Title: Storm Chasing

Rating: T for possible language, violence and mature themes

Pairing: POSSIBLE H/L later on.

Summary: When Holmes becomes depressed and nostalgic, his fantastic powers of deduction begin to slip. In order to prevent the Great Detective from becoming a liability, and to restore his happiness, Doctor John Watson is returned to life. The question is: Will he be any happier than Holmes in a new century and a new life?

Extra notes: Huge apology for the delay, and I'm the bearer of bad news. Due to a lot of personal trouble, including some housing and school issues, as well as the recent death of a close friend of mine, I haven't actually been writing. At all. Meaning this is the last chapter I have fully written. I'm not abandoning the fic (at all), but it may be a bit longer now before updates become regular again, and I sincerely doubt they'll be as quick as they have been. I'm very sorry, but as you all know, real life comes first.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Duhhh.

Chapter Fifteen: Typhoon

"You're so lucky!" The Baker Street flat rang with Deidre's not-so-dulcet tones. "I'd give an arm an' a leg t' be able t' go to New York City! D'you know how many o' the wildest celebrities live there? My friend Laurie, y'know, she's always seein' famous guys just walkin' along like normal people!"

Holmes dragged his pen through a particularly excruciating line of Wiggins' project paper, and Watson mimicked the movement on Deidre's. "No crowds following them?" The detective inquired curiously; since being returned to life, he had been slowly accumulating a certain celebrity status within New London. Especially when news came of yet another holofilm being set to release with him as the main character.

"I dunno, Mr. 'Olmes. I don't think you need to worry much; folks in the states definitely aren't as up-to-date with classic literature. Not like us, eh Wig?" She grinned. "On the other hand, you got a movie comin' out now an' all! Hey Doc, how d'you spell 'conclusive'?"

Watson leaned over her shoulder and read through the report she was writing up. "You shouldn't be using conclusive there at all, I don't think." He said pleasantly. "'Therefore' would most likely work better." He glanced at Holmes, who was steadily looking dourer as the evening progressed. "It's not as though anyone in America will recognize you, Holmes. Good heavens, the last time you were there was over two hundred years ago, and you had that dreadful goatee[1]."

"Even so, Watson. I loathe thinking of what might happen if I draw an infernal crowd as we pursue Moriarty." He moodily glared at Wiggins' homework. "You've misspelled 'cataclysm', here." He pointed out testily. "It should be a 'Y', not an 'I'." He shifted back in his chair and spent a moment or two watching John as he provided several upgrades to Tennyson's hoverchair that were bordering on illegal. At the very least, they weren't yet released to the general public. "I have no intention of being deliberately rude, but it is a quarter past nine, and we have to be up extremely early tomorrow morning."

The Irregulars groaned but stood up obediently. "Oi, Doc!" Deidre suddenly exclaimed. "D'you think you an' Mr. 'Olmes could pick us up some souvenirs? I 'ear New York's got some o' the trendiest gear! 'Specially in clothes!" Watson raised his eyebrows, unused to being asked to purchase women's clothing. "I mean, you don't 'ave to, but I saw these stellar skirts in a magazine for Bombay! You know what Bombay is, o' course."

Wiggins sighed into his hand. "I dunno what Bomb-whatever is, Dee."

Her eyes widened in alarm, and Holmes laid his head on his hand with a look of practiced boredom. "It's only the biggestfashion emporium on the East Coast!" She shouted. "All the girls I know would shoot a priest t' be able t' wear a Bombay skirt! Aw, please please please Doc! You gotta get me one, okay? I'll pay ya back wit' my allowance, I promise!" She clasped her hands together and added the positively heart-wrenching effect of watering eyes that only Holmes seemed able to resist.

Watson sighed. "I shall do my very best to find you this cherished Bombay skirt. Pray, what does it look like?"

"Oh, I'll doodle it for ya! I got a good eye for this sorta stuff, so it won't be far off the real thing." Deidre grabbed Watson's datapad and opened a fresh page, setting about tracing an airy, flowing skirt that appeared to end at the mid calves. "Now, 'ere's my size in American." She scribbled the number secretively on the pad, casting a suspicious glance between Holmes and Wiggins, both of whom were fighting for straight faces. "Oh, an' while you're in the store, you gotta get you an' Mr. 'Olmes some new threads, y'know."

"…Threads?" Watson asked blankly. Why on Earth did they need thread?

"Clothing, Watson. The term was originated in the late twentieth century and has been coming and going in popular culture ever since." Holmes explained patiently from his armchair. "And Deidre, I'm afraid the good doctor and I haven't the financial well-being to buy any such items from a store like Bombay." Lies. He, and now Watson, regularly received gross sums of money for copyrights on their own persons. "I am a poor man.[2]" Holmes said lightly, drawing an amused glare from his stalwart friend.

"Well you gotta do somethin' 'bout your fashion situation." The trend-crazed teen announced. "Waistcoats went out wit' the dinosaurs. An' so did Inverness capes!" She pointed at the offensive outerwear, and Holmes shared in her disgust.

Watson, however, seemed highly amused. "Did you hear that, Holmes? We apparently hail from the time of the dinosaurs." He chuckled, and drummed his fingers on the coffee table. "I'll do my best to procure your skirt, Miss Deidre, though I don't believe we shall have much time for shopping ventures. We will be working, you know."

John disconnected from Tennyson's control board at last and stretched his joints. "Dear me, I always do get stiff in the elbows." He glanced at the rest of the motley group. "Did I miss anything important?"

"No," Watson said, cutting off Holmes. "Deidre only commissioned us to pursue a particular skirt from the extremely well-regarded Bombay clothing boutique." He held up the datapad she had scribbled her sketch on, having the good taste to politely hide her size from view. "A lovely addition to any young lady's wardrobe, I'm sure."

"Oh! Doc! Give it 'ere!" Deidre snagged the pad again and hunched over it, scrawling furiously. "Here! This is the latest men's fashion in the U.S., so if you wanna be any bit cool while yer there, this is the stuff you gotta be wearin'!" She handed it this time to Holmes, who observed it minutely. "It's not like the Euro styles at all, y'see? I think you'll like it a lot better than the stuff 'ere." She explained matter-of-factly.

Watson and John looked over Holmes's shoulders. "It doesn't seem much different than what you're already wearing." The compudroid pointed out simply.

"Don't be so dodgy, John. It's totally different. Only the baddest celebs—"

"You're speaking French again, Deidre, my dear." Holmes cut in irritably.

She heaved an exasperated sigh that only teenage girls could manage. "It's super popular because the hottest celebrities are rockin' it."

Watson blinked. "Rocking?"

"The most popular famous people wear this sort of thing, is what Deidre is trying to say." Holmes pointed out wisely. "I believe my slang has been improving. I understood the gist of most of that."

"Yo, as much as I wanna hang around an' listen to Deidre enter trendy-mode, it's quarter to ten an' my dad wants me home in fifteen minutes." Wiggins piped up. "Otherwise he's gonna go nuts callin' everyone from the cops to my grandma."

"Mmh, very true, Wiggins. I have no interest in spending another three hours convincing your father that you are undoubtedly in good health." Holmes mused with a small smile. "I believe you still haven't regained the privileges to your hover-board?"

"Nah. I doubt I'll get it back 'til I'm twenty."

"Well then, you had all best scarper if you're going on Shanks' pony."

"What?" The three children asked in matching confusion.

Holmes sighed into his hand. "If you are walking. Thank you very much for the lesson in trends, Deidre; it was most illuminating." Holmes waved them all towards the door. "Do remember to ask your teacher about the dates he confused. I'm certain he'll find his error if you point it out." They agreed, said their goodbyes, and a moment later poured out onto the street.

"What on Earth is Bombay?" Watson asked at last, looking at the picture Deidre had sketched. "And isn't this a bit inappropriate?"

"Bombay is located on Fifth Street in Manhattan, it is incredibly popular for its often risqué fashion and high-end products," John said automatically. "and I'm afraid this sort of thing is rather tame compared to most modern garments, particularly where we intend to travel." The droid glanced at the clock and stood up. "Well, given that it is almost ten o'clock, I'm afraid I must start recharging now to be able to last the day tomorrow. I trust you both remembered to pack when I reminded you earlier this evening?"

Holmes and Watson nodded in unison, and with an expression of satisfaction, John turned on his heel and left the sitting room, descending the stairs and traipsing into what had once been Mrs. Hudson's humble flat. The doctor and detective glanced at each other the moment he was out of sight.

"Have you…" Watson began, and Holmes shook his head wearily. "Neither have I. You think we ought…" Another headshake. "An old-fashioned morning rush then?"

"Yes, I think I would enjoy that, Watson."

"Very well then. Goodnight, Holmes."

"Watson! Did you take my toothbrush?"

"Yes, Holmes. Otherwise you would undoubtedly forget it."

"And my shaving kit? And toothpaste? And—oh blast it all, where the deuce is that shirt!"

"Yes, yes, and I gathered it from the dryer when I woke up."

"Watson, you are a Godsend!"

True to their word, Baker Street had become a hive of activity in the pitch darkness of early morning. At ten to five they were well into their preparations, both bleary eyed and snarling at anything that moved the wrong way. Watson, after packing his own bags, had taken to unpacking Holmes's and putting the clothes back in with some added organization, throwing in the sorts of things the detective had a tendency to neglect, such as spare socks and undergarments.

Holmes, on his part, could very well have passed for an exceptionally peevish bear. Between cursing fluently and digging for his personal effects throughout the apartment, he would migrate to the kitchen and nurse a massive mug of hot coffee. To make matters all the worse, the only clean cup he had been able to find was an attempt at humor on Lestrade's part; "Doesn't Play Well With Others" was certainly the last thing he had wanted to see by the light of the fluorescent bulbs.

It was at a quarter to six that John roused from his charging station and happily packed it away with his own small bag of possible parts he might need to replace during the trip. He then spent twenty minutes watching with great amusement as his two flatmates rushed about in a state of utter disarray.

"Holmes! You stole my favorite tie last week and I want it back!" Watson hollered from his bedroom. "And what did you do with my pipe?"

"Which one?" Holmes cried. "You have several, you know!"

"The briar pipe! My good one!"

"Not to worry, old chap! I've got it packed away already!"

John glanced at the clock and cleared his throat. "Given that it is ten past the hour, I imagine Inspector Lestrade will be along shortly." Holmes cursed and two fairly large traveling bags soared into the sitting room followed shortly by their owner, whose eyes still appeared to be half-glazed by sleep. He sat on the settee with a groan and massaged the back of his neck wearily.

Watson, at the same time, trooped down the stairs and tossed his own bags into the pile that had gathered on the floor. He glanced out the window, grimaced at the dark sky, and joined Holmes on the couch, looking equally unsuited for consciousness. "We ought to pack earlier next time, Holmes." He mumbled half-consciously.

The detective released a string of noises that might very well have been words in his mind. "Lestrade has arrived." He said suddenly, and Watson sat up from where his head had drooped onto Holmes's shoulder. "Do get hold of yourself, Watson. We shall undoubtedly be able to nap on the journey."

"No," Watson took a sip of his coffee, which he had wisely transferred to a self-heating travel cup. "I have every intention of continuing to pick through Gray's Anatomy." He picked up the overwhelmingly massive tome. "It's astonishing that I was happy to read the third edition when I was in university. Now I'm reading the eightieth!"

"I politely disagree, Watson. It's fascinating that you read it at all." Holmes sniffed derisively.

"Well, what do you intend to do during our five-hour flight, Holmes?"

"Oh, this and that…" His eyes drifted to the third bag that he had carried with him from his room.

The door of the sitting room then burst open, revealing a highly agitated Lestrade. "Have you seen the thing we're supposed to be driving?" She howled indignantly. "It's slower than my old granny!" She stalked forward and grabbed a bag at random, though when she made to lift it she let out a yelp of distress. "What the zed?"

John patiently took it from her with an apologetic smile. "Mine, I'm afraid. I should have warned you, of course." He trotted out the door, and the incensed inspector wasted no time in glaring at the remaining luggage. "Only two bags each?" She exclaimed. "We're going for a month!"

"Have no fear; we have any and all necessary items for our stay." Holmes said dismissively, and he lightly placed a hand on her shoulder, forcing them all out of the room and swinging the door shut for the last time. He cast one final glance around, and raised an eyebrow at Lestrade as Watson marched down the staircase. He brushed past her with a grin that betrayed his sleep-deprived eyes.

"What?" She groused, following shortly behind.

Holmes turned around and abruptly prodded one of her cheeks. "You're doing it again." He said lightly.

Watson yelled in shock when Holmes fell onto his back following a "mysterious blunt force" colliding with his shoulders.

Their departure went well enough following a scuffle between John and Lestrade over driving rights. The compudroid was forced to cite three different New Scotland Yard protocols before he was permitted in the driver's seat, and by the time they lifted off, the sun was starting to glimmer in the horizon.

Sitting up front, Lestrade successfully managed to curl up in her seat, and spent several hours playing with her handheld, which had access to a number of games as well as the internet. Every few minutes she would shift slightly, or demand to drive, but by the time they had left the coast of England entirely she had lost interest in the hovercar; it was only a matter of putting it on autopilot now anyway.

Watson, true to his word, successfully endeavored to read Gray's Anatomy for fifty minutes before he abandoned it in disgust. His attention was then directed to his faithful datapad, although staring at the screen wasn't providing any amount of excitement for him, and so finally he turned his gaze to the sack of what he guessed to be books that Holmes had brought.

Given that within ten minutes of setting off the man had kicked off his shoes and curled up in a corner, Watson doubted he would mind terribly if someone else were to find some interest in his bag of tricks.

The first book Watson pulled out made him gag as a plume of dust came with it. He held his breath and opened the ancient thing. "The unusual affair of the aluminium crutch was, if nothing else, a case of singular…" He snapped the cover shut with a wide grin. He had thought Holmes' original notes of the cases he'd had before the time of Watson were lost to the eras. This discovery brought with it a feeling of joy that was not unlike Christmas morning as a child. He made to open the journal again, but a hand slapped over the cover and hauled it away.

"Tut tut, Watson. I might have let you see it had you only asked." Holmes murmured, holding the book to his chest.

"Holmes!" Watson exclaimed. "I have patiently waited two centuries for permission to read your old cases! I daresay I have earned the right to one."

"No, Watson. You have snooped." Holmes insisted with a thoroughly immature smirk. "So I shan't give you any."

"That's not fair."

"All's fair in love and war."

"And this happens to be literature!"

It would never be fully explained how the situation devolved from there, but within thirty seconds the two grown men were wrestling animatedly in the rear of the cruiser, with the book in question being waved about within Holmes's hand and occasionally finding use as a bludgeon.

"Hey!" Lestrade looked back in horror as Watson pinned Holmes with one hand and reached for the tome with his other. "Hey! We're still in the air, y'know! Zed!" In a split second she joined them in the back, and with a few choice chokeholds and punches, the scuffle dissipated. Doctor and detective spared one another only the chilliest of glances and Holmes tossed the book into his bag with exaggerated finality. "You, Watson, are completely incorrigible." He ground out, massaging his jaw.

Watson was busy holding his cheek, "And you're impossible to tolerate at times." He shot back moodily.

"You're both idiots, if you ask me!" Lestrade snarled, folding her arms and pulling up her feet again. "I'm staying back here between you two for the rest of the trip. Go ahead and fight over me." If you dare. She didn't have to speak it for the sentiment to be conveyed, though the two men quickly dissolved into laughter. John glanced back from the front of the vehicle with a worried expression, but rapidly his attention returned to the air before them, where one or two hovercars were likewise trekking across the Atlantic.

"My dear Lestrade. We were hardly being serious." Holmes said dismissively.

Watson sighed wistfully. "I would like to read those accounts, though." He moved towards the sack hopefully, but a glower from Holmes stilled him. "But we still have three hours…" Watson complained.

"Read Gray's Anatomy, then."

"Holmes, you know as well as I how incomparably dull that is."

The detective sniffed and leaned back, covering his eyes with his deerstalker. "Well I, for one, am going back to sleep." He announced.

"Fine." Watson followed suit, tipping his bowler over his face and joining in Holmes' example.

Lestrade glanced between them somewhat awkwardly and then looked to the front of the cruiser. "I guess I'll follow the herd. You don't mind, do you?"

John glanced back with a smile. "Not at all. I respect that you all have had a trying and early day—even if it only started three hours ago!" He plucked Gray's Anatomy from the floor where Watson had tossed it, and opened to the introduction. "I don't believe I ever scanned this fully, anyway! Rest assured my time will be well occupied."

The remainder of the journey was spent in silence, allotting for the occasional bout of snoring from the rear of the vehicle as one or the other of the sleeping passengers lapsed into heavy slumber. As the trip progressed, the three dozing companions slowly changed positions until they were comfortable; though they did present a rather amusing sight.

Holmes, on his part, eventually slumped onto Lestrade's shoulder, while she was curled into the upholstery which had previously held Watson. The doctor, in a display of remarkable sleep-induced movement, was splayed across the Inspector's lap and salivating slightly as he used Holmes's knee as a pillow. Besides several incidences in which they made some slight adjustment (and Holmes once awoke briefly when some strands of hair tickled his nose), they had made the best of an odd situation.

As the coast of North America came into sight, John grinned to himself and took a quick, but heartwarming photograph of the scene, storing it in his memory banks for a later date. Whether as a humorous gift, or possible (lighthearted) blackmail, he was unsure.

Fifteen minutes passed before he subtly awoke the compartment by turning quite a bit sharper than usual into a lane of traffic leading to the ominous city in the distance.

"'tson, I can't feel my legs…" Lestrade mumbled, shoving at the doctor while Holmes bemoaned his soggy kneecap. "How th' zed'd you wind up down there anyway?"

Watson sat up, flushing a deep pink as he wiped the side of his mouth. "I've no idea… I apologize, Holmes. I hope your pants are all right." He gestured at the patch of dampness that had accumulated, inducing the detective to sigh and cover it with his hand.

"Nothing a rinse won't clear up, though I can't imagine we look our best." With matching expressions of dazedness, and unorganized hair to match, they certainly did not appear to be in any proper shape to solve the crime wave plaguing a separate country from their own.

Lestrade sniffed and rubbed her eyes. "No worries. The guy we're going to see won't mind." She said with a shrug.

"We are approaching the police department now—gracious! I've never experienced so much traffic!" John pulled them out of their conversation as the cruiser began to descend. Holmes and Watson eagerly took to the windows, observing the city as they sank below the shadows of the buildings.

The detective released a long whistle of appreciation. "Our New London appears to hold naught but a candle before this." He gestured at the milling crowds on the streets, and the dark clouds of vehicles surrounding them. "I hadn't expected New York City to be quite so…"

"Enormous." Watson finished in amazement. "Good Heavens, it certainly has changed! Of course, I only ever saw photographs…"

The cruiser swooped into the parking bay of the building then, and Lestrade appeared relieved. "C'mon, let's get out of this thing before it catches on fire or something." She grumbled, leaping down and staggering as her feet became accustomed to solid ground again. "I think I remember where the office is."

With the cruiser properly locked and in the process of cooling, the four companions proceeded into the main building. Holmes and Watson discreetly fixed their sleep-mussed hair as well as they could and straightened their clothes while Lestrade led the pack, flaunting her disgruntlement as much as she ever did in New Scotland Yard.

The streamlined, brushed metal hallways struck an imposing figure, as did the uniformed personnel that moved past them, fixing the odd group with raised eyebrows. Unlike the NSY uniforms, the New York officers opted for navy blue and occasionally black material, as well as bright yellow badges. In comparison, the white suit Lestrade wore seemed painfully out of place, as did the London-issue compudroid and two men wearing much outdated clothing.

"Here we go." Lestrade planted her thumb on the buzzer outside a door that could have easily been missed but for the slim lines indicating a break in the wall. "Well, don't we make a nice, organized group?" She chuckled, glancing over them all once more before the wall opened to reveal a new room.

The first thought that bounded to mind on addressing the office was homely. The walls were of synthetic wood panels, and lined with various awards and degrees, as well as a not-insubstantial collection of firearms that spanned several eras. The floor was carpeted, and judging by the standard-issue police footwear residing by the wall, whoever was in control of the room was in the habit of working in their stocking feet. Holmes took a moment to observe the ceiling, and was unsurprised that it alone betrayed the fortress-like security of the building.

"Finally!" A robust male voice broke through the silence. "I had half a mind to call Grayson to see if you'd even left! Gave you one of the old dinosaurs, did he?" The man in question stood up, wearing what appeared to be a standard uniform of navy blue. His hair, though showing to have once been dark brown, was streaked with white, as was the sparse salt-and-pepper stubble on his face. Again, knowing the original inspector, the resemblance was there, but the man before them was far more imposing than his ancestor. He stood on par with Holmes, and if they were both to stand straight, it appeared as though the stranger before them would have the advantage by more than an inch. "Well?" His voice was a metaphorical foghorn, though his lips remained in a delighted smile.

"Yeah, you should see it. One of the old nineties models." Their Lestrade grinned sheepishly. "It's nice to see you, Dad."

"Don't be a stick in the mud, Bethy Bunny. Com'ere an' gimme a cuddle before we start on all of this!" The man grabbed her into such a colossal bear hug that her three companions grimaced in pity. "No, not a word! I haven't seen you in too long to hear it yet. Now, then!" He released her. "Let's see if I'm well-up on my history." He marched towards the three remaining parties, and Holmes felt a twinge of triumph in his correct deduction; the man was his superior in height.

"You're John, level seven law enforcement droid?"

"Technically, sir, though I do have up to level nine qualifications, as it were."

"Good, good. Glad to hear it. Those level nines have the worst wiring I've ever seen. You're of the more reliable bunch, definitely." The elastomask flushed at the compliment and they shook hands.

Brown eyes (Their Lestrade clearly took after her mother in that regard) turned upon the remaining men, and his grin took on a slightly fanatical edge Holmes had come to know well. "If I'd ever known I'd have you two in my office, you can guarantee I'd have read those books a bit more!" He crowed at last. "It's a pleasure you meet you. Doctor, I can't thank you enough for writing out all those cases—they've been an aid to police work ever since!" Watson, like John, blushed deeply and bowed just slightly.

"I can't say I ever expected them to be so popular when I wrote them." He confessed sheepishly. "Though I'm certainly happy to have helped." They shook hands, and the attention landed on Holmes, who could not help but fidget under the four stares.

He was alarmed by the hand that was immediately extended, but took it graciously. "You sir… I don't even know what to say, but I hope you can clear up the pretty little mess we're in." He let out a full-bodied laugh and put a hand to his head. "My good Lord, Bunny. And here I was always proud as punch just that you got into New Scotland Yard—youngest inspector they've had in fifteen years, y'know." He looked at Holmes significantly, while his daughter's face burned red. "To think you'd be teaming up with Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson… your mother's tickled, Bunny! Absolutely tickled! All she talks about, you know."

"Yeah, okay!" The younger Lestrade held up her hands. "Guys, meet my father, Richard Lestrade. Chief of Detectives."

"The commissioner would have seen to you, but as things go they're more for the political side of things anyway. Given that this is in my department, I'll be the one you bunch report to." Detective Lestrade's expression fell into one of business. "I trust Grayson filled you in for the most part, did he Bunny?"

"Yessir."

"Good enough. Now, it doesn't take Sherlock Holmes," The man in question withheld a wince at the cliché. "to see you're all dead on your feet, so why don't you go back to the house and get situated, eh?"

"The house?" Beth asked in a panic. "We're not staying in a hotel or something?"

"Hotel? Why on Earth would you stay at a hotel when we've got a big house just outside the city, Bethy Bunny?" Detective Lestrade snorted derisively, a motion his daughter had clearly learned well. "Peter's home for a while with the kids since their house is having some reno's done, of course, but there's still plenty of rooms to go around! Besides, I daresay the kids'll die when they get wind of this. They're at that age now, where they'll faint over celebrities and all that."

"But Dad, how are we supposed to work if—"

"None of that now. When you go home at the end of the day you leave work in the office. This is supposed to double as a vacation for you guys. Enjoy it." He waved a hand at them and returned to his desk. "Now go on, I'll tell your mother you're coming."

They left the office in single file, and when the door was shut, Holmes glanced down at Lestrade with amusement twinkling in his eyes. "Bunny?" He asked sardonically.

"Oh, shut up and let's get this over with."

[1] His Last Bow: In which Holmes spends two years in the United States doing intelligence work for England in 1914 on the eve of the First World War. During his time acting as an Irish-American by the name of Altamont, he grew himself a fine goatee, which Watson later laments in saying "But you, Holmes--you have changed very little-- save for that horrible goatee."

[2] Priory School: In which Holmes is rewarded quite handsomely for solving the case. As he pats his pocket, he says "I am a poor man", which can be taken as some rare sarcasm on his part.