Sherlock Holmes in 2012: TIMELESS DUEL

by Mohammad Bahareth

  “What have you found out?” was the first words out of the lips of Dr. Nebogipfel when Mycroft opened the capsule.

  “Ah, Dr. Nebo,” Mycroft exclaimed genially-calling the man by his alias-as he disembarked from the time machine. “Good of you to be waiting for my arrival.”

  “Well, is he or isn’t he?” Dr. Nebo asked, visibly impatient.

  “He is, Dr. Nebo, no doubt of it now.” Mycroft brushed his jacket and strode to the door of the shed, adding, “But we have more pressing problems now..” The doctor rushed after the voyager. “Miss Irene Adler is due to arrive in town tomorrow.”

  Dr. Nebo stopped and grabbed Mycroft’s arm to turn him around. “What does that mean? How would a womantravel here.?” he asked in utter disbelief.

  Unlatching his arm from the doctor’s grip, Mycroft replied, “In the same way my brother did, Doctor-she will be here in the morning tomorrow.”

  “But, Mr. Holmes, how is that possible? You said that Mr. Wells must have constructed one other machine-not two!”

  “My dear Doctor, if Wells could construct one machine, he could certainly replicate it, wouldn’t you say?”

  Resuming his following Mycroft toward his house, Dr. Nebo said, “Yes, of course, but do you think he’s made any more than two others?”

  Mycroft swiveled on his heels. “Doctor, I should think that you would be more interested in these new time machines and their functioning rather than their number in circulation,” he said, looking down at the diminutive inventor rather sternly. “Besides, I have no time for such debate; I need to find Miss Adler’s landing point before her presence in the capsule arouses the attention of the powers-that-be, if you understand my meaning.”

  “Of course, Mr. Holmes, I understand. Would you have any idea where she might land?”

  “Just a thought-would you know if there is a Baker Street in the city?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Nebo answered readily, opening the backdoor of his home. “Actually, I browsed the internet yesterday in search of the possible location of your brother’s residence..” He led Mycroft through the kitchen and into a large living room. “Come and have a look,” he said, pointing at the large computer screen sitting in the middle of his dining room table.

  Mycroft didn’t wait to be asked; he sat at the table and maneuvered the mouse on the opened website. 3321 Baker Street NE, Washington, D.C. had just been sold. The real estate agent had posted the sale only 24 hours ago. “That must be it,” Mycroft exclaimed. “That must be Sherlock’s new home.” He turned in the chair to look up at Dr. Nebo. “Although, I doubt very much that Miss Adler would be aware of the street number, she would choose 221 Baker Street as her point of landing-of that we can be fairly certain-and since the number 3321 is the only one in the street that responds approximately to the original request, perhaps she will actually land in front of that house.”

  “Yes, that would be a fair assumption,” Dr. Nebo replied, trotting to a chair in the living room and plopping himself down. The little man, with a face that would scare the stauncher of kids, and a beard that revealed the entire neglect of the man himself, was not readily persuaded of anything advanced to him, just because it was posted on the internet. “But now that we know where your brother might be.”

  “Not “might be”, Doctor-Sherlock has bought the house, I am sure of it. Although, he may not have been able to take possession of the property that quickly.”

  “Okay, let’s assume you’re correct, but then how do you plan to divert the neighbors’ attention when this other time machine lands in the street?”

  It promised to be a lovely winter morning when the sun rose and began illuminating Baker Street. The row of houses was a sight to behold, indeed. All built some seventy years ago, 3321 Baker Street stood proudly at the corner, looking out onto a small but well-manicured garden. Although looking poorly after the winter winds had blown all the leaves away and had left the grass of the front lawn somewhat dry and parched from the first frost, this little front yard was attractive to the visitors nonetheless.

  Irene had no doubt the address that the control panel on board the time machine had provided was the location Sherlock would have chosen as a residence. She was due to land in a few minutes, after only an hour and two minutes’ flight through time. The hour had passed relatively quickly, given that she could observe her progress on the control panel and the direction in which the vessel headed. There was nothing to see outside the capsule, however. She had been traveling in the dark the whole time. But now, the capsule decreased its swirling speed and penetrated the atmosphere, through the clouds and above the city, and finally a few hundred meters above Baker Street. As she looked down, Irene was surprised to see a marquis-a large tent-installed in the middle of the street and in front of the house at the corner of an intersection. Irene imagined this marquis had probably been erected for some fete of sorts, but was leery to think that she would land in the middle of people setting up chairs or tables for the guests.

  She didn’t have to wait long-within seconds, it all went black around her again, and her time machine penetrated the enclosed marquis unseen and away from the gaze of curious neighbors.

  As she lifted the lever to open the upper part of the globe, Irene immediately noticed the presence of two people under the tented enclosure. I should have believed him when he said he would be here to meet me-the fiend, she thought.

  That same night, a hundred and twenty years ago, in Dover, Moriarty and his footman were hurrying through the docks in quest of the embarkation area at port side of the Stephanos. When they finally reached the gangway and before they tried stepping on it, the purser stopped them.

  “I am sorry, gentlemen, but unless you have proof of passage on this vessel, I would have to stop you.”

  “Out of my way, man,” Moriarty hollered, pushing past the purser brutally with his cane. “I need to reach one of your passengers.. She cannot leave Britain,” he yelled.

  “Sir, sir., please stop!” the purser shouted as James and his master started climbing the gangway. “What’s the passenger’s name.?” he said, chasing the two men. “Maybe the person is not on board yet.. “

  Moriarty stopped and turned around, pushing his footman aside. “What are you saying?” he questioned.

  “Well, sir,” the purser replied, “if you give me the name of the person you’re looking for, I could check the passengers’ list and even give you the cabin number.”

  “The name is Irene Adler-she’s booked a passage on this ship yesterday,” Moriarty said more calmly now.

  It didn’t take long for the purser to find out that Miss Adler had not boarded yet but that her sea-trunk was already on board and in Cabin 43-upper deck.

  Moriarty descended the gangway without a word, visibly harassed though. He turned to James. “We shall wait here for her,” he said, striding decisively toward the port and passengers’ facility across the pier. James followed him quietly.

  “You won’t have to wait long,” the purser added, shouting after the two men, “We’re pulling anchor in less than a half-an-hour now.”

  Moriarty didn’t answer, but entered the waiting room and sat down. He riveted his eyes on the gangway through the windows for the whole half-an-hour before he saw the mariners hoist it to the side of the ship. He then got to his feet, strode out of the facility and, together with James, regained the waiting carriage at the front of the docks.

  Once sitting inside the cab, he turned to James. “She is gone. And I should think that she has been abducted, if we are to believe David’s story. She must have intended to go to Greece-perhaps to rejoin Sherlock or some other person-but someone has taken her, James, and I will find out who has done such a thing, if it is the last thing I do.”

  “Perhaps we should question Mr. David Penny further, sir,” James suggested, finally opening his mouth.

  “No, we shouldn’t-this is far bigger than our little David could handle, I suspect.”

  “Good morning, Miss Ad
ler. Welcome to 2010,” My-croft said, extending a hand to help Irene out of the time machine. “How was your trip?”

  “I didn’t believe you when you said you would be here to meet me-yet here you are!” Irene stepped out of the capsule and immediately directed her gaze to Dr. Nebo at Mycroft side. “And who might you be?” she asked, a derisive smile crossing her lips.

  “This is Dr. Nebogipfel-Dr. Nebo for short,” Mycroft interjected, nodding to the little man beside him. “If you recall, Dr. Nebo was the original inventor of the time machine, which he used to disappear.”

  “But that was only an article-a story written by Mr. Wells.,” Irene cut in, staring at the Doctor, who had remained silent until that moment.

  “How do you do, Miss Adler,” he said now, extending a wiry hand to Irene, which she ignored. “And you are correct, Mr. Wells’s story was just a story, but the content of the article was hardly fictional, as you can appreciate.”

  Irene shrugged slightly. “That’s all very well, Doctor”—she turned to Mycroft—”but how did you get involved with this?”

  “All in due time, my dear.,” Mycroft replied, showing the way to exit the marquis, “We should give you all the explanation you may seek once we’re out of here and the time machine has been moved to some other place.”

  “But, how do you intend to do that?” Irene asked, turning to look at the capsule before following Mycroft and Dr. Nebo out of the tent.

  “Don’t you worry yourself about that, my dear, just follow me to my car,” Mycroft insisted, walking out and leading them to a silver Lincoln sedan parked at the curb nearby.

  Irene couldn’t help looking around her at the houses lining the street, the front gardens and the motorcars parked alongside the curb of the cross-street. Sherlock had been right, she thought, everyone drives a motorcar now.

  “Where is your driver?” Irene asked as she climbed into the backseat and when she saw Mycroft open the door on the driver side and slip behind the wheel.

  “No driver, my dear. I do the driving and only have a chauffeur when I am on official business.” He put the key in the ignition and started the motor. He then turned his body in the seat to look at Irene. “Look behind you,” he suggested, “and you’ll see that the tent in which you landed is already folded and a truck’s ramp has been lowered to take the capsule away.”

  Irene was already looking out the rear window of the car; she saw a large lorry pull close to the capsule and a grappling hoist it onto a retractable ramp. “Extraordinary,” she said, turning once again to face the front of the car. “But what about the people in these houses, wouldn’t they have noticed anything?”

  “In this street, perhaps someone would have been observing this whole show, but the houses on Baker Street are mostly empty for the time being.”

  “And why would that be?”

  It was Dr. Nebo’s turn to answer, while Mycroft pulled away from the curb. “Well, you see, Miss Adler, these houses have been constructed some seventy years ago and have been the subject of a real estate sale for the past few months. All of the new owners will need to comply with a World Heritage Order which stipulates that none of thesepremises should be defaced or transformed in any way.”

  “You mean the new owners will have to preserve the facades as well as the insides of each of these houses in order to purchase any of them?”

  “Yes, Miss Adler. Except that they will need to modernize the indoor electrical wiring and plumbing, to adhere to the new construction laws.”

  “And where is Sherlock? Does he know they are for sale? Did you talk to him since he arrived?” Irene’s questions tumbled out of her mouth as if her frayed nerves were now unleashing the queries she had mulled over ever since she had learned of Sherlock’s trip in time.

  Mycroft chuckled. “Yes, my dear, I’ve seen and talked to Sherlock on a couple of occasions since he landed a few months ago.”

  “A few months ago?” Irene exclaimed, pulling her body to the edge of the backseat, her head now inches from My-croft’s ear. “But I thought he had chosen November 29 as his date of arrival?”

  “I guess you were wrong on that point, because Sherlock arrived in August-for what reason, I don’t know.”

  “But you’ve seen him, you said,” Irene pressed on.

  “Yes, I did, but I could not believe-or bring myself to believe, I should say-that it was him. I had to confirm my suspicions and that’s when I came back.”

  “What about the houses-do you know if he boughtone of them?”

  “We’re pretty sure he did, Miss Adler-number 3321 was sold in the last 24 hours,” Dr. Nebo answered.

  “And how did you find out? Did you talk to these sales agents perhaps?”

  “No-no, we use the internet.”

  “The “internet”-what’s that?” Irene asked.

  “It’s a form of wireless and interactive communication system-a bit like a two-way radio,” Dr. Nebo explained.

  “I’ll show you when we get to my residence,” Mycroft added, moving through an intersection when the light turned green.

  Irene had noticed that all the cars were observing these intersection lights and were moving in a very orderly manner through town. However, she decided not to ask further questions. The fact was that she had expected to witness and experience enormous changes between the time she left and the present day, but this was a bit much to take in all at once.

  When Mycroft had first met Sherlock, the circumstances were far from pleasant. Somehow, his brother had been embroiled in a terrorist action that had seen him discussing the case with agents of the FBI and CIA. Mycroft had been called to address the matter in his capacity as Defense Minister with the British Government. Apparently, Sherlock had managed to discover an active terrorist cell operating from a house in a plush area of London and wanted the CIA to alert the British Government of his discovery. However, and according to the CIA’s sources in England, no such cell existed-at least not operating from the house in question.

  “I am telling you that all facts indicate that some plot against the people of Britain has been concocted in that house,” Sherlock was insisting vehemently when Mycroft entered the conference room on that August day.

  Everyone around the table rose from their chairs when the statesman came in.

  “Ah, there you are!” Sherlock shouted the minute he set eyes on his brother. “Maybe you can tell them who I am, and what I am telling these nincompoops is correct!” He waited for Mycroft to give an answer.

  None came.

  Mycroft could not bring himself to believe that the man speaking to him was Sherlock Holmes. “Before we get into such details, perhaps you could introduce yourself,” he said, taking an empty seat opposite Sherlock. The latter was clad of an old suit, probably the one he was wearing when he disappeared, Mycroft thought, but quickly erased the painful vision from his mind.

  “Who am I? You ask who I am? I am Sherlock Holmes,” the man said, visibly offended by his brother’s lackof recognition.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Mycroft said quietly, but the famous Sherlock Holmes died some hundred years ago in suspicious circumstances, I might add, and I have no knowledge of my family ever naming another son with the name of Sherlock.” He paused to let the remark sink in. “Therefore, and again, I will ask you your name, sir.”

  Sherlock looked around the table and soon realized that his brother was not about to divulge their relationship-a relationship that must have transcended time somehow. “Alright,” he relented, “I adopted the name some weeks ago when the passport I was given did not state my place of birth correctly.”

  “And would that be a British Passport?” Mycroft asked.

  “No. I was supposedly born in Wellington, New Zealand-and I must add that I have no recollection whatsoever of my growing up or ever visiting New Zealand.”

  “Well then, Mr. Holmes, let’s move on from there, shall we?” Mycroft knew the CIA or FBI must have been behind these shenanigans in order to entice Sherl
ock to move out of the United States as soon as his visa expired. They probably thought he was a terrorist himself, Mycroft mused, and he had no intention to dwell on the subject any further in the presence of these agents.

  Sherlock nodded.

  Mycroft looked around the table and addressed the man at the head of it. “Agent Weisberg, would you be so kind to explain to me why and how you came to call on my office this urgently?”

  “Let me first apologize for not introducing Mr. Holmes properly when you came in.”

  Mycroft waved a dismissive hand in front of his face. “No need for apologies, Agent Weisberg, no need at all. Let’s get to the point, shall we?”

  “Okay then,” Weisberg said, opening the folder in front of him, “Sherlock here has supposedly discovered a terrorist cell operating from a house in Chelsea, in London.”

  “Let me stop you right there, Weisberg,” Mycroft uttered, “don’t tell me. The house belongs to a man by the name of David Penny, does it not?”

  “Yes, that’s the name, yes. But may I ask how you knew of this?”

  “Well, gentlemen”—Mycroft’s gaze traveled around the table—”our MI5 or MI6 departments may be a bit slow on the uptake, as you say in America, but we are well aware of Mr. Penny’s existence and of his covert operations in Britain.”

  “And are you also aware of Sherlock’s assertions”—Weisberg locked eyes with Sherlock—”that this Mr. Penny is planning to plant a bomb in the London Tube only days from now?”

  “No, Agent Weisberg, that’s news to me!”

  “I’m telling you, Mycroft,” Sherlock burst out, “they’re going to blow up the Chelsea Station to smithereens..”

  “And how would you know this?” Mycroft asked, in two minds as to whether Sherlock had some facts in hand to support his assertion or whether it was a way to get back to England.