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Down the River in a Lost World

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Dr. Sherlock Holmes held up the skull of the oldest skull in her collection and said, "I don't like rushing an investigation." This was an understatement.

First there was the three thousand year old body that had been found on the American military base. Somehow surviving mummified and preserved in the peat in Iceland. This corpse could revolutionize thinking on human migration patterns. The idea that Professor Moriarty's project for a power station at this military base was somehow of greater value than this precious find was bad enough. The fresh corpse missing head and hands that had had appeared at her dig site was an insult.

As if she couldn't identify a body with less. She was the foremost forensic anthropologist in the world. The fact that she was an Alpha was merely another sign that she was in fact the best.

Her dig was fully funded by the Jeffersonian.

She told Special Agent Joan Watson as much. Watson smiled easily. "I believe you, Doc." Watson used her scent and demeanour to imply she was less intelligent than she was.

Watson always wore her buttoned up shirts unbuttoned to expose her Omega scent glands and a little rumpled. They'd worked together previously on a case in New Mexico. Thirty bodies in a pit. Sherlock's work had led to identifying all of them. They'd enjoyed a satisfying coitus after the case, but had argued subsequently over matters of post coital protocol, which admittedly often puzzled Sherlock. She'd merely stated that they were perfectly suited genetically speaking, not implied that they should actually reproduce.

But that had been then and clearly Agent Watson bore no ill feelings. Sherlock was even looking forward to the possibility of further coitus. Watson had not said no when Sherlock asked.

Watson said, "I'll think about it after the case is solved."

Motivated by science and transport, Sherlock set to analysis. The type of grease embedded in the deep fat tissue was consistent with certain types of industrial equipment. The only industrial site was the power station. However, the grease at the primary station was wrong.

There was an additional sub-site at the foot of Snæfellsjökull.

Professor Moriarty's voice booming over the PA system telling them that they'd gotten into something they shouldn't was more than a little over the top. Being locked in a site where the equipment was five minutes from exploding was beyond over the top. Over compensating Betas.

Sherlock told Watson about the Tang Dynasty's system of examinations designed to drain that sort of social pressure from Betas while she worked on modifying a tank in the room where they were trapped to be away moved by the blast.

"Doc, could you focus that big brain of yours on keeping us alive," said Watson. Although, her habit of standing next to Sherlock was counter-productive to that aim.

Sherlock said, "Some of us are intelligent enough to do both."

They survived. They didn't even break any bones and there was only minor soft tissue damage. Watson insisted on examining Sherlock, even though Sherlock was the one with a doctorate.

That the volcano also took this opportunity to erupt was unfortunate, but at least they had acquired evidence of Professor Moriarty's misdeeds.

Sherlock enjoyed rafting across the glacier lake with Watson. The blue waters were bright blue with beautifully toxic minerals, while behind them the flow of lava reached the lake and steamed.

That a fissure developed in the middle of the lake was unfortunate. Still thrilling. Watson yelled, "Hold on," as if that was not self-evident.

The small rubber raft plummeted into a subterranean pool. A rush of water spun them through the darkness. It was very likely that they'd both die. They kept going down.

The raft rushed out into a massive chamber. It was fabulous. There was light emanating from somewhere. There were lush massive plants and most importantly, there was a massive brontosaurus chewing idly on some vegetation.

Sherlock did not believe in heaven. She was uncertain how she had therefore gone there.

"Snap out of it, Doc." Watson was snapping her fingers in front of Sherlock's face and by her tone, she'd been doing so for some time. She didn't seem to care about the flora and fauna. Watson said, "How do we get out of here?" Watson was very goal oriented. Sherlock respected that.

"We should move forward along the river's path. Explore." Sherlock felt this sounded reasonable.

Watson laughed, "Doc, you just want to look around."

Sherlock smiled happily. "Some of us are intelligent enough to do both."

The river bends appeared to mark different non-chronological historical periods.

They lost the raft in the late Jurassic. Too many white water rapids.

They went along the river's edge after that. Their Hadrosaur mounts appeared to have no difficulty crossing with them over zones after some coaxing from Watson. They adored her.

Watson was quite fetchingly dishevelled by this point. Sherlock mentioned that in certain warrior cultures, which Joan must certainly ascribe to given her profession, it was traditional to enjoy coitus after surviving significant events as a celebration of life.

"Doc, was that a very clumsy attempt to get in my pants?" said Watson, poking their fire with a stick.

"It was not clumsy at all," huffed Sherlock. "It was sociologically accurate. I can provide specific examples."

"That's okay," said Watson, who took her up on her offer to celebrate life. Coitus was excellent with Watson. Particularly when Watson had recently killed something, which given the dangers of their situation was every day.

Sherlock would have thought that she'd have been more equipped to handle the Neanderthal than Watson. "After all, I'm an Alpha, a dominant. I'm an anthropologist. This is my field."

"Yeah… about that," said Watson, who had by now had used all of her gun's ammunition – velociraptors - and had argued quite cogently that it was only logical for Sherlock to make fire hardened spears, an atlatl, and small explosives in mud and bamboo. "I should handle this."

Watson was small and unassuming. The Neanderthal chief was unacceptably forward with Watson. She was Sherlock's Special Agent. She'd been assigned to Sherlock. They were celebrating life together daily.

How exactly they ended up down one pregnant Hadrosaur, up one Ornithomimid with supplies for a week, Sherlock could not have said and she'd been carefully observing. Watson shrugged. "I'm the people person." She turned to their Ornithomimid. "Now, who's a good dino bird? Who's a good dino bird? You are that's who."

Sherlock sulked.

"I like you too, Doc." Watson bumped her foot against Sherlock's.

It was merely a factor of time that Watson's scent, always pleasant, was growing more enticing. It was becoming difficult to focus. To lose sight of Watson. They both knew what was occurring.

They had a reasonable discussion in which Sherlock explained Omega physiology to Watson and Watson hit her. A glancing blow to her cheek. Not sufficient force to do damage. That's when she knew that she loved Watson.

Watson said, "You just finished telling me that pheromones were affecting our… oh, God that feels good. Yeah, whatever. You've got a big brain. Gorgeous, you. Just breed me."

Sherlock grinned from where she was lightly licking the source of that wonderful scent at Watson's neck. A medical background was a wonderful thing.

They made camp inside a massive downed tree near a stream and laid up on supplies. It was slow going. They had stop and scent each other. Watson smelled wonderful. Soon, Sherlock was going to breed her. It was a biological imperative. Utterly imperative to press her sopionis deep inside Watson and feel all of her. To pin her tightly to her.

Something growled outside their tree. Watson said, "Fucking T-Rex, fuck off," and fumbled for an explosive which did indeed make the massive if small brained dinosaur leave them to their coitus.

They had a prodigious amount of coitus, which ensured that they completed their biological imperative to reproduce. Although, as Watson's scent changed from enticingly nubile and into well bred, this was only the first step.

Sherlock's child was not going to grow up in a Lost World unless they were returning on an expedition. At least one college degree.

Joan, because first names seemed a good idea now that they'd reproduced together, sighed. "Sherlock, I've been saying we need to get out of here. We'll figure out some sort of visitation schedule." Which was ridiculous.

Ridiculous! They were biologically viable together. Sherlock loved her, which was a chemical phenomenon, but certainly real.

Their progress slowed. Both due to pregnancy and it would seem that Joan's negotiating abilities were hindered by her new status. Except in that one proto-city state village. Mud buildings clustered together along the wide river. None higher than the other. They were more than willing to share.

The coitus remained excellent. Sherlock frequently requested bonding bites so that villagers would known that they were a pair bond. Joan laughed, "I think they can tell from the laser eyes you're giving them and the baby growing inside of me. Now do you really think you can make a gun if that next village has iron workers?"

"It depends on the quality," said Sherlock. "I'll be better able to think about it if you bite me, here." She indicated the spot. She sighed happily when Joan gave her what she asked for.

Joan gave birth in the Cretaceous Period. Their baby, Eve, was squished, red and such a perfect baby even when they sledded across a brief ice age.

Finally, after almost two years and a child, they reached the wide grey sea. They stared at it.

It was vast and the horizon faded into mist. Joan said, "That's… I was hoping for a staircase."

Sherlock pointed at the glowing palace of pearl and marble by the water's edge. "Based on previous experience, that place will either have assistance or try to sacrifice us."

Queen Ayesha of Thibet, immortal and undying, whose "magic" fuelled the Lost World welcomed them. "Oh, look at you. Aren't you the dearest couple? Now come in and relax, just this one time. I'm not your queen after all."

Sherlock explained their situation. Queen Ayesha said, "Here Joan, have another biscuit. It'll keep your milk sweet." She also said, "I could send you to the surface. Are you sure you want to go?"

"Yes," they both replied. Loudly.

Queen Ayesha opened a door and they took the elevator up to the surface. Stromboli Italy. They really had travelled a massive distance.

The evidence against Moriarty was sadly not in the best of repair by this point, but there was the murder attempt, and as it happened subsequent murders.

Sherlock looked around Joan's very pleasant flat in Washington D.C. "I suppose," said Joan, "That this is it. We can of course share Eve. She is our child. But this isn't…" she waved at the nice brightly lit layout, "your thing. Not very exciting."

Sherlock looked at her. "I've clearly been remiss as to explaining what a forensic anthropologist normally does." She looked at Joan, whose dear face was lined with worry. "I work in a lab. I like working in a lab. Yes, I enjoy field work, but my preference would be to handle bones and not people." She kissed Joan's cheek. "Now, I have two years of anthropological study to catch up on and Eve needs to be changed. Where shall set myself?" Sherlock picked up Eve, who was just as adorable in yellow knit as she'd been in fur.

Joan hugged her. "I love you."

"Yes, and I love you, now where shall I set up?" A portion of the dinner table was ceded over to Sherlock, which would do for now. That Joan sat next to her was even better.

That Eve did not like strained peas, vehemently did not like them, was a difficulty, but they'd get through it. They'd dealt with far worse after all.