The Wind Blows

[Mary Poppins]

The wind was picking up, the clouds beginning to shift with a haste only reserved for the worst storms. Mary Poppins readjusted her position to compensate for the change, her lips pursed to match her brow, now furrowed with worry. It was always so alarmingly frustrating when this happened. She rarely misjudged the weather, never one to judge a thing on appearance, but she had been so eager to make this trip. She was on her way to London, having left her charges in Surrey to get on with it and become responsible members of the human race. A job well done, if she did say so herself. It was always harder with country families, so stuck in their own ways and isolated from any good examples; except herself, of course. So, the victory was a particular joy. More of a joy, however, was what awaited her in London. It had been precisely three and a half years since she had seen Jane and Michael Banks and their twin siblings John and Barbara and she was so looking forward to the reunion. On hearing that their was some trouble with the growing toddlers, she had been delighted. It was an odd paradox.

As she thought, her umbrella caught an updraft and she felt the shudder all through her body. This simply would not do. She was not far from London, she would be there momentarily, but gusts like this were not to be trifled with. Another updraft swept in, this one pulling her off balance and tearing her upward into the heavily growing clouds. She gasped in surprised, coughing at the sudden intake of moist air. The clouds were darker than she had noticed on her leaving. This was rather a pickle. A rumbling erupted all around her.

"Bother." She wasn't usually inclined to be expletive, but she had really missed the mark today. "Really Mary," she thought, "you must not let these moments get the better of your judgement."

"My sentiments exactly!" yelled the handle of her umbrella. "If you'd only listened to my advice..."

"Oh hush!" Mary answered back, unimpressed that she had to raise her voice. It was most uncouth. "This is hardly the worst we've been in!" As if in answer to this statement, the wind grew exponentially within minutes and she felt the darting cold of rain beginning. Mary's hat came loose in a rogue gust and she felt some of her hair pins slipping. Her faced whitened. All right, perhaps they were in trouble. "Hold on!" she yelled, trying to push them above the storm. It was to no avail, for as she adjusted her coordinates, the storm seemed to let loose its faculties and a gust of wind so brutal whipped past her she felt herself losing the grip on her umbrella. She panicked, no wind had ever been able to unseat her before. Something odd was happening. Allowing her carpet bag to slip to her elbow, she gripped the umbrella with both hands.

"Now she worries," mumbled the bird, loud enough to be heard. Mary glared up at him. Then, all at once, another violent gust of wind shot by. This time, to her left and Mary noticed something extremely odd. There was a person flying by with it. She blinked. The person was gone. Really, hallucinations were a bit much.

Then, there it was again. This time, a face reared up directly in front of her before slamming into her and spiralling downwards. Mary, never one surprised for long was immediately pondering the possibilities.

"We're about to hit the ground," her bird said unnaturally calmly. Mary rearranged her thoughts and used all of her strength to slow the dive and stop the injuries that were possibly waiting for her at the other end. A voice yelled something strange into the air and the she immediately felt lighter. What in all heavens and earth? The pace of everything was suspended and she noticed, for the first time, the cobbled streets below her. She had made it to London. She landed on her feet on the hard stone floor, still perplexed as to how she had managed to slow her fall so dramatically. Her umbrella was still in her possession and miraculously, so was her bag. She began to dust herself off and assess the damage to her hair, which was now most dreadfully bedraggled and totally unpresentable.

It was then that she noticed that she was not alone. A crowd of people had gather, dressed in the most peculiar manner. There were pointy hats and cauldrons, moonshaped spectacles and lingering robes. She must have flown much farther than she thought. It had happened before. A squall in 1903 had landed her in Nice. The French were most unpleasant. She then noticed a young boy to her left who was now the centre of a small commotion in which she heard several jumbled words from what must have been his parents.

"If you ever run off like that again, I'll curse you myself! Quidditch in Diagon Alley and during a storm, I never!" a small woman yelled. Mary had no idea what she was talking about. Utter nonsense. She looked around, everyone stared at her. Not one to made to feel uncomfortable, she addressed the crowd.

"Excuse me," she began, seemingly unfazed by the open stares she was receiving. I seem to be lost, can you tell me where this is?"

[Sherlock Holmes]

While Mary Poppins had been flying toward her destination, Holmes had had no traveling ideas of the sort. No, the great Detective had just stopped a serial killer from killing again. The man had a very peculiar way about how he killed and why. He claimed that the blood of the poor souls he had spilt would bring him into another dimension. Or some such nonsense as that.

But Holmes had managed to stop him from killing his third victim. And now the enraged man was being escorted kicking and screaming to the back of the Officer’s couch. Holmes observed him, ignoring his own injuries sustained from the brawl with the man’s minions. Watson had not been there with him, and so he had some cuts and bruises. It was days like this that he realized the price of not having someone with him that he can rely on.

Sniffing slightly, Sherlock made his way back into the warehouse that they found the serial killer at. The marks were the most interesting. There was no five pointed star, or ox headed demon painting as most magical-claimed killers were wont to do. But rather, several phrases in what looked like Latin. They were arranged in circles, and appeared to be written in the blood of the victims.

Seeing as how he was well-versed in Latin, the detective leaned over the writings. Not noticing when a drop of blood from one of the cuts on his forehead trickled down and landed at the center of the markings….

And that was when things really went out of control. The Latin words started to glow violently. In alarm, Sherlock tried to move back. However, he found that he couldn’t move at all. It was as if he was stuck to the floor. There was a flash of light, and the Sherlock Holmes of the Victorian Era…. Was no longer in the Victorian Era.

In Diagon Alley, a lightning bolt struck, making the sky light up to almost a blinding quality. When it resided, a man lay motionless on the cobblestone streets. The people passing him simply shook their heads, believing it to be some sort of spell-gone-wrong. When would those darn kids learn?

Slowly, the man started to get up, groaning slightly. His brown eyes carefully observed his surroundings as he got to a kneeling position. He took in everything, from the strange shops and their names (and dates of establishment), to the crowd around him. It reminded him of a busy London street, except he was sure there were no owls swooping overhead during the day.

Groaning once more, the detective rubbed his tired eyes. None of this made any sense. Unless…. Carefully, he rolled up both sleeves of his coat and shirt. His primary concern being that somehow, he had….. relapsed into his old vice without his realizing it. But there were no new marks indicating a syringe. So with a sigh, Sherlock got to his feet and rolled his sleeves down.

It was of course, terribly wrong to make theories without proper data. So, lets look at the facts. He was obvious not on any London street he had been on before. Though the people around him had a similar accent as he did, so that meant he was still in England. He was not in any drug-induced coma, he hadn’t used cocaine since Watson started living with him at Baker Street.

"Excuse me, I seem to be lost, can you tell me where this is?"

Holmes really wanted to know that himself. So he walked carefully over to the woman who had spoken. He would put her age around her mid twenties if he had to. She was dressed in a style that he had never seen before, but he could assume from it that she was middle class at best. And from the uniform itself?... she was a governess.

“Madam, it seems that I too am lost.” Sherlock told her, taking off his fendora for a moment to run his fingers through his hair, “But we are in England, even if we are not in London….”

[Mary Poppins]

The crowd were rude to newcomers it seemed. As soon as it was determined that the rogue child was all right and not hurt from the fall, suspicious looks filtered in Mary's direction. Well, they were hardly filtered. People began to mutter darkly and turn to leave without answering her question. Mary felt most affronted. She searched for some sign of basic manners, but the street rapidly began to go about its previous business, the fact that she had been essentially ripped from the sky by the child's negligence making no never mind to anyone.

“Madam, it seems that I too am lost.” Sherlock told her, taking off his fendora for a moment to run his fingers through his hair, “But we are in England, even if we are not in London….”

Mary, thankful for any response, turned primly to see who had addressed her. She frowned. He was an untidy looking man, albeit with sharp eyes and a keenly developed diction and she detested scruffiness almost as much as she detested foul language. She was instantly reminded of how she must appear, her clothes out of place as they were thanks the heavy wind. She kept her opinion to herself. "You may be right," she began, dusting off her sleeves subconsciously, "However, while I certainly detect some english words, it does seem to be a strange dialect. Pray sir, what do you understand by the word 'Quidditch'?" It was snapped antagonistically at him.

Mary felt suddenly that her foul mood had got the better of her manners. The man seemed the only helpful face around and she had lashed out at him unnecessarily. She looked at him once again, noting his dress was distinctly out of fashion. His face was a little scathed, he appeared to have been in a fight recently. "It really is most inconvenient," she shook her head, "Forgive me, you are?" She reached into her carpet bag and fetched a pristine, white handkerchief and held it out for him.

She wanted to look around and find a helpful person who could speak the Queen's English. Perhaps then she could be properly assisted and find her way to the Bankses in time for tea. She really was abominably late and all this mysteriousness was destroying her always-accurate schedule.

[Sherlock Holmes]

Sherlock predicted that the moment the… Nanny would look at him she would look with disgust. Granted, he wasn’t in the best of shape at the moment. His clothing ruffled from the fight and from laying face down in this street’s filth. But also, governesses did seem to have a general aversion to untidiness and scruff on the face. (Hence why as a young man, the moment he realized he could grow a beard he made sure it was scruffy. Perhaps in his youth he had finally had enough of being verbally abused by his governess day in and day out. Him growing an unkempt beard was his final rebellion towards the old bat who made his childhood miserable.)

But she was hardly very tidy at the moment either, which Holmes found rather hypocritical. But he didn’t mention a word as she seemed to be aware of this, calmly keeping his hat off as he would when addressing any lady. He held his hands behind his back, holding on to his fedora as his brown curly locks moved to the wind. The cool air bit at the cuts on his forehead and cheek, but he paid them no mind.

"You may be right. However, while I certainly detect some english words, it does seem to be a strange dialect. Pray sir, what do you understand by the word 'Quidditch'?”

The words were snapped rather rudely at him, and his lips twitched into a small frown accordingly. Just like a nanny to blame the first person they saw for their troubles. “Miss, I hardly know what this ‘Quidditch’ is. It sounds like a type of slang in this area’s dialect.” Slang changed every year with the language, after all. He knew some Northern Englishmen to have quite astounding tones and words.

"It really is most inconvenient. Forgive me, you are?"

“Sherlock Holmes, at your service Madam.” He said with a bow and a kiss upon her hand, the way any proper gentleman would address a lady. He let go of her hand just as quickly. He accepted the offered handkerchief with an awkward ‘thank you’. Knowing full and well that he would probably ruin it with his blood as he pressed it to the worst of the cuts to stop the bleeding. She probably should realize that too.

Nevertheless, he let his eyes wander. Now that he paid more attention, he realized just how strange some of the clothing was. Some of the children and ladies wore bluish pants, a cloth he had never seen before. Some of them wore styles that looked like what one would wear in the medieval ages.

But what got his attention was a newspaper, slightly crumpled in the side of the street. Moving past his new acquaintance, he bent over to pick up the paper, smoothing out the front page.

Now this news paper, The Daily Prophet, was quite intriguing. The first thing that caught his notice was that the pictures were moving. A man with a beard that looked like a lion’s mane was cheerfully waving back at him! Apparently, this man was the ‘minister of magic’.

The next thing that caught his attention, also made his blood run cold. He stood carefully, paper still in hand as he walked back over to the governess. “Madam… Look at the date…” His voice was hushed in wonder as he pointed to the year. 1999.

His shocked eyes truly shouldn’t be registering this. Moving pictures he could deal with, Nanny’s in strange clothes could be charmingly ignored, but this? There was no logical explanation that a whole century had gone by without him even being aware of it.

Clearing his throat, he replaced his fedora on his head. He folded the news paper and tucked it under his arm. His face was blank, but his eyes shimmered as the mind behind them reeled. Now Sherlock, no panicking. Panicking is chaos, and you must remain logical. If only he had a chance to read what those letters were in Latin! Surely they were the key to how he came to be in this futuristic landscape.

He was rather starting to crave a pipe at this point.

[Mary Poppins]

“Miss, I hardly know what this ‘Quidditch’ is. It sounds like a type of slang in this area’s dialect.”

Perhaps he was right and she had just landed in an area of the city that she did not know. Excitement flickered up in her momentarily, before she sensibly pushed it aside. It was rare to find a part of the city that was unexplored since she had been around, well, a while. She again looked at the streets that surrounded her. She noted a long row of odd stores, selling wares she had never before seen the likes of in London. ‘Madame Malkin’s Robes for all Occasions’ she read. She doubted one could where a robe for all occasions… That was beside the point. She returned her attention to the newcomer and asked his name, handing him a handkerchief for what appeared to be scratches on his face.

“Sherlock Holmes, at your service Madam.”

If he was scruffy, he certainly had good manners. He took her hand and kissed it, rather gallantly she thought. She had yet to form a total opinion on gallantry, hers tended to change depending on the gentleman in question. As for Mr Holmes, the bow had inclined her to be less harsh towards him and reserve her judgment until a more advantageous moment. “Properly done, Mr Holmes,” she said, smiling softly for the first time as he took the handkerchief, “glad to make your acquaintance, I am Mary Poppins.”

She noticed that he hesitated and thanked her awkwardly for the handkerchief and wondered if her object in giving it him was unclear. “It’s for your face,” she began, “don’t worry about ruining it, I have many more where that came from. You might do wisely to keep one on hand yourself…” she added automatically, often finding it difficult to walk away from the duty of bettering people. Uncle Albert found it quite infuriating, but Mary could not help it. Where she went, suggestions for practical perfection went. There was nothing to be done about it.

Mr Holmes turned his attention back to their surroundings and Mary did the same. While there was much that was odd about this place, she had no doubt that a little searching in the right place might put her directly back on track. There was an ageing sign placed at the corner of the street, the wood looking a little worse for ware. ‘Diagon Alley’ it read. Mary reached into her carpetbag and pulled out a map. She began to search it for Diagon Alley, which she found to be a rather absurd name. She did not have a chance to find it, however, as Mr Holmes’s luck proved better than hers.

“Madam… Look at the date…”

He handed her an odd looking newspaper and Mary noted some key differences between it and the usual fare handed out by paper boys at the central train station. Moving pictures seemed to be a slight extravagance. She, however, was sometimes warm to a little extravagance and she thought it gave it a distinct air of importance. Then she noted the object to which Mr Holmes had been so keenly directing her attention. The date read 1999. Mary frowned. “That’s absurd,” she exclaimed, ”it was 1913 the last time I checked!”

She handed Mr Holmes the paper, “it must be a misprint.”

Yet, there it was, plain as day in front of her. A deep sensation welled up within her. For the first time in her life, Mary Poppins felt uncomfortable. It was not unheard of for a storm to make things go terribly wrong. It was usually not really much of a concern for most travelers, but for her, there was much more in 1913 than excellent former charges. Refusing to think about it, she returned to her map and tried to make out Diagon Alley. Perhaps she had passed over towards Canterbury.

[Sherlock Holmes]

“Properly done, Mr Holmes, glad to make your acquaintance, I am Mary Poppins.”

His face twitched into a small, customary smile. “The pleasure is mine, Miss. Poppins.” A regular old Christian name, not much to deduct from it. Mary was one of the most used names for girls in the Britain, Ireland, and Scotland. Poppins was a typical Anglo-Saxon name. Like Holmes, it came from old English, meaning that her family had been in Britain for a long time.

What interested the detective the most was the way she responded to his courtesy. Though he shouldn’t be surprised that the praise of ‘properly done’ would come from a governess. It was in her breeding to approve of good mannerisms. Though, Sherlock learned how to be a gentleman from watching his older brother Mycroft and his father.

“May I be so bold to ask if you are a governess, Madam?” He asked with a small tilt of his head, wanted to affirm what he already knew. The data all added up to the fact itself.

“It’s for your face, don’t worry about ruining it, I have many more where that came from. You might do wisely to keep one on hand yourself…”

Bloody woman, she was adding to his discomfort. He wiped his face so that it would be free of at least the most terrible of the blood. “Well, as you can see Miss Poppins. My profession can be a rather messy one. After you ruin ten or twenty, you learn to do without.”

The words came out a little haughtier than intended. His brown eyes flashing to a dark brown for a moment in his annoyance at her ‘nannying’ of him. He would much rather get away from her at this moment. But since she seemed to be on the same boat as him, he would be wise to stick it out with her. No matter if she was both a woman and a nanny, both things that made him the most uncomfortable.

When he had returned with the paper, she had out a map. An excellent idea in theory, however Sherlock doubted that such a place would be on any map. Especially since her map was probably as outdated as her memory, if this newly found paper said anything.

“That’s absurd, it was 1913 the last time I checked! It must be a misprint.”

That floored him, when she said that she was from 1913. Though not as drastic a change as 1999, it was still a drastic one. But he kept calm, his brown eyes reeling at the facts that had assaulted him. “…. Most engaging…” He muttered.

It couldn’t be helped, this was a pipe-problem. With the strange paper tucked under his arm, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a clay pipe. After making sure it was firmly stuffed with tobacco, he took out a match and lit it. Taking a few puffs, he let the match drop and snuffing the small flame with his shoe.

After taking a sufficient puff, he let out the smoke with a sigh. (Making sure that the smoke would not go into the nanny’s face. He would never hear the end of it if it did, he was sure). He finally spoke his own revelations to the carpet bag carrying woman.

“Madam, it seems we both come from different eras. I myself come from 1882.” He told her, but his brown eyes were off to the side, observing the other shops dates. “These shops are rather old. Some were established before I was born. Therefore, we can deduce that this road and at least some of its buildings have existed in both of our times.” He gazed over at the woman finally, “Any luck on the map, then?” The tone of his voice indicated that he didn’t think she would have much luck.

[Mary Poppins]

“May I be so bold to ask if you are a governess, Madam?”

Mary was intrigued by the question. It showed the workings of a peculiar mind with an eye for fine detail. She liked peculiar minds, she liked fine details… “Yes,” she answered, “although, with the way I look currently, I’m surprised you could conclude that.“ It was kinder, more self-deprecating than directed at him.

“Well, as you can see Miss Poppins. My profession can be a rather messy one. After you ruin ten or twenty, you learn to do without.”

She did not like his tone. It was petulant, childish, and completely unnecessary she felt for addressing someone who had only offered a helpful hint for a tricky situation. “Very well,” she snipped back, “and what exactly is ‘your profession’, Mr Holmes?”

She turned to the street and began to search for a clue as to where they were. Retrieving a map from her carpetbag and began searching, only to be interrupted by Mr Holmes with what have been a misprinted newspaper. She dismissed it and continued her search, a nagging feeling insisting that something was amiss.

“…. Most engaging…”

Mary had no time for ‘engaging’ she was beginning to feel her lateness and desperately searched for ‘Diagon Alley’ without luck. She sensed Mr Holmes’s movement and peered over the top of her map for a second to see him taking out a pipe. Just like a man in his state. Scruffy man, scruffy routines. Everyone knew that a pipe was meant for home consumption, not in the company of others and most definitely not in the midst of a situation which required keen attention, not a leisurely smoke. She looked up again as he made sure to keep the smoke from intruding on her. His manner was most interesting, every time she formed a solid conclusion about him, he surprised her with a new element of refinement. She returned her attention to her map.


“Madam, it seems we both come from different eras. I myself come from 1882.”

Mary lowered her map with a frown. Her every instinct wanted to return his words with cynical wisdom, but she could not. Loathe as she was to admit it, his words made sense. The pieces began to fit. His clothes were out of date, the shift of location after a sudden change of weather, strange citizens in even stranger dress. She was slowly coming to realize that something had gone seriously wrong.

“These shops are rather old. Some were established before I was born. Therefore, we can deduce that this road and at least some of its buildings have existed in both of our times.”

She looked up at the storefronts, he was correct. She felt that feeling nagging at her grow deeper and more anxious. If what she thought was true, she would neither see Jane and Michael this afternoon, nor would she be guaranteed a return to 1913 at all. She had heard rumours about this happening. She never thought it would happen to her.

“Any luck on the map, then?”

She began to fold it up, running her perfectly trimmed finger nails along the edges for precision. ”No,” her voice was quieter, contemplative, “I’m afraid the year 1997 might be beyond its range.” She paused, then, “Well, Mr Holmes, best foot forward… ”

She turned to her carpetbag and began to search through it, mumbling as she ruffled through it. She pulled out a pair of yellow shoes, I’ve been looking for those everywhere,” she muttered, “all right, well obviously not everywhere…”

She continued trying to find what she was looking for. Two novels, a mirror and an antique gramophone later and she pulled out a pearl comb. ”Splendid,” she commented, not really looking all too outwardly excited. She handed Mr Holmes the mirror, ”Could you be so kind, Mr Holmes?”

[Sherlock Holmes]

“Yes, although, with the way I look currently, I’m surprised you could conclude that.“

Sherlock smirked slightly, “It was quite easy, actually. There is a piece of a child’s doll yarn stuck to one of the buttons of your coat. Also, putting aside the uniform you are wearing, which is typical of a governess in order to separate herself from the rest of the staff of the house she works in. You also have the manner of treating everyone, no matter child or grown adult, in a strict and dominating way. Which is of course, in your breeding as a governess.” It was obvious that he was enjoying himself far too much.

“Very well, and what exactly is ‘your profession’, Mr Holmes?”

“I am a private consulting detective.” He replied, acting as if he didn’t even notice her snappish tone. A private consulting detective was quite different from a regular detective. He didn’t have to answer to the yard. Or to any sort of authority.

Though she did not respond when he discussed how he was from the late 1800s, or when he lit his pipe. He could only assume that she believed him when he said that he was from that century. As for the pipe, she seemed affronted when he lit it, but when he made sure the smoke wouldn’t go into her face, she seemed to keep her month shut. But there were worst things to be addicted to….

”No, I’m afraid the year 1999 might be beyond its range. Well, Mr Holmes, best foot forward… ”

Holmes nodded, “Couldn’t agree more.” But right when he would have suggested that perhaps they could talk to the locals to gain some information about their new surroundings, he watched as she stared to ruffle through her carpetbag. He frowned, but slightly curious, watched as she mumbled to herself and started to bring all sorts of things out of her baggage as he continued to smoke his pipe.

”Splendid, Could you be so kind, Mr Holmes?”

“This is hardly the time for pruning, Madam.” He said, but he put his pipe between his teeth, and held the mirror. He still looked rather disgruntled. Some of the things that she pulled out of that bag couldn’t have fit.

“An interesting bag you have.” He said softly. He put in mind to perhaps take more observations of the object later. Once they got their wits more about them.

[Mary Poppins]

“I am a private consulting detective.”

"Well, that is convenient," she was genuinely surprised. If one is to go missing, it is certainly useful to go missing with a detective. Mary took note of the way he stipulated what type of detective. Mr Holmes obviously took a great deal of trouble to be distinguished from His Majesty's law enforcement. She suddenly found herself wondering who was on the throne in 1999. While many had speculated that King Edward might hold it eternally with his slow-paced rule, she doubted that that would actually be the case. She was eager to learn who the new monarch was. That, however, was another problem for another time.

Mary soon got to what was truly important. She could not walk around looking like something that had been cast into a ditch for lack of use. She felt distinctly uncomfortable and she certainly was not about to approach strangers looking like a vagabond when the means for her repair was mere centimetres away. She began to ruffle through her carpetbag for a mirror and her comb.

“This is hardly the time for pruning, Madam.”

"Quite the contrary, Mr Holmes, there is always time for pruning," she said this with a slight smile, almost certain he would be mostly annoyed. Despite his reluctance, he held the mirror for her, clutching his pipe between his teeth. She pulled some pins from her hair, the ones that were beyond repair and fastened those that were salvageable. In a matter of seconds, her hair was neatly pinned back once more and she was able to stand tall once again, having cleared her fringe from her face.

“An interesting bag you have.”

Mary turned to look at it, "Is it?" She had rarely given it much thought. It was, after all, just a carpet bag... Although she had to admit that the design was particularly wonderful. She had excellent taste in fabric, even if she did think so herself. Still, she could not imagine that as something to be described as interesting. Suddenly, she realised what might be the cause for his intrigue, "I suppose carpet wasn't really fashionable in your time."

Her blue eyes shone and her smile returned, her mood shifting with the outward improvement of her appearance. No, not vanity, the simple joy of a mess set aright. Now all that remained was to find out where they were. In truth, she was actually rather excited by this unexpected detour. While she was anxious to be reunited with Jane and Michael and, perhaps, to be able to see Bert again... she paused at the thought, her smile fixed momentarily... Well, all that aside, it had been a while since she had been at her own disposal and an entirely new location seemed almost too much to wish for.

She was adventurous at heart, even if her sensible side often got the better of her. When one has children to care for and model after oneself, one can hardly risk running amok and getting caught up in a wild adventure and risk not being home before tea and bedtime. It was difficult being on assignment without reprieve for such long periods at a time, but for now, sweet release, she was free to explore with a perfectly good reason for being absent without leave. She was determined to use the opportunity to its full.

She gathered her things back into her bag, thanking Mr Holmes as she retrieved the mirror. She turned back to him, "We may be able to put those skills in detecting to some use. Shall we?" She gestured towards a nearby store, where they might begin their enquiries. She then began walking and was eager to learn more about her accidental travel companion. She found herself wondering for the first time how he had come to be where she was. "I'm sorry, I have to ask. I seem to have been caught in a nasty act of misfortune and weather, but how is it you came to be here?"

[Sherlock Holmes]

"Quite the contrary, Mr Holmes, there is always time for pruning,"

“Not when we have been shifted into a strange society and a new time frame.” He muttered softly, his voice noting how incredibly inconvenient he found her obsession for tidiness. Honestly, though a little wind-ruffled, she looked just fine. Defiantly no different than from the odd people passing them.

"Is it? I suppose carpet wasn't really fashionable in your time.”

Seeing that she was done with that insufferable pruning, Holmes handed her back the mirror, taking the pipe back into his hands and blowing out some more smoke with a sigh. “They did exist in my time. However, I did not know they could carry quite that many objects at a time.” He swore he saw some sort of light from there, as if from a lamp. But pushed it in the back of his mind as irrelevant.

He did notice that once she had fixed her hair, her general demeanor seemed to shift. How very like a woman! That all it takes is fixing ones self to lift your mood! It was so completely illogical. It wasn’t as if tussled hair affected the brain or related nervous system at all. It was all in her head. But he supposed, if the nanny was in a better mood she might be better to deal with.

"We may be able to put those skills in detecting to some use. Shall we?"

“Yes, of course.” His sharp eyes saw the sign of the nearest store saying ‘Flourish and Blotts’. A book store, if one could say anything based on the wares they displayed in the window. “Well, we should start with that one then. A book store is most likely to have information about this time period than one selling robes for all occasions…” His lip twitched slightly at the thought, before starting to walk toward the store in question.

"I'm sorry, I have to ask. I seem to have been caught in a nasty act of misfortune and weather, but how is it you came to be here?"

He frowned, pausing mid-walk. He didn’t understand how being caught in weather would allow ones self to appear in another time frame, but he didn’t mention it for now. “Hardly by an act of weather, but I was on a case. A murderer had been killing several young girls, and using their blood to write out strange Latin phrases.” He paused to release more smoke from his pipe from his lips. “Claimed he was trying to open a door to another world. I found out the hard way when I bent over the inscriptions that he was right..”

Most unfortunate, but when he returned (if the officers hadn’t erased the evidence yet) he would be able to read the Latin more carefully. If he could return, even he could see the high likelihood of remaining in this time forever. Even if the thought made him rather sick to his stomach.

With a sigh, he continued on to the book store, sure that Miss. Poppins would follow. He opened the door for her, gesturing inside with a small smirk on his face. “Ladies first…”

[Mary Poppins]

"Not when we have been shifted into a strange society and a new time frame.”

Mary heard his mutterings, but ignored them. She hardly felt in the mood to lecture him on the inappropriacy of muttering at women he had just met. Besides, he seemed unlikely to take criticism on board in a manner that might be mutually beneficial. She decided to cut her losses and push forward on the possible adventure that had been thrust in her path. Not that she planned to enjoy it... just endure the trials of an inconvenience with great grace and quality of character. Perhaps a small smile to match. He seemed both ecstatic that she had finally finished fussing, showing her where his priorities clearly lay, as well as intrigued by the contents of her bag...

“They did exist in my time. However, I did not know they could carry quite that many objects at a time.”

Mary gave nothing away, "Well, Mr Holmes, the mastering of the economy of space is a woman's gift." She gathered her things and was ready to depart. “Not to mention, her prerogative.” It was conspiratorial and jovial. The prospect for adventure was getting the better of her. She must sound absolutely daft, swinging so violently from grump to so vociferously friendly, but when one is resigned to one course of events and is momentarily offered up such tantalizing respite… It had been too long since she was truly free. She tried to hide this from her new acquaintance as best she could.

“Well, we should start with that one then. A book store is most likely to have information about this time period than one selling robes for all occasions…”

“I find that to be a somewhat limited perspective,” she said without malice, “it is apparent to me that one might find out just as much from the patron of a fashionable robe store as one might find in any book. It merely depends on what one is looking for. I do concur though, that the bookstore would be an excellent starting point. All right, Mr Holmes, spit spot!” As they walked, Mary suddenly became curious as to the man’s being there. Perhaps there was some quality to him she had, as yet, missed. She enquired.

“Hardly by an act of weather, but I was on a case. A murderer had been killing several young girls, and using their blood to write out strange Latin phrases.” He paused to release more smoke from his pipe from his lips. “Claimed he was trying to open a door to another world. I found out the hard way when I bent over the inscriptions that he was right…”

“How ghastly,” she tried to keep her mind off the barbarity of mankind for the most part. When it did rear it’s head, she felt quite horrified. After all, death was hardly an acceptable currency for a little magic, “Why must people always complicate things which are really quite simple?” She asked, almost to herself. They had reached the bookstore and with a sudden flurry of manners and a slight smirk, Mr Holmes proffered a gentlemanly gesture.

“Ladies first…”

Mary eyed him. If sincerity was not his forte, he certainly had a sense of humour and she admired that quality in any man. “You are too kind,” she smirked back with a little sarcasm. She stepped into Flourish and Blotts and scanned the interior. Books of all shapes and sizes could be seen everywhere and in every type of binding. She noted one entirely bound in newspaper clippings. An odd arrangement she was inclined to think. The shop was filled with the slight mumbling that accompanied customers purchasing various items and Mary noted that the store was quite busy. There were quite of few of the oddly dressed people of 1999 waiting to be served by an elderly man behind the counter.

It was then that she noted something extremely odd. A young boy in the corner was very cautiously approaching a book covered in fur with a stick. He padded closer, obviously nervous. Mary watched as the book suddenly leapt to life and began to growl at the boy, slashing its… yes… teeth at him. Mary’s eyebrows raised on her forehead. London had certainly changed since 1913.

”I think, Mr Holmes, that we have rather stumbled upon a bit of an oddity. This is, indeed, like no London bookstore of which I have ever been a patron.” This, she said with no apparent discomfort, but as simple statement. An adventure indeed.

[Sherlock Holmes]

"Well, Mr Holmes, the mastering of the economy of space is a woman's gift. Not to mention, her prerogative.”

Sherlock frowned at the nanny, but decided not to try and explain that even with a woman’s gift toward the concept of space, it wasn’t possible to fit that amount of bulky objects in a small carpetbag such as the one she was carrying. Besides, he was more interested in her shift from personality. She seemed happier, and a lot less snappish, than she had been a few minutes ago. Perhaps it was a nanny thing, that after pruning yourself you feel more cheerful. Whatever the reason, Sherlock wasn’t about to complain. He at least, knew from experience that the less-irritable a nanny, the better.

“I find that to be a somewhat limited perspective, it is apparent to me that one might find out just as much from the patron of a fashionable robe store as one might find in any book. It merely depends on what one is looking for. I do concur though, that the bookstore would be an excellent starting point. All right, Mr Holmes, spit spot!”

The words were said without any venom, but as easily as if she was Watson disagreeing a point with him. He supposed she was correct, nicer clothes on one man meant he was richer than the shabbier clothes of another. But when it came to clothing, Holmes always looked for things that symbolized where the person had been. A clothing store did not have dust from a region in Scotland, or a specific gunpowder made in Italy. Especially in these future stores, he would not be able to tell much from a clothing shoppe. But he supposed, that was a woman’s expertise, not a man’s.

“Spit Spot?” Sherlock muttered, looking off into the distant rooftops as he pondered the words. He felt terribly at disadvantage. This woman was from the future and while she knew probably everything about his time-scape, he knew nothing of hers. Though he could guess that the ruler was either still Queen Victoria (if time was good to her, that is), or her heir-apparent, Prince Edward.

He realized suddenly that if he still lived during her time, he would be 66 years old! The thought caused him to be slightly dazed for a moment, before deciding that it was dangerous thinking. His future should remain, for his own safety, shrouded in darkness. Who knows what kind of damage he could do, if he knew what might be and tried to change it for the better?

“How ghastly, Why must people always complicate things which are really quite simple?”

He noted that she seemed, as any sensible woman, quite horrified at the wickedness of her fellow man. The detective wondered suddenly how she would take to Irene Adler; the feminine thief who was known to marry men for the sake of stealing from them? Or even Professor Moriarty, who ran the largest crime syndicate in the world? The whole world was rather ghastly, and it was Sherlock’s job to attempt to stop as much of it as he could. Quite a daunting task, when you thought of it.

“Yes, well I’m sure the simple thing would be to not kill the girls at all. But the man did seem to like the complicity.” He clasped the pipe in his teeth for a moment, “Each girl was between the ages 15 to 20, each one had an Italian background, and was therefore Catholic.” He let another plume of smoke escape his lips. If only he had seen the Latin writings!

After they had entered the busy shop, Sherlock calmly walked along the shelves, his brown eyes taking in the titles. ‘How to fix your Devil’s Snare’, ‘Foul-proof Ways to Charm Witches’, what interesting titles! He felt as if he had walked into a Witches’ book store!

”I think, Mr Holmes, that we have rather stumbled upon a bit of an oddity. This is, indeed, like no London bookstore of which I have ever been a patron.”

Blinking, he looked over at Mary, and then to the hairy book that was growling at her. Calmly walking over, he took out his riding crop and carefully poked the book/beast. The creature snapped back at it, growling even more in earnest. “Yes well, there is a first time for everything, isn’t there?” Sherlock said with a small smile, before leaving the creature alone and returning to the shelves.

Taking a long thin finger, he ran it along the title of a particular one. ‘Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6’. He removed it from the shelve and started to flip through it, his brown eyes twinkling with more and more interest. He doubted Mary would understand these words, but he did. They were all connected to Latin words…

[Mary Poppins]

“Yes, well I’m sure the simple thing would be to not kill the girls at all. But the man did seem to like the complicity.” He clasped the pipe in his teeth for a moment, “Each girl was between the ages 15 to 20, each one had an Italian background, and was therefore Catholic.”

"Indeed," Mary had no doubt about the killer's enjoyment of his 'task', she had seen the face of bloodlust before, but was not about to repeat the circumstances under which she had been privileged to see man at his most savage. She was eager to move onto a new topic of conversation, she was beginning to feel uneasy and it was spoiling her mood over the newly revealed intrigue. Besides, Mr Holmes was talking of a case past. The madman had been caught and, no doubt, deftly handled by Scotland Yard. Although, she had to admit that she had a faint distrust of The Yard. Not that she grouped all men alike, they did, however, seem to be amongst the sort who could not always see something that was plainly in front of them. Yet another group that seemed incapable of seeing past the end of their noses.

She was intrigued, however, about these Latin markings that Holmes had mentioned. Surely they could not be... no. Those runes had not been used in years by the truly experienced.

She put the thought, momentarily to the back of her mind, as they entered the nearby bookstore. Mary instantly registered the oddities about it. It did not take Holmes long, either to note several objects of interest. Mostly the book titles, which Mary took in after distancing herself from a potential altercation with a nearby book. ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’ was the title of one, which Mary thought immediately that she herself could have written. She was tempted to check the references… Mary commented on the oddity of it all to the engrossed detective.

He made his way over to the growling book and poked at it, which Mary thought rather unwise. After all, one is usually not inclined to provoke a violent animal. It seemed counterintuitive. She, however, said nothing.

“Yes well, there is a first time for everything, isn’t there?”

”Including being mauled to death by a tome through the careless acts of an unusual stranger,” the comment was spoken in her crisp way, even under her breath. Holmes turned his attention elsewhere, however, picking up a book off a nearby shelf. ‘Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6’, it read.
She glanced over his shoulder, unable to contain her, now mountainous, curiosity. As she read the words over his shoulder, she feigned nonchalance despite her interest being piqued.

”Stylized latin,” she said simply. Actually, she was quite surprised. Magic spells seemed so adolescent in their approach and, yet, she imagined that they must aid in heightening concentration. Without considering Mr Holmes, she reached over his shoulder and turned the page. ‘Non-verbal Spells’ the title of the chapter read. ”Well, this ought to keep anyone entertained. There are all manner of charms here. Well, Mr Holmes, are any of these similar to your phrases?”

[Sherlock Holmes]

"Indeed,"

He once again registered her disgust at the crook and his crimes, but paid it no mind. It was the way of normal women, to show disgust at the dredges of society. The proper woman would simply tell him to stop talking about ‘ghastly’ things, regardless of how much it intrigued Sherlock himself. He always did appreciate the criminal mastery, when a case was especially difficult to solve. He had met only one woman who didn’t find crimes ‘ghastly’ at all, and she was a master at the art of crime.

When they entered the book store, he also saw the ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’ volume. But choose not to dwell on it. Though if they had all the time in the world, he would have browsed the intriguing store more thoroughly. But now was certainly not a convenient time. They had to both focus on finding a way back to their own prospective times,

”Including being mauled to death by a tome through the careless acts of an unusual stranger,”

Sherlock scoffed slightly, “I would have hardly let it go that far, I am armed…” A quick flick of his jacket revealed a shining silver pistol, that he had had remembered this time before leaving the house (though he was sure he left the stove on). Another quick flick of the wrist covered it up again. No need to draw any necessary attention toward it.

But the detective’s attention was once again marked against the snarling book. It had backed itself up to a corner, and was nipping at the heels of passing shoppers. He couldn’t help but think how pathetic it looked. Humanity probably looked like giants to it, so it was aptly as aggressive as a creature who felt threatened could be. Just like many humans Sherlock knew.

”Stylized latin, Well, this ought to keep anyone entertained. There are all manner of charms here. Well, Mr Holmes, are any of these similar to your phrases?”

Sherlock did not expect the nanny to understand Latin, and he was pleasantly surprised to know she was schooled enough to notice the roots of the ancient language in these strange words. (Sherlock was not about to admit that these were actually spells. One must keep an open mind to new data, before one jumps to magic).

“Yes, you are correct, many of these words come from Latin roots.” He said, flipping over a page, “Stupify for example, comes from the Latin word meaning ‘to stun or shock’.” He murmured, rubbing his chin as he gazed down the long list of words. “Most engaging, in my time Latin was a dead language, used only for knowledge but never used in society. It seems that in this time, that has changed dramatically…”

[Mary Poppins]

Sherlock scoffed slightly…

Mary turned her head abruptly, her clear blue eyes a little wider with disbelief. Had this man really just scoffed at her? Her lips drew slightly into a prim pursing. ”Really… she thought. It was most impolite to scoff at anyone, she was sure she had never done it. Well, not unless it was absolutely deserved. What annoyed her most was the thought of a respectable person like herself being scoffed. It was unheard of to her. She was resolved, however, not to give him the satisfaction of a response.

“I would have hardly let it go that far, I am armed…”

The remark reminded her of Admiral Boom, a man she had seen about London on assignment, most recently on Cherry Tree Lane. He, too, was always eager to display his prowess with weaponry. It was most typical of Victorian men she decided. She had heard that Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria Hungary was particularly prone to parading about in regalia sporting a bevy of weapons for all occasions. It had made the Serbians just across the border a little uncomfortable. She wondered how his trip to Sarajevo would go next June…

She was not left to wonder long, however, as her attention was drawn to some of the unusual fare being sold in the bookstore. She was instantly intrigued by what she recognized immediately to be an, oddly administered, series of magic spells. Mr Holmes seemed surprised at her knowledge of Latin, but unimpressed with her suggestion that he was looking at magic. She supposed both were somewhat logical conclusions. They did, however, entail a few assumptions about both her and governesses in general. She had to admit that a working knowledge of Latin anywhere outside of the law was somewhat unusual… As for his apparent dismissal of her suggestion, she was impressed at his open-mindedness when it came to not jumping to conclusions. She, however, was not one to beat around the bush and tended to call a spade, a spade. These were Charms, as plain as the nose on her face. Not that she had ever heard her nose referred as plain.

“Yes, you are correct, many of these words come from Latin roots. Stupify, for example, comes from the Latin word meaning ‘to stun or shock’.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “and here, Accio, meaning ‘I call’ or ‘I summon’.” It was very interesting. She noted also a picture to the left with a person in robes making use of, what she assumed, was a magic wand. She made a mental note to ask someone about its application; it was most fascinating to she who had never had need of one.

“Most engaging, in my time Latin was a dead language, used only for knowledge but never used in society. It seems that in this time, that has changed dramatically…”

”It is the same in my time,” she agreed, “I have only ever heard it used by scholars or in the law.” She was determined. “Well, there’s only one way to find out if these are what I think they are,” she said stepping back. She had briefly skimmed the page on the ‘Accio’ charm. The only problem, what would do for her demonstration? If she simply said ‘book’ or spellbook’, the results could be disastrous. She settled on something. In her crispest English, she applied it, “Accio fedora.”