Title: The Speckled Band, TrekAUverse
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes, with a Star Trek TOS twist
Characters: Holmes, Watson
Rating: K+
Warnings: basic spoilers for Trek-related things such as Vulcans, and spoilers for various Holmes stories
Summary: Takes place in my AU, where Holmes is a Vulcan and Watson a full empath (as seen in the TOS episode The Empath). To avoid taking up space inside the chapter in narrative, please read Whatever Remains to find out why Vulcan!Holmes is on Earth in the Victorian period. This is the first in a series of Canon short story rewrites, focusing on proving that Holmes really was a Vulcan and Watson an empath, so let's play the game here, people. :) First up: The Speckled Band, since it's the most famous of the Holmes short stories. Please note that I am NOT just copy-and-pasting Doyle in these; I'm only keeping the bare bones of the plot the same and developing an entirely new style of story. Any directly quoted material (max. 15% of the total fic) is noted. I am not Doyle, and I am not trying to write this as Doyle. Meant to be a lighthearted, somewhat tongue-in-cheek rendition but still recognizable as the Holmes and Watson we love.
Disclaimer: Star Trek belongs to Paramount and Gene Roddenberry. Holmes and Watson are public domain and originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Their TrekverseAU characteristics are entirely mine, as is this not-quite-a-crossover universe. Please ask if you're wanting to play in my sandbox.

Still stunned from the exercise, mental though it had been, Holmes's obvious glee at my success in the endeavor did not register with me until he had clapped me on the shoulder and scurried into the next room, Roylott's bedroom. I followed after a moment, shaking the cobwebs from my head and vowing with some exasperation that this was not going to be the end of the matter; whatever I had just done had obviously been an experiment of some kind, and while my friend was at heart a scientist I did not appreciate being made an experimental specimen without proper explanation and follow-up.

My annoyance must have shown upon my features, for the man threw me an apologetic look over his shoulder as he scrambled up upon a chair to look again at the ventilator between the bedrooms. Miss Stoner stood below, watching curiously, and not without some trepidation; no doubt she had not been in this room often, and it was little wonder why. Spartan and bare of any comforts save a small armchair, even to a non-empath it bespoke of a dearth of character save for that which Roylott wished to hide in the iron safe residing in the corner.

Holmes had jumped off the chair, nearly breaking his neck I might add, and was now pottering about the bookcase and safe, inspecting and disregarding what he saw with that rapidity which suggested he had already drawn an alternate theory to his original and my evidence was just the crowning touch; all this was so much credence, not new information, to the theory.

"Do you know what is in here, Miss Stoner?" he asked, tapping the safe with one long finger.

"My stepfather's business papers."

"Oh! you have seen inside, then?"

"Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers."

"There isn't a cat in it, for example?"

"No. What a strange idea!" (1)

I wholeheartedly agreed, and prayed to any deity which might be in the vicinity that the man was not about to make an utter fool of himself over his lack of Earth animal knowledge.

"Well, see here!" He indicated a small saucer of milk which sat atop the safe, and I breathed a sigh of relief; at least he knew that much.

"No, we do not keep a cat, Mr. Holmes," Miss Stoner replied, and I felt more than heard the unspoken and if we did, we jolly well would not keep it in an iron safe. "There is just the cheetah and the baboon."

"Ah well, a cheetah is no more than a large cat."

"But none of the animals are permitted within the house," she protested, also looking askance at the saucer. "Nor is it anywhere near enough milk for an animal of that size, even as an occasional treat."

I considered, briefly, pointing out that half the British population took milk with their tea, that there was a discarded tea cup sitting on the floor beside the bed, and that there were certainly far more strange eccentricities than putting milk in a saucer rather than taking the whole milk-pot along with one to bed at night; and then dismissed the notion. No doubt the saucer held some sinister significance to the case, which Holmes's quicker mind had deduced. Unless Roylott was in the habit of letting a full-grown cheetah squeeze through his bedroom window at night, I could see no connection between the milk and anything else in the room save the tea cup. (2)

The man in question had his nose less than two inches from the seat of the wooden chair, and was inspecting it with an air of great interest. Presently he popped back up, muttering to himself, and drew our attention to a looped dog lash which was hanging upon one end of the bed.

Odd, I thought, as there were no dogs in the house (that we knew of; that would be all we needed, for the man to have brought a pet wolf onto the premises without our client's knowledge), and obviously Holmes thought more of it as well for he remarked upon the depravity of the criminal mind based solely upon this last piece of evidence. Finally, we returned to the gardens, I no more the wiser upon the case than we had been when we came down; we had already suspected Roylott of the crime, but the method and proof were far more difficult to understand and obtain.

I do not know if it is a particular habit of his species, but when he is in the midst of the deepest contemplation Holmes is prone to aimless wandering. Some men pace; he wanders about without seeing what is before him. More than once in our sitting room he has run into the sideboard or tripped over a table leg, simply because he paces around in no discernable pattern while deep in thought. Once, and only once, in the early days, had I left the newspaper on the rug before the grate; he trod upon it while pondering a case, and slid half into the fireplace, setting one of his slippers afire before I managed to yank him from the smouldering coals. While he merely laughed it off and turned the undamaged slipper into a receptacle for the horridly strong tobacco he smokes, the event had shaken me somewhat, and as such I made it a habit to continually clean up our sitting room after the man whirlwinded through it.

After the eleventh pass around the garden, Holmes finally pulled up in front of our client and me. His face grim and pensive, he was most serious when he instructed our client.

"Your life and future will depend upon your following my instructions to the very letter, Miss Stoner; is that understood?"

Nodding, she indicated that she did; sensible girl.

"To begin with, both Dr. Watson and I must spend the night in your room."

Oh, lovely. The man did have an irrepressible habit of springing things upon me without warning, particularly when they involved uncomfortable situations in which another man might refuse to participate.

Holmes continued, instructing our client, who listened with remarkably keen attention, to confine herself to her room when her stepfather returned, to prevent her having to deal with the ruffian. We would retire to the nearby country inn (about whose sanitary conditions I had my doubts) and await the signal of a lamp in the window to inform us the coast was clear for our entry. What would transpire after that, Holmes would not verbally conjecture, and I was quite in the dark.

"Can you not give me any indication as to what killed my poor Julia?" Miss Stoner all but pleaded, when Holmes would divulge no further information. "Was it as I thought, and she died of terror at something which happened in that room?"

"Nothing so other-worldly, I am afraid, Miss Stoner," Holmes replied gravely. "Something far more tangible than that."

For that reassurance, dismal though it was, I was immensely grateful, and said so as we made our way to the dubiously-named Crown Inn. Had the cause of death been fear (and while emotions could kill, those instances were exceedingly rare), I should not have much like to remain in that room overnight. Who knew what emotive ghosts might appear, or what circumstances might be produced.

"Yes, I believe I do owe you a bit of apology for using your peculiar gift without prior consent, Doctor," Holmes mused, somewhat abashedly, as we entered the inn gates. "I had forgotten how personal a thing it must be for you; anything more poignant would be quite overwhelming."

I did not much enjoy the word peculiar, when applied to something over which I held no control, but then I recalled that Holmes is – or at least was, in years past – a scientist, and most likely meant it in the strictest sense of the word: simply unusual, or special to one person.

"Consent is not necessary; you know I am happy to help if I may be of any use," I replied.

"Just the same, it is a discourtesy I shall endeavor to not repeat. Now, let us see if this charming rural specimen can procure us a passable room."

Another peculiarity of my friend was his lack of forethought in procuring lodgings; this had happened upon more than one occasion, and I gathered from his disgruntled mutterings that on his former world money had never been a consideration for him. As it stood now, I ended up being forced to empty my pocketbook for a bedroom and tiny sitting room in which we would most likely never again set foot after darkness fell tonight. And yet, the rooms were peaceful, and I welcomed the chance for a quiet meal and conversation downstairs after the events of the day.

Oddly enough, it was the topic of diet which popped up during the course of our meal, and I learned to my surprise that Holmes was originally a vegetarian.

"Why, may I ask?" I inquired curiously, for he had never given me reason to suspect so in the past.

"It is a belief of my people, Doctor, that all life is sacred, and that living beings should not be sacrificed for any purpose unless there is no alternative available," he responded, taking no offense at my inquisitiveness.

"And you no longer are so, because of the need to fit in with society? Surely you could still remain a vegetarian and not attract overmuch attention?"

"I could, but there do not exist the proper complex proteins in your Terran vegetables which would make it possible for my physiology to remain in good health, Doctor," he explained, pointedly holding up an unappetizing specimen of watery broccoli. "I have been forced to adapt due to a lack of nutrients and proteins which my alien physiology requires, which were readily available on my own planet."

I shifted uneasily at the word alien, for no matter how many times I heard it the term still caused me unease, and felt a flash of pity for the man stranded here for the rest of his long life. "Is it…unpleasant, for you?" I asked hesitantly.

Holmes shrugged. "Eating is neither pleasant nor unpleasant; it is simply a necessary part of subsistence. Your society in general must consume animal flesh as part of healthy nutrition, and the animals are not killed for less necessary reasons. But you see, Doctor, why I rarely am overexcited regarding a meal, and even find no trouble going without for any length of time."

"Yes, I cannot see you becoming overexcited about very many things," I replied dryly, nudging the platter of vegetables closer his direction.

Holmes paused, and regarded me curiously, a strange light in his grey eyes. "You see me as withdrawn, then? Distant, even cold?"

Somewhat surprised at the question, I hesitated a moment to consider. But Holmes always preferred frankness to tact, and I had learned from the master of the art. "By human standards, yes," I said matter-of-factly. "Just a bit."

He gave me his peculiar kind of smile, the sort that started in the eyes and only barely tugged at the corners of his mouth, and returned to his meal without another word, leaving me attempting to puzzle out what that little exchange had been about.

We had just finished the meal and were good-naturedly arguing about the wisdom of ordering dessert (why the man has such an aversion to anything containing chocolate, I am unsure of), when through the dusk we saw a trap moving down the lane, carrying the hulking figure of Dr. Grimesby Roylott. After a small delay at the gates, the trap continued on to the house, which was beginning to be lit by twinkling lamplight as darkness fell.

And it was then that our conversation took a most serious turn.

"Watson, I must admit I have some scruples about taking you tonight," he said, lighting up his pipe with what to me appeared to be a slightly nervous hand. "This…this is far more dangerous a man – and his instruments far more deadly – than we have previously encountered. I do not like it."

"Can I be of assistance, or will I simply hinder your investigation?"

"Quite the contrary; your presence might be invaluable."

"Then I shall certainly come. (3) But you have obviously already formed a theory. I confess I can see nothing which would suggest how Roylott might have murdered his step-daughter."

"Technically, no; there you are correct. But the instrument of murder is simply that – an instrument, wielded by a man. And in that sense, Roylott did murder Julia Stoner."

"The ventilator seemed to be your focus; a poison, administered through the opening, perhaps?" I hazarded, for I could not conceive of any other way the woman might have met her death.

"That was my first thought, Doctor, but in your time there exists no such airborne toxin which could be passed through a ventilation shaft and leave no trace of such in the victim's body – can you think of one?"

"No," I admitted. "The coroner would certainly have remarked upon any discolouration or excessive rigor."

"And therein lies the problem." Holmes's eyes grew somber. "Either the man is using something far more exotic, and passing it through that ventilation…or else there is a decidedly non-Terran explanation, which I am loathe to both encounter and attempt to explain to the local constabulary. Besides which, Mycroft would most likely explode if I were to even make the attempt. No, Doctor, I believe I am in possession of a theory which will cover the facts as we know them, and it is my hope that it will turn out to be decidedly domestic, if a bit out of the ordinary."

"It is certainly a horrible place, and a horrible thought, what might go on behind those walls tonight but for your intervention."

"Horrible enough," he agreed. "When a doctor goes wrong, he is the worst of criminals. He has nerve, knowledge, opportunity, and the genius to use all for dark purposes."

"…Thank you, I think."

I heard a small huff of what passed for laughter from him. "It was a compliment, Doctor. I should not like to ever be upon opposing sides against you; you are quite a formidable human yourself."

Darkness had fallen as we sat talking, and the lights around us had begun to be extinguished one by one, leaving us in only a glow from our single lamp.

"All this mystery," said I, as I closed my notes of the afternoon, "all this horror, for a step-daughter's inheritance. It is ghastly to think a man would turn to such a thing over a sum of money."

"The human race is a ghastly series of histories, Doctor," was Holmes's morose reply, coming out of the half-darkness. "Your heritage is steeped in blood and war, crime and criminals, dark ages and ages of enlightenment – and much of that was over nothing more complex than money and property."

"When you put it that way, it does sound a bit disgraceful," I murmured.

"And yet it is necessary, for a society to grow and develop."

"Do you speak from personal experience?"

A brief snort from out of the darkness. "Certainly not; it is for that reason my people decided long ago the tenets by which they would form a society. We have not had war or anything of its kind for centuries."

Stunned, I was about to inquire further on that intriguing tidbit of information on my friend's extraordinary past when a sudden bright light flared into existence before us.

"That would be our signal, Doctor. Have you your firearm?"

A peculiar choice of words, but then again it was simply another indication that English was not his native language.

"Here. I'll just tell the landlord we are going out for a late visit and may spend the night there, shall I?"

"What business is it of his?" Holmes gestured impatiently, already halfway out the veranda doors.

"If something does happen in that house tonight, do you really want to have to explain to the local constable why we both sneaked out of here a few hours before it happened?"

"Ah."

"Lesson Three for the day in human relations, my dear fellow," I sighed, disposing of the spent match he had left upon the tablecloth. "People gossip, incessantly, especially in small hamlets such as this one where nothing interesting ever happens."

"Disgracefully garrulous race, you humans."

"Intolerably snobbish, you Vulcans."

(1), (3) Dialogue either directly quoted or basically paraphrased from the text of SPEC; my additions are obvious

(2) We all know Doyle's literary faux pas regarding the strange milk-drinking snake. While I toyed briefly with the idea of it being a lactose-craving alien reptile, I decided this series is crackish enough without turning it into Victorian Torchwood. Hence this (equally ridiculous) explanation for the milk saucer.

(misc) I am aware that I'm leaving all sorts of loose ends and unanswered questions about Holmes and just how Vulcan he is. Rest assured, they will all be answered at some point in the series; I just have to write the rest of it. :)