John had been experiencing a lot of ‘incredible’ things in the past twenty four hours, but the idea of coming into contact with a dastardly Victorian version of Jim Moriarty wasn’t one of them, and it wasn’t something he was feeling particularly excited about, especially after their last run in.

“I thought the point of this case was finding out why we’re able to time travel, not figuring out how to beat Moriarty,” John impatiently reminded Sherlock, bringing him back down a peg or two from his excitement.

“Yes…” He frowned slightly. “Yes, yes, you’re right, of course.”

“But if we could put our two minds together,” said Holmes. “I feel certain that we could finally overcome this adversary.”

“Exactly!” Sherlock cried, right back on the idea again.

Both Watsons rolled their eyes in unison, and the two Holmes’ strode off again, leading the way to Simpson’s In The Strand for tea and a comparison of notes on their various Moriarty cases although as neither of them apparently had any means of contacting the master criminal, it was questionable how they were going to get close enough to defeat him, and were chasing at dead ends for the time being, with no clear leads to follow.

After a pleasant lunch, John and Dr Watson decided to take a ride over to St Bart’s together, with John eager to see the differences between his own time period and Victorian London. The two Sherlock’s took a meander through London, walking and chatting to one another with Moffat in tow, finally ending up back at Baker Street where they duetted together on the violin and drove poor Mrs Hudson up the wall.

As midnight approached, it was clear that everyone in the party was both nervous and excited at the prospect of what might unfold before them. There was less talking, particularly between the two Sherlock’s, whom John felt had been pretty much at it all day, and driving him mad in the process.

Now, the pair were silent and contemplative, both sat on the small chaise longue in Baker Street, side by side, mirror imaging one another with their fingers steepled underneath their chin, surrounded by a cloud of smoke as they occasionally puffed on their respective pipes, ‘Holmes’ having decided to gift Sherlock with one of his own. It was going to be hell trying to get Sherlock to quit again after this, John thought to himself as he watched the two of them together.

He and Watson were both sat in the armchairs by the fire, Watson was reading the newspaper quietly and John was just observing everyone else around him, including Moffat, who was stood by the window anxiously.

At quarter past eleven, it was Holmes who stirred first and announced that they should ‘depart’, and so they all roused themselves and headed down to Waterloo Bridge for the latest experiment. By the time they arrived, both Sherlock’s were almost hyperactive with energy, but Holmes more so than his younger, curlier haired counterpart, simply because he hadn’t travelled in time before whereas Sherlock had.

As soon as Big Ben began to strike for midnight, they all stood in the same spot and clasped onto the ball, their hands and fingers merging on top of one another but everyone making sure they had at least one finger touching the ball directly.

They were not to be disappointed.

The exact same thing happened in reverse, and they were all sent spiralling back to the present.

***

I felt a sudden rush and a sickness in the back of my throat and the very depths of my chest, as though my stomach itself was getting turned upside down and thrust upwards, threatening to escape my mouth. For a good moment or two I concerned myself with the worry that I might empty out the contents of my half digested luncheon, but my constitution managed to uphold itself and it wasn’t long before I landed in a most ungraceful position on my posterior, in a heap on the cold ground of the bridge.

I hastily jumped to my feet and looked around me in confusion, astonished to find that we were in a London so unfamiliar to me that it might have been a dream or some weird and wonderful foreign land.

Holmes was up on his feet too and jumping around in near delirium, a delighted expression on his features.

“By jove, Watson!” he ejaculated, seizing me by the wrist in his vice like grip. “Have you seen?”

“I have,” I answered in an excited whisper.

The other three in our party seemed a good sight less impressed by what had occurred, although Sherlock, Holmes’ younger more arrogant self, had a rather pleased expression on his face as he began to lead us along the bridge in the direction of Westminster.

Although it was late at night, I was surprised to find there were still a good number of people around, and vehicles so fantastical the like of which I had never seen before, with lights and roaring engines, dashing so quickly back and forth, faster than horses at a gallop.

On more than one occasion I felt near to getting knocked over by one of these vehicles as we were crossing the roads and making our way to Baker Street, and Holmes had to grab my arm and yank me back. He seemed much calmer about everything than I was; taking it all in his stride and accepting the evidence of his own eyes, striding on ahead to fall into step next to Sherlock and ask him pertinent questions about the various buildings, shops and roads we passed along the way, getting to know as much about this new London as he possibly could.

“May I look at the ball?” He then asked, turning to Moffat.

The nervous young man nodded and held out the mysterious device.

I watched as Holmes turned it over in his hands and examined it very carefully.

“How can one ball have the ability to do this?” He looked at Sherlock
excitedly.
“I don’t know,” his counterpart admitted lowly.

“And what do these markings mean? I’ve never seen them before. Is it a language you know of, Holmes? A newer, more modern language I am perhaps unfamiliar with?”

Sherlock shook his head, his annoyance at not knowing quite clear on his scrunched up features. “I’m familiar with every language in the world to some extent and I’ve never seen these markings before.”

“Unless it’s some brand new language then,” suggested my younger self, the one who liked to call himself ‘John’. “Or some language that’s not even been invented yet. Y’know, like, from the future or something.” He shrugged.

I thought it was a rather fantastical and far fetched fanciful idea myself, but Sherlock seemed to get very excited by the concept, stopping in the middle of the street and turning to his companion with an eager expression. “I knew there’d be a benefit to you watching all those awful sci-fi shows.”

“What? What are you talking about?” John looked at him, clearly as confused as I was.

“You’re a genius, John!” The detective cried. “Think about it…what technology do we have that can send people back and forward in time, or help people hop between different dimensions and alternate universes?”

“We…uh…well…there isn’t any,” the baffled John replied.

“Exactly! There isn’t any. It’s impossible.”

“Once you eliminate the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be true,” my Holmes interjected, to the delight of Sherlock who clicked his fingers and pointed at him.

“Precisely, my good friend!” He laughed. “So, in this case…what’s impossible? Time travel in either my time, or your time. Eliminate that. Therefore, it can’t have come from either my time or your time, therefore, no matter how improbable this sounds, it MUST have come from some other time!”

“A time where the technology to perform these kind of feats HAS been invented,” Holmes supplied, catching on to where Sherlock was going with this, as were the rest of us, slowly.

“Yes! Exactly that! The future! The future, John.” He smiled as he turned to his companion and clapped him on the back.

“But how does that help us?” John asked. “The device only seems to send us back and forth between these two particular time periods.”

“Because it must have been set that way. We need to examine the device itself in more detail, try and figure out how it works.” At that point, he raised his arm in the air and yelled out, “Taxi,” one of the strange fast moving vehicles stopping right in front of us all.

Sherlock opened up the door and he, John and Moffat piled inside.

Holmes and I looked at one another, shrugged, and followed.

***

Molly Hooper was in for quite the shock. She’d been expecting a quiet night in the morgue filling out some paperwork for the latest John Doe that had just arrived and now she found herself face to face with two versions of Sherlock Holmes, two versions of John Watson, and a hastily thrown together story about time travel, multiple dimensions, alternate universes and some kind of magical black ball, a ball that was quickly thrust into her hands by an impatient looking Sherlock, as he whipped off his scarf and jumped up onto the counter, his legs swinging carelessly back and forth, heels banging into the cupboards and creating quite a racket.

“Bit different from in my day…” Dr Watson murmured to himself as he limped around the lab, his old war wound apparently playing up, even though John was fairly sure he was supposed to have been shot in the shoulder. Did his other self have a psychosomatic leg wound too? Fascinating.

“I’m not entirely sure what you want me to do with this, Sherlock…” Molly scrunched up her nose as she looked at the ball, confused.

“Test it! Scan it, X-Ray it, anything, just do something!” Sherlock snapped.

“But don’t break it!” Holmes added, removing his hat and placing it on the table next to Sherlock’s scarf before jumping up and sitting on the work surface next to his other self, the two of them like peas in a pod.

“No, whatever you do, don’t break it,” agreed Sherlock.

“Watson and I need it to get back to our own time.”

“And it could be very important.”

“No doubt, my dear Holmes. It is of the greatest importance.”

“The greatest importance, Holmes.”

Molly looked back and forth between the two of them, her mouth slightly agape and already starting to develop something of a crush on the second Sherlock. He was so gentlemanly, smart, intelligent. And those eyes…and that hair. She shivered a little then she managed to close her mouth long enough to turn round and face the X-ray machine, putting the ball inside and pressing the button to start the process.

The two John’s and Sherlock’s watched and waited eagerly, with Mr Moffat having been sent back home prior to their arrival, with orders to wait for Sherlock’s phone call with any further instructions or requests. He had been reluctant to part with the magic ball, but Sherlock could be incredibly persuasive when he wanted to be.

After running various tests, Molly was able to give them some kind of report back.

“Well, it’s made out of tungsten…the markings are drawn on with a waterproof white paint.”

“Brand?” Sherlock demanded.

“I…don’t know. It’s just…white paint,” she shrugged apologetically. “Other than that, there appears to be some kind of circuit inside of it…look here, on the X-ray.” She showed them the image. “But obviously we can’t get in it and take a closer look without breaking the ball, which first of all you didn’t want me to do and secondly seems pretty impossible anyway, considering it’s made out of the strongest metal going and doesn’t have any kind of switches or flaps or anything…” She frowned and turned it round in her hands, pulling and twisting.

“There must be some kind of special machine or device that opens the ball…that you can put the ball in to and programme it,” said Sherlock.

“Where?” Molly asked, seriously confused by this point.

“In the future, of course!” the detective cried, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and causing Molly to look even more confused.

“Just ignore him,” John waved his hand and gave Molly an apologetic shrug. “It’s complicated. Right now we’ve got lots of theories and ideas, but no real proof of anything. Only that this thing takes us back and forth to two different realities and has been made by technology that hasn’t been invented yet, so therefore has to come from the future, or some other alternate universe where they have more advanced tech.”

“Ah. Well, that does seem like a bit of a problem,” said Molly cheerfully, coming on board and getting a little excited by the whole thing, in contrast to the two Sherlock’s, who by now had miserable, glum expressions on their faces, frustrated at not having any clues.

“What do you normally do when you’re stuck on a case, Holmes?” Sherlock asked, looking to his compatriot for advice.

“Sit in a darkened room and smoke a good few ounces of shag.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Sherlock,” John warned him testily. He didn’t want Baker Street in a haze of smoke like the Victorian one had been.

“Unless you want me to pick up a few ounces of heroin instead, I’d suggest you agree, John,” Sherlock replied with a smirk, jumping down off the work surface and knowing he’d win with that one.

“Now that does seem like a good idea,” replied Holmes, following suit. “Perhaps you know somewhere we could purchase some high quality product?”

“Actually, I have a man in Islington who – “

“Holmes, no!” Watson protested.

“Sherlock!” John cried at the same time.

“Stop encouraging each other!” Molly snapped. “Neither of you are having any drugs!”

Both Sherlock’s immediately began to pout, but their respective Watson’s grabbed them by the shoulders and spun them round, leading them back out towards the door.

“You can smoke if you really must,” John huffed as the four of them piled into another taxi outside St Bart’s. “Just make sure you leave the windows open. I want to be able to breathe in there.”

***

“Holmes, I really must protest! I simply cannot breathe in here!” I ejaculated some hours later, when the intolerable atmosphere of the room had become increasingly unbearable to the point where John and I were considering leaving the building altogether, with even the small kitchen and our separate bedroom upstairs not free of the thick smoke from the cigarettes Holmes and Sherlock were continually puffing on.

On the way home in the ‘taxi’, they had stopped at a local modern shop known as Tesco’s and purchased a large amount of cigarettes. It was a fascinating place; very bright inside almost to the point where I was dazzled with the white of the lights, and bustling with people all carrying strange wire baskets and putting items off the shelves into them.

For the most part, we were ignored, but I felt the eyes of one or two on us as we wandered the rows, with John choosing some items of food and then getting very frustrated once it came to leave and a machine began talking to him. Some strange man even commented that he liked our ‘cosplay’, whatever that meant. I found the entire experience to be both bizarre and interesting, but not particularly one I would care to repeat. This new world that Sherlock and John occupied would take some adjustments, certainly for myself who was, by that point, rather set in my ways.

Thankfully, I would not have to endure it for too much longer, only for the duration of the case, or however long Holmes decided to stay here before returning home. For that time, I decided to throw myself into the situation and tackle it head on, taking each hour, each day, as it came to me, and accepting this strange place for what it was.

Baker Street itself was immeasurably different from our own. I was surprised to see that it had a kitchen, and that we were expected to cook our own meals rather than have them prepared by Mrs Hudson and brought up for us. In fact, Mrs Hudson very specifically stated that she was “not our housekeeper”, a sentiment I found most distasteful although John apparently didn’t object to cooking.

It was late when we arrived, and both John and I decided we would head straight to bed and attempt to get a few hours sleep before continuing with our work in the morning. After assisting John with ‘unpacking’ the food and having a quick peruse around the new Baker Street, I was shown upstairs to the private bedroom that John occupied and I took up residence on the floor. Although he was quite insistent that I should have the bed, I was quite insistent on the opposite. After all, he had slept on the floor at my version of Baker Street; it was only fair that I should do the same at his.

It wasn’t the uncomfortable nature of the floor itself that kept me awake that night though, but rather the smoke which seemed to billow up the stairs from the living room as Sherlock and Holmes filled their lungs with the poison. Finally, it became too much for John to endure too, with the two of us tossing and turning, until we both decided to go down there and intervene. I occasionally enjoy a smoke myself, but this was a step too far.

“Sherlock, I thought I told you to open the windows,” John protested as we waved our hands through the haze. “You’re going to set the bloody smoke alarms off at this rate!”

“Smoke alarms?” I looked at John quizzically and he shook his head.

“Forget it.”

“We’re trying to think, John,” Sherlock protested, reluctantly getting up from his armchair and going to open one of the windows.

“And how’s that going for you?” asked John with his hands on his hips. “We’re trying to sleep. Perhaps you should try that.”

“Psshh...” Holmes waved his hand dismissively and reached for another cigarette. “Perhaps in an hour or two some rest might be advisable.”

Sherlock jumped back in his armchair and picked up the black ball, tossing it from hand to hand carelessly. “Not tired.”

“Why don’t you let me make you a cup of tea?” John offered. “It might make you feel sleepy.”

“You’re not my mother, John!” Sherlock snapped.

But make tea he did, and very good tea it was too. It was surprising to me to see a man so able in the kitchen although he assured me it was fairly normal for his time period, even telling me about some famous male chefs.

After enjoying a warm, milky cup with a dash of sugar, I most definitely felt sleepy again and, with the window open and the smoke beginning to clear, John and I returned to our rooms and were able to get some well deserved rest at around four in the morning.

I drifted off to the sounds of Sherlock and Holmes talking, and most probably still smoking, but I awoke to silence and assumed that even they too, had fallen asleep.

I stayed lying on my back for a few minutes more, waiting until John had awoken too, and then the pair of us talked for a while before getting up and going downstairs, with John kindly offering to make breakfast for us all.

It both amused me and brought a kind of warmth to my heart to see the two Holmes’ asleep in their respective armchairs, their heads back and mouths open, the coffee table strewn with cigarettes.

“Huh. It’s a good job they didn’t fall asleep smoking,” John remarked as we looked at them. “Set the whole damn place on fire.”

“Should I wake them?” I offered.

“Nah. Let them sleep a while longer,” smiled John. “I’ll make the breakfast.”

***

John was the king of cooked breakfasts and pretty soon the place was smelling of fried mushrooms, eggs, fresh toast, and other scrumptious delights for Sherlock and Holmes to wake up to, which happened sooner than expected when Watson managed to turn on the TV and Jeremy Kyle came blasting on nice and loud.

Sherlock gasped and jerked awake; Holmes following suit a moment later.

“Huh…we must have fallen asleep after all, old boy,” said Holmes with a smile, stretching up his long arms like a cat and yawning, looking and sounding fresh as a daisy after his two hour nap.

“Ugh, yes, we must,” Sherlock muttered with disgust, as if unimpressed with himself.

John carried the breakfasts through and put them on the desk by the window, just in time to see Sherlock beginning to freak out, standing up and pulling out all the cushions on the armchair then rushing over to the sofa and doing the same there.

“Where is it…where is it…” He was muttering to himself.

“Where’s what?” John snapped impatiently.

“The ball!” Sherlock cried, hurling cushions around and tugging at his hair, Holmes soon catching on and beginning to help him look.

“The ball?” Watson frowned. “But…you had it in your hands last night.”

“A few hours ago,” John corrected with a sarcastic mutter.

“Exactly! And now it’s gone! It’s not here!”

“That’s impossible,” said John. “It has to be here somewhere.”

“No,” Holmes said very solemnly. “No. It doesn’t.”

At his tone of voice, everyone turned to look at him.

He was standing by the door that led into their flat, and held a piece of paper in his hand. “I found this,” he said by way of explanation, and everyone rushed to crowd round him as he read it out.

When I discovered the ball had been taken, I knew it must have been you, it’s always you. Thankfully, my good friend Jim was able to assist me in breaking into your quarters, knowing your hours all too well. Soon there will be three of us…and you won’t be able to stop us, ever.

Yours cordially,

Doctor Moriarty.

“Doctor Moriarty?!” all four of them seemed to cry at once, looking at each other with baffled expressions for a moment, before both Sherlock’s seemed to reach the same conclusion at the same time.

“Future Moriarty!” they cried.

“He’s the one who invented the ball!” added Sherlock.

“The only one who knows how it works,” said Holmes.

“What does he mean by ‘soon there will be three of us’?” Watson asked, looking decidedly worried.

“Future Moriarty has come back from the future, teamed up with Present Moriarty and now the two of them are going to the past to collect Past Moriarty and team up with him, of course,” Sherlock rattled off the explanation quickly. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Well, what are we going to do?” John demanded. “He’s got the ball. We can’t do anything without it. We can’t go back into the Past and stop him. For all we know, he could have already gone.”

“Not if he has to leave at midnight on Waterloo Bridge. That’ll be midnight tonight,” said Holmes.

“We don’t even know if the ball works that way. He could have changed it. If the guy who invented it has his hands on it again, he could in theory do anything he wanted and alter the way it works or…or something,” said John, pondering the theories.

“Yes, indeed,” muttered Sherlock. “But I know a man who might be able to help us.”

“Who?” the other three asked together.

“My brother.”

“Mycroft?” Holmes scoffed, somewhat derisively.

“Oh, you don’t like him either? Excellent.” Sherlock seemed rather please with that.

“Well, he’s certainly intolerable at times,” admitted Holmes. “I simply fail to see how he can help, unless you’re about to tell me that this current version of my brother has invented time travel.”

“You never know,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he grabbed his coat, the breakfast completely forgotten about.

John gave and exasperated sigh and hurriedly shoved some eggs and beans into his mouth, trying to get as much down him as possible before the last second that they had to leave. Watson saw him in and quickly joined in as the two Holmes’ got their things together and rushed down the stairs.

“We’d better go,” John rolled his eyes.

“I suppose we better had,” Watson agreed, and the two ever patient companions chased after their respective detectives.

***

An hour later and the four of them were sat in a darkened room with Mycroft Holmes, staring up at a TV screen showing video footage of 221B Baker Street.

After some confusion on Mycroft’s part and a few astonished words about how thin he was from Holmes, the government man had accepted what was going on with a surprising amount of ease and was getting straight on with the task Sherlock had requested of him, perhaps realising the potential seriousness of the situation. Three Moriarty’s would definitely not be a good outcome.

“How did you know I still had cameras set up?” Mycroft asked his younger brother with a slight quirk of the eyebrow.

“Because it’s you,” Sherlock scoffed. “Now get on with it.”

“Ah…here we are..” Mycroft hit pause and pointed at the screen.

The timestamp was marked 5:45am.

Two men could be seen on the doorstep of 221B, one of them – the very recognisable Jim Moriarty – bending forward and picking the lock like an expert and the other, with slightly wild bright orange hair and an unusual looking futuristic white suit, standing guard.

“Well, a guy dressed like that could hardly go unrecognised in London,” John pointed out. “Especially with that hair, bloody hell. He’s even weirder than you, Sherlock.”

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Where did they go next.”

A few moments later, they emerged back outside with the ball tucked under Doctor Moriarty’s arm, and the two of them got into a black car with blacked out windows.

Mycroft clicked to another camera and managed to zoom in on the registration plate.

“I need you to track that vehicle all over the city,” Sherlock demanded.

“Already on it,” Mycroft muttered, his fingers flying over the keyboard and inputting data, bringing up several different cameras on the multiple screens in front of them, showing the same car at various stages of the journey and at different times during that morning.

“Looks like it went to this location in Greenwich.”

The final screen showed the car parked up outside a large warehouse.

“Abandoned warehouse,” muttered Sherlock. “How Moriarty.”

“Come!” cried Holmes. “The game is afoot!”

“On,” corrected Sherlock.

“Afoot,” frowned Holmes as they walked out the door together.

“Nobody says afoot anymore. You’re simply drawing attention to yourself.”

“Nobody says ‘the game is on’ either, Sherlock,” John rolled his eyes and followed after them both with Watson. “Loser.”

***

On the journey over to the warehouse, I was beginning to get the thrill of the chase coursing through my veins, and a rush of adrenalin to my head that sent me dizzy with excitement. I smiled to myself slightly and took out my notepad and pencil to begin furiously scribbling some notes down about the case and how everything had progressed so far, just as my compatriot John took out his new fangled device and began punching letters into it with his fingers. He informed me it was known as a ‘mobile phone’. Fascinating.

I no longer felt too out of place in this world. Although my clothes were still from another time and I occasionally witnessed the stares from other members of the public, I was far too embroiled in the adventure to worry myself with their opinions for now there were high stakes involved. It was imperative that we get to the two Moriarty’s and stop their dastardly plan from going ahead, as well as reclaim the ball so that Holmes and I could return to our own world. Perhaps then it might just do as well to destroy such a ball so that no one like Moriarty could get their hands on it again, and I suggested as much to Holmes as we journeyed together.

“I’m inclined to agree, Watson,” he nodded, running his delicate fingers through his hair, having opted not to wear his hat for our little outing that morning, enabling him to blend in better with the others. “No one should have that much power.”

“Seems a shame to destroy it,” muttered Sherlock, the first time they had really disagreed about anything.

“Ignore him,” said John. “He just wants it for himself so he can go and solve the Jack The Ripper case.”

“Not even I could – “ began Holmes.

“Mm, perhaps not, but I bet I could.” Sherlock interrupted, his eyes twinkling.

“You really think Mycroft is gonna let you keep the ball?” asked John. “Now that he knows about it, he’s going to want it for himself.”

“We can’t let Mycroft get his grubby hands on it,” insisted Sherlock.

I watched the whole interchange with some amusement until it was finally agreed by all that the ball should be destroyed once Holmes and I had made it back to our own time, with Sherlock still pouting about Jack the Ripper as we arrived at the warehouse.

Sure enough, that same car we saw on the funny screens in Mycroft’s office was parked outside, and it seemed as though it wasn’t as abandoned as we might have originally thought.

As we got out of the taxi and approached the door, we could see flashing lights from inside through the frosted over, dirty windows, and hear the sounds of two men bickering with each other.

Sherlock and Holmes led the way, then Holmes looked back at me.

“Watson, did you bring your revolver?”

“I did, Holmes,” I answered with a nod. “And yours too.” I got out both weapons, handing him one.

Sherlock again, pouted. “How come Victorian me gets a gun and I don’t?” He looked at John, expecting him to provide an answer.

“Because gun control wasn’t as tight back then, Sherlock, you know that,” John sighed and took out his own revolver.

“So, you three have guns and I’m just here with my fists? Great.” Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. “Fine. I’ll do the talking, you lot do the shooting.”

He held his hand for silence and pressed his ear to the door, listening to the conversation inside.

The rest of us crowded in and did our best to do the same.

“I invented the device, therefore I am the one in charge!”

“Sweetie, you wouldn’t have the device if it wasn’t for me getting you into Sherlock’s flat.”

“I have the most advanced technology.”

“Perhaps. But you frankly look like an idiot. You need me. I’m the public face of this operation. I’m the one in charge.”

“I’m the one in charge!”

“I am!”

“I am!”

“Holmes,” I whispered to my companion in a hush. “Perhaps we can use their own arrogance against them.”

“Just what I was thinking, dear Watson,” my good friend gave me a delighted smirk back, and Sherlock nodded in agreement before losing his patience with waiting, raising his right leg, and kicking down the door.

***

The two men inside obviously hadn’t been expecting company, both of them ceasing their bickering and turning round.

There was a large machine in the centre of the room, emitting a bright white flashing light; a fantastical contraption with the magic black ball seeming to float in mid air on a sparkle of electricity.

For a moment, the four new arrivals gazed at it in astonishment, then all hell broke loose as the two Moriarty’s realised their game was up.

Jim immediately pulled a gun from the inside pocket of his Westwood suit and pointed it at them, while Holmes, Watson and John all simultaneously raised theirs. Doctor Moriarty, on the other hand, had a completely different weapon; a strange futuristic silver gun with a purple liquid floating around inside it.

“Well, well, well,” the mad doctor chuckled. “It appears we have some company, Jim.”

Jim rolled his neck from side to side, the crack echoing round the relatively quiet warehouse. “It appears so. Don’t worry, I can take care of this lot.”

In the middle of the stand off, Sherlock, the only one without a weapon, strolled forward casually, glancing Jim up and down then looking at the electrical contraption with the floating black magic ball. “So…this is how it works, is it?” He asked coolly. “Brought this back from the future with you, did you?”

“Mm yes, it folds into a suitcase, very handy, you know?” Dr Moriarty chuckled evilly.

“And what do you intend to do once you’ve united all three Moriarty’s?”

“Why, rule the world, of course. We can do anything! Anything we want! And you can’t stop us!”

Jim sighed and rolled his eyes slightly, glancing at Sherlock and muttering in his soft Irish accent. “Don’t mind him, will you? He’s…” He raised his other hand and twirled his finger in a circle round his temple. “…insane.” Then he leaned forward and whispered. “I’m actually the one in charge.”

Unluckily for him, Dr Moriarty apparently had a good pair of ears on him, and he swung round his silver and purple gun and pointed it at his suaver, younger self. “I am the one in charge!” He barked.

“If this ruins my suit, I’m going to blow your head off, Doctor,” Jim muttered, then grabbed Dr Moriarty’s wrist and yanked it up in the air while he punched him in the stomach.

Jim’s gun went off, the sound of the bullet booming through the cavernous walls of the warehouse and lodging itself in the wall opposite while everyone else ducked instinctively to avoid it, all hell breaking loose a split second later.

Alarmed and distracted by the sound of the gun, the two Moriarty’s were temporarily caught off guard, especially with the Doctor having received a hefty punch to the guts. Sherlock took the opportunity to leap on the mad scientist, grabbing his gun arm and knocking him to the ground with him on top.

As he did so, he inadvertently sent them both crashing into the side of the futuristic contraption he had brought with him. The whole thing toppled over, the black ball dropping to the floor and the sparkle of electric light it had been floating on suddenly ballooning upwards and outwards.

WHOOSH!

It spread over the whole warehouse like a lightning fast mushroom cloud effect, engulfing everywhere and everything in a split second gust of blueish white.

It didn’t hurt, but John felt himself being knocked to the ground with the force of it, and instinctively shielded his eyes against the bright white glare, ducking his head down between his arms as he fell and scrunching up his eyelids.

When he raised his head and opened them again a few moments later, blinking a few times as his normal vision slowly returned, he realised there were a few people missing from the warehouse.

Holmes, Watson and Doctor Moriarty were no longer there, and the futuristic time travel device had switched itself off, leaving an eerie silence in the room and a soft sizzling sound as it buzzed and then died down, Sherlock and Jim both slowly sitting up too and looking around them.

“Where’ve they gone?” John asked, getting up first and then offering Sherlock a hand, which the detective promptly took and hoisted himself up, readjusting his collar and glancing round.

“I have absolutely no idea…back to their own universes?” Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow, then leaned down to examine the device, beginning to pack it away and obviously fully intending to take it with him back to Baker Street.

“Not so fast, Sherlock,” Jim’s familiar lilt came followed by the click of gun as he pressed it to the back of the detective’s head. “I’ll be taking that, thank you.”

“No you won’t.” John replied, raising his own gun and pointing it at Jim’s. “Shoot him and I’ll shoot you. Back off, Moriarty.”

Jim sighed quietly and slowly took a step away.

Sherlock quickly grabbed the futuristic cyber gun and pointed it at Jim.

“Do you even know what that does?” the master criminal asked with a smirk.

“Not a clue. Do you?”

“Nope. Willing to find out? Shoot me, Sherlock. I know you want to.”

“Mm. Tempting, but no.”

“You’re under arrest, Moriarty.” John said firmly, still pointing the gun at him.

Jim gave a haughty laugh. “Under what charge? Where’s your evidence?”

John glanced at Sherlock, who shook his head slightly. “Let him go.”

“But Sherlock!” John protested.

“He’s right. Just…let him go. We have the device. That’s the most important thing right now.”

Jim smirked and ducked underneath John’s gun, not phased by it in the slightest as he brushed down his suit and slowly swaggered away. “I’ll be seeing you, Sherlock. You may have the device now…but it won’t be yours for long…”

And with that, he disappeared out the door of the warehouse.

A moment later, they heard the car engine starting and then retreating into the distance.

John sighed angrily. “I can’t believe we just let him…walk out of here!”

“You try explaining this to the idiots at Scotland Yard, John. None of it would stand up in court. He’d walk free.”

“What about all this?” He pointed at the device as Sherlock continued packing it away in the suitcase Dr Moriarty had brought it in. “There’s your evidence!”

“If we used that as evidence, we’d have to give it up. Moriarty knew I wasn’t willing to do that.”

“You’re not going to give it to your brother then?”

“Perhaps when hell freezes over, John. Or maybe when pigs fly. Or when the Easter Bunny becomes real. Or when – “

“Alright, alright, I get the picture.”

Sherlock put the gun on top of the folded contraption and the black ball, and snapped the suitcase shut, then stood up, holding it in his hand as he walked towards the door and flung it open, letting a stream of daylight in. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Back to Baker Street?”

“Back to Baker Street.”

John nodded and followed him outside.

“Don’t know what you brought that thing for,” Sherlock muttered disdainfully as he glanced at John, watching him put the gun back in his jeans.

They both smirked at one another, and then walked off into the distance, their steps in perfect sync.



The End…?