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Author's Note: Protectors of the Plot Continuum was created by Jay and Acacia, and I write in their universe with permission. The Sherlock Holmes characters and setting were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and belong to his estate. Kelok, Unger, Miah and Cali belong to Miah. The Baker Street Fanfiction Academy belongs to Juliet Norrington and Lux Piper. The fanfiction “Walk though the fire” was written by MoonlightWonderer, and excerpts from it appear in bold. It can be read here. Thanks go to Miah for beta duty and general advice! This mission was originally posted here.

Update August 9, 2017: I am embarrassed to admit this, but in earlier years, I was rather obsessed with getting as many minis out of missions as possible. To this end, I was counting failures to capitalize letters in proper nouns as minis, but This isn't really considered appropriate. This mission originally produced ten mini-Hounds of the Baskervilles, but I have edited out the ones that only existed from capitalization mistakes. This means I have had to misrepresent the locations of certain typos to keep the original story flowing correctly; however, all remaining minis do legitimately appear in "Walk though the fire” somewhere. I have also kept ncis in, as there were no other mini-LEOs to substitute in his place.

* * *



The Adventure of the Misplaced Musical Miscreant

An awkward silence had settled over the office of the Floating Hyacinth. Neither the Flower nor the agent wanted to interrupt it.

Agent Vania was seated in a chair facing the Hyacinth’s water tank. She was staring down at her knees, her chin resting against her shirt collar, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

Throughout her mission with Doc, Vania had told herself everything was fine. The PPC was obviously still operating, so the invading Mary Sues had failed to topple the organization. Something strange had happened to her; most of her life in the PPC seemed about as memorable as a game she had played halfway through decades ago and never touched again, but she had been unconscious for several years, after all. Her RC looked abandoned, and Paul was nowhere in sight, but hey! Probably everyone had assumed she was dead, Paul had been assigned to a new RC and partner, and everything would turn out all right.

After getting Miss MacKinnon through the obstacles of paperwork and settled in at the Nursery, Vania had left Doc back at their RC and gone to speak to the head of the Department of Floaters. And from her old boss, Vania had learned everything was not all right. She had indeed been listed as missing in action, but so was her old partner. He and his Pokémon had not been seen since the invasion.

I realize this must be difficult, Agent, the Hyacinth projected into Vania’s head. However, I must say I am glad to remove someone from the MIA list. What exactly left you unconscious for so long?

“I have no idea, ma’am,” Vania said. “Probably got hit by some Suvian magic in the fight.” She immediately felt her mind being closely scrutinized by that of the Flower.

You aren’t having any memory issues, are you Agent Vania?

Vania panicked for just a moment. The Hyacinth had guessed correctly; most things from before waking up were blurred in her mind, like someone had smeared multiple stills from a movie across a single screen. She remembered her RC, and her partner, and herself. She could recall a few individual things, like specific missions and holing up against the macroviruses and fighting the Sues outside her RC, but details were lost on her.

After being asleep in a closet for three years, Vania had no intention of being strapped down in Medical or FicPsych for even a day. So, rather than dwell on the previous paragraph in the form of an internal monologue, she had immediately answered, “No.”

Nevertheless, you should go to Fictional Psychology, in light of—

“Hardly!” Vania said, a little too quickly and too loudly. “My RC is a shambles, most of my equipment is missing, and I have a rookie agent to keep in step!”

The Floating Hyacinth bristled at being interrupted—it felt like a prickling sensation against the sides of Vania’s forehead. They will all be waiting for you when you return from FicPsych. I need my agents at top performance.

“Well, I’m glad to hear the PPC’s understaffing problem has finally come to an end.” Vania closed her eyes and nodded. “So now we can send good, capable agents to get rest and treatment without any loss of productivity.”

Hm, said the Flower. Even Floaters needs every useful agent possible out in the field . . . Very well. I’ll request that the Marquis officially assign you Agent Doc as a partner, immediately. Which Doc won’t be happy about, but that’s of no concern. Collect whatever equipment you are missing at DoSAT and head back to your Response Center. Your next mission will be waiting for you.

Vania sighed. “Thank you, ma’am.” She stood and began to leave.

Agent?

“Yes, ma’am?”

A warm feeling—the equivalent of a small smile—reached Vania from the Hyacinth’s thoughts. I am glad to have you back. Now get back to work.

* * *


Agent Doc was having a grand old time moving his books from his wheelbarrow into the bookshelf of RC 251. Doc sometimes sorted books by genre, by author or title alphabetically, by size, or by page count. The additional dimensions present in Headquarters allowed for several completely new organizational options—length of time to get through, odds of this or that plot twist occurring, etc.—and Doc was reveling in trying them all.

The only reason the console hadn’t interrupted him yet was because the Ironic Overpower knew the door would be doing so soon enough.

When Vania entered the room, she held a ball of various technological gizmos from DoSAT. Makes-Things had been surprisingly ready to supply her with enough equipment for her and her partner. She suspected it had something to do with this new, experimental “C-CAD” thing. It was apparently supposed to be more dependable and less dangerous than older Canon Analysis Devices, but Vania had been part of this organization too long to feel much hope for that.

Doc paused with a blank expression on his face, then got up to meet her. “Hi again,” he said.

“Here you go! Everything a Floater needs. Remote Activator, neuralyzer, Ray Bans, Combined-Content Analysis Device, Distraction Ball, Anachronism Detector, Embryo Extraction Kit, Reality Dysfunction Indicator . . .” Each new item was shoved into Doc’s arms (or face, in the case of the sunglasses).

Doc finally interrupted when the weight of the stuff threatened to topple him. “OKAY! Okay. Yes, thank you.” He gently set the machines down on the floor, then started to scoot Vania back out the door as he flicked the Ray Bans off his face. “If that’s all then, I’ll just be getting back to—”

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

With Doc hunched over and covering his ears, Vania slipped around him and shut off the console’s alarm. “Oh, look! A Transdimensional Hopping mission for Agent Doc and Agent Vania.” She looked back over her shoulder and smiled smugly.

Rubbing his head, Doc asked, “Why did they send the mission for both of us? We aren’t partners.”

“Weeee aaare nooow!” Vania ran to Doc and wrapped him in a hug.

“Great,” Doc mumbled weakly. He sounded a bit like he was dying. “I don’t want a partner, Vania. I like working alone.”

“You can’t always get what you want.”

“I know that. But I’ll be—”

“You can’t always get what you want.”

“Uh, yes. You already said—”

“You can’t always get what you want.”

“What are you—”

“♪But if you try sometimes, you just might find—you just might find!—you get what you need!♪”

“Oh.”

* * *


Doc’s mood was lifted as soon as he had a chance to read the new mission alert. “We’re going to see Sherlock Holmes!”

“Oh, sweet!”

Doc’s face quickly fell back into a frown as he read the badfic’s summary. What can i say? A teenage girl falls liturally into Sherlock Holmes's bed. Much tot eh confusion of the other inhabitants of 221b Backer street. Mgiht be MS dont no yet. Very funny.

“That . . . does not bode well.” Vania said, absently hitting the button to open the portal.

“Neither does the capitalization fail in the title. Again.”

“Bark!”

Doc and Vania looked at each other, then to the floor under the portal, where a floppy-eared puppy sat covered in a pile of rough little golden-brown balls. The fur of the large puppy was glowing green, making it look almost ghostly. It was, however, watching the agents with a look of unadulterated, excited joy, its tail wagging and its tongue hanging out of its mouth, which quite effectively ruined the ghostly appearance.

“That looks like a puppy version of the Hound of the Baskervilles. What’s it doing here?”

“This is a mini,” Vania explained. “They fill in for the misspellings of names in a fic. This one must have come from the summary. And are these tater tots?” She glanced at the phrase Much tot eh confusion, then grabbed one of the potato balls and put it in her mouth. “Mmm!” she said, before chewing it up and swallowing it. Her face immediately went slack, and she then began to spin around in place without moving her feet.

Doc didn’t know what to make of this at all*mdash;although, “don’t eat those,” was a pretty easy lesson to take away. “Vania? Are you okay?”

She stopped spinning, approached Doc, and slapped him across the face.

“Ow!” Doc covered his already reddening cheek. “What the hell was that for?”

Vania didn’t seem to hear. She instead spun more, then stopped again and grabbed at the mini-Hound of the Baskervilles. The puppy playfully darted out of her reach, then jumped back and bit her wrist.

Vania blinked. “Oh. Oh crap! Sorry, Doc! Are you all right?”

She reached out for him, but he leaned away from her hand and narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“It’s a video game thing. I guess those are confusion tots. I’m really sorry!” She took Doc’s wrist and pulled his hand away from his cheek. “Wow, that’s really red.”

Doc glowered, yanking his hand away. “Can we just get on with this, please?”

“Sure, sure! And I really am sorry.” Vania left Doc alone while she programmed some appropriate Victorian clothing. After that, she reminded Doc to at least bring his new Neuralyzer and C-CAD, in addition to his weapon. She grabbed her baseball bat (which would be disguised as a cricket bat once they got through the portal) as well as the crash dummy and the Anachronism Decontaminator.

Vania turned to the mini. “You be a good doggie while we’re gone, okay?”

221b Backer street cocked his head lazily to the side, then let out a long howl. The sound of the howl droned on and on, and the agents both shivered a bit as it filled the room (as did all the agents who were next door at that particular point in probability). Once the mini-Hound stopped, Doc and Vania looked at each other, then dashed out through the portal.

* * *


Vania inhaled sharply as she immediately felt a corset materialize where there had been none a moment before. She was in a pale yellow blouse and a skirt that almost reached the ground. The sleeves of her blouse were puffed up, and the collar was so high, it nearly reached the bottom of her jaw. She removed a newly-appeared hat to look at it. It had a very wide brim, with a flower made of silk—a hyacinth, appropriately enough. She readjusted the hat and looked at Doc.

He was dressed in a black coat and trousers, with a white bow tie at his neck. His hat was round at the top, like a stovepipe hat, but shorter. His pole had morphed into a walking cane, and his cheek was still red with Vania’s handprint. Looking down at himself, Doc admitted, “I don’t look very fancy, compared to you.”

“At least one of us can breathe, dear,” Vania said shortly. “Of greater concern, we are currently not in the nineteenth century, but the twenty-first.”

The agents stood at the side of a paved road in a city. That was about all they could tell, because nothing was described; the city might have been large and busy or small and quiet, but the buildings were too generic to even give any sense of their own size.

A/N: Hi peeps.

Doc and Vania covered their ears against the booming, bolded author’s note as little marshmallow chickens pelted them from the sky.

Some chapters will be in Cassidy's Point of View others are from Watson's and there might even be one or to from the great detective himself. don't worry ill let you know who's point of view it is at the beginning of each chapter.

Vania forced herself to let go of her ears and ignored a momentary ill feeling so she could inflate the crash dummy. It was still a bit burnt from the previous mission, but filled up well enough.

Cassidy's PoV

The dummy slid into the street, and took a sitting position. A generic car formed around it, complete with generic driver. The dummy, beginning to look slightly feminine, was in the passenger seat on the left. The dummy and the driver seemed to be arguing about something as they drove away.

It was the 6th time that car ride she had asked me if I had everything. She always seemed to worry when I go on gigs with the band.

"Mum. We have been though this. Kat is meeting me at the park, where you are dropping me off. And we will meet the others at the club. It's a simple gig. I'll see you in the morning."


“Looks like they’re heading for some park.” Vania fiddled with the remote activator, opening a portal to where the car seemed headed.

The park, also never described, was nothing more than a stretch of very pale green grass between generic buildings.

...my door was flung open and I found myself with an arm full of girl, her short bubble gum pink hair smothering myself.

“Is that girl’s hair—”

“Yes, Doc. It’s actually made of gum.”

The new character, Kat, had briefly shrunk down to the size of a baby so Cassidy could hold her in her arms. Her gum hair stretched up to Cassidy’s mouth, covering it.

Cassidy gurgled through the gum, "Kat. I need to breath." I gasped as my mum giggled and a sheepish Kat disentangled herself from me, before yanking me out of the car and slamming the door.

“Was she not wearing a seatbelt?” Doc asked. “Was the car door even locked to begin with?”

Kat literally dragged Cassidy across the park, to the bank of a river that hadn’t been there before. It was only a short walk to the club. Kat continued walking across the surface of the water, pulling Cassidy to a black van parked on the surface in front of a club that was also suspended on the water.

“I’ll bet the flood insurance is outrageous.”

"Oi Jets." I yelled as we got close enough to see the 3rd member of our band struggling to get his drum kit out the back. "Were is Onyx?"

“There! There is Onyx!” Vania said in an extravagant voice. “There is castle!”

Cassidy and Kat headed through the club’s doors, and didn’t hear Vania speaking. Jets, however, did, and turned to stare at the agents. Jets was never described at all, and so had a small jet plane for a head. Being stared at by a tiny, empty cockpit was rather disconcerting.

“He sees us!” Doc whispered. “What do we do?”

“Just act natural.” Vania took Doc by the arm, turned up her nose, and strutted nonchalantly past the confused airplane boy. The agents, in their Victorian garb, stepped through the doors of the club.

The interior of the club was empty of any people, save the band members. Two bars lined either side of the club, and tables and chairs filled the center of the room. The band was on a stage on the far side from the front doors.

The agents carefully settled into chairs in a corner far from the stage. Jets soon entered, dragging the entire drum kit with him. As he pulled it towards the stage, Doc asked, “Why exactly does this band have Teen Wolf as its keyboardist?”

“Mmm. I’m not quite—Oh! It’s because of the Words. Earlier, when Cassidy asked Jets ‘Were is Onyx?’”

Doc finished, “The Words took that as a statement. ‘Were is Onyx,’ or ‘Onyx is a were.’ Wolf.”

“You’ve brought up another good point, too. These kids look like teenagers; if they’re still young enough that they need their parents to drive them here, they shouldn’t be playing in a place like a bar. Let alone spending the night out here alone.”

Cassidy suggested playing the Evanescence song “Bring Me to Life.” There was murmurs of affirmative as I draped my guitar around my neck.

“How can a guitar that flexible possibly play any—” Doc’s question was interrupted as the Sue started singing. Sue singing was painful in the best of circumstances, and the italicized text missing spaces between words, clearly copied from some lyrics website, only made things worse. Doc sank beneath the table, holding his ears.

Vania snapped. “Glopsnerch! I knew I was forgetting something!”

Cassidy tried to make the last line of the song especially emotional, leaving Doc whimpering under the table and Vania gritting her teeth as the singing became even more strident. She was thankfully cut off by stepping forwards and falling through a plothole in the stage floor.

“Thank God!” Doc gasped, re-seating himself as the singing was cut off. The agents felt themselves being pulled backwards, and they were soon sitting on Sherlock Holmes’s couch, with Dr. Watson standing in front of them, his back turned. So needless to say I was more then a little annoyed to find upon my return, an angry Mrs Hudson yelling at my long time friend and companion, Sherlock Holmes. Who was standing in the sitting room with a very confused expression on his face.

A lanky baseball player in a white uniform, which read “St. Louis Wolves” on the front, and “Who 45” on the back, was indeed standing behind Watson. The agents moved around behind the couch and motioned for the baseball player to follow. He did, and hunkered down beside them. The three humans were soon joined by mini-Hounds of the Baskervilles: Miss Hudson and Mortiarty. They all remained quiet and listened to Mrs. Hudson scolding Holmes.

"I will not have you hiding half naked ladies in your room, Mr Holmes. I will not have it…" I Stared in shock at our land lady. A Lady in Holmes room, a half naked lady. "I put up with a lot from you Mr Holmes, but this is one step to many. If you haven't got an acceptable explanation by morning I expect you to start finding yourself new lodgings."

As Mrs. Hudson exited, Vania pointed the C-CAD after her. [Mrs. Hudson. Human Female. Sherlock Holmes canon. Landlady. 13% OOC. Looks like you’re in it for the long haul.]

“Thirteen percent from her first paragraph of dialogue?” Vania whispered. “Damn. At least Watson is hanging in there.” The C-CAD read only 1.5% OOC for the doctor.

Watson asked Holmes what was going on, and Holmes flopped gracefully into his chair, which was interesting to watch, sort of a slow motion collapse. "It's a rather complex little problem Watson. And I have no data what so ever to examine except the appearance of a young lady in my room."

Doc snorted. “When Holmes has data, he examines it; he doesn’t whine about needing more. And when he does need more, he goes and collects it!”

The baseball player’s mustache twitched as Watson headed for Holmes’ bedroom. “Holmes? And Watson?” He glanced down to the glowing puppies chewing on each other at his knees, then back up at the agents. “Is this some sort of stage drama? Where is the audience?”

“Well, that’s not too far off, actually,” said Doc. “You could say we’re the audience, because we’re inside a story. You’ve heard of Sherlock Holmes?”

“Well, of course I have, Sir! That English gent has been writing them. They’re quite popular!”

“Right. Well, we’re in one of the Holmes stories, in a way. But that girl they’re talking about, Cassidy, wrote another story that’s . . . uh, stuck together with the Sherlock Holmes stories. And we’re here to get rid of her, and put everything back the way it’s supposed to be.”

The baseball player removed his cap and wiped his brow, pushing his black hair away from his face. “No offense, sir, but this all sounds a little crazy.”

“Oh, we know. But it’s the truth, and I’m afraid we’re stuck here until we get rid of Cassidy’s story. Uh, sorry, what was your name?”

“No, Sir, I’m Who. What is on second base.”

“Idunno,” said Vania. “What?”

“Idunno is our third baseman. And I just told you, What’s on second.”

“You don’t know your own third baseman?”

“Sure I do.”

“What’s his name, then?”

“No, What is the name of the guy on second.”

“Why are you asking me?”

“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you!”

“I’m going to have to cut you guys off there,” Doc interrupted. “Listen to this description. A young lady lay, seemingly unconscious, on Holmes bed, a small cut on her head above her eye . . . A piece of fabric seemed to be wrapped around her waist, barely covering the tops of her legs, most of her midriff was showing, as the small top she was wearing had appeared to have bunched up, leaving little to the imagination, and barely covering enough of her body to save many blushes. On her feet were what appeared to be shiny leather high heeled boots. Her hair was pure black, except lines of bright purple, green and red. Yeah, uh, if you have to add ‘except’ after the description, you don’t get to use ‘pure’ in the description.”

“I think I would like to have a word with this girl’s mother,” said Vania.

“As would I!” said the baseball player. “This is the wardrobe of a trollop! I’m surprised Mrs. Hudson did not turn her tenants out at once.”

Watson returned and asked the stranger’s identity of Holmes, who explained that he had returned from a case to find Mrs. Hudson angry and an unknown woman in his bed. Watson started to worry about the previously small cut, which he now called very nasty, but was interrupted by Cassidy herself, no longer controlling the crash dummy, entering the sitting-room. Her cut had grown in size and bloodiness to match Watson’s new description.

“. . . Turn the lights down will ya. How much did I have to drink last night?"

Doc furrowed his brow. “Seriously. How old is she?”

After Cassidy’s eyes fell on Holmes, he and Watson stood and began to dance together, taking short steps and turning about frequently. She looked around dazed for a few more minuets before to our astonishment she started to laugh.

"OK this is a great joke and all, but I seem to have one hell of a hangover and really don't feel like mucking about. Were are Kat, Jet and Onyx?"


“Well, there goes the rest of the band,” said Vania. “I wonder if she makes herself a werewolf later so they all match.”

The chapter ended with Cassidy fainting, understandably enough, from the discovery of her impromptu time travel. The next chapter opened with Cassidy in dummy form once more, lying in the bed again. The agents moved from behind the couch and peeked around the doorway to watch, with the baseball player following and the growing litter of Baskerville puppies spreading out across the sitting room.

Watson was feeling Cassidy’s head—nowhere near her actual cut—when she awoke. Her thoughts echoed through the apartment, making the baseball player look around in bewilderment.

Holmes? Watson? . . . It wasn't a dream.

Watson held a glass of brandy to Cassidy’s lips, and the taste of brandy burned down my veins.

“Alcohol doesn’t enter the bloodstream quite that quickly.”

“And I’m pretty sure taste buds aren’t generally found in one’s veins.”

Holmes scrutinized the girl. "What might your name be, young lady? Other then you play some type of instrument ,and have recently had a fall in which you injured your head I can make nothing of you."

Doc flinched back at Holmes’ last statement. “Can’t make anything?” he whispered harshly. “That’s blasphemy! He should at least be able to tell she plays a string instrument from her hands!”

“And now that Holmes mentions it,” Vania whispered back, “what exactly did she cut her head on?”

“The plothole?”

“I’ve never noticed them to be sharp before.” She used the RA to reopen the portal to the waterlogged club. While the baseball player shrunk back in panic, Vania held out her pinkie finger and ran it along the edge. There was a sensation like very localized wind being blown against the finger, preventing her from passing it through the edge of the portal. But she was completely unharmed when she drew it back. “So Sherlock Holmes sleeps in a bed with sharp edges, I guess.”

“Was that injury sympathetic enough last chapter?” said Doc in a high-pitched, British accent. “Better make it bigger in this one.”

“What! What—” the baseball player sputtered loudly. “What in the name of—”

Doc and Vania started shushing him and pulled him away from the doorway, which Cassidy briefly peered at before answering Holmes. "My name is Cassidy Sir. I play the electric Guitar . . . "Not to seem stupid or anything but were am I?"

“Woop! There she goes,” Vania whispered. "It's a matching set!" Cassidy sprouted fur and claws, although neither she nor Watson nor Holmes noticed.

"You are in 221b Baker street. London…."

He paused at my terrified look, as I felt a feeling of forbidding flow though my veins.

"What year is it?" I asked looking around wildly.


“At least she asks the right questions,” said Doc.

Holmes answered her. "It is the year 1895."

Doc winced at her reaction. “I guess this is an acceptable situation for a bit of all-caps yelling.”

Cassidy began dancing for some minuets before Watson grabbed my arm.

Watson helped settle Cassidy into a chair, and Holmes brought her a backpack.

Peeking back around the doorway, Vania scowled. “There’s the enemy.”

Doc joined her, confused. “The Sue? A replacement?”

“The anachronisms.”

I found my 2 changes of outfits, a CD player, batteries, mini portable speakers, some change, a spare guitar pick, some CD's and my photo album.

“We have got to get rid of those,” Vania mumbled. “None of that should be around in 1895.”

Inevitably, Holmes had questioned Cassidy about her strange possessions, and Cassidy had admitted she was from the future. Holmes’s characterization shined through by him asking the girl for proof.

"Here. These are coloured photos of me and my friends from the future. If you look on these coins they have dates as well as the queens head."

He spent a long time examining both the coins and the photo's . . .

"It seems, my dear Watson. She is telling the truth!"


Doc nodded. “That’s reasonable.”

Vania cocked an eyebrow at him. “You think so?”

Doc looked at her warily for a moment. “Well, yeah. The coins could be faked, but Holmes surely has experience with forged money, so he would know the signs of a coin made with a legitimate mint. The clothing could be fabricated too, but what really solidifies the rest of the evidence are the photos. Color photography was pretty well crap until 1907, so there would be no faking color this quality in Holmes’s time.”

“Couldn’t a black and white photo be colored?” Vania pressed.

“It could . . . but not perfectly. There would be little mistakes that Holmes would catch with the magnifying glass. Plus, Holmes is a chemist. If he still wasn’t convinced, he would test the chemicals in the photograph, and the material of the coins and clothing, too.”

Vania smiled. “Good job, Doc! That was my thinking, too.”

Doc stared. “You didn’t really disagree?”

“Nope! I was just testing your thought process. Sometimes, the hardest thing to do on a mission is to give the badfic credit for things it does well. I read ahead; Holmes gives pretty much the same explanation in the next chapter, except he also used Cassidy’s wonky hair as evidence.”

“Oh. Didn’t think about her hair.”

Vania patted Doc on the head, making him flinch. “That’s all right! Let’s just be thankful Sherlock is still in character enough to outdo us. You should hear what he’s been like in some of Kelok and Unger’s missions.” She shuddered. “But! Let us now briefly retire to that age-inappropriate venue where Cassidy has left her friends behind.”

“What for?”

“For two reasons. Like I said, I already read the next chapter, which is in Holmes’ point of view. First, Holmes apparently thinks entirely in underlines, and I’ve already ruined shoes that way before. Secondly, our Sue sings ‘Somewhere Out There’ as a duet with her CD player.”

Doc turned pale. “Let’s go back to the club,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, I thought so.”

***


The scene that Doc and Vania found awaiting them at the unnamed club was not a scene they were expecting. The agents asked the baseball player to keep an eye on the mini-Hounds in their former corner while they approached the stage.

Cassidy’s band was still on the stage, now joined by her mother. All their instruments were laid aside now, and their attention was focused on the plothole, still occupying the floor of the stage.

Kat was crying and trying to speak at the same time, making her voice crack. “ . . . And we don’t know where the hole came from, and there was suddenly no one else in the club to help us!”
Cassidy’s mother was sobbing quietly. “I don’t understand where my mind was . . . letting you kids go to a place like this all alone.”

Jets was crying too, tears running out of the cockpit on the front of his face. Onyx had his back to the rest of the group with his head tilted down, staring silently at the bottom edge of the wall.

“This . . . is not normal,” Vania said, frowning.

“They’re acting like . . . regular characters?”

“Yeeeaah,” said Vania. “Like canons do when the Suefluence goes away, and they realize things aren’t right.”

“But, the band is still a bunch of werewolves, and the mom still looks generic.”

Vania blew air out of her cheeks. “Try talking to them. Your clothing looks more normal for this era.” She stepped back into the shadows.

Doc gulped and strode forward. “Pardon me, folks. What’s the trouble, here?”

Cassidy’s friends and family turned when Doc spoke. The Sue’s mother started, “My daughter . . .”

“She just disappeared!” interrupted Kat, clutching the sides of her head. “This weird hole opened in the floor, and she just fell!”

Doc leaned over the edge of the stage to look at the plothole. Unlike the PPC’s stabilized plotholes, the edge of this one was rounded, but uneven, and writhing back and forth. Cassidy’s guitar, which had been around her neck when she fell, but had never appeared in the story since, lay next to the plothole with a broken strap. Doc lied, “I’ve never seen anything like this.” He glanced back up to Kat, but before he could say anything more, he noticed two odd things.

First, the werewolf fur on Kat’s cheeks had disappeared where her tears had streaked down. Second, the tears of the generic mom had made flesh appear in their trail, replacing the grey generic skin that had been there before.

Doc turned back to Vania, who tilted her head at him. She couldn’t see the tiny changes from back there. Doc turned back to Kat. “What was your friend like?”

Kat tried to smile. “Kass was awesome. She was always loads of fun! We’d hang out at the beach, at the mall . . . or just at one of our houses practicing for the band.” She sniffed—and with that sniff, the bubble gum covering the top of her head poofed out briefly, and settled back down into pink-dyed hair.

“My baby,” said Cassidy’s mom, bringing a tissue to her eyes as more tears gathered there. “I was so proud of her, all the hard work she was putting into her music. I only wish . . . I only wish . . .” The generic woman trailed off, the color of her skin lightening into a skin tone.

The jet on Jets’ head sniffled. “She . . . I . . . she . . .” He couldn’t finish, and instead just tried to wipe at where his nose should be, knocking off the nose and cockpit. Beneath them, a normal human face sat surrounded by the remnants of the airplane.

Onyx, apparently unable to put his feelings into words, grunted and kicked the wall violently instead. The impact with the wall shook off most of his werewolf fur.

Each time a change had occurred in one of the characters, the writhing plothole in the stage shrank just a bit more.

Doc didn’t know what to say. “Well,” he tried. “Well, I hope . . . I’m sure . . . Someone will see her somewhere! Eventually. Um . . .”

Seeing that the characters on the stage were going back to crying and ignoring him, Doc quietly retreated back to Vania. He looked at her wide-eyed and gave a big shrug.

Vania, who had eventually noticed what was happening, seemed just as struck. “These people . . . they care so much for her. And she just . . . left them. Wrote them out. So she could go play with Sherlock Holmes and be special.”

“What do we do about them?” Doc whispered, motioning back over his shoulder.

“We’re not assassinating them,” said Vania. “Let’s leave them alone for now. If we need to neuralyze them at the end of the mission, we will.”


* * *


Returning to the nineteenth century, the agents and baseball player found a tiny man in a military uniform sitting on the floor outside the closed door of 221B’s guest room of questionable existence.

Vania spluttered a bit. “How did a Holmes story spawn an NCIS mini?”

The mini, ncis, shrugged. “I don’t mind the change of scenery, really,” he said in a squeaky voice. He looked up at the baseball player. “Were you dragged in, as well?”

“Indeed, little sir. I am quite perplexed.” He knelt down and took ncis’s offered hand to shake. “Name is Who.”

The mini tilted his head. “What?” he asked.

“No, sir, Who! I do not understand why everyone here mistakes me for our second baseman!”

“I . . . sorry?” ncis said.

Who’s mustache bristled.

Vania sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “What else did we miss?” She unfocused her eyes. “Let’s see, Cassidy refused to let Mrs. Hudson put her in a corset—can’t blame her there.” She grabbed the bottom of her own corset through her clothes and twisted it back and forth a bit around her torso. “And she . . . she turned the corset into a werewolf, too?! Oh man, I so want that . . . more dancing, more angsting about missing her friends—then why did you write them out of your story?—more singing, intentional dancing with Watson—the author’s note claiming it’s not a Watsonmance isn’t very reassuring when Watson keeps having icky thoughts about Cassidy’s clothing. And now . . .”

Now, Cassidy emptied out the contence of my rucksack on my bag, my only link to the home I had left behind.

I suddenly realised since I had arrived I had not opened the zip pocket in the front. Maybe it had something to help me make sense of all this.


“Oh, of course! I forgot all about the copy of Time Travel for Dummies in the other pocket!” Doc mimed quietly.

What Cassidy found instead was a letter addressed to her from Jets.

Dear Cassi..

I'm guessing you have found this just after our gig. Hopefully I'm not in the same room as you other wise I can see you hitting me after you have read what I have to say.

We have known each other for years, each helping the other though hard times when they came around. The others think we have a brother and sister relationship and while I am happy with that I want more.

Cassidy I love you.

Yay I said it now I think I need to start running before you come after me.

I don't care if you don't feel the same. I just had to let you know how I feel. And to tell you that no matter where you go I promise I will always be with you. Forever.

Forever yours

Jet.


“I hope she can find something other than his SPaG to love him for,” said Vania. “The sentence structure in that letter is worse than in the rest of the fic, so the author actually intended to give Jets bad writing skills.”

“Poor Jets,” said Doc.

“The troublesome miss seems quite upset, as well,” added the baseball player, frowning.

I couldn't stop my tears as they streamed down my face . . . I love you too. Jet.

“More like, ‘I love to use you for emotional drama, Jet,” Vania said. “All right. This has gone on long enough. Cassidy is going to run away at the end of the next chapter. We can get her then. And I know exactly what we should do.”

* * *


Cassidy was furious. Watson had just proposed to her. Proposed! He and Sherlock had both been plotting her future behind her back, out of some sick sense of “doing what’s best for her.” As though they knew what was best! As though they had any right to decide!

She didn’t need their help, or Mrs. Hudson’s. All they wanted was to tell her what to do! Cassidy could take care of herself!

Diving under my bed I grabbed my rucksack, chucking all my stuff in quickly before changing into a dark skirt and blouse Mrs Hudson had left in my room for me to ware the next day. It was getting dark outside and it would suit my needs perfectly.

To make sure no-one would come looking for me for some time I placed my CD player and speakers on the side and placed a tune that had mine and jets voice recorded on it so people would think I was singing and not to interrupt.

As the song came on and I swung the window open, preparing to shimmy down the drainpipe . . . The first notes played as I climbed down the drainpipe, the song words echoing in my head as I slowly descended singing softly as I went.


Cassidy was too lost in her own thoughts to notice the green glow down in the street below.

* * *


Doc whimpered. “More Sue singing!”

“Yyyyyyyup. That’s the second Evanescence song Cassidy has utterly destroyed for me.”

The two agents stood waiting on the sidewalk below, the remote activator ready in Vania’s hand. Who and ncis were keeping the mini-Hounds of the Baskervilles around the corner of Mrs. Hudson’s building in an alley. It wasn’t quite enough to keep the glow of the two puppies out of sight, but combined with the fog, it at least dulled the light enough that the few pedestrians still out in the gloomy London night either didn’t notice or pretended not to. The Sue didn’t notice either, which was fortunate.

Less fortunately, she was climbing down the drainpipe in cartoonishly slow motion.

“Why doesn’t she hurry up?” whined Doc, covering his ears against the music.

“Uh . . . it says she ‘reached the floor as the song ended,’ and the song is like, over three minutes, I think.”

“It doesn’t take three minutes to slide down a drain pipe!” Doc forced through gritted teeth. “Even if you’re being careful!”

“Relax, Doc. Don’t forget, she can hear—is your ear bleeding?”

Doc took his hands away from his ears and held them before his face. Each one had a trickle of blood running down the palm.

A low rumble started in Doc’s throat.

“Okay, Doc. You’re going to take some Bleeprin, and go sit with the minis and relax for a bit. Okay?”

Doc clenched his hands into fists, and the rumbling grew into a low growl.

“Doc? Doc, listen to me! You need to calm down. We’re going to get you to Medical and—”

“AAAAAAARGHHHHHHH!” Doc began screaming at the top of his lungs. He ripped the RA from Vania’s hand and opened a portal on the wall. He leaped through into the guest room, grabbed the CD player in both hands, and ran to the window to heave it at the pavement below, somehow all in one stream of movement. The player, still spewing the butchered Evanescence song, sailed past Cassidy, barely missing her. The Sue had stopped climbing as Doc started yelling, and now just stared with wide eyes, hugging the drain pipe. The CD player continued on its path to the ground, only to be stopped at the last second when Doc, still screaming, reemerged from the portal at ground level, caught it in midair, and proceeded to bash it against the ground repeatedly.

He kept striking it against the sidewalk until it began to break into pieces. Cassidy very suddenly slid down the remaining distance the instant the song faltered.

Doc finally stopped yelling, and stood breathing heavily, staring down at the slain music player. Vania and Cassidy alternately stared from Doc to each other and back. Who and the minis seemed to have retreated to the far end of the alleyway.

Vania very gingerly approached Doc and took the RA and charge list from his hands. “Anyway . . . Cassidy Sky, assuming that last name wasn’t an alias, we are Protectors of the Plot Continuum, and we are here to charge you for your crimes against the Sherlock Holmes universe.”

“Okay. Um. Can I get down first?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure, I guess.”

Cassidy let go of the drain pipe and stepped away from the wall.

“So then,” Vania continued, “you are charged with time traveling via plothole, with making Holmes, Dr. Watson and Mrs. Hudson out of character and with limiting Holmes’ deductive abilities. You are charged with bringing anachronistic clothing and items into the late 1800s, and with flaunting said items in front of people—glad we ended this before you got a job in that club. Speaking of which, you are charged with performing in night clubs and drinking alcohol while underage, causing your mother to be neglectful in protecting you from such situations, placing a night club in the middle of a river, using the title of a song from 'Once More, with Feeling' in your fic’s title and then never bothering to sing it—”

“I was getting there . . .” Cassidy interrupted.

“I was looking forward to that one!" Vania snapped, then continued, "turning your other band members into werewolves and also a jet plane, turning yourself into a werewolf, creating a—” Vania stopped speaking, changed the coordinates to the portal and disappeared. While she was gone, Cassidy looked down at herself, and was quite startled to discover she was indeed covered in fur, although it immediately fell out when she noticed the mistake.

Vania then reappeared, with an ordinary-looking corset draped loosely over her blouse and holding a striped brandy bottle and Cassidy’s backpack. “Creating a werecorset, a bandy bottle and confusion-inducing tater tots. With creating three mini-Hounds of the Baskervilles, one mini-LEO, and one Xena: Warrior Princess mini that technically don’t exist yet, and causing a character from a classic joke to be materialized as a real person. With measuring time through dancing due to consistently misspelling ‘minutes’ as ‘minuets,’ and also consistently using ‘were’ in place of ‘where’ and ‘wear.’ With making my partner’s ears bleed through Suvian singing and driving him more insane, swearing in the face of a Victorian woman, and generally acting like an unappreciative brat to the Sherlock Holmes protagonists.” Vania looked up from the page. “But most of all, with abandoning your friends and family and using that separation as a source of drama. This is normally the part where I would kill you, but we’ve decided not to let you off that easily.”

* * *


A square blue portal opened up in a dark parking lot at the side of a lake. Out stepped two people in old-fashioned garb, a teenage girl, a stereotypical baseball player, a miniature soldier and two glowing puppies. They all looked up to the sign on the brick building that stood nearby.

“The Flood Damage,” read Doc. Three lines of blue neon lights shaped like waves lit up one after another, then winked back out, making the club’s logo appear to repeatedly rise and sink in the electric water. The neon light was especially strong with the moon behind clouds.

Cassidy clenched her fists. “Why have you brought me back here? I wanted to stay with Holmes.”

“You were running away from 221B Baker Street when we found you,” said Doc, still a bit flushed from his earlier outburst.

“They were going to come find me!”

“We know,” said Vania, as she quickly ran the wand of the Anachronism Detector over Cassidy. “We read ahead.”

The Sue looked surprised for a moment, then glanced away sulkily, while a pair of headlights passed over the group. “Here, everything is about school and parents and boring crap. I want—”

Screeching tires interrupted Cassidy. The car from the first chapter (more detailed now) screeched to a halt as it entered the parking lot, the doors flew open, and Kat and Jets came scrambling out.

“Kass!”

“Cassidy!”

Cassidy’s mother and Onyx weren’t far behind, once the car was in park.

Cassidy found herself squished between Jets’s and Kat’s hugs, with her mom pulling her head forward to kiss Cassidy’s forehead and Onyx awkwardly patting her on the shoulder.

“From here, it looks like a lot is about you, Cassidy.”

Cassidy glared at the male agent who had spoken. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Where have you been, Cassidy?” Cassidy’s mother seemed to be ignoring the strange people nearby, as well as the look of fury on Cassidy’s face.

Cassidy blinked. “You want to know where I’ve been? I went back in time!” In response to her mother’s look of confusion, she pulled away from the circle of hugs and kisses and continued. “That’s right! I was visiting Sherlock Holmes! In 1895, I’m an interesting person! I’m special! Not just another student who wastes all their time doing homework!”

The rest of the group stared at her.

“You abandoned the band?” Onyx asked, furrowing his brow.

“I had to!” Cassidy retorted. “We weren’t getting famous fast enough! Because of our stupid parents! So I wrote the world to be different, where my mom lets us do whatever we want. Then, I sent myself somewhere where I would be the center of everyone’s attention! Where I could become a real star!”

“Cassidy, this is outrageous!” her mother shouted. “Even if any of this is possible, that means you endangered yourself and your friends for absolutely no reason!”

“Getting what I deserve isn’t a reason?” Cassidy asked, looking at her feet.

The band didn’t look much happier than her mother. Jets in particular looked quite miserable, barely able to meet Cassidy’s eye. “Do you . . . Did you read my note? Do have any idea how I feel about you?”

“Yes, Jets.” Cassidy smiled. “I know now. I'm sorry, it's just . . .”

“Blah, blah, blah, enough drama.”

Vweeyoom!

The group of original characters, all startled by Vania’s interruption, had turned to look at the agents—both now wearing sunglasses—and caught the flash of the neuralyzer dead on. They all stared back with dulled eyes, including the Mary Sue— who clearly was not a true Sue, but a fan author.

“Members of Cassidy’s band, Cassidy never disappeared during a performance. You only perform music in safe venues with someone’s parent or guardian present at all times.

“Mother of Cassidy, your daughter never went missing. You work together with the guardians of Katt, Jets and Onyx to make sure the teens only play in places you all approve of. And make these kids wear seatbelts when they’re riding in a car, for crying out loud!

“Cassidy yourself, you never went back in time to meet Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson or Mrs. Hudson. You will not abuse plotholes ever again. You will stay at home and work hard in school and generally feel appreciative of the wonderful life you have. You—and the rest of you teens, too—will not drink alcohol until you’re each twenty-one.

“Now! Cassidy’s mother was just . . . taking you all out for ice cream. You’re going to go have some ice cream, then everyone will go back to their proper homes and not remember any of what happened.”

Cassidy and her mother and friends all piled into the car, and the mother drove them all away. As the rear lights vanished into the night, Doc asked, "Are we going to be in trouble for not assassinating her?”

“Maybe,” Vania said, shrugging. “But if you ask me, what we just did is a hell of a lot worse punishment than killing her would have been. Let’s get the minis—” Vania stopped talking as the night suddenly brightened all around them. Looking up, the agents saw the clouds had moved, and shining down on the parking lot was a full moon . . .

“Vania! Your corset!”

Vania’s eyes widened—partly from fear, partly from excitement—as she looked down at herself in expectation.

Then, the were-corset sprouted fur.

Vania held her hands up to her face, searching for hair or claws. “That’s it? Man, what a gyp!”

“ . . . You’re disappointed that you didn’t turn into a werewolf?”

“Yes! That would have been awesome! Now all I have is outdated underwear that gets warmer under a certain lunar cycle!” She paused a moment. “I guess that’s . . . useful, at least.”

Who and ncis, who had been watching the mini-Hounds of the Baskervilles around the corner, peeked around it. “Everything all right?” asked ncis.

“Yeah. I think we’re about done here. Right, Vania?”

“Yep. Well, I guess we can send the mini-Hounds where they belong before we head back.”

“Where’s that?”

ncis made a ticking noise with his tongue. “The Baker Street Fanfiction Academy! Duh.” He turned to Vania. “Is this one new?”

“Yes, actually.” Ignoring Doc’s glower, Vania searched for the OFU’s coordinates on the RA and opened a portal at the mouth of the alleyway. She stood just behind it and began calling to the Hounds. “Where’s my good little misspellings? Come here, puppies! Come on!”

Mortiarty hesitantly began to approach the mouth of the alleyway, wearing a glower that looked downright unnatural on a canine face. As he picked up the scent of fans from the BSFA’s dormitories, he began to run faster, barking and howling to call the straggling Miss Hudson onward. Soon, both mini-Hounds had charged through the portal, and it snapped shut on the beginnings of students' screams.

“How about you?” asked Vania of the mini-LEO. “Is there an OFU for NCIS?”

“No, but your colleagues, Miah and Cali, are running an adoption center for my kind in their RC,” the mini responded.

“Oh, perfect!” said Vania. “Would you mind bringing them this bandy bottle, since you’re headed there anyway?”

“Fine with me,” the mini replied. He took the RA and bottle from Vania, reprogrammed the portal, and headed through to the Lair after returning the RA.

Doc said, “And that just leaves Who.”

“Who?” asked Vania.

“Yes.”

“. . . What?”

“Where?” asked the baseball player, dashing from around the corner. “Did you find him?”

“Who?”

“Yes?”

“What?”

“Naturally! Where is he?”

“. . . Where is Naturally?”

“What kind of a name is Naturally?”

“Idunno!”

“Is he here too?”

“WHO?”

“WHAT?”

“STOP! Both of you, just quit with the gag act!” Doc shouted, and ignored the looks of confusion and anger from both his partner and the baseball player. “Vania, is there a way to portal a character into a joke?”

“A joke? Why would we . . . Oh! I get it!” She turned to the baseball player, who smiled at her and nodded encouragingly. “Your name is Where!” Who’s smile disappeared.

“Anyway, no. A joke isn’t a continuum. I guess we need to just recruit him.” She changed the portal’s coordinates, and it flickered, changing to an image of the agents’ RC. The three characters walked in.

221b Backer street had curled up on the bottom bunk—Vania’s—and fallen asleep. Vania herself had taken a wide step through the portal to avoid stepping in the pile of confutots that had been there, but the pile was gone. She walked to her bed and gently touched the puppy’s back. The mini uncurled a bit at her touch, stretching its back and yawning, its tongue hanging far out from its mouth.

“Aw, did you eat all those nasty potatoes? I hope they didn’t make you sick, little puppy!”

Doc and Who had filed in after her. Doc began to unpack his equipment, noticing a blinking light on the console as he did so. “We have a new message, Vania.” He started reading it aloud. “‘Whatever agents are responsible for the confusion-inducing tater tots that were served in the Cafeteria today . . .’” He trailed off long enough to share a look of dread with Vania. “‘Please report to my office immediately.’ Signed the Sunflower Official.”

* * *


When she heard the tapping, Cassidy marked her place in the book with a scrap of paper. Her mother didn’t mind letting her stay up a little late on nights before a test, but that grace period was swiftly coming to an end. She walked over to the window, unlatched it, and pushed it open.

“Oi, Jets,” Cassidy said softly to her boyfriend, who was standing outside the window. The green dye—which he was still grounded for—hadn’t quite washed all the way out of his hair yet.

“Hey, Kass,” he said, and the teens hugged through the open window. “How’s the studying going?”

Cassidy shrugged. “It’s . . . coming.” They stared at each other for a moment, then both started snickering, unable to keep a straight face.

“I think you need to get some sleep,” said Jets, still laughing. Cassidy just grinned back, then looked away, blushing.

Her eyes fell on the case leaning against her dresser, and her smile faded away. She hadn’t had a chance to touch her guitar in over a week.

Jets, seeing the change in Cassidy, leaned inside to see what she was looking at. “Oh.” He placed his hand on the back of her neck and rubbed his thumb back and forth. “We’ll get there, Kass. We’re going to keep practicing, and get our music degrees—”

“By then we won’t be teenagers anymore,” Cassidy interrupted. “It won’t make sense for us to be the Teen Wolves anymore.”

“Band names aren’t supposed to make sense!” Jets said; his smiling finally made Cassidy do the same again.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you too, Kass!” And they kissed, both blushing.

“We’d better get to sleep,” Kass said. “We don’t want to fall asleep during the Historical Lit test on John Watson tomorrow!”

“Right, right,” Jets said. “Good night, Kass.”

“Good night.” Cassidy slowly closed the window while she watched Jets walk away.

* * *



Excerpts from Doc's Mission Report


Dr. John H. Watson (The Return of Sherlock Holmes, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 1903-1904)
Medium: literature
Existence: canon
Universe: Sherlock Holmes
Role: protagonist
Species: human
Gender: male
Occupation: doctor, army surgeon
Weapon: pistol
Power: medical knowledge, war experience, skills learned from Sherlock
Notes:
A trained surgeon, veteran of the Second Anglo-Afghan War, and Sherlock's roomate. While not as loftily brilliant as Sherlock, Watson holds his own in aiding the detective, and the two are loyal to each other.


Mrs. Hudson (The Return of Sherlock Holmes, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 1903-1904)
Medium: literature
Existence: canon
Universe: Sherlock Holmes
Role: protagonist
Species: human
Gender: female
Occupation: landlady
Weapon: desire for tidiness
Power: cooking skills
Notes:
The landlady of the building that contained 221B Baker Street. As Holmes's landlady, she puts up with a lot, between his many desperate guests, destructive experiments and messiness. Holmes's ingratiating demeanor and high rent payments help.


Sherlock Holmes (The Return of Sherlock Holmes, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 1903-1904)
Medium: literature
Existence: canon
Universe: Sherlock Holmes
Role: protagonist
Species: human
Gender: male
Occupation: consulting detective
Weapon: riding crop, pistols, physical strength
Power: observation, deductive reasoning
Notes:
Knowledgeable in forensics and criminal history, Holmes uses clue-gathering and evidence to keep Britain's criminal element from escaping the justice system. Extremely eccentric and analytical, but not without compassion for the wronged.


Author's Note: Because this story got some things right, especially in regards to the canon characters' personalities, I decided to forgo assassination here in favor of something more akin to what the old Despatch stories used to do. Part of that involved treating Cassidy as a time traveling resident of the Sherlock Holmes world, rather than a resident of our world. (Of course, the story does exist in our world, but HEY LOOK AT THAT BUG.) Also, in the original story, Cassidy never once comments on the characters being fictional, so it and this mission are actually consistent in that regard. I know the ending is not the norm, but I felt it was more appropriate for this story.

If you don't get the jokes about the baseball player, then shame on your uncultured self.

The first song linked in the story is "The Bruce-Partington Plans," composed by Patrick Gowers for the Granada TV series episode of the same name in the Return of Sherlock Holmes series. The second song is "Ghostpocalypse - Crossing the Threshold," made by Kevin MacLeod for the video game Sherlock Holmes: Crimes and Punishments. The lyrics from "You Can't Always Get What You Want" belong to the Rolling Stones. "Bring Me To life" belongs to Evanescence, and "Somewhere Out There" was written by James Horner, Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil.
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