the Second Afghan War.”
“And your leg? It doesn’t always hurt, does it?”
John stopped working entirely and gave Sherlock a shrewd look. “No, it does not. Only, it seems, when I ‒”
“When you think about it.”
“Yes.” At the mention of his so-called “wound”, John’s stance shifted so that his weight was on his left leg. “How did you know that?”
“It’s psychosomatic.” John looked at Sherlock with a deep expression, his dark blue eyes boring into Sherlock’s in an attempt to determine his character. He had overstepped again. He was always doing that, according to Mycroft. Changing the subject, Sherlock asked flippantly, “Will I live?”
A small smile returned to John’s face and Sherlock relaxed at his softened expression. “I believe you will.” He tied off his final stitch and stood back to look Sherlock directly in the eye. “Have you any headache? Any blurry vision or dizziness?”
“A bit,” Sherlock admitted. “I… I’m not sure what…”
“What is it?” John put his tools aside and stood upright, looking down at Sherlock with genuine concern.
“I think… I think something rather unbelievable has happened,” Sherlock said quietly. Something about John Watson made him want to talk about what was going on ‒ whatever was going on. “But… when one has eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Right?” He stared up at John expectantly.
“I suppose so,” the doctor said slowly. “What’s happened to you, Sherlock?”
Deep breath. Stop shaking! You’ve examined the facts ‒ you know what happened. Just say it.
“I think I’ve travelled through time.”