London
2020

       The loud rhythmic clack and constant movement of the subway trains traversed back and forth on the tracks above shook the small hidden alcove under the London Underground Railway. In the alcove, there were tangled black, brown and gray hoses weaved together connected to snaking fuses of various colors running to various electrical boxes and outlets. The hoses and fuses were hooked up to computerized panels displaying the vital signs and essential information of those in statis in the cryo tubes made up of wood and plastic and looked like coffins. Almost everyone had forgotten about the little alcove beneath the Tube. It had laid hidden secret and forgotten. No one had been down in this part of the subway for many years.
  The numbers on the antique clock hanging on the pole in the middle of the cryo tube aligned in neat rows in the alcove slowly, silently clicked in sequence as they did every day  -- except that day was different. When the numbers turned to 2020, they turned a vibrant bright red and a repetitive buzzing of warning wailed in the alcove; no one heard it. There’s an old adage about a tree falling in the forest and no one hearing and the validity of such occurrence without anyone hearing or knowing about it; one wonders if this recounting is too a fiction – or not.
       Billowing hazes of steam arises as the lids of one of the cryo tubes slides open revealing a plethora of slumbering bodies inside. None of them stir; most are still asleep or unconscious except him. His well groomed dark hair and naked medium build, muscular body, with dark heavy layers of dark hairs covering his well defined chest, slowly slid forward as he sat up.  Fully awake but barely aware of how long he’d slept, he was completely conscious. His dark brown eyes were opened inquisitive and perceiving his bizarre surroundings in the alcove of the Tube’s underground.  He noticed the neat lines of coffin like tubes, woven snaking black and gray wires and hospital technology but it appeared more advanced than anything he’d seen or known thanks to his doctor friend and partner.
    Carefully easing himself out of the casket like tube, his bare feet touched the cobblestone flooring; his toes spread feeling the filth and dust of the unkempt surface. He barely perceived the rats and roaches but he definitely heard the familiar sounds of the detestable rodents and insects currying in the dark corners of the alcove.
    His fingers scratched his forehead touching the wavy unkempt layers of his dark brown hair. How exactly did he come to be in this God forsaken place? The answer to that was quite the mysterious puzzle. One he desperately longed and needed to unravel as was his very nature and personality.

 His right hand thoughtfully stroked the edges of his jaw line feeling the jagged rough layers of stubble there. He certainly was scruffy; untidy in his personal hygiene maintenance. He didn’t care. He rarely shaved. He found it abhorrent.
   The last thing he remembered had been a soiree at a fine, luxurious, wealthy home in London. It had with gleaming polished wooden floors, an elaborate winding metal staircase to the second floor of the eight bedrooms, chandlers and fine art adorning the walls; the furniture included an assortment of plush leather or antiques; the décor featured decorative vases, statutes and other antiquities. Servants dressed in sharply pressed black French maid outfits or tuxedoes with tails and gloves whirled around with silver trays filled with long thin glasses filled with sparkling champagne and horse devours.
      The guests garbed in their finest fashionable dresses or trousers and fine polished expensive shoes mingled chatting avidly among each other while a eight piece orchestra played.  Obviously the women had spent hours at the salons or beauty parlor getting their hair curled and styled fashionably and impeccably to make them look lovely and desirable. The men’s beards and mustaches were neatly groomed, tasteful and appropriate; some of the men’s hair had been greased but definitely carefully gone over.
    Obviously he stood out in that crowd. He hadn’t even bothered to comb his unruly wavy masses looking more like a madman who had escaped the asylum. He usually didn’t bother combing his hair. It had always been difficult to control so he didn’t bother. Why waste his time? It did no good and it was of no importance and didn’t matter much to him.
   He’d gone without a tie, leaving the damnable, unnecessary cravat at his loft on Baker Street. He’d also arrived without a jacket or blazer in his disheveled wrinkled white dress shirt. He had the top two buttons undone revealing the top layer of his manly chest and he felt he looked ruggedly handsome. His shirt complimented his black trousers that undeniably long past the time for laundering that was badly, urgently needed.
    His shades tilted on the bridge of his nose as he sharply and critically scanned the masses, mostly unknown to him much like the soiree’s host and home owner but he didn’t care to know them. All that mattered or they cared for was money; while he himself was well off but not because of his wealthy distinguished gentleman father who was well status symbol in the upper crust of the affluent class in England, he could care less about money and without a doubt he didn’t flaunt or boast about it. Such people to include his father he considered and found absolutely repulsive and repugnant.
      Ah yes where was he? His finger momentarily stroked his lips posed in a thin thoughtful line. He recalled he hadn’t really wanted to go to the damnable soiree. Had he even been invited? He didn’t really recall but he supposed that didn’t matter. At affluent, high class soirees uninvited guests typically crashed such social functions. Whatever had possessed him to attend? He thought hard for a moment. Perhaps he’d gone hoping to find and meet up with Moriarity.
     He was definitely a rake! To be honest, he was a two-timing bastard. He had been romantically involved with and practically engaged to the lovely curly red-haired English singer Irene Adler; on the other hand, his true love was the lithe blonde haired beautiful master of a well-known criminal organization in the international underworld who posed a prestigious, tenured English professor at Oxford University, Moriarity.
      His intent had been to have hot, intense sex with Moriarity in a luxurious well furnished and well decorated upstairs bedroom. Perhaps that’s what happened. It would certainly explain why he was stark raving naked. Yet something about it didn’t make sense. His gaze shifted toward the casket like tube. Would Moriarity have bedded him in such morbid divan? She wouldn’t have seemed too keen on or desired engaging in sexual intercourse in such a dark, death knoll; he most assuredly wouldn’t have had intimate affairs with her in such environs.
     Shuffling around carefully, he searched for discarded clothing in the alcove; his mind was still affixed on his mystery. He didn’t even recollect drinking any of the champagne from the silver trays. Or had he indulged?  He rarely indulged in alcohol; if he did it would be a few sips then discarded. Alcohol did nothing for him, not even give him a buzz. It just wasn’t his thing. Shaking his head in frustrated disgust, he admitted he didn’t know if he’d socially drank even though he was fairly certain he hadn’t.
     Had he gotten high at the soiree? Undoubtedly it was highly possible. He was a heroin addict. Still, he had been clean for many months almost half a year. He didn’t recall going to the party to find or for a fix although it could have been likely and probable. His dealer might have been there; the crafty, intelligent man accepted in every aspect of high society always seemed to know where he was or would be despite his best efforts to avoid him. He didn’t remember rolling cigarettes or snorting white thunder. If he had gotten high, it would definitely explain his loss of memory. He didn’t know what day it was and whether it was day or night. Whenever he chased the dragon, he typically had frequent blackouts and he usually didn’t know their lengths and remembered nothing.
    So how had he ended up in his current predicament? Does it matter Sherlock? You’re here and you don’t know why or how. Twisting his fingers through the layers of his hair, he frowned deeply at his failure to solve his mystery. Perhaps he could get answers to his tangled labyrinth puzzle at the loft he shared with his friend and partner, Dr. John Watson. Surely Watson would clear up this riddle for him and hopefully without one of his long chiding lecturing tirades.
      His eyes discovered lying near the old subway track a rumpled pile of discarded greasy blue overalls and matching shirt, fluorescent yellow vest and white hard hat, the typical uniform worn by underground subway workers. How fortuitous!  Still even his find had questions popping in his mind.  How had the uniform gotten there? How long had it been there? Had it belonged to a homeless person residing in the underground subway and would he return to claim it? Or had it belonged to some sorry sap of a subway worker who had met with foul play? He had no answers and he supposed that didn’t matter.
    Struggling he dressed knowing he had to have some semblance of decency if he wanted to return to his loft at 22 Baker Street. Regularly involved as a detective with Scotland Yard as well as London and other English law enforcement agencies, he tended to keep his record clean.
    The outfit barely fit his lanky lean masculine frame and completed it with worn, hole-filled, greasy white socks that looked yellow and work boots that were tight on his feet.  Satisfied, he methodically he crept along in the darkness out of the alcove in the hopes of finding an exit. Once he got out of there, he knew his way home.
***
     Elsewhere the annoying buzz of an alarm repeated throughout his office. The dark haired, muscular, powerful, wealthy man dressed in an expensive, dark business suit scowled. He was annoyed to be disturbed by something so petty. He had much more important business to attend to than the problem the alarm brought. His hand moved masterfully. His fingers pressed a red button on a display on his polished wooden desk.  The TV screen broadcast a picture of two of his trusted henchmen, slouched back in their comfy chairs, their legs stretched in front of them; their feet on the table in front of the computerized monitors in front of them half asleep. His scowl deepened. These two were worthless imbeciles. What did he pay them for? All they had to do is sit there and monitor the alcove for their 18-hour shift and they couldn’t even do that right.
    Slowly stirring, one of the thugs’ eyes began to clear and he perceived the scowling face of their boss. With his elbows, he nudged his partner away; the second thug nearly fell out of his chair as he did. “You …” the certain curse died on his lips as he saw the scowling face of their boss in front of them.
    “Yes, boss?” answered the first thug with the blonde mop of hair.
    Leaning forward his elbows on his desk, the two thugs got an extremely close up view of their boss’ scowling image. “There’s a problem in the alcove under Piccadilly Circus. Check it out and report back immediately!”
     Their boss didn’t even wait for their answer. The TV screen had gone black; their boss had gone back to his business whatever that was and they didn’t need or care to know. Donning white helmets and bright orange and yellow vests over their blue coveralls, the two thugs looked like London Underground Subway workers. Grabbing their sack of high tech tools and walkie talkies, they meandered through the maze beneath the London Underground Subway. The two men hadn’t been to the alcove in awhile so they lost their way a few times, cursing each time they got lost in the labyrinth of underground tunnels.
     Flashes of fluorescent light and the echoes of the stops from above guided the two thugs to their destination. Everything seemed normal in the alcove. Nothing had been disturbed. That’s how it had been the last time the boss’ two hired professional hit men had been in the alcove. When they saw the crackling buzz and flashes of electricity from the equipment and the lids of the cryo tubes open they knew there had been some kind of malfunction. They didn’t know what had caused the malfunction, or why the malfunction had occurred. “This is not good,” muttered the blond thug.
      Walking around the rows of cryo tubes, they discovered that a few of the individuals in status there were no longer there.   “Do we have to tell the boss?” asked his partner. It was a stupid question. Of course, they did!
    Swallowing hard, the blond thug steeled his nerves. Turning the knob on his walkie talkie to a specific hashtag, the smarter thug had comms on a private channel with the boss. “Sir we have a report from the alcove.”
     “Go ahead.” The voice didn’t sound like the boss’ but the blond thug continued. “Sir the cryo tubes in the alcove in Piccadilly Circus malfunctioned.”
     “Are all accounted for?”
     “No, Sir,” the blond thug looked at the computerized monitor by the empty cryo tube where he was standing. The receiver of the walkie talkie remained close to his mouth. “Holmes is not here.”
     The voice became terribly angry. “Find him! Report back when you have him.”
    Again the thug didn’t get to reply. His boss or whomever he was communicating with was gone. Only silence remained on the walkie talkie.
     The thugs had no idea where to find Holmes. The 19^th century British detective could be anywhere but he was more than likely lost, confused and alone in 21^st century London. 
     Unlike his partner, the blond thug had some brains in his head. He glanced at the computerized monitor next to the vacant cryo tube belonging to Holmes that had vital information about the man they sought – a home address, 22 Baker Street. At least they had a place to start. The two thugs weaved their way through the underground maze leading to paths above to the town.