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Bruce walked along the banks of the Thames, halfway hidden in the fog. Ostensibly, he was in England on business, but right now, he was hunting. He had been following a suspect, but when the fog rolled in, he’d lost him. Bruce was about to head back to his hotel when someone shoved him into the river. A police whistle cracked through the night, before all sounds were swallowed by the water.
Bruce had just managed to inhale before hitting the icy water, and it was only his years of Bat-training that kept him from losing all his air as the river surrounded him. His heavy coat pulled him down even as he kicked and stroked his way back towards the surface.
Something plunged into the depths above him and Bruce reached for it. His hand wrapped around a sturdy cane, and suddenly he was being pulled back up. A strong pair of arms hauled him out of the river and up to solid land. The fog felt thicker than he’d remembered it, the pungent stench of coal and smog hit his nose as he cleared it of dank water.
Bruce was still shaking water from his head as the men spoke. Within seconds, they had bundled him into a cab -- an old one, horse-drawn, so odd to be out this late at night without tourists -- and draped their overcoats around him. Bruce couldn’t quite clear his mind enough to hear them, even as they asked him direct questions. He was cold, so cold. The ride seemed terribly rough until he realized he was shaking the whole way.
It wasn’t until they’d got him home, dried, and into warm clothes by a fire, that Bruce was able to really take in his surroundings.
“Sherlock Holmes,” Bruce said, seeing his rescuers for the first time. “And Dr. Watson.”
“I’m afraid you have the advantage of us,” Holmes said.
“I’m…” Bruce paused. They were not old men in front of him, which meant somehow he was not in his own time. How much should he tell? Did such things even matter with the years between them?
He decided to risk it. “Bruce Wayne.”
Holmes looked him over. “American, from the East Coast, I’d say. Wealthy, but unusual taste; not a single tailor’s name or monogram. A fighter, but not strictly a pugilist. Neither from London, nor, I should say, from this time.”
Bruce’s surprise must have passed a second too quickly for Holmes as his face fell just a fraction. He stood and picked up the sleeve of one of the drying garments.
“But I must confess,” he continued, “neither Watson nor myself could make sense of your hidden costume.”
“It’s like no fancy dress I’ve ever seen,” said Watson.
“It would look quite ferocious in the dark,” Holmes said, almost to himself.
They were interrupted briefly as tea arrived, along with hot broth for their guest. Watson forbade Bruce from exerting himself until he’d eaten and, though it clearly pained Holmes, that included any conversation or explanations.
For his part, Bruce was finally feeling well, not that it ever took him too long to push past near drownings and the like; he couldn’t afford it in his line. The soup, tea, and fire had warmed him sufficiently and his brain no longer felt waterlogged.
“I’m a detective as well,” Bruce said. “I’ve studied your methods devotedly.” Holmes looked absolutely delighted by this news.
Bruce explained why he was in London to begin with, and how he’d come to be in the Thames. “This costume is my disguise when I’m out working the streets. I’m too well known to do what I do without one.”
“Is crime so flamboyant in the future?” Watson asked.
“Crime is crime,” Holmes said. “Have we not met many outlandish characters in our work?” He turned his attention towards Bruce. “Perhaps you would be able to assist me on a current case. I often find Watson to be of help, but I’m afraid we’ve come to an impasse.”
“I’d be happy to,” Bruce said.
Holmes briefly told him of the reason he and Watson were out in that part of London at the time. “The Sheldon gang were notorious in Ireland and their presence here speaks only of a new kind of threat, a uniting of criminals. It was a Sheldon that we were searching for.”
“I wonder if they’re the same gang,” Bruce mused. “I was shadowing a Sheldon, too. He’s tied up in a smuggling racket. Guns and other weapons coming from here across to Gotham.”
“That’s quite a coincidence,” Watson said.
“Indeed,” Holmes said absently. “A ‘racket’ you called it? How interesting. This gang may not be so easy to catch.” He returned from his thoughts. “No matter. We still have an advantage. Their meeting was to be tonight at ten. We’ve still some time before then. Perhaps we will be fortunate to find a straggler to the meeting.”
“Let me change and let’s go,” Bruce said.
A few minutes later, the three of them were in a cab heading back through London.
“I’ve been thinking,” Watson began. “How are we to return you to your own time?”
“That is quite the puzzle,” Holmes said, smiling slightly. “I don’t know that we have ever come across such a thing. For now, we must trust that the future will correct itself. Ah! We’ve arrived.”
As they exited the cab, Holmes whispered a plan for them to follow. Watson would follow behind them as Bruce served the place of Watson beside Holmes. In the event someone attacked, they would have a third for cover. As they walked, they discussed the case, Bruce sharing his ideas with Holmes.
Before long, a young man passed them coming the other way.
“Mr Holmes,” he said as he passed.
Holmes turned and a cosh came flying out. Bruce pushed Holmes aside, catching the club across the head. He fell forward, stumbling over the edge of the bank.
“Watson!” Holmes called out. Bruce heard a shot fire, and then the water surrounded him again.
Bruce kicked fiercely, pushing himself back towards the surface. Something plunged into the depths above him and Bruce reached for it. His hand wrapped around an umbrella and suddenly he was being pulled back up. A strong pair of arms hauled him out of the river and up to solid land.
Bruce coughed, sputtering up water as someone draped an overcoat over him.
“Master Bruce, are you all right?”
Alfred.
Bruce looked around, shaking from the cold. A policeman was beside Alfred, his uniform sleeves soaking wet.
“Are you OK? That was quite a fall,” the policeman said. “Don’t worry. We’ve caught the man who pushed you. My partner has him.”
Alfred took charge then, giving the policeman their information and insisting that he get Bruce back to the hotel. He promised that they would stop by the station the next day and, with that, bundled Bruce into the car and back to the hotel.
After a hot bath -- two soakings in the icy Thames should have been enough water for anyone, but Alfred had insisted -- and a change of clothes, Bruce relaxed in his suite. A book-sized box sat on the bedside table.
“What’s this?” he asked as Alfred entered with his coffee.
“It was delivered by courier while you were in the bath.”
He opened the package. Inside was a small bound book and atop it was a sealed letter, with no name on it. Frowning, Bruce opened it.
Dear Mr Wayne,
Though your presence and departure in our time were brief and swift, we must thank you for your help in the matter of what Watson calls The Ebon-Haired Thief. It is a somewhat romantic name, do forgive his artistic license.
Watson promises that this shall be delivered to you when you visit London next, however many decades that may be. Until then, it shall be kept in his vault amongst our other untold cases.
Good wishes and good luck,
Sherlock Holmes
Bruce smiled to himself and opened the book. On the first page was a similar message from Dr. Watson. Picking up his coffee, Bruce settled in to read the full story of the case he was briefly part of alongside the great Sherlock Holmes.