(Note that the basic plot outline, the characters and certain dialogue at the beginning of the holosuite program come from the serialized crime novel The Hound of the Baskervilles, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.) The Hound of the Baskervilles? [LEFT]Dr. Julian Bashir admired his reflection in Garak's shop mirror. The tailor had outdone himself with the Sherlock Holmes costume. Bashir felt like Holmes as he put an empty calabash pipe into his mouth and gave a playful puff. “Elementary, my dear Watson,” he said, turning to the Cardassian attired as Dr. Watson. Garak let out a small put upon sigh and called into the dressing room, “Chief, are you dressed yet? I'm not entirely certain how much longer I can wait.” “Just give me a minute,” Chief O'Brien's gruff voice called back to him, sounding annoyed. Bashir rolled his eyes. “You'd think I asked the two of you to attend a Klingon opera holoprogram,” he said. “This is supposed to be fun, remember? Besides, Garak, I think this will give you a much better appreciation of Earth mystery novels.” O'Brien shoved the red curtain aside and stalked out, digging the fingers of both hands under the high stock collar of his costume. “Bloody uncomfortable is what it is,” he groused. “How'm I supposed to breathe?” “You'll get used to it,” Bashir said, already regretting asking both of them to participate together. The Chief's dislike of Cardassians combined with Garak's haughty disregard of his favorite mystery novels was making him feel defensive, not the best frame of mind for enjoying a good mystery. He hoped that both of them would settle into it once they reached the holosuite and they could see how detailed the program was. He enjoyed the looks they got in Quark's, knowing that he cut a dashing figure in the houndstooth cape and hat. If Garak and the Chief hadn't been acting like leashed cats in his wake, he might've suggested they have a couple of drinks at the bar before starting the program. Instead, he sent O'Brien, playing the role of the young Sir Henry, in ahead of them, telling him they'd meet up with him later. “Now remember, Garak, we'll want to pay attention to all the clues, even things that may seem innocuous. You didn't read the book ahead of time, did you?” he asked. Garak held up both hands. “Doctor, believe me, the furthest thing from my mind was reading another of these Holmes books of yours.” Bashir pressed his lips together in a frown. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered with the infuriating Cardassian. He had to admit it was likely for the challenge of it. So few people truly managed to challenge his intellect. “All right, then. Let's go,” he said, sweeping one shoulder of the cape back with a flourish. He was going to enjoy himself in spite of his companions. The doors swept open, and the two stepped through. When the doors shut behind them, they shut out the noise and lights of Quark's Bar and encased them in a late morning scene of a Victorian era sitting room. A cheery fire burned in a grate, and a breakfast table was set with a silver coffee pot and service. Bashir took off his coat and hat, hanging them on pegs near the door, and then took a seat at the breakfast table with his back to Garak. “You'll find a walking stick by the hearth,” he told the Cardassian. “What do you make of it? Tell me of the man who left it, since we have missed his visit.” He knew it wasn't an exact quote, but he also knew Garak needed to be coaxed into this. Being verbose wouldn't help. Garak obliged and picked up the thick stick, reading the inscription on its silver band aloud, “To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H. 1884. Our visitor is named James Mortimer,” Garak said, feigning shock. “Who would've imagined?” He hefted the stick in both gray hands and eyed it critically. “He doesn't care well for his things. This stick is just five years old and looks as though it's at least three times that. He has allowed some sort of animal to chew on it. He walks in mud. Really, D—Holmes,” he corrected himself, “he can't be all that old and is very absent minded. I'm sorry I can't tell you a thing about the abbreviations as I don't have the proper cultural references.” Bashir scowled. He was playing Holmes, not Garak! With difficulty, he asked, “Why do you think he's young and absent minded?” Garak tutted and shook his head. “Because an old man who actually needed this stick would never leave it behind, and only an absent minded individual loses track of a nice gift.” The doctor sighed inwardly. This wasn't turning out nearly as fun as he hoped it would be. The sight of a tall, thin man accompanied by a curly-haired spaniel took his mind off of that. He stood and crossed to the recessed window, delivering one of his favorite lines from the book as he then went to answer the door. “Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill. What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of science, ask of Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in!" The gentleman in question came inside, taking the stick from Garak's hand with earnest joy and allowing “Holmes” to introduce him to “Dr. Watson”. He then began a study of Bashir's skull, commenting upon the shape and size of it and running a finger along the top of it. Garak stared with open confusion. “What is he doing, Doctor? Is this some odd human courtship behavior?” “Computer, freeze program,” Bashir said, irritated. “No, Garak, it's called phrenology. It was a popular study during the Victorian Era of Earth's history. They believed that the shape and size of the skull indicated all sorts of things, from personality to intelligence, even indicating a proclivity for criminal behavior.” “I wonder what they'd have made of a Cardassian head,” Garak mused. “I'm sorry, Doctor. I won't break character again.” He smiled that bland smile that drove Bashir halfway insane with frustration. He gave him a long, hard look before starting the program again. The three of them retired to seats around the hearth, and Dr. Mortimer produced a manuscript detailing the lurid legend of the Hound of the Baskervilles as it related to the Baskerville family. Much to Bashir's relief, Garak finally seemed to be taking this seriously, listening very intently to every word. Bashir dismissed the manuscript as Holmes did in the novel, prompting Mortimer to read a more recent newspaper article detailing the recent death of Sir Charles Baskerville from apparently natural causes. After the doctor read the article, he gave private details he had not shared with reporters when interviewed, revealing Sir Charles' obsession with the Baskerville legend, his declining health, and lastly the discovery of suspicious footprints near the body. “A man's or a woman's?” Bashir recited the line, glancing over at Garak, eager to see his reaction to the imminent revelation. “Mr. Holmes,” the man whispered, “they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!” The Cardassian covered a yawn behind his hand. Sighing quietly, Bashir continued with the tale, prompting Mortimer to speak of his fear of supernatural involvement, describe the crime scene in detail, and express his concern for the safety of the last remaining Baskerville heir, Sir Henry, who was to be arriving from Canada in less than an hour. He convinced him to pick Sir Henry up and return with him in tow at ten o'clock the next morning. After Mortimer left, he said, “Why don't you go out, Watson, and leave me to think on this?” “Go out and do what?” Garak asked skeptically. “Enjoy the setting,” Bashir said. “It's not every day you'll have the opportunity to explore Victorian London. You and I aren't scheduled to have another significant encounter until tonight. Take advantage of it.” He had an ulterior motive. He wanted the chance to explore Holmes' study without the tailor there to cast a damper on everything he enjoyed. “Very well, Holmes,” Garak said, shaking his head and letting himself out of the house. He called back before shutting the door, “Are you aware it's raining out here...and cold?” [/LEFT] (cont' next post)
[LEFT]Welcome to London, Bashir thought dryly. He took full advantage of the time, poking and prodding into every nook and cranny. The designers of the program spared no expense or detail. He read through fascinating letters and manuscripts, discovered Holmes' drug stash, which he of course didn't touch, and had an enjoyable conversation with Holmes' landlady, Mrs. Hudson. By evening, he was seated on the couch with pipe smoke heavy in the air and a large map in his lap. When Garak came in, the Cardassian immediately began to cough and wave his hands about. “Is this necessary?” the tailor asked testily. “Open the window if you must,” Bashir said, enjoying the near identical reaction to Watson's in the book. At least some things weren't off script. “I think not,” Garak retorted. “I'm done with being cold and wet.” He immediately backed up to the fire and put his hands behind him, trying to get warm. “Here, come look at the map I've drawn of the area,” he said, “and tell me what you think of the account of our good Dr. Mortimer.” Garak obliged reluctantly, taking a seat beside him and making the couch cushion and Bashir's right leg damp with rainwater. “Nicely drawn, Holmes,” he said. “Obviously, this Sir Charles person was running for his life. Nobody just walks around on tiptoe for no reason, and if they do, it doesn't leave deep enough impressions in the earth for any layman to observe accurately. His heart failed him due to the exertion. What I can't understand is why a man with so many health problems would be standing around in the dark and the damp smoking near an area that terrifies him, this moor Mortimer kept mentioning. Then a big dog came along and chased him. His imagination, already feverish with the ludicrous legend, drove him to a heightened state of agitation and terror. Now, was the dog owned by someone and set on him deliberately, or is this a feral beast roaming the countryside? Is that what we're to determine? If so, I vote the former, someone after the estate, probably a family member, as they'd be the only ones entitled to the inheritance if my understanding of Earth law of the time is accurate.” Bashir ran his hand down his face. “Maybe I should've let you play Holmes,” he said with annoyance. “You keep drawing his conclusions. Are you quite certain you haven't read the book?” “I'm very sorry, Doctor,” Garak said, sounding anything but. “You didn't tell me to behave as idiotically as Watson. Shall I dumb it down? I already told you I haven't read it. I didn't want to spoil the 'fun'.” “Just...try to pace yourself, all right? There's a lot of story left. We haven't even met the Chief's character yet.” “I can hardly wait,” Garak said drolly. “Would you bring me my violin, Watson?” Bashir requested pointedly. Garak did so but immediately moved toward the staircase. “I'm dreadfully sorry, Holmes, but the sound of that particular instrument reminds me of the piercing cries of hunting honges on Prime. I simply cannot bear it. I shall see you in the morning, hmm?” Bashir was glad to be rid of him for the night, even if on some level he was amused. He wondered what Garak would make of an actual holographic Holmes and if the two would get along or find themselves at loggerheads. He entertained himself playing the violin for a time before retiring to the decadently comfortable feather bed. The next morning, as they sat at the breakfast table awaiting Dr. Mortimer's return with “Sir Henry”, he wondered how the Chief had been enjoying his side of the program so far. He determined to ask him after it was all over. Garak sat across from him, reading yesterday's paper. He smiled slightly at the sight, so strangely homey and yet contextually odd. At precisely ten, Mortimer rang. Bashir admitted him and the Chief, allowing himself another private smile at the sight of O'Brien in a country man's stout tweed suit. It suited him and his bluff Irish features all too well. He could imagine some distant forbear of O'Brien's looking exactly that way as he went about his business. “I would've come anyway, even if my friend here hadn't told me,” O'Brien said. “I've got something for you.” He reached into his pocket and dug out an envelope, tossing it on the table. It was addressed to the hotel where he had been staying the night before and postmarked for that night. “Did anyone know you'd be staying there?” Bashir asked, now paraphrasing both for Garak's and the Chief's sake. O'Brien shook his head. “Only Mortimer here.” “I was staying with friends,” Mortimer added, “so no one would have seen me at the hotel previously.” “Someone is very interested in your movements,” Bashir said. He pulled a folded letter out of the envelope and laid it out on the table for all of them to see. The text, most of it cut out and pasted to the paper, read, “As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moor.” The word “moor” was hand written in ink. “Any idea what that's supposed to mean?” O'Brien asked, “Or who would send it? Is it some sort of bad joke?” “It's no joke,” Bashir said. “As to what it tells us, well, that's another matter. Watson, do you have a copy of yesterday's Times?” Garak pushed the paper toward Bashir. “The words were cut out of the article on the front page,” he said. “Not our copy, of course,” he added with an insouciant wink at Mortimer. “Astonishing!” Mortimer said, glancing wide eyed from Garak to Bashir. “Mr. Holmes, I had no idea your companion was every bit as astute as you. You make a formidable team. How did you know, good sir?” he asked Garak. “I was just reading the article,” Garak said modestly. “If you look at the words that are clipped together in the letter, you'll see them here, here, here, and here.” He pointed at each for Mortimer. “Yes, well, fascinating, Watson,” Bashir said through gritted teeth. He steered things back on script until they came to the point where O'Brien talked about how one of his new boots had gone missing from the hallway the night before. “Why did you put brand new boots in the hallway?” Garak asked. “Weren't you concerned someone might steal them?” O'Brien glanced at Bashir questioningly, not sure how to answer that, as he had been following Bashir's prior instructions. Mortimer seemed appalled. “Who would steal a pair of boots?” he asked Garak. “It's a very indecent thing to do. Besides, they stole just one, not both.” “I'm sure we'll see the boot again,” Bashir said firmly. “Not to worry.” He shot a warning look at Garak who shut his mouth in mock contrition. They conversed a bit more about the situation with O'Brien announcing he needed some time to decide whether he wanted to continue to the manor or not. Mortimer suggested they meet up at the hotel at two o'clock, and O'Brien agreed to the idea, insisting they walk back as the weather had turned nice. No sooner had they left, than Bashir jumped up. “Your hat and boots, Watson, quick! Not a moment to lose!” He started to rush toward his dressing room but stopped cold at a sound that didn't fit the program, the sound of a gunshot. Garak was in the process of getting his boots on and glanced up at Bashir when he stopped. “Is something wrong, Holmes?” he asked. Ignoring the question, Bashir ran out the front door in his dressing-gown. The Chief lay in the street, blood coursing between the cobblestones and spreading from beneath him. Mortimer knelt at his side, his face contorted in distress. “Someone shot him!” he said. “I didn't see where it came from, or who did it!” “Move aside,” Bashir said as he ran to the two and dropped to his knees. The rough cut stones bruised him, but he hardly felt it. He reached a hand to O'Brien's neck, feeling for a pulse, but felt nothing. “Computer,” he said, “end program!” “What are you talking about?” Mortimer asked him, wide eyed. Bashir ignored the holographic doctor. “Computer!” he said more sharply. Receiving no reply, he said, “Open doors, override code Bashir zeta three one two.” “Have you lost your mind, Holmes?” Mortimer asked. “Sir Henry is dead! We must summon the police!” Shoving the man aside, Bashir did his best to revive Chief O'Brien, performing CPR. “Come on, Miles,” he murmured. “Please!” He had no idea how long he tried before Mortimer pulled him back, dizzy and close to fainting from the exertion. “It was a valiant effort, Holmes,” he said, “but I'm afraid he truly is dead.” He looked up to see Garak standing off to the side, looking grim. “I take it we've moved off script, Doctor?” he asked. “Bring me my comm badge. It's in my coat pocket at the door. I'm going to try to contact Ops and see if we can have him beamed out of here. I...I don't understand what's happening,” he said. Mortimer's panicked and confused expression mirrored how he felt inside. What could have possibly gone wrong? How were the program's failsafes deactivated? Why wasn't the computer responding? Garak returned and offered him the small, metallic shield. He tried to activate it. “Bashir to Ops,” he said. Nothing. “Bashir to Security!” Still nothing. “Perhaps someone is jamming the frequency?” Garak suggested. “I don't know!” he said, springing to his feet. “Look, Dr. Mortimer,” he turned to the holographic character that wouldn't go away, “there's nothing you can do at the moment. I'd rather you didn't contact the authorities just yet. They'll...they'll contaminate the crime scene, you understand,” he said, thinking quickly. “It's best if you find somewhere safe to go. I'll...I'll contact you in the morning, first thing and tell you what I've found, all right?” “All right, Holmes,” the man whispered, his face very pale. “I feel as though I'm to blame. I should have told him to leave the country the moment he arrived.” Bashir's head still felt light, as much from stress as the failed CPR. “No,” he said hollowly, “you mustn't blame yourself. You should go now. The shooter could still be afoot.” The man nodded, took a final sad look at O'Brien and hurried away. Bashir watched him go and turned wide eyes to Garak. “Help me get him into the house. I don't know who or what might come along out here. We're not safe.” Garak nodded and moved to take O'Brien by the ankles. Bashir grabbed him under the arms and hefted the dead weight. The Chief's head dropped forward bonelessly. Did he not have his clinical detachment to fall back on, he thought he might be ill. What was he to tell Keiko? What of poor Molly! They shuffled him inside the house. Mrs. Hudson saw the bloody body and fainted outright. He couldn't think about her at the moment. He reminded himself she wasn't even real. They laid the Chief's body atop the breakfast table. “Find...get me a knife from the kitchen,” he said, his voice sounding far away in his own ears. “I need to cut his clothing off of him so I can see what killed him.” While Garak was out of the room, he allowed himself a moment of grief, squeezing tears from the corners of his eyes and letting them run unchecked down his cheeks. Miles was his friend, and somehow, he had just gotten him killed. He wiped his tears away quickly at the sound of the Cardassian's footsteps and took the sharp knife from his hand. It was difficult slicing through the tough, well made shirt beneath the unbuttoned tweed coat and vest. The bullet hole gaped right over O'Brien's heart slightly left of center. It seemed to have gone clean through. He heard a soft hiss off to his left and glanced toward the door just in time to see a small, folded note come sailing under the gap between the door and the floor. Exchanging a glance with Garak, he rushed forward and picked it up. The envelope seemed to be the same kind as for “Sir Henry's” letter and was addressed not to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, but Doctor Julian Bashir. With shaking hands, he tore it open and pulled out the folded paper. The message was composed of newspaper clippings, the same as the other. “What moor could you want?” he read aloud. The word “moor” was written in splotchy ink. “'More' is misspelled,” he told Garak, holding the letter out to him. Garak took the letter and examined it, turning it over to be sure there was nothing else on the back. “Correct me if I'm mistaken, Doctor,” he said, “but nothing like this is supposed to happen in the story? Sir Henry doesn't get shot?” “No,” he said firmly. “Not at all. We were supposed to catch sight of somebody following him in a cab. Besides,” he added bitterly, “I don't show up anywhere in the novel, and the envelope is addressed to me.” He showed that to Garak as well. “What do you make of this?” Garak asked, looking concerned. “I don't know! I wish you'd stop asking me questions and just let me think. Obviously, somebody wanted Chief O'Brien dead, but who? And why? Why use a holoprogram? There are much easier ways to go about it. Also, who else knew we were coming here besides Quark?” “You're joking, right?” Garak asked him incredulously. “You've been talking about this nonstop for nearly three weeks to anybody who would listen. Listen to me, Doctor. I understand you're upset about Chief O'Brien, but you have to let the emotion of that go. It's clouding your thinking.” “How can you be so cold?” Bashir asked. “I know the Chief wasn't your favorite person on the station, but he's dead! For all we know, one of us could be next.” “Exactly,” Garak said. “One of us could be next. We can do nothing else for the Chief, at least not until we can get out of here. Thrashing about this way and that because you're upset serves no purpose but to make you vulnerable.” “As though you care,” he retorted. “You're just worried about yourself, aren't you, Garak? Isn't that how it always goes when push comes to shove? I'm not like you, and frankly, I don't want to be.” He thought he saw a flicker of hurt in the Cardassian's eyes before he turned away from him. “Suit yourself, Doctor,” he said airily. “Tear your clothes and smear ashes on your face. I'm sure it will accomplish something, although I'm sure I don't know what.” He sighed, feeling somehow defeated. “I'm sorry for what I said,” he offered. “I didn't mean it.” “We both know that's not true, but thank you for saying it,” Garak replied. “All right,” Bashir said, starting to pace. “Let's think this through.” As much as he hated to admit it, he knew Garak was right. Now wasn't the time to grieve for Miles. They might not be the only ones in danger. The entire station could be for all he knew. “Someone knew we were coming, and I admit, I wasn't exactly prudent with how many people I told about the program. I was just so excited about it.” He sighed. Had his enthusiasm gotten his friend killed? “Whoever it is, they have access to the programming or an ability to override it somehow. They've locked me out of the computer completely, or shut it down, and somehow, they're blocking comm transmissions.” Garak nodded encouragingly as he listened. “Yes,” he said. “Now, who do you know that could do that?” “Quark could alter the program, but he has no motive. Besides, he likes the Chief. He'd never do something to kill him, and he wouldn't be able to block me from accessing the computer. How can you be so sure it's someone I know?” he asked. Garak simply stared at him in reply. “The envelope addressed to me,” he answered his own question. “At least someone who knows of me, and someone who knew where I'd be at this point in the program.” He felt a small shock move through him, shooting a harder look at the Cardassian. “You could alter the program, easily,” he said. “How very paranoid of you, Doctor,” he said approvingly. “But could I lock you out of the computer and block your comm transmissions? Do you think I'd murder Chief O'Brien?” He wiped shaking hands down his mouth, torn between fury and relief. “No, but Chief O'Brien could lock me out and jam the badge.” At that moment, another note sailed under the door. Dr. Bashir stalked past Garak and picked it up, tearing open the envelope. In pasted newsprint, it read, “Isn't it moor fun when you don't know what's going to happen?” Again, the word “moor” was written in splotchy ink. He jerked open the door only to see Chief O'Brien standing there, still in his Sir Henry costume, and grinning sheepishly. “I know it was in bad taste,” he said, “but you have to admit, it was a lot more interesting than acting out some old book you've already read dozens of times, wasn't it?” “I've got just one thing to say to both of you,” Bashir said very severely, eying each in turn. “Paybacks are Hell.” Chief O'Brien laughed, and Garak said, “Oh, my dear Doctor, I wouldn't have it any other way!”[/LEFT]
Oh, my--I have to say, I wasn't expecting O'Brien to pull a stunt like that! He's usually the straightforward one and HE got one up on Garak? Dang!! BTW, I'm just curious to know if I inspired you to write Bashir's comment about Garak being interested only in himself. It just reminds me of that conversation we had recently!
As I said at Ad Astra: Ha! Poor Julian. This was a fun story to read, especially due to your talented handling of the DS9 character voices. Pitch perfect, every single one. I know you said it was hard to write, but I think you did a good job. And I'm firmly with O'Brien -- it's "moor" fun in the holodeck when you don't know what's going to happen.
Brilliant! This was a treat for me. I'm a tremendous Holmes fan and I loved how you took The Hound of the Baskervilles and twisted it into an entirely new mystery. I guess it will be a long while before Dr. Bashir invites Garak or O'Brien to participate in another Holmes holo-story. First rate!
Thanks so much! I'd be exaggerating if I said blood, sweat, and tears went into it but not so much if I said a lot of general anxiety, false starts, and back tracking. Those three are a lot of fun to write for. I need to think of Julian's revenge now. Thank you! I appreciate it! I love Arthur Conan Doyle. I was torn between a Holmes holosuite mystery or a Dorothy Sayers' Lord Peter Wimsey one. I figured more people would be familiar with The Hound of the Baskervilles than any of Ms. Sayers' works, and thus the die was cast. Needless to say, no, Julian will not be inviting them along again any time soon for a Holmes mystery, if ever! Much appreciated! Thanks for the prodding to try. I honestly don't think I would've otherwise.
Good job, and looks like there's a chance for it to be unchallenged. I do hope more entries come in, but this one looks like it will be tough to beat.
It may be a while in coming, but it's coming. Oh, yes. It's on. I really hope there are some more, too. I love reading mystery stories. I know you said what you worked up was too long for the challenge, but I'd still love to read it. Thank you so much! I suspect at least some of the feel comes from the fact that the holosuite program was The Hound of the Baskervilles, for which I can take no credit, but I tried to at least pay homage to the great dectective and his brilliant author.
I thought this had a bit of a slow start but I was hooked the moment O'Brien was killed. That was a neat twist even if it was a return to the 'broken' holo deck cliche. I'm not sure if I'm convinced making everyone believe he's dead was in character for O'Brien. That seems like a rather cruel joke to play on somebody, especially somebody as close to him like Bashir. Overall though, a very enjoyable tale. Well done.
Thank you. It wouldn't be characteristic of O'Brien alone, but it's exactly the sort of humor a certain persuasive Cardassian possesses. O'Brien was not acting alone, which is why Julian wants paybacks on both of them.