It’s a Wonderful Legacy

 

Jane Smith

 

It was Christmas Eve at 221b Baker Street. Mr. Sherlock Holmes was completely alone, Mrs. Hudson having gone to visit the standard sister who always appears when it is crucial to the plot, Dr. Watson being at home with whatever-numbered-wife (surely in double figures by now), and our dear Holmes, as he had admitted himself on a previous occasion, having no other friends.

“Was ever such a dreary, dismal, unprofitable world?” Holmes soliloquised. “I abhor the dull routine of existence. Sometimes I feel that my life has no really useful meaning. These are the times when I usually bring out the old cocaine bottle, but keeping in mind the need for this story to have a plot line, I think I shall take a dismal stroll along London Bridge instead.”

 

He did so.

 

About ten minutes later, Holmes’s feet were feeling quite frozen, and he was just thinking of abandoning the dismal stroll and going back to Baker Street for a cup of hot cocoa, when there was a loud howl directly beneath him and a slightly chubby form plummeted into the icy waters of the Thames. Holmes being always the type to help out a fellow human being, he promptly removed his overcoat, plunged into the river and dragged out its occupant.

“Hullo,” said the fellow with a cheery smile, as soon as he had finished sputtering. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am your guardian angel.”

“Why do you look like Dr. Watson?” Holmes asked rather grumpily.

“I’m sorry, all questions must be submitted in writing and sent first class mail to the central office,” said the angel, or Watson, or whatever it was. “Now come along. There is much to see!”

“There is also much to observe,” stated Holmes. “For instance, you have been eating chocolate cake lately, most probably with cherries on top.”

“How do you know?” exclaimed the guardian angel.

“Wipe the crumbs off your shirt once in a while, sir!” Holmes replied.

“Wouldn’t they have come off in the Thames?” asked the angel.

“Oh be silent, you fool,” Holmes replied. “How dare you interfere with the Sherlock Scan?”

“It’s beside the point, as always,” said the guardian angel. Suddenly, everything seemed to swirl around in an odd way and the next thing Holmes knew, he and his G.A. were standing in a curiously-shaped room filled with swivel chairs and mysterious screens and buttons. In one corner of the room sat a tall, thin, dark-haired man, with disturbingly pointed ears and somewhat alarming eyebrows. He was dressed in black trousers and boots and what appeared to Sherlock Holmes to be a sort of royal blue nightshirt.

“Pray, what is that?” Holmes asked, watching the man do something complicated with one of the screens.

“ That’ is Mr. Spock, First Officer of the Enterprise on the twentieth-century television program Star Trek and just one of many characters who were strongly inspired by your, erm, uniquely pleasant personality,” replied the G.A. “He’s brilliant, logical, reserved, emotionless, utterly lacking in social skills and he even hangs around with a doctor! Oh, and he’s also half alien.”

“Er…thank you…I think,” said Holmes.

“You should thank me,” the G.A. replied. “To put it in the appropriate contemporary terms, Star Trek was, like, THE most influential sci-fi show EVER! And one of its main characters was undoubtedly inspired by you! Why, he even directly quotes you in the 2009 remake.”

“If you eliminate the impossible,” said the blue-shirted figure, “Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

“Plagiariser,” grumbled Holmes.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” said the G.A. “Now come along.”

Everything swirled again, and this time Holmes and the G.A. were standing in front of a colourful, large building with various strange bits of artwork hanging up on the walls.

“This is called a movie theatre,” explained the G.A. “And I bring you here to inform you that you are and I quote; the most portrayed movie character of all time. At least according to Wikipedia, which in this century is generally regarded as the fount of all reasonable knowledge. Why, look at this poster here! It’s a movie about you, starring you and even creatively named after you.”

Holmes inspected the poster with evident disapproval.

“Well, granted, they got your clothes, your height, your weight, your hair style and your general aura totally WRONG,” said the G.A., “But. Still. You know.”

Another swirl and Holmes found himself in the midst of a crowd of girls who seriously needed boyfriends, writing hopelessly dreadful fan-fiction and chanting his name aloud, alternatively.

“What is this, some sort of cult gathering?” cried Holmes in alarm.

“Don’t be silly,” said the G.A. “They’re fans of yours. It’s called love. You know, that thing that is particularly abhorrent to your cold, precise, but admirably balanced mind?”

“This is supposed to make me feel better about my existence?” Holmes demanded, covering his ears in a failed attempt to block out the squeals.

“You’re hopeless,” sighed the G.A. “I suppose I’ll have to show you something a little more concrete.”

There was yet another swirl, and Holmes beheld a long line of men and women of all types and ages, stretching out as far as his eyes could see.

“These are all people,” informed the G.A., “who have chosen careers in law enforcement or private investigation, all from the inspiration and fond memories of reading about your cases. Every day they make the world a safer and a better place. And that doesn’t even include the writers, chemists, violin players, handwriting analysts - ”

“I take your point,” Holmes interrupted. “And I cannot believe it. These ladies and gentlemen would have vastly superior lives had they chosen a normal career in an office. My life has had no worthwhile impact on the world and I wish I had never been born!”

“And they call him the smart one,” said the G.A., shaking his head. “All right then. Fine!”

Everything suddenly went black and then Holmes and the G.A. were back on the bank of the Thames River in late-Victorian London.

“Finally,” Holmes muttered. “Thank you for your efforts, Guardian, but I shall now return to Baker Street directly.”

“Um, no,” said the G.A. “You got your wish, Holmes, or, should I say, X. You’ve never been born, and consequently don’t exist and consequently don’t live in Baker Street or anywhere at all.”

“What ineffable twaddle!” Holmes, or X, exclaimed. “Of course I exist. Don’t attempt philosophy with me, my good man!”

“Go try it then,” the G.A. replied. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

As Holmes strode the familiar streets to his lodgings, something about London seemed very unfamiliar indeed. It was a hobby of his to have an exact knowledge of London, but so many street names had been changed, and so many landmarks altered, during his walk on London Bridge, that he had to admit, for the first time since the age of two, that he was lost.

“Excuse me, sir,” Holmes asked a man on the corner, “Could you tell me the way to Baker Street?

“Baker Street!” exclaimed the man. “You’re daft, man. There’s no Baker Street in Moriartyville!”

“You mean London,” corrected Holmes. “Wait, what?” But the man had shuffled off, shaking his head in disgust. “Drunken fool,” muttered Holmes, doing the same.

Suddenly, he heard a commotion on the next corner, and lifted his head to see a young woman, screaming and kicking, being dragged off by several policemen. Her hair was scraggly, her eyes red, and her face looked worn years older, but Holmes could not help but recognize the woman he had once saved from a most unfortunate forced marriage.

“I know that girl!” Holmes exclaimed, charging across the street. “That’s Violet Smith!”

“Her name is Violet Woodley,” informed the G.A., who had showed up from somewhere. “Her odious husband died last year in a drunken brawl, and good riddance, I say. It is rumoured that they had a forced marriage, and he certainly drove her to madness. Any trouble she gets in is his fault, really.”

“I don’t believe this!” cried Holmes. “Miss Smith!” he called, approaching the lady. “Miss Smith, it is I, Sherlock Holmes. Are you in need of assistance?” “Sherlock who?” asked Mrs. Woodley as the policemen finally closed handcuffs around her wrists.

“Sherlock Holmes, who helped prevent your forced marriage to Mr. Woodley,” Holmes explained.

“Have you gone mad?” the lady asked. “Nobody helped prevent that marriage. I had applied for help to a police detective, named Lestrade, but he couldn’t even understand what the problem was, and the only help he gave me was sending me a congratulatory fruit basket two days after the wedding.”

“What is the point of this absurd charade?” Holmes demanded as the policemen began marching Mrs. Woodley down the street. “Inspector, I tell you, I know that girl!”

“If you know her, you must be a jailbird yourself,” one of the policemen said, and threw Holmes in jail along with Mrs. Woodley. Strangely, Holmes recognised nearly every one of his cellmates - the plumber John Horner, who had never been cleared of the false charges about him stealing the famous blue carbuncle; young Percy Phelps, accused of selling off a highly sensitive naval treaty; and a certain red-head named Jabez Wilson, who claimed he had been implicated in a bank robbery involving the apprentice in his pawn shop. Even more strangely, Holmes recognized many of the police guards as well - John Clay, Jephro Rucastle, Grimesby Roylott and other blackguards who for some reason had been given cushy government jobs in the jailhouse.

“This is too illogical,” stated Holmes, and, using his superior lock-picking skills, promptly exited the jail and stomped homeward in the direction of Baker Street. This time, he managed to find it, but for some reason his apartment had been torn down and made into a lavish mansion with a large M emblazoned on the front door.

“What on earth has happened to 221b?” Holmes inquired of the G.A., who had made a re-appearance once the jail escapade was over with.

“This is Moriarty Mansion,” said the G.A. “Home of the mayor of this city, Moriartyville.”

“It’s called London, you idiot!” Holmes explained. “You, sir, are nothing less than quite mad! And you are radiating your madness out to those around you. Nothing has been right, ever since I jumped off London Bridge.”

“Moriarty Bridge,” the G.A. corrected.

“Oh, shut up!” Holmes exclaimed. “I’ve half a mind to - ”

But the G.A. was never to hear about Holmes’ half-mind, for at that moment, the door of Moriarty Mansions opened, and out came the Professor himself, the mayor of what in another dimension had been London. And on his arm, with a huge diamond wedding ring sparkling in the street-lamps, was THE woman, Irene Adler Moriarty!

“This is impossible!” cried Holmes aloud. “Where is my brother, Mycroft, to prevent this outrage?”

“Remember that one time,” said the G.A., “When, in a rare moment of athletic activity, you and Mycroft joined the other children in skating on the village pond? Mycroft never having been the skinny type, he promptly fell through the ice and would have drowned were you not there to pull him out. Well, because of your wish, you weren’t there at all, and he met quite an unfortunate end. Would you like to see his gravestone?”

“No!” Holmes hollered. “Guardian, you must tell me one thing. Where is Dr. Watson?”

“I’m not supposed to tell!” said the G.A.

“Do it!” screamed Holmes.

“Whatever,” said the G.A. “Look in the window.” Holmes peered in the front window of Moriarty Mansions, and saw his former best friend seated at a desk, busily composing stories about the noble adventures of the Professor!

“Et tu, Watson?” Holmes lamented.

“After the doctor returned from Afghanistan,” the G.A. informed, “He could not find a soul in London to split the cost of rooms with him, and consequently was penniless in the streets until Moriarty picked him up and gave him a job writing for the Strand magazine. Now everyone in Moriartyville believes the Professor to be not only the greatest mayor, but also the coolest detective that ever existed. You see, Holmes? You really had a wonderful life! Don’t throw it all away just because you’re in a bad mood.”

“Get me back, Guardian!” yelled Holmes, running back to Moriarty Bridge with all his speed. “I want to live again! Please, God!” Just as he reached the bridge, snow began to fall, and he slipped in the ice and fell, knocking his head loudly against the bridge railing. Everything went black, and the next thing Holmes knew, Dr. Watson was next to him, dabbing at his bleeding forehead with a large handkerchief.

“I say, Holmes,” the doctor was saying, “You ought to know better than to go traipsing around bridges in this weather. It’s a good thing I stopped here on my way to Baker Street! You really slipped and hurt yourself badly! I shouldn’t wonder if you have bad dreams tonight because of this.”

“Excuse me, did you say Baker Street?” asked Holmes groggily.

“Of course I did, Holmes,” said the doctor. “You surely weren’t thinking of spending Christmas Eve alone there, were you? I’ve come to invite you to spend Christmas with my wife and me, and with several other people who have dropped in to thank you for all the many ways in which you have saved their lives and reputations. Now try to stand up, my dear fellow, and I shall hail a cab for my house. I say, is that a tear in your eye, Holmes?”

“What? Of course not,” Holmes replied as he climbed into the cab. “It’s just this blasted December wind. It makes my eyes water.”