Work Text:
It was a little known fact that Andrew Stephans currently hated his life. Though, he was trying his best to currently change the world's ignorance on his hatred by glaring as fiercely at his computer screen as humanly possible. Wishing against all logic that glaring hard enough at the machine could make the short story he had to write magically appear on the screen. He sighed pathetically and allowed himself to let his head fall to the desk. He let out a pained groan when he executed the act a little too enthusiastically.
His bone-headed-sport-concussion-brain-damaged college roommate had even succeeded in writing something for their English class assignment. When his roommate, Aidan, had asked how his short story was doing (and informed him he had also finished) Andrew had just sort of spluttered an excuse of 'A good writer has to be inspired to write' in between halfhearted death threats. Aidan had given him that look that said 'you're an idiot' which was a look that Aidan was usually on the receiving end of and Andrew was very put-off at being the recipient now. Writing was his thing! He was the one that was the English major and dream was to become the next James Patterson. He should have finished ages ago and been gloating about what an amazing piece of literature it was and how the rest of the class was all beneath him.
"Ughhhhh," Andrew moaned into his desk.
He was a failure. A complete and utter failure. He'd have to drop out of college and become a prostitute. He let out a small sound that could be described as a sob. No one would ever pay for him as a prostitute! He would be a failure as a prostitute, too. Then he'd have to become a crazy homeless person and live in the woods in a cave and eat raw fish and find a ring and worship said ring and―
Andrew picked up his head from the desk and shook it. "Andrew, you're being ridiculous! Just because you have a tiny case of Writer's Block doesn't mean you'll turn into Gollum. You just need to go on a walk and clear your head. Yeah do that."
Andrew gave a firm nod of his head and stood. He grabbed his green winter jacket and tied his blue scarf tightly around his neck. He threw open his door and bounded down the stairs. Andrew stepped out into the cold Colorado winter and shivered. He pulled his scarf tighter around his neck and stuffed his hands into his pockets.
Andrew hummed happily as he stared around the nearly empty campus. He loved winter, with its bare trees and snow dusted buildings; however, he wasn’t too fond of the ice. Andrew was clumsy by nature and had the habit of slipping and falling― it didn’t help matters when it was icy out as well.
If Andrew had been paying any attention at all and had not been too busy admiring a particularly beautiful tree he would have possibly noticed a shifty looking bit of ice that he was fast approaching. As fate would have it, he did not. The moment his feet touched the patch of ice he began to slip. Andrew squeezed his eyes shut as he fell backwards. He expected to feel the pain of connecting with the hard, icy sidewalk, but something very particular happened― he kept falling and falling and falling.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-,-,-.-
It was the year 1891 in London, England and Sherlock Holmes was studying a window that he was pretty sure had nothing to do with the case he was currently working on. The idiotic detective, Lestrade, had got it into his tiny brain that the perpetrator had entered and exited through said window. He was wrong, of course. The perpetrators (it was obviously two men) had entered and exited though the front door like any other civilized person who happened to have a key to this house. However, Sherlock neglected to mention this to the detective because it was far too entertaining watching the silly little man act like he had any clue what was going on.
Sherlock turned to look at his friend Doctor John Watson (a short, fit man with blond hair and who looked remarkably like a hedgehog). He found the good doctor was already staring at him. John raised one eyebrow that asked, ‘does this have to do with anything?’ Sherlock smirked slightly and gave a minute shake of his head. John snorted and rolled his eyes. He was about to inform Detective Lestrade that the window had no precedence in this case whatsoever but was interrupted by a loud crashing noise that came from behind them.
All three of them spun around and both John and Lestrade drew their pistols. They found a skinny man of about twenty with a lot of curly red hair lying on his back in a pool of blood that came from the corpse of the victim. (The body was of a thirty-two year old man that was hanging upside down by the foot with his throat slit.) The young man blinked his eyes open and let out a pained groan. He rubbed the back of his head as he sat up. He suddenly jerked his hand away and he stared at his blood stained palm. “Is that…” He said softly.
He looked down around himself at the all of blood. His face began to pale as he finally looked up at the dead body. The stranger yelped and threw himself up trying to get as far from the hanging body as he could.
“Is that a dead body?! Oh my god look at all the blood!” He cried as he backed himself into the nearest wall.
Sherlock and John exchanged looks. Lestrade pointed his gun at the redhead and demanded, "Who are you?" a slightly twisted smile graced his lips, "Oh ho! Decided to come back to the scene of the crime, eh?"
Sherlock couldn't help but snort. This was defiantly not the killer. This boy was far too skinny to have heaved a full-grown man and tied him to the wood beam that went across the ceiling.
"Cr- crime?" The young man gulped and shook his head. "I didn't... Oh no, I couldn't have-". He paused suddenly and blinked a couple of times. Then a look of complete relief flooded across his face.
"Oh I get it," He laughed, "This is a prank, right? Must have slipped me something! You can come out now Aidan! This is all very funny but I need to get started on that English assignment now."
John lowered his gun and placed it back in its holster. He was quite sure this boy had nothing to do with the case, "Are you alright? Are you feeling dizzy or nausea?" John had slipped into his doctor persona and was approaching the obviously crazy male.
"And who are you guys?" The stranger asked ignoring Doctor Watson. "Are you guys from the local theater company or something? I must say the accents are awesome."
Lestrade lowered his gun hesitantly, "Sherlock... This is the murderer right?"
"I'm afraid not Lestrade."
"Oh. Who is he then?"
"Hm. American, from the middle of the country... Somewhere cold. Probably Colorado. University student and English major. Nothing particularly fascinating about him," Sherlock deduced.
"Ah.... How did he end up in the middle of my crime scene?"
"Judging by the sound, I'd say he fell."
"Oh," Lestarde lapsed into silence with a kind of shell-shocked look on his face.
The two of them watched as John stood in front of the redheaded young man and began to ask him simple questions.
"What is your name?"
"Andrew Stephans," He said with a goofy grin.
"What is today's date?"
"Why are you asking these questions?"
"I'm making sure you don't have a concussion. Trust me I'm a doctor," Doctor Watson said.
"Sure you are," Andrew rolled his eyes, "but I guess I'll play along. Um.... December 12th, 2012."
John blinked in surprise then turned towards Sherlock with a questioning look. Sherlock shrugged.
"2012?" John asked.
"Ah. Yeah. Why?"
"2012? Are you sure?" John was almost positive that Andrew had a concussion.
"Of course I'm sure," Andrew rolled his eyes again.
"Right. Yeah..." John furrowed his eyebrows. "Uh, I think it would be best if we took him to a hospital," John said turning towards the other two males.
Andrew let out a huff of frustration, "I get the whole 'stay in character thing' but really guys I think this prank has run its course. Can we be done now?"
Sherlock regarded the American carefully― perhaps it was time for a small experiment, "I'm sorry Andrew but you are mistaken. This is not a joke nor is it the year 2012 but rather 1891."
Andrew was looking at Sherlock like he was a talking otter, "1891? No way. You're insane! And I can prove it."
Andrew bounded across the small room right up to the window that the three Londoners had been studying minutes ago and threw it open. Without actually looking out of it he turned to the other three.
"You see," the redhead said triumphantly while gesturing towards the open window, "Just some stupid set."
Lestrade, Sherlock, and John all raised one eyebrow.
"Oh come on! It's obviously a set," he turned and when he was finally looking out of the window he froze.
"No way... Not possible," he muttered as he thrust his head out of the window.
His frantic eyes saw something that was definitely not a set. Stage coaches and people with top hats lined the streets. The streets themselves were cobblestone and filthy, as were much of the buildings. As he sat staring, the putrid smell of London made it into his nose. Andrew sneezed and coughed. He slammed down the window with a look of disgust mixed with mild terror.
"1891 you say," Andrew whispered as he slowly turned to face them.
Sherlock hummed in response.
"And who did you say you guys were again?"
"We never did say," Sherlock said so cheerfully that John gave him The Look. Sherlock was enjoying himself far too much by this point.
"Oh." Andrew blinked slowly, "Who are you?"
"Sherlock Holmes. And this is Doctor John Watson and Detective Gregory Lestrade," Sherlock inspected Andrew carefully for his reaction.
"Oh. Right. Of course. The famous literary consulting detective and his flat mate. Obviously the characters from my favorite books would be the ones that would haunt me when I lost my freaking mind," Andrew breath began to get erratic as he leaned heavily against the windowsill.
"Ah, John, I think he's going into shock," Sherlock stated brightly.
"Right. Andrew I need you to sit down and put your head between your knees," John ordered.
Andrew slipped to the ground and placed his head between his knees. His breathing could now be considered hyperventilating.
"Now take a deep breath through the nose and slowly exhale out the mouth," Andrew did as he was told. "Good now do it again."
Sherlock watched as his best friend got the American boy to calm down. He hummed thoughtfully; this young man could be great fun. The perfect distraction from the boredom that was always eating away at the edges of his mind.
"John," said man looked up, "We'll have to have Mrs. Hudson clean out the spare bedroom."
"What? Why?" John asked in confusion.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Why couldn't John just read his mind, it would make everything so much easier, "Well, obviously, Andrew has nowhere else to stay and he will be needing help getting back home."
Andrew lifted his head to look hopefully up at Sherlock, "You're going to help me get home?"
"Of course," Sherlock offered Andrew his hand. When the younger man took it the consulting detective pulled him to his feet. "Well we must be off. Lots to do― come along John."
Sherlock bounded down the stairs followed by Andrew and John. When they got out onto the street Sherlock hailed a cab.
"But Sherlock! What about my bloody case?" Lestrade yelled from the window that Andrew had thrown open earlier.
As they climbed into the back of the cab, Sherlock shouted back, "The twins next door."
"The twins?" John asked as the cab began rolling.
"Obviously."
"Yeah. Right. Of course," John muttered.
Andrew smiled to himself; this could be the perfect thing for his English assignment.