Disclaimer: I do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes nor am I associated with the following: Cambridge University, and Doctor Who.

Chapter one: A Wrinkle in Time

"Most people, if you describe a train of events to them, will tell you what the result would be. They can put those events together in their minds, and argue from them that something will come to pass. There are few people, however, who, if you told them a result, would be able to evolve from their own inner consciousness what the steps were which led up to that result. This power is what I mean when I talk of reasoning backward, or analytically." -A Study in Scarlet, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

2 April 2011, Cambridge, England

"My brain is going to combust if I have to turn one more page of this bloody textbook." I paused, expecting a response. "Cooper? Are you listening?"

"Don't panic, I have everything under control!"

The revolting aroma of burning toast brought my nose out of the textbook I had been painstakingly going through to take notes. I looked just in time to see my flat mate running around the kitchen divider and cursing colorfully as she slipped across the floor in her socks. In the background flames started to crawl up the side of the toaster, a tendril of black smoke reaching for the ceiling.

"I've got it," Cooper shouted as she ripped the plug out of the wall. She popped open the little window above the sink to let the smoke out. "Right as rain."

I glanced up at the ceiling, surprised that the detector hadn't gone off. "Coop," I started, frowning. "Where's the smoke detector?"

"I didn't want to disturb you," Cooper paused to cough. She grimaced at the smell. "So, I tried to take out the batteries. I had to pull the bloody thing down, because the back wouldn't pop off. It's fine."

"Right." I leveled her with a disbelieving look. "What if there had been an actual fire?"

"Arbs, mate, would I ever forget to replace the detector?"

I looked at her pointedly.

"Okay, so I've screwed up a few times in the past."

I tried to bite back a smile, and failed.

"What's with that look? Name one time I've royally screwed up!"

"Last summer, when I was visiting mum, you left music playing at full volume when you went out for 'drinkies' with the girls. Mrs. Jones filled a report, and you were written a citation. The landlord was so upset we nearly ended up on the street."

Cooper open and closed her mouth. "Well, you were the slag that didn't help me convince the copper that he needn't file a citation."

"Yes, I do apologize." I rolled my eyes, grinning this time. "I promise to flirt with the next police person you throw my way."

Cooper's smile revealed that she knew I wasn't seriously angry with her, but she still tossed a tart "good" as she spun around to search for an edible breakfast.

I glanced down at the textbook in my hands, grin swiftly falling away. I knew I had two more chapters to go before I was done, but Cooper's toast debacle had shifted my focus elsewhere. There were only so many hours a functioning human being could take psychology text before they started pulling hair, and I was already feeling a bit like a mental patient after two hours of note-taking. Looking at the time, I mulled over the idea of leaving it off for later. I needed to pick up a couple of items at the corner shop, and I had plans for lunch with Caden a quarter after twelve…

"You've got the look again, Arb." Cooper took a seat next to me, and snatched up the telly remote before I could protest. "What you need is a mind-numbing good series, and more caffeine than is considered healthy. No buts, my camprade."

Cooper and I had been friends going on thirteen years now, and with that time there came a certain kind of knowledge only old friends have. At the age of nine my parents had agreed that a divorce was the only way to heal their marriage; my mother had kept the house in Oxfordshire, and my father had moved across the pond. The first summer of their divorce saw me staying with my father in his new swanky house in L.A., where his career in film production was blossoming. I had enjoyed the laidback California lifestyle so much that I had begged, bargained, and pleaded to stay for the upcoming school year. Whether my begging had actually worked or my mother wanted a break to be single and childless, I was allowed to enroll into a local school. It was at that local school that I met Cooper Wright. We were inseparable ever since.

I looked at the photographs that covered the wall behind the television set. Cooper had taken the photographs three years ago, when we had moved into the flat with the help of friends and family. There were group shots full of grinning faces, and Polaroid's with posed individuals. Colorful stickers and bits of tape kept the photos hanging, decorated with phrases and quotes written in my curly cursive letters. A snapshot of Cooper, one hand on a hip, and Caden with her eyebrows arched, made me smile in memory.

Caden Maddock was my second oldest friend, and probably the only person that knew me just as well as Cooper. She was sharp and sarcastic, and studying journalism at Cambridge. We had met during Year Ten during a debacle that involved a broken window, and a minor fire in the boys' loo. She lived in a swanky flat paid for by her mother, a cold and distant figure in her life. Her flat mate, Juliet, was on good terms with Cooper. Juliet and Cooper looked like polar opposites, but they were mentally on the same wavelength. I could recall many a time they had stumbled into the flat at two o'clock in the morning, giggling hysterically and pissed out of their minds. Sometimes Caden would be with them, not nearly as pissed, but smirking at their antics.

"Yo, Audrey. You're zoning out."

I shook my head, turning my thoughts back to the present. Cooper had flipped to the beginning of a Doctor Who marathon, pausing as the adverts rolled.

I was about to ask if Cooper was still hungry when my phone buzzed. I answered when I saw the name on its screen. "Good morning!"

"Slag! Did we not agree to meet up so we could compare notes?" Caden's voice burst through the speaker, and I winced away, turning down the volume.

"Such filthy language," I glanced at the time. "We agreed to meet a quarter after twelve, and it's not even half-past eleven."

"Yes, right, well. I demand you drag your arse over here right now." Caden's tone sounded less angry, and more bored than anything.

I rolled my eyes dramatically, earning a snicker from Cooper. I mimicked walking with my fingers, as I stood up, half-listening to Caden. I went into my bedroom to grab a sweater when the chime of the doorbell went off. I waited a tic to see if Cooper would get up before going to get it myself. Mentally grumbling, I marched toward the door. I had one arm going through a sleeve, the other pressing my mobile to an ear, when my right foot connected with something on the floor. I had just enough time to glance down to see my volume of The Completed Sherlock Holmes before I went tumbling hard onto my knees.

What I didn't know at the time was that Caden had just started climbing down the library steps, mobile pressed to her ear, when a passing bicyclist nearly ran her over. She had jerked back in surprise, a wordless curse forming on her lips as she stumbled backwards onto the stairs. "Oi! Watch where you are -."

And that was the last thing I heard before the world went dark.

"Time is a sort of river of passing events, and strong is its current; no sooner is a thing brought to sight than it is swept by and another takes its place, and this too will be swept away."-Marcus Aurelius.

"Be careful, Doctor Watson." A voice came through the gloom. "How in heaven's name did the poor creature get inside?"

I woke in small increments to the feeling of floating. The sensation was ruined as I came into contact with the firm cushions of what I assumed to be the couch. My mind was trying to play catch-up, quickly reviewing what I could remember. I had tripped over something on the floor, a book, and then I must have gone arse over teakettle. Cooper must have called for an ambulance when I didn't immediately open my eyes, or maybe she had asked the person at the door to help lift me onto the couch.

"Who thought it would be a grand idea to leave a book lying about on the floor?" I tried to say, tongue feeling clumsy. "Your arse is mine, Wright."

"I beg your pardon, miss?"

My eyes snapped open. I looked at the two faces peering curiously at me, and then swung my gaze over my unfamiliar surroundings. The firm cushions I had mistaken for the couch turned out to be a chintz settee, its material beginning to fade in some places. On the floor nearest to the settee was a bearskin rug, stretched from hind legs to snout at the base of an empty fireplace. Cooper and I did not have a fireplace, much less a bearskin rug. We also did not have a dinning table in our living room, or a messy desk stacked high with dusty books and papers. Cooper's allergies made it impossible to skip a weekly cleaning, and the desk I saw had at least an inch-thick layer of grime. The noxious scent of gas in the air made me cringe, and that was when I caught sight of a copper lamp hanging from the ceiling. Cooper and I definitely did not have that hanging from our flat's ceiling.

"Either Cooper redecorated while I was asleep, or Toto is certainly not in Kansas."

I reached to touch my throbbing forehead only to discover a goose-sized lump along my scalp. I probed at the tender area, wincing. I must have hit my head in the fall harder than I had initially thought.

The man pulled my hand away from the lump, and gently pressed a damp cloth against the tender skin. I hadn't known that any of my neighbors were doctors…

He wet his lips, about to speak when an indignant shriek cut off his words. The shriek was followed by the voice of an equally indignant female: "Stupid pointy stairs and their stupid sharp edges!"

I knew that voice!

I leapt from the settee onto rubbery legs, and made a dash in the direction the voice had come from. I went through an open doorway onto a landing, where I looked over the side of a staircase railing to see the figure at the bottom of the staircase. I felt a wave of dizziness come over me, but I still shouted down: "Caden Elizabeth Maddock, I have never been happier to see your face!"

"I would be happier to see yours if I knew where I was." Caden remained where she was slouched on the staircase, moving carefully to see if anything was broken. She cringed when she touched her ankle.

I looked over my shoulder. The man and woman had followed at my heels to see who was causing the commotion downstairs. They looked at me expectantly. "Where are we?"

They exchanged a disbelieving glance, but the man was the one to answer. "You are at 221b Baker Street. Perhaps the address rings a bell?"

I couldn't help it; I snorted. "Right. This is 221b Baker Street and you're Doctor John Watson."

"Yes, precisely so!" He grinned boyishly, his cheeks puffing out in pride. I looked at the woman.

"And you're Mrs. Hudson, the stouthearted landlady."

She gave a small, hesitant nod. "Yes, that's right."

I rolled my eyes with a good-natured smile, playing along. I had met a few diehard Sherlockians in my life, but they had never stayed in character. "And the year happens to be…?"

"Today is April the 2nd, in the year of 1884." He shared another look with his female companion, but this time it was reinforced by a frown. "You have taken an awful blow to the head. Perhaps you ought to lie back down on settee, miss…?"

"Audrey Baines." I didn't offer my hand. "I'm Audrey Baines."

"I would like to have a better look at your bump, Miss Baines." He moved around me to bend over the railing, and flashed a cautious smile at Caden. "You appear to have taken quite a fall, miss. Are you all right?"

"I'm dandy, thanks." Caden's voice was laced with sarcasm. She had been struggling with the strap of her bag when he called down to her. She finally gave up, and started to climb the stairs.

Caden and I cautiously entered the room together, our eyes meeting with identical looks of skepticism. I wanted to ask her how she had gotten here, but I knew the man was watching us. Something made me want to be cautious, and I could see that Caden felt the same way. She nudged my side with her elbow, a corner of her mouth tilting up. I would have returned the small smile if the man hadn't gestured for me to resume the seat I had vacated earlier. I sunk onto the settee, and waited for Caden to sit before I spoke.

"I have nothing against historical reenactment groups, but I would really appreciate it if you broke character to tell us where we are. I don't recognize the interior…" I trailed off when he dropped an afghan across my bare legs.

"You are in the flat 221b, residence of the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes," He kneeled in front of me, and began to survey my scalp with his fingertips. "I am Doctor John Watson."

"Right! I've had enough of that." Caden jumped up from the sofa, and made a beeline for the windows. She pushed back the curtains, and unlatched the window, pushing the glass open. Throwing a smug look over her shoulder, Caden gestured outside with a sweep of a hand. "Welcome to the 21st century, folks. Mind the gap."

I sucked in a breath, going still. Caden caught my wide-eyed stare, and swiveled to look at where my gaze was focused. "Please tell me that we're on a film set."

The open window gave a panoramic view, but what was there, or the lack thereof, was unsettling. The street was lit by dim wrought-iron lamps, but very little of the block could be seen through the shroud of fog. There were squat flats across the way, each nearly identical in likeness to the other. A set of horses attached to a four-wheeler carriage clip-clopped down the street in place of where a car might have zoomed by on a noisy engine. The driver of the carriage glanced up at the window, and he tipped his hat despite the quizzical look that came over his face. No mailboxes. No electric lights. No cable wires. No helicopters. No police sirens. The avenue was eerily quiet with the one exception of the carriage as it passed by into the enshrouding darkness.

"Are you all right?"

I stared at him, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I took at the gray waistcoat and the watch fob, and his neatly trimmed hair. I saw his sideburns for the first time, and something inside of me snapped. "All right? You're asking if I'm all right? Are you off your trolley?"

He flinched when my voice elevated several octaves. I jerked a hand in direction of the window, scoffing disdainfully. "We're over one-hundred years in the past! No, I am not all right! I'm waiting for a camera crew to pop out of Caden's arse! I'm waiting for the Doctor's blue box to make an appearance!"

Caden made a face at me, cringing. "I feel unclean at the imagery, thanks."

"The Complete Sherlock Holmes," I blurted out, sounding hysterical. Caden's eyebrows shot up. I giggled. "I tripped over Cooper's gag gift. Bam. 221b Baker Street. Just like magic."

"Miss Baines?" He waited until I gave a jerky nod to indicate that I was listening. "Can you tell me how you are feeling? Fatigued? Headache? Any ringing in the ears?"

"I have a headache, but I feel fine otherwise." I bit into my lip, lying. I felt like I curling into a ball and having a little cry, but I knew that wasn't what he was asking. I didn't have amnesia. I was almost certain I didn't have a concussion. I felt more than a little nauseous, but who wouldn't be in my situation?

Watson patted my shoulder awkwardly, and went over to where Caden was standing. He checked her over for bumps and broken bones, murmuring similar questions as he inspected a bruise on her wrist. Caden shook her head, answering in a low voice. She allowed him to look her over without a protest, but her gaze kept wandering outside.

Watson's eyes did a little wandering, too. His gaze roved over her leather jacket, magenta skinny jeans, and stopped on her spike heels. He had already seen my gray jumper and gotten an eyeful from my skirt, which explained why he had covered my legs with the afghan. I could only assume what a Victorian thought of one young woman in skinny jeans and the other baring her legs for all and sundry to see. I glanced out of the corner of my eye to witness Mrs. Hudson's scandalized expression as she looked at Caden's ensemble.

"If it is all right with Mrs. Hudson, I think you should stay here for the night. We can sort out this whole mess after a decent night's rest." He proposed to sleep on the sofa for the night.

Mrs. Hudson agreed with him, softly explaining that Mr. Holmes was out of town. I listened to them with a strange sort of detachment, not quite believing my circumstances. Caden didn't seem to mind either way, and allowed Mrs. Hudson to lead her to Watson's bedroom. She shot me an inscrutable look over he shoulder before shutting the door behind her. I took that as my sign to retire, rising from the settee onto wobbly legs. I jerked my thumb in direction of the other door, silently asking a question. He nodded.

"Fancy this is just a dream? No?" I shook my head and smiled. "Never mind. You don't have to answer that."

I called out a quiet goodnight, but I didn't wait for a response. I fled to the other bedroom before either of them could ask if I needed any help.

The fact that I was almost certainly inside of Sherlock Holmes bedroom did not enter my mind as I located the bed at the far corner of the room. I didn't bother wasting time, shucking the shawl and climbing under the covers. It took a couple of minutes wiggling around and positioning the pillows until I found the will to remain still. My heartbeat was beating wildly against my ribcage, my lungs filling and expanding with sharp gasps of air. I might have realized I was in shock if my attention wasn't jumping from topic to topic, never finding the resolve to center on a single strand of thought.

Sherlock Holmes was the fictional creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Doctor John Watson was a literary device. 221b Baker Street never existed. So, if what I knew was true, how was I here? Hadn't scientists disproved the possibility of time travel? What about alternate dimensions and wormholes? Was this an alternate dimension? Had I fallen down a wormhole like Alice and her rabbit hole? Or was I as mad as a hatter?

I was drifting on the edge of consciousness and dreamland when the tread of footsteps outside of the door broke through my hazy thoughts. I froze, holding my breath and listening. The bedroom door opened and closed quickly, making the barest of noise as the tumbler eased back into place. A figure loomed in the darkness and rapidly approached the bed.

"What do we have here, hmm?" A deep voice mused before emitting a sharp curse, followed by the bump of legs against the edge of the mattress. I kicked off the blankets just in time for the hard line of a body to collide with mine. The intruder grunted in surprise, hands reaching out to either steady or grasp, but I roughly pushed away, putting a hairsbreadth between us for my escape. I found the doorknob in the darkness, twisting sharply before the intruder could stop me. I fell into the study on my hands and knees, letting loose a blood-curdling scream.

"Miss Baines? What the devil is wrong?"

Watson's alarmed voice came from across the study, from where he had leapt from his awkward position on the settee. He moved quickly through the dark to switch on the nearest lamp. Caden stumbled into the room just as a flame flickered to life, looking half-awake and uncertain of her whereabouts. I took a deep, shuddering breath and looked up.

Sherlock Holmes stood at least a handful of inches above 6'0" in a wrinkled black suit. The buttons of his waistcoat were undone, as were most of buttons to his shirt. His eyes were sharp and calculating and blue-gray. His dark hair was slicked back and curled along the top of his shirt collar. The hard line of muscles I had collided into did not translate into the straight form I was seeing, but I didn't doubt that he was more toned than he appeared. I felt a blush spreading across my cheeks when I realized he knew that I was giving him the once-over. For a moment I thought I might be forming a crush on Sherlock Holmes, the Great Detective. And then he parted his lips, dispelling the illusion with all the tact of a bucket of ice water.

"I hope you have an explanation, my good fellow. I am certain our landlady would not approve of having women of…questionable occupations within her residence."

Author's note: As I currently write the very first draft of this chapter, I can't help sniffing my friend's Harry Potter scarf. I know that sounds rather peculiar, but it smells delightful. The only thing that creeps me out is that it belongs to my guy friend. Are guy's supposed to smell delightful? Let me rephrase that: are straight guy's supposed to smell delightful? I'm talking, skipping in green fields, with pop music, delightful. If that description does not frighten you away, I'm not quite sure I've accomplished my job. Rats.

Critique is really welcome, but flames are not. You will not like this fic is you are not a fan of the time travel trope.

Add. This is the third edited version of this chapter.

Editor's note: Why do I always have to put a note? She always leaves a spot like this here for me. One of these times I'm just going to put 'no'. My dad's making hamburgers and I'm wondering if I could possibly eat one. I've been ridiculously sick as of late and I'm just now getting over it. Also, I've had so much apple juice I'm sick of it. And I've seen this episode of Project Runway before. But there isn't anything else on. Wow, I'm such a whiner. Not the point.