Hey all! There isn't nearly enough Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century fan fiction out there, so here's my little addition. You don't really need an extensive knowledge of the series to read this. All you have to know is that Holmes has been brought back to life in the 22nd Century to help fight Professor Moriarty (yes the original-or rather a clone of the original). Lestrade, the narrator, is a descendent of the inspector from the canon. She's a strong-willed woman, a Scotland Yard inspector who works closely with Holmes. Watson is a robot. Ok, now you're ready to read.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this

The Affair of The Woman

The fire filled the room with an orange glow that I had always found reassuring and comforting. I sat as close as possible, reveling in the heat. It was such a rarity in New London to find an honest-to-goodness flame and wood fire that always I shamelessly made up excuses to visit Baker Street during winter when a fire seemed most appealing. What I love best wis the smell. Artificial fires could mimic the light and the heat, but they could never re-create the wonderful smell of wood smoke that permeated 221B when the fire was lit.

I was bored. I was a slow day, and I itched for something to do. Restlessly, I glanced over at Holmes who was curled in an armchair opposite me. He was studying a book minutely. A copy, ironically enough, of Dr. Watson's journals. I fought the urge to laugh out loud. Here was a picture the tabloids would pay good money for, Sherlock Holmes reading the tales of his own adventures!

Holmes suddenly looked up from his reading, and I prepared a snide comment in hopes that I could at least break the boredom with an arguement, but it died on my lips when I realized he wasn't looking at me. He had turned his gaze, instead, on a photograph that hung over the desk. It was a photograph of a woman dressed in Victorian clothes. The woman was extraordinarily beautiful, and the dress she wore was luxurious and flattering. I imagined how it must have shone in the light, accenting the woman's figure and complementing, I was certain, her eye color. Victorian clothing did have its good points, for all the internal havoc a corset could reek on the body.

"Who is that, Holmes?" I asked suddenly, half startled to hear my own voice in the quiet room. "I don't think I've ever seen that photo before."

"No I don't suppose you have," he answered neutrally, "Deidre helped me print it out from her computer. She really is a very clever girl."

"Who? Deidre or the woman in the photo?"

"Both" Holmes replied, a strange expression in his sardonic eyes.

"Well, who is it Holmes? A former client? A family member? Come on, tell me!"

He looked suddenly embarrassed. "Oh, she's just a woman of my acquaintance…my former acquaintance," he amended. "I found a photo of her on the internet and decided to paste it there for old time's sake. A reminder..."

"You're being mysterious with me, Holmes. Stop that!" I waved a hand in front of his usually keen eyes, but Sherlock Holmes was far, far away, lost in his memories. Strange, Holmes was usually so observant. I had never seen him like this and it worried me slightly. "We've got to get you a case before you go all mushy and sentimental talking about the 'good old days'"

"Never fear, I am not about to melt at your feet in a puddle of sentimental hogwash. You have my word. I was merely reflecting on the limitations of the human mind." And with these words he rose and retired to his room.

I sat for a while in stunned silence. I have known Holmes long enough to be able to predict what his moods will be at any given day. On an interesting case he was energetic and practically unstoppable. Between cases his mood would vary from bored to downright depressed. Occasionally I would find him in a black mood. He would lie on the couch and refuse to move, eat, or even acknowledge the presence of other people in the room. I thought I knew the man, but here was something I had never seen before, something completely different. It worried me slightly, I admit.

I picked up the copy of Watson's journals that he had been reading. He had left it open, face down on the armchair so that when I lifted it, it was still on the page he had been reading. Out of curiosity, I looked to see which case he had been remembering. I flipped back a few pages until I could find the title, reading the simple, black bold-face print in surprise.

A Scandal in Bohemia

"The Woman" I said softly out loud, looking back at the picture on the wall. Holmes had been thinking about Irene Adler "of dubious and questionable memory," I grinned evilly. Here was another little tidbit for the tabloids. I could see the headlines now: "Holmes Ruminates, Remembers Past Love…"

I stopped abruptly, embarrassed at my own thoughts. Surely that was no more true than most of the pointless facts people had invented about his past from lack of anything better to do. The Sherlock Holmes of literary fame was a cold scientist, a thinking machine who could not afford to give in to the softer emotions. Yet, he is human a nagging voice inside my head whispered, And he must have feelings, however well disguised they are. I mentally stuffed a very large shoe into the nagging voice's mouth and rose to go, bidding good night to Watson, who was just getting ready to shut down for the night.

The next morning dawned bright and crisp. I, however, had risen long before the lazy sun had and was already at the Yard hard at work on paperwork. As I mindlessly filled in the papers pertaining to the case I had just solved (with more than a great deal of help from Holmes) I thought about the incident of the previous night. It still bothered me, that little memory fest of his. Though why shouldn't he look back on the memories of his previous life? The more I pondered the quandary, the more it worried me, and I decided that she would have to do some discrete investigating. At least it would quell the boredom.

Four hours, 6 cups of coffee, and about 52 million pieces of paper later, I was finally getting somewhere. "Zedding Victorians! Why couldn't they just download everything onto a database!" I groaned angrily to the dust bunnies that adorned the shelves. I distastefully surveyed the wreckage of the records room where I had been searching for information on the life of one, Irene Adler. So far, I had found absolutely nothing useful, until I stumbled onto a folder full of old, yellowed documents. The whole thing looked as if it might disintegrate if touched the wrong way. I held the precious file folder over my head and waded out of the paper-filled room, pausing briefly for a moment of silence for the poor janitor that would have to clean the mess up. Oh well. I couldn't let a little mess stop me from making progress, even if the room did look like hurricane Beth had been through it.

At home, with a seventh cup of coffee I looked over the papers in the folder. The first one was a birth certificate for a child named Irene Adler, born in 1885 in New Jersey. The second and third documents were both programs from Operas performed at the Imperial Opera of Warsaw. The first one was for La Traviata, the second for Carmen. In both, Irene played the title roll. The fifth was a faded and barely readable newspaper article, detailing the singer's last performance before her retirement. The sixth document was no more than a half sheet, but it was thick, expensive paper with elaborate and perhaps overly ornate script. It was an invitation to the wedding of "A monarch you have come to know quite well," signed with a flourish by said monarch. The final document was a death certificate with an obituary at the bottom stating simply that the retired opera singer had died in a tragic train accident.

Sighing, I sat back, brooding on all the work I had put in for evidence that merely confirmed what I already knew. I threw the folder onto the bed in frustration. Fruitless, the whole thing. I might as well give up. Holmes's past was a mystery he kept under lock and key, and it would take a crowbar the size of the New Scotland Yard to break into it. I thought bitterly about all the time I had spent trying to find the useless papers sitting on my bed. The bed! Holmes's room was the one place that was entirely his in the house and no one else went into it. If he kept memories of the past anywhere, they would be in there. I hurried out the door and over to 221 B. without locking the door to my flat.

I was lucky. Holmes had been called away on a case. "A very small case" Watson assured me, as if he worried that I would be hurt Holmes was investigating without me. In any other situation, I would be, but now I had a purpose, and Holmes gallivanting off on his own in search of someone else's stolen stylus box didn't phase me, in fact it helped me.

I looked at the clock on the wall, and then back at Watson. "Isn't it time to pick the irregulars up at school?" I asked. Watson had been bringing the irregulars back to Baker Street after school each day for "training" though mostly they just played around. He made the robotic equivalent of a harrumph and headed out to his hover car, leaving me alone in the house.

Without hesitation I penetrated Holmes's sanctuary. Holmes's room was undoubtedly the messiest room in the house. His furniture seemed to be buried under a sea of random objects. There was an odd assortment of the Victorian and the modern in the room. On the floor, books and ancient paper newspapers piled on top of their electronic equivalents. The walls were covered in photos of criminals both from the 19th century and the 22nd century. There was even an old writing set on the desk complete with inkwell, pen, and blotting paper.

I surveyed the room at a loss as to where to begin. Where would Holmes keep the secrets of his past? I flipped through some of the more well-worn books scattered about, shaking a few looking for papers, but all I found was a laundry list. Perhaps the desk would yield better secrets. I sat at the chair and began to inspect the drawers. The middle one was locked, which boded well, but where to find the key? The logical thing would be for it to be in one of the drawers, so I opened the other two, rifling through the multitude of yellowed papers I found there. I was about to give up and check the night stand, when I happened to drop one of the books I was holding into the now empty second drawer. It fell with a thunk, a decidedly hollow sound.

The false bottom lifted out relatively easily, and inside the contents were covered in a thick layer of dust. There was no key in the drawer, unfortunately. In fact, the only thing in it was a gold pocket watch which once must have been bright and shiny, but now was rather dull and grey. I lifted it carefully out of the drawer and held it to my ear. It ticked! I opened the pocket watch in surprise and watch the hands move slowly around the face. Then I noticed that there was an inscription on the lid. When I read it, I knew I had struck gold, both literally and figuratively.

The inscription inside the watch said:

To S from I
A memory
Of Montenegro

So this was the evidence. Someone with the first initial "I" had given Holmes a pocket watch in Montenegro, and it didn't take brilliant deductive skills to figure out who "I" had been. I took the pocket watch out to the sitting room and waited.

Please be nice and review. I apologize to the more traditional Holmesians out there. I tend to ride both sides of the fence. So if you prefer traditional stories, check out "The Case of the Still Heart" (which will be updated soon, I promise) and "M is for Murder" (which will also be updated soon. Gah! I shouldn't write more than one story at a time!)

-Anozira