I know this isn't historically correct- or true to the Holmesian lore- but I thought it a cute premise. So, with apologies to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle . . . .
Sherlock Steele
Part 1

"Sherlock Holmes," Laura Holt said, reading the cover of the book that she held. "Now THERE was a detective."

"All brains, no brawn," Remington Steele agreed as he opened the door of the second hand book shop for them the leave. "Consulting detective. Rather like you envisioned Remington Steele to be when you first invented him, eh?" he asked, smiling down at her.

"Something like that," Laura agreed with a smile as well. "How did you find out that I liked Holmes?"

"Oh, a little bird happened to mention it," he hedged.

"Let me guess: Frances, right?"

"It- could have been," he said, grinning lopsidedly. "I must say, you'd have made a fetching Dr. Watson," he commented, stepping off the curb to cross to the Auburn. He never heard the car coming around the corner- never heard Laura's warning.

"Mr. Steele! Look out!"

*****

The occupants of 221B Baker Street were immersed in their own activities. The room's tenant, a tall, dark haired man with eyes that were often characterized as piercing, was pacing the room liked a caged panther, awaiting fresh prey to sharpen his already keen senses, glancing occassionally at his companion.

The other occupant was sitting by the window, a lamp burning on the desk, writing in a journal. She was, in her companion's estimation, a handsome young woman, highly intelligent, a bit too fragile in appearance to already be a physician and surgeon in an age where few women ventured out of the home to turn their hand to earning a living.

Yes, Holmes told himself, Laura Holt-Watson was an anomaly. Intelligent, and quick-witted, the only child of a prominent physician, she had spent all of her youth in sickrooms and surgeries, learned invaluable lessons first at her father's side and then at the side of her late husband. She was, he supposed, attractive, but he usually took little notice of such things. Her chin was too sharp, but the dimples that appeared on her cheeks tended to soften the overall effect. Seeing those dimples now, Holmes asked, "What lies are you writing now, Watson?"

"Not lies at all, Mr. Holmes," she assured him, the dimples deepening. "I was just recalling something about your last case which struck me as amusing. That's all."

"I'm pleased that you find my dangling four foot over the edge of a ragged precipice amusing, Dr. Watson," he commented in an affronted tone, preparing to launch into yet another lecture on the perils of romanticizing his work. He never got the chance, as he was interrupted by noises from the hallway beyond the door. He easily recognized the voice of his landlady, Mrs. Hudson, but the male voice was unfamiliar.

Watson's dark eyes found him. "My goodness, Mr. Holmes."

Striding to the door on long legs, Holmes pulled it open without ceremony. "I assume there is an explanation for all of this, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked of the housekeeper, who was attempting to stop a young man from coming up the stairs.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," she apologized. "But . . ."

"Mr. Holmes? Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he man asked as Holmes took in the man's mud stained, disheveled clothing, his need of a shave.

"Mr. Holmes is far too busy a man to see the likes of you," Mrs. Hudson insisted.

"I MUST speak with you, sir," the intruder said. "I'm in a great deal of trouble, I fear."

"It's all right, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes assured the portly woman, turning her back toward the narrow stairway. "I'm sure you did your best." He indicated that the gentleman -and in spite of his appearance, his accent and manners indicated that he was that- should precede him into the rooms. If nothing else, hearing the man's story might be a diversion.

Dr. Watson rose from her chair as the two men entered. "What seems to be the problem, Mr. -?"

"Wilson?" Watson asked in a surprised tone that drew Holmes' attention to her suddenly flushed face.

The man smiled, moving across the room to take her hands in his. "Laura. I hoped to find you here. I had heard that you were working with Mr. Holmes."

"DOCTOR Watson," Holmes corrected the man, "does not WORK with me. She has simply appointed herself my biographer."

Watson smiled at his words, and Holmes took himself off to the fireplace to retrieve his pipe from the mantle as he watched her, for the first time seeing her as a woman. Normally he eschewed the companionship of the so called "fairer sex", believing the vast majority of them responsible for most of the world's ills.

"It's been a long time, Wilson," she was saying, her dark eyes aglow.

"Yes," Wilson agreed, his own eyes examining her closely. "Since before your father's funeral. A good seven years, I believe. I'm sorry about his death. And I was sorry to hear about your husband's passing."

Laura's eyes moved to Holmes. "At least one good thing came from James' death. I met Mr. Holmes."

"You mentioned something about being in trouble, Mr -?" Holmes asked, deciding to put a quick end to the conversation. If he left it, they would proceed to bore him with their reminisces.

Wilson turned. "Forgive me, sir. Wilson, Jeffries, at your service."

"Jeffries," Holmes mused. "Lord Michael Jeffries' only son, graduated Oxford with honors, and who is being groomed to take over for your father at the bank which he started when you were but a small child."

Young Jeffries looked amazed that Holmes would know so much. "Why yes." He looked at Watson. "He is truly amazing, isn't he?"

"Yes," Watson agreed. "He is." She moved to sit before the fire. "What kind of trouble are you in, Wilson?"

Wilson paced the room for a moment. "I doubt that even you are aware, Mr. Holmes, that my father has been quite ill for some weeks now - but that fact has not been released to the public as yet."

"What seems to be your father's problem?" Watson asked, ever the doctor.

"You are most kind to ask, my dear," Wilson said in a rather patronizing tone, Holmes thought. "I know that you and he, well . . ."

"I AM a doctor, Wilson, and if I can help. . . " she offered.

"Oh, he's being seen by our family physician, Dr. Pemberton," Jeffries quickly assured her. "I'm sure there's no need to trouble yourself.

"And what diagnosis has Dr. Pemberton offered?" Holmes asked, angry with himself for being disturbed by the young man's condescending tone toward Watson. He could read her expression well enough to know that she was none too pleased, either.

"He hasn't. Anyway, this has little do with why I'm here."

"Then out with it, my good man," Holmes insisted, re-lighting his pipe.

"Father didn't want it widely known that I had taken over for him. He was afraid that those who do business with the bank would lack confidence in someone my age. So I've been taking his carriage into town early every morning and returning after dark every evening, trying to maintain the illusion that I'm my father."

Holmes began to pace the room as he listened to the man's story. When Jeffries paused, he turned suddenly and fixed him with a stare. "Go on."

"Over the course of the past three nights, as the carriage left the city, it has been overtaken. All three times, I managed to evade capture."

"And the coach and driver?"

"The driver was knocked unconscious, then both were taken three blocks away and left." He looked at Holmes. "What I fear is that someone is out to kidnap me or my father and hold us for ransom."

"Have you contacted Scotland Yard about this matter?"

"I dare not. Father's health being what it is. And I dare not risk this going farther afield. If it gets out that it has been me in that coach and not my father, the bank could be ruined. The only reason I felt safe coming to you was because of Mrs. Watson's articles about your cases."

Watson looked at Holmes, a knowing smile on her face. He chose to ignore it. "Dr. Watson's gift for storytelling has made me seem to be larger than life, I fear," he told Jeffries.

"Then you won't help me?"

"On the contrary." He looked Jeffries over once again. "I take it that your ragged appearance means that there was another attempt last night?"

"You're correct. I felt them jump onto the coach from a tree, and I jumped out into a mud hole."

"And the carriage was close by, with the driver, shortly thereafter?"

"Yes. What should I do, Mr. Holmes?"

"Return home, change your clothing, and then go about your day's business," Holmes said, again pacing the room. "Dr. Watson and I will see you later."

"Oh, but- should you involve Laura in this?" Jeffries questioned. "There could danger. I'm sure at least one of them was armed. He fired a shot at me the first night."

"But not on either subsequent occasion?"

"I was careful to escape quietly the other two times, so not to draw their attention."

"Ah. Well, since Dr. Watson has appointed herself my biographer, I can hardly insist she remain behind, can I?"

"I'm quite capable of taking care of myself, Wilson," Dr. Watson said rather stiffly.

Wilson sat beside her, taking her hand. "I remember that about you. How- unconventional you always were. It's the reason Father disapproved of you."

"It's all in the past, Wilson," she reminded him, with a glance in Holmes' direction. "Best forgotten." She rose to escort him to the door.

"I did love you, you know," Wilson said softly.

Holmes saw Watson glance his direction, then turned toward the fire. But his sharp ears heard her soft reply. "So much that you agreed to stop coming around with no hesitation? Don't, Wilson. Please. I'll walk you downstairs." To Holmes, she said, "I won't be a moment, Mr. Holmes."

He heard the door close behind them, then realized that he was frowning. He tried no to think of Watson as a female. She was good company, quiet, putting up with his moodiness, his violin, even - other things, without too much complaint.

Seeing her as the object of Wilson Jeffries' desire caused Holmes more disquiet than he liked. He could not help but be aware of the rumors that circulated about the nature of his relationship with Watson, but he chose to ignore them as unimportant clap trap from idle minds with nothing better to do.

When the door opened again, Holmes looked anew at the woman who entered. She was slim, lithe, and she tried to hide her attractions behind a severe hairstyle and unflattering clothing. But there was something- some spark within her soul, if there was such an ephemeral thing, that caused him to enjoy her company more than he had enjoyed any woman's company for quite some time.

He puffed on his pipe, frustrated that it seemed to have gone out again. "You and young Jeffries were quite serious, I take it?"

She sat down again, seemingly reluctant to answer immediately. "I believed so. But I fail to see how this has any bearing on the case at hand, Mr. Holmes."

"Ah, but it does. Let me see. Lord Jeffries objected to the match?"

Taking a deep breath, she said, "Quite strenuously. His plans for Wilson's future did NOT include the daughter of a moderately wealthy-untitled-doctor."

"Especially not one who wished to become a physician herself?"

"Precisely."

"Did young Jeffries tell you all of this?"

"No. Lord Jeffries paid a call on my father- offered him quite a handsome sum of money to send me away, or to find me a more suitable husband."

"So enters Dr. James Watson, almost a contemporary of your father."

She nodded. "James was the only man who understood my dream of becoming a doctor and surgeon," she agreed. Her eyes lifted. "Except for you, Mr. Holmes. I'm most grateful to you for that."

Holmes turned back toward the fire in a pretense of lighting the pipe once more. He wanted this young woman's gratitude no more now than when he had proven her innocent of the murder of her husband. "Do you think Dr. Pemberton would reveal something to you about his Lordship's sudden ill health?"

"I doubt it. What I would really like to do is examine his Lordship myself. Do you think his illness has something to do with Wilson's problems, Mr. Holmes?"

"That is something which only a call upon Lord Jeffries will bear out, Dr. Watson. Shall we?"

She smiled at him. "I'll get my bag from my rooms and meet you downstairs," she told him.

*****

For the first time, she kept him waiting, a hansom cab at the curb, its driver and horse impatient. "Com'on, guv'nor," the driver said. "We goin' or not?"

Holmes looked at the building, at the window of Dr. Watson's rooms. "All in good time, my good man," he replied. "All in good . . ." he paused as the front door of 221 Baker Street opened and Dr. Laura Holt-Watson appeared. "Time," he finished. "Dr. Watson?" he asked the vision who approached clad in the the latest fashion. He hadn't even realized that the woman knew anything ABOUT fashion.

She smiled at him. "I apologize for making you wait," she said, pulling on a kidskin glove, "but I suddenly realized that I could not possibly meet Lord Jeffries again looking like a pigeon."

Holmes assisted her into the cab, wondering where the image of a pigeon turning into a peacock had sprung from.

To Be Continued. . .
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Original content © 1999 by Nancy Eddy