The Future Door (20 page)
Of course, the secret quarters were also equipped with an ample supply of tools and engineering supplies so that Rupert could have limitless possibilities for creating his inventions.
“Incredible!” said Griffin. “It's the perfect place! So this is where you hid the Chrono-Teleporter.”
“Yes,” Rupert said. Then he smiled and gazed around at the comfortable spot. He patted his jacket pocket and removed his notebook.
“Thank goodness I always carry this with me and have the plans to the Snodgrass Chrono-Teleporter written down,” he said. Rupert sighed and rubbed a hand through his thinning hair. “But I never thought I'd have to spend time remaking all of the millions of tiny parts. I had to create each one by hand. Crikey! This isn't going to be easy!”
Griffin said, “When do you want to start?”
And Rupert replied, with an uncharacteristic twinkle, “I suppose that there's no better time than the present.”
T
wenty-five years later . . .
For Griffin it was both incredibly long and fantastically short. Many things happened when Rupert Snodgrass began rebuilding his new and improved time machine that first night.
When they started that night, they made sure to leave a note for their other selves on the door at Baker Street, warning them not to knock on the Future Door until twenty-five years later. They didn't want to risk upsetting their plan and had to safeguard against any changes to the current time stream.
Evidently, their other selves got the message, because they were left alone and allowed to do their work.
And it was during those long years that Griffin and his uncle began to learn the true value of patience.
And as the years passed, the world around them was altered profoundly. In their current time, Moriarty had successfully killed Sherlock Holmes, and as a result, he and his infamous cousin gradually assumed control of the entire world. During the first years of his ascent into power, Griffin and his uncle had been able to venture into the streets in relative safety, but as the world under Moriarty's control grew darker and darker, things became progressively more dangerous.
The London they had known and loved changed dramatically. Scarlet banners with a sharp, black
M
emblazoned upon them gradually replaced the Union Jack, Britain's beloved flag. Persons not loyal to the new government were driven underground. Armies of the deadly, crab-like robots Griffin and Rupert had faced beneath Stonehenge swarmed the streets, often attacking innocents and destroying sympathizers of the Crown.
Crime and chaos were everywhere, and in the darkness, members of the Black Widows, the once-secret group of assassins, were now seen on every corner, replacing the comforting sight of the English bobbies who had once protected the city.
But as Griffin grew older, he also became more and more clever. He developed a network of resistance, one that the Moriartys could never catch or stop no matter how hard they tried.
They were vastly outnumbered, but over the years Griffin and his uncle were able to help many of the suffering people, hiding them and giving them shelter as needed.
Year after year, Griffin continued this way, living in a hopeless world but bringing hope wherever he could. He grew wiser and, if possible, even kinder with age . . . but he missed his parents terribly. And because the Moriartys controlled all of the ships, and the mail, and every other possible way of contacting them, Griffin had to suffer quietly and content himself with praying for them every night before he went to sleep.
But twenty-five years doesn't last forever, and one impossible day, twenty-five years later, an aged and wrinkled Rupert Snodgrass stood up from his workbench. In his hand he held a gleaming new time machine and pronounced, with a shaky, tired voice, “It's done, boy. It's finally done.”
Now, time is a funny thing, for while this twenty-five-year journey was happening, another version of reality was happening too. Many scientists believe that time runs in streams, like train tracks traveling in parallel lines. And on very rare occasions, it is theoretically possible that these timelines could converge.
So it was that mere seconds after Rupert Snodgrass began building his new time machine, Griffin both was and was not startled by a gentle knock on the door. He wasn't startled because he'd expected it to happen and was pleased to find that his plan had worked. But he was also startled by the thought of meeting the person on the other side of the door.
Rupert continued to build, following the carefully drawn plans in his notebook, as Griffin cautiously approached what his uncle called his “Future Door.” And as it turned out, that name described it perfectly.
As it swung back on its hinges, a man in his late thirties with blond hair, still a bit shaggy, stared down at his younger self with the same sad, blue eyes they both possessed. They both leaned on ebony canes and had matching scars on their cheeks. Griffin's was still new, while the other had faded into a very thin, white line.
“Hello, Griffin,” the visitor said in a deep voice. It was a gentle voice filled with kindness, but not without a smile in it.
And Griffin, extending his hand, approached his older self and said, “Hello, Mr. Sharpe. So glad you could come!”
N
igel Moriarty gazed at the beautiful English garden, not noticing the particular flowers or the carefully ordered beehives. He was there for one purpose and one purpose only, to eliminate his and his cousin's chief rival once and for all.
Holmes shouldn't have survived the Reichenbach Falls, the waterfall that many years ago should have claimed both his and the professor's lives. It had been a ferocious duel of wits, one that culminated in a physical fight that had sent both men plunging to their doom.
But they were special men
, Moriarty thought.
Survivors
.
He had been able to rescue his uncle's twisted body from the rocks below and build for him a life support system, a chair that would supply him with the ability to function once more. Even though his uncle's body was wrecked, his mind was intact, and that was all that mattered.
But Sherlock Holmes had escaped injury, and that had only inflamed the cousins' desire for revenge. It seemed that the man people called “the Great Detective” couldn't be killed. He always lived to fight another day, was always one step ahead of his opponents.
“Until today,” Nigel Moriarty whispered.
He lifted his hand to reveal the sparkling, spider-shaped ring on his finger. Atrax, in her death, had supplied him with the perfect weapon to take the life from their opponent forever. How fitting that it was a spider among Holmes's bees, two creatures with the ability to sting one another, each relying upon the advantage of who struck first.
Moriarty crept up the garden pathway, knowing exactly where Holmes would be. The book had told him enough about what was to come, and he'd deduced the rest. For the first time in history, the great Sherlock Holmes would be caught unawares, and after this moment, history would be changed forever.
And the future would be left to the Moriartys.
The lean figure in white contrasted sharply with the black-cloaked figure that approached silently from behind. The buzzing of the hives drowned out Moriarty's footsteps as he inched closer and closer, his hand outstretched, the needle poised to strike.
And then, from out of nowhere, three figures emerged. The first two, a boy and an older man, dove from behind the rows of white beehives and tackled the detective.
In the split second he saw them, Moriarty knew who they were: Griffin Sharpe and that meddling Snodgrass! But the third figure he didn't recognize, though he somehow seemed incredibly familiar.
All of this registered in a split second, for Nigel Moriarty was soon distracted by a second surprise, and this one occupied his attention to a much greater degree.
There was a blinding flash as something silver reflected the summer sunlight. A second later he felt the sting from an all-too-familiar blade.
It was the same blade he'd once used on an innocent young man who had disrupted his plans.
Griffin Sharpe had survived its deadly blow.
But Nigel Moriarty would not. As he gazed at the face of his attacker, he took in the eyes and knew at once who it was. It didn't seem possible. He was older, much older, but those were the same blue eyes, now filled with an even deeper sadness than they'd had within them on the face of a child.
“
How?
” was all he managed to say before he crumpled to the ground.
And it was the last word that Nigel Moriarty ever said.
Y
oung Griffin Sharpe, Rupert Snodgrass, and the older Griffin Sharpe sat with Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson at 221B Baker Street, enjoying a much-needed cup of tea.
The older Rupert Snodgrass had refused to travel back in time with them to save Sherlock Holmes. The old fellow had said that he intended to take a very long and much-deserved rest. And Griffin couldn't blame him at all. After all, his uncle had been working on his invention for nearly twenty-five years without a break!
“Needless to say, I am eternally grateful to you all,” the great detective said. “You have done me a great service, and I'm in your debt.”
“It is good to have you back, sir,” Rupert Snodgrass said. And to his surprise, he found that he actually meant it. “I really don't think that this apartment should belong to anyone else.”
“It does feel like home,” Dr. Watson commented, glancing around at the familiar surroundings. A fire blazed in the hearth, and the pungent but oddly comforting smell of pipe tobacco and chemicals from Holmes's experiments hung in the air.
“As for Charlotte Pepper and her young sister, I have already arranged for the girls' release. The Black Widows were very reluctant to have their London whereabouts publicized and, with the death of Nigel, have returned to hiding,” Holmes said, smiling. “I also managed the release of Mr. H. G. Wells and the rest of Moriarty's prisoners from the dungeons beneath the Tower of London.”
He turned to Rupert, who was sipping his tea. “By the way, Snodgrass. Miss Pepper asked about you.”
Rupert Snodgrass sat up so abruptly in his chair he nearly spilled his tea.
“She did?” he asked.
“Yes. She said something about hoping that you can forgive her for the theft of your invention and would enjoy an opportunity for conversation at a later date, if you were so inclined.”
Rupert blushed deep crimson. In reply, he muttered something like, “Delightful woman. Pleasure's mine.”
Watson chuckled, then, turning to Sherlock Holmes, said, “So, you've really decided to come out of retirement at your age, Holmes? Are you certain you want to do this? After all, you're no spring chicken anymore.”
“Begging your pardon, old chap, but this old rooster still has quite a bit of fight left in him,” Holmes quipped, then added seriously, “I'm quite certain, Watson. My presence is still needed on Baker Street as demonstrated by the clever rescue that was orchestrated by our young friend here.” He indicated Griffin with a nod. “Although the younger Moriarty is no longer a problem, his uncle certainly remains so.”
Dr. Watson gave young Griffin a friendly wink and passed him a plate of Mrs. Tottingham's famous scones. But for the first time in his life, Griffin wasn't hungry for them.
He felt glad that Sherlock Holmes's life had been spared and that he was back where he belonged, protecting London from evil. But he felt deeply troubled by the fact that Nigel Moriarty's death had come by his own hand, even if it was by the hand of his older self.
Killing someone was not a Christian thing to do. How, then, could he have been capable of ending another's life, even if Nigel was one of the most evil men in London?
The older Griffin gazed at his younger self, reading his thoughts. Then the man stood up from the table and asked, “Would you like to go for a walk?”
Griffin still didn't make eye contact, but nodded his head. After excusing himself, he slid from the table and walked with his older self out of Sherlock Holmes's apartment and onto Baker Street, both of their ebony canes keeping time with each other as they walked.
