by John Pirillo
Tesla and Edison sat on the sofa facing Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Einstein stood at the window, allowing his pipe smoke to drift outside, his attention on the words of his friends, but his eyes on the street. A large part of him no longer trusted anything to be normal, which he sighed inwardly, was a sad, sad thing. Which brought him back to his questions about how someone had corrupted his theory into something quite destructive. He was a peaceful and loving man by nature, and to have his profound work corrupted into a thing of violence caused such a deep repugnance within him, that he wanted to shake off his skin from the way it made him feel.
Madame Curie seated near him, felt his moodiness, and gave him a sympathetic look, lost to him because of his attention on several pedestrians below, who seemed to be having a problem with their Tesla car.
"So you, see Sherlock. Whoever, or whatever took our plans, was also part of this recent movement to subjugate London." Tesla finished.
"You believe this why?"
Tesla looked at Edison, who nodded. "Because the weapon they used, or rather it, if you can describe it as anything besides a Mummy creature. It was using not out of space technology, not something from another dimension as Jules and Herbert seemed to hint at, but rather a gross misappropriation of something we were working on with Al."
"I see." Sherlock replied, his index finger on the tip of his nose a moment, as he considered the information. "Then it is your believe that these creatures are not of another planet?"
"We don't know what to believe, except the evidence of our eyes. Would a creature from another planet know how to even read the simplest of our words?"
Tesla nodded at his friend's evaluation. "Not likely. That's our belief."
Watson, who stood next to the hearth, warming his hands, turned to face the two men. "Whatever or whoever this thing is, it planted a very advanced communications device inside my skull. Which if not for Harry...speaking of which...where is Harry?""
Challenger came from downstairs helping Mrs. Hudson with two large trays of sandwiches. He set them down on the table, then helped her to begin pouring coffee for everyone. They all needed it. Black. Because none of them had slept much of late.
"Harry went out for a walk last I heard." Then he straightened, an alarmed look on his face. "Wait! That was yesterday!" He blurted out.
The room went deathly silent.
Sherlock looked at Watson.
"I'm on it." Watson said, and hurried down the stairs to the coat-rack, where he threw on a heavy overcoat and hat, then went outside into the blustery cold. He saw a Tesla Cab coming from the opposite side of the street and flagged it down, then got in and it drove off.
Einstein noted the pickup, then turned to the others, his pipe between his palms. He rolled it back and forth between them like a toy. "We are still missing some very important clues to all of this."
"I agree whole heartedly." Sherlock said, nodding his head vigorously. "This whole affair started off with a stolen mummy, a dead security guard and now it has blossomed into a plot of world domination by some kind of extra-terrestrial or dimensional creature."
"Or not." Challenger broke in. "Remember what Jules and Wells told us."
"Yes. I do remember. And I also remember that they didn't tell us everything they know."
Conan, who had been napping in the back of the room in a comfy recliner, snapped awake. "Perhaps they can't."
Everyone turned their attention to him. He was likely to come up with great deductions as he was also the author of Sherlock Holmes in his own time and space. "Perhaps what they know would be too much for us to grasp."
"Or damning, more likely." Tesla shot back.
"Or yes, even that." Conan agreed, though the taste of the words hurt his conscience to speak. He had known both men for years now and found them to be of great character and their wives and children remarkable and spirited souls.
"Very well." Einstein said simply. He took a sandwich from the tray, then placed his pipe on the mantle of the fireplace and turned to listen to his eager listeners. He rarely spoke much, and when he did his observations were usually quite remarkable, except when he was joking. The man had an insatiable appetite to catch lesser souls off-balance at times.
"Let's list the probabilities then."
"One." Conan said. "A missing mummy."
"Two." Challenger added. "With no apparent way out."
"Three." Madame Curie pointed out. "A dead security guard. Or rather remains of one."
"Four, Five and Six." Sherlock spoke up. "A dead actor, rich heiress, and shop keeper, not to mention two Midnight Angels."
"That's seven and eight." Einstein pointed out. "But moving on to ten, there's the fact that all these incidents pointed to the improbable, and at first, the impossible."
"Eleven." Conan broke in. "No one or even thing...could have gotten out of that secured storage vault in the museum."
"Agreed." Sherlock responded. "And twelve. Watson."
"Everyone lapsed into silence a moment, remembering the horror of what had happened to him."
"Twelve. The theft of our invention." Tesla jumped in.
"My theory." Einstein added.
"Assault on our factory." Edison reminded.
"The Thames Disaster." Sherlock said with a grim face.
Madame Curie sighed. "One thing is for certain, even event has been an increase of violence, and a larger scale of action."
"Agreed." Both Sherlock and Challenger said at the same time.
They looked at each other and smiled.
Conan finished his sandwich, mopped his lips with a hanky, then set it down on his lap and leaned forward. "I think we are not dealing with a creature from another world at all."
"What do you suggest then?" Sherlock inquired. "Wells and Verne are both certain of it."
"Yes, but with the observation that the world was not necessarily one of space, but rather time."
Sherlock jumped up so fast and spoke so loudly, that everyone in the room was startled. "By Jove you have it, Conan! HIM!"
The temperature in the room fell a good ten degrees at the mention of that word and all it implied. For if true, then it wasn't just monsters of an extraterrestrial or dimensional kind they need worry about.
John Pirillo"Writing fuels the heart and soul!" Science Fiction, Fantasy and Adventure Tales to Take Your Breath Away!