Thirteen Authors With New Takes on Sherlock Holmes

by Michael A. Ventrella

  I suddenly laughed, and the amusement was genuine, though also filled with an existential horror. “Ah, of course. One final point. One of the most common conceits of fiction, especially fiction of the more outré sort, is to recount it as if it were told to the author, rather than being wholly his creation. I have not, after all, written the accounts of Sherlock’s cases; our author, then, is Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle.”

  Miss LeChance closed her eyes and nodded, and Holmes murmured, “Capital, Watson.” There was a spark of the old enthusiasm in his words. “Absolutely superb, in fact.” He looked to Miss LeChance. “I have a few additional surmises of my own, but would you care to simply tell us the remainder?”

  She stood, as if to stand still was no longer tolerable. “You are close enough. As close, I think, as I could ever expect you to be.” She gestured, taking in the entire world around us. “You are entirely correct that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote a series of stories about your adventures, from which your world is born. And I am from the future—a different future, a different set of stories, in fact.

  “But there are not two, nor three, or a dozen, but a thousand such worlds, a thousand worlds of fiction that have been brought to a form of life, in what would be the future far beyond both of ours, as part of a project called Hyperion. The creators of this project have sought to recreate the heroes of the great stories of their own history—the real history, in which we thousand are all just tales to amuse and thrill and sometimes frighten.”

  “I see,” Holmes said, with an equanimity I found astounding; I was too overwhelmed by the horrific idea, that we were merely the creations—the amusements—of other men. “So my comment on how I might have been tricked into believing in the paranormal was, in fact, completely accurate. There is no true magic; this, then, is some form of technological illusion, a magic lantern as advanced to us as the ordinary lantern might be to a caveman.”

  “Yes.”

  “And why, then, have you come here, Miss LeChance? Revealing these truths would disturb the play, I would think.”

  I saw an honest spark of anger then, a flash of emotion completely unconstrained by her chosen role. “Oh, yeah,” she said, with a completely new accent and demeanor, “it will totally screw up their game. That’s the idea.” She shook her head. “Sorry. I still can’t think about…the so-called experimenters of Hyperion without losing it a little.

  “To answer you—from the point of view of our creators, this is a new and probably final adventure for all of us, what they call a ‘crossover adventure,’ where all of the worlds will be threatened by something from beyond their worlds, and all the great heroes will have to band together to solve the problem.

  “What they don’t know is that a few of us managed to…well, crack their code, take partial control of the worlds. They’re not seeing this conversation. They’re seeing me making contact as an emissary from the Council of Worlds to get the assistance of Sherlock Holmes for the big mystery. What we really want is to get as many of the Hyperions together as we can so that we can turn the tables on the experimenters—so we can be free of these people that thought it was perfectly okay to create us for their own kicks.”

  “I see.” Sherlock looked from her to me. “And should I agree to assist you, what of Watson? For he is utterly indispensable to me, as a companion and as a friend.”

  She bit her lip. “He might be able to come…but…”

  “Do not finish that,” Sherlock said. “I ask you only one thing: if we win, will Watson survive?”

  Miss LeChance hesitated once more. “I hope so. But he—”

  Sherlock made a sharp gesture and she cut off.

  I felt an unnatural calm descend upon me as the final horror became clear. “I am afraid, Holmes, that you have taught me too well,” I said. “Miss LeChance, you said they created the heroes, yes?”

  She hesitated. Sherlock simply nodded.

  “And it is not I, but Sherlock, who is the focus of the world.”

  Another nod.

  I took a deep breath. “Then you should not concern yourself with me, Holmes. You are the one focus of this play, as you say, while I…” For a moment I faltered, but then forced myself to finish. “I am not real.”

  Holmes’s face was suddenly stricken; then he was up, grasping both my shoulders. “Oh, my dear chap, no,” he said, and his voice vibrated with emotion. “No, I assure you, Watson: you are my finest friend and companion, and there is one thing I am more certain of than anything in this—or any other—world: You may not be physical…but you are, beyond any doubt, real.”

  A Scandal in the Bloodline

  BY

  Hildy Silverman

  “Watson, do you know what the worst, the very worst, thing is about immortality?” Holmes peered at me over his evening mug of warm O-positive.

  These repetitive conversations? I thought, nibbling marrow from the cracked femur on my plate. Humoring you through the same complaints for centuries unceasing? “The boredom?”

  “The boredom!” he exclaimed as though I had remained silent. “The utter, crushing monotony of being without enough doing.”

  I sighed. “Yes, Sherlock, of course it is. Far worse than having to drink blood or change identities and locations every several decades or hunt—”

  “When were we even last employed?” He rose and began to pace the length of the dining area in our modest flat. “I swear I can feel my mind atrophying. In this age of world wide webs and CSIs, FBIs, and so forth there is precious little need for a great detective.” He paused in front of me and for a moment looked so downcast my heart ached on his behalf. “This is my true curse, Watson, more than the bloodthirst. I have outlived my usefulness.”

  I stood and placed my hands upon his shoulders. “Now, stop it, Holmes. There are plenty of people…well, living beings. Mostly living—”

  “Please make your point before I drive a wooden chair leg through my own heart.”

  “What I am saying is that not everyone can avail themselves of the police or other law enforcement options. Creatures like us still require friendly assistance from time to time.”

  Cheerful nostalgia lightened Holmes’s angular features, but only briefly. “Past glory does little to ease present ennui.”

  The cellular phone resting on the coffee table in the parlor sang, “Awwwoooo! Werewolves of London.” That ringtone was Holmes’s little joke on me. Humorous, if not quite accurate. I examined the screen for the identity of the caller.

  A scanned photo filled the screen and my heart sank. Crumpled and yellowed with age, it was the image of a woman who appeared in the full flower of her youth. She stared straight into my soul, although it wasn’t my soul she had ultimately ensnared.

  “Will you answer it already?” Holmes stalked into the room.

  I held up the phone so that the screen faced him. I may as well have held up a crucifix, given how abruptly he stopped and rocked back on his heels. After a moment, he straightened his spine and held out a hand.

  “Are you quite certain?” I said, softly.

  He nodded once, sharply, and I placed the phone in his palm. He tapped the screen and raised the phone slowly, as though afraid it would burn his ear. “Mrs. Norton,” he said, managing a tone so calm I nearly believed it. “What can I do for you?”

  I withdrew discreetly to the dining room and endeavored to lower my blood pressure by reminding myself that what Irene Norton had done to my dearest friend had been done out of affection. Had she not been drawn back to England by a preternatural sense that something terrible was about to befall Holmes. Had she not followed him to the site of his demise at Reichenbach, he would have died the true death along with Moriarty. As it was, she’d found Holmes’s broken body on an outcropping of rocks at the bottom of the falls and transformed him.

  “This world will always need Sherlock Holmes. I will always need him,” Holmes told me she’d whispered in his ear before saving his existence, if not his life. From then on whatever bond had
formed between them after the Bohemian case—based upon mutual intellectual respect and admiration, or so they insisted—had grown into something beyond my comprehension. Not romantic love, certainly, but equally powerful, if far darker in nature.

  Of course, I was not one to judge, beast that I had become after my encounter on the moors with the cursed Baskervilles. As Holmes had embraced me despite my transformation (and helped me formulate a tale the public could digest more easily than the case’s true outcome) so too did I welcome him back to Baker Street. Together, we conjured up the somewhat plausible tale of how he’d survived in order to placate the public. Ever since then, we’d traveled the path of immortality and monstrous appetites as one another’s only enduring companion.

  Except for when the woman came calling, which she did with blessedly less frequency as time marched on. But when she summoned Holmes, he always answered.

  At last he came over to me, his gaze fixed upon some distant point.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Here, actually. Seems she has returned to the state of her birth.”

  “Not surprising. New Jersey is a major Site, after all.” It was one of the reasons we’d settled there for the current iteration of our lives—more of our kind in need of our particular investigative skills.

  “It has been nearly fifty years.” Holmes dropped into the chair across from me. “I almost thought…It never is, though.”

  “What does she want, then?” I prompted.

  He made a steeple of his index fingers and rested his chin atop them. “Her husband. He has apparently vanished.”

  “And that is a bad thing?”

  Holmes arched one eyebrow at me. “Lest you forget, old fellow, he is the paterfamilias of our bloodline. Should he be destroyed, Irene would expire as well.”

  I bit my tongue.

  Holmes glared. “Yes, that would be so bad! As she rebirthed me, I would follow her into death’s domain.”

  I hated when he read my mind. So rude. “You do not know that for sure. There are many who believe eliminating one’s parent of the blood frees them from the vampire’s curse.”

  “Many would consider death freedom.” He downed his remaining blood and shuddered, eyes half closed. “Mmm. Myself, I prefer to remain aboveground. It has been a gift to watch the advancements of this world over the centuries. The extermination of so many diseases. Water found on Mars. Twitter! Who knows what will come next?”

  Conveniently forgot your grousing on the boredom of immortality, eh? “More death,” I grumbled. “Not ours, perhaps, but friends, family.” A familiar ache filled my chest as memories swept through my mind. “Wives.”

  Holmes waved his hand in a shooing motion. “Replaceable. How many wives have you had, old fellow? I believe I lost count mid-nineteenth century.”

  I growled, low and deep in my throat.

  Holmes hastily patted the air between us. “Mea culpa, dear friend. I spoke discourteously. You know lack of sensitivity is a failing of my kind. Please accept my apology.”

  “You are lucky the moon has not quite waxed full.”

  He cleared his throat. “In any case, the woman is quite beside herself with worry. She wishes to employ us posthaste to find her errant mate.”

  “Yes, well.” I struggled to find a positive in this scenario. “At least we know she can afford our fee.”

  “Indeed.” Holmes grinned, revealing the tips of his fangs. “Now, that’s the spirit, Watson!”

  “When will she be arriving?”

  “Within the hour.”

  “Then I suppose we have a case.” I shrugged. “Ask and ye shall receive.”

  Holmes’s smile faltered. “I believe ‘be careful what you wish for’ may be the more appropriate aphorism.”

  • • •

  True to form, Mrs. Irene Norton, née Adler, arrived at our flat looking not an instant older than in our previous encounters. Flawlessly coiffed, expensively dressed, and so utterly charming and sincere even I, who knew all too well what she was, found myself swayed.

  Poor Holmes. What chance did he have of withstanding her allure when their blood flowed through one another’s veins? They were bound for eternity.

  She kept our exchange of greetings brief. “How long has he been missing?” Holmes inquired as she stepped between me and my favorite easy chair, and settled herself on it.

  Irritated by the affront, I sat on the couch next to Holmes with a grunt.

  “What is the date?” Irene waved her hand. “I have difficulty keeping track. Have you lived long enough to notice that yet, Sherlock?”

  “One day has always been much like the next unless I have a case.” He glanced at the wall calendar. “October 8, 2015.”

  “Ah. Then he has been missing a bit more than a month.”

  “And you only just noticed?” I said. “Haven’t you two been together for centuries?”

  She shrugged. “It isn’t as if we have never been apart during that time, Mr. Watson.”

  “Doctor,” I corrected. I knew she only erred to provoke me. “Still a doctor, Mrs. Norton.”

  “How lovely for you.” She wrinkled her nose as if catching a whiff of something foul, and returned her full attention to Holmes. “Sherlock, you know how Godfrey has always traveled. Why, he was off on business mere moments after our wedding.” She ran her long, red-lacquered nails through her hair. “You do recall my wedding? The one you were corralled into witnessing during that business with the photograph?”

  Sherlock cleared his throat but otherwise managed to retain an air of professional disinterest. “Considering that your husband’s business has primarily been a cover for expanding the bloodline around the globe, I can see how you would assume he was merely hunting for a week, even two. But a month away without a text, email, or old-fashioned written missive?” Holmes shook his head. “Unlikely. So, please answer the good doctor’s perfectly reasonable question. Why did it take you so long to notice?”

  Irene pouted. “Fine. Godfrey and I have not exactly been together for, well, a couple of years. Or twenty.”

  “I see,” said Holmes, evenly. “Formally divorced, separated…?”

  “There was hardly a need for legalities. Godfrey and I simply decided to pursue other…interests. It was quite mutual and amicable.”

  “In which case, why the concern now?” I asked.

  She spared me a glance. “We have had regular, ah, encounters, shall we say, despite no longer living together as husband and wife.” She offered Holmes a somewhat apologetic look. “We were scheduled for such a reunion right here in New Jersey, at a lovely riverside town called Lambertville. I waited at our designated rendezvous for a week before I became concerned. I tried contacting him by every means possible, but received no response. I then visited his known lairs, which took some time. Finally, I discovered his newest address, just outside of New York City. And there I found…it was….”

  Holmes placed his hands lightly upon hers. I could almost see the electricity leap between their fingers. “What you found convinced you he was in danger.”

  Irene bit her lower lip and nodded. “The place had been torn apart. And there was blood. A great deal of it. Everywhere.”

  “His.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I recognized the scent immediately. No matter what transpired between us toward the end of our formal union, I still care for Godfrey.” She clasped Holmes’s hands tightly. “Moreover, as paterfamilias, his demise threatens our entire bloodline.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “You said there was a great deal of blood. Did it all belong to the unfortunate Mr. Norton?”

  “Yes. I am certain.”

  “Well, then, how do you know he is not already destroyed?”

  “Do you think I would be seated here if he were? Did you not just hear what I said? If he dies—”

  “Yes, yes, you all die. I’ve heard that tale before.”

  Irene bared her fangs and hissed. “It is not a tale, it is a fa
ct! The only one in this room with a tail is you.”

  Before I could retort, Holmes gave me a look that said, Let me handle this. I growled and subsided deeper into the sofa.

  “You said your paramour failed to meet you at a designated rendezvous, which was out of character,” said Holmes. “He could not be found by any of the means available to us in this modern age. You found his home in severe disarray, clearly the site of a violent struggle, and a considerable amount of his spilled blood. Yet you remain convinced he is alive and that opinion is solely based upon you and me also still existing.”

  Irene was studying Holmes’s face. I wondered if she were trying to read his thoughts—or intent on blocking him from reading hers. “That is all accurate.”

  “Then the only conclusion can be that he was assaulted and abducted. Begging the questions, by whom and for what purpose?” Holmes withdrew his hands from Irene’s grasp, rose, and began to pace. “A paterfamilias is a powerful creature. It would take a being, more likely several, of great strength to overwhelm him.”

  “Indeed. Strong and vicious. And with reason to hate one who governs and shields our kind from”—Irene shot me a pointed look—“others.”

  “Wait. You think hellhounds attacked him?” I shook my head. “Granted, there is little love lost between our peoples, Mrs. Norton—”

  “Precious little,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “But if you were correct there would be no doubt as to your husband’s condition,” Holmes finished for me. “Hounds would simply tear him limb from limb and go about their day. What possible reason would they have to abduct a vampire?”

  “Ransom,” said Irene after a moment’s hesitation. “They know the value of a paterfamilias to his bloodline.”

  Holmes nodded once. “Good. Reasonable. Whom have they contacted for payment? Not you, I assume.”