Apologies if this isn't accurate to Victorian London. This story is supposed to be like Alice in Wonderland with the Wonderland inspired by Narnia, MiddleEarth, Underland etc. I do hope you enjoy this story as much as the others.

EDIT: This and all chapters so far will be edited into third person. Like this one.

Carry on.


Time.

It's not the boss of you. Your perception of the world, skews time, it makes enjoyable things pass far too quickly, and uncomfortable things last for a century. Time measures the world. Be it a day, a month or even a year. Or a decade. Without time you wouldn't know your age, or what year it was. Time is handy, but that doesn't mean you have to follow it's rules. Why shouldn't you be able to go forward or backwards in time. It should be easy, if it's merely your perception. But our world doesn't work that way. Time ticks on.

Reality is the other thing that never changes. A tree is always tree, a poodle has fluffy, curly fur, not fangs and wings. That would be absurd. The sky is blue, the grass is green. Matter stays the same. That house opposite you will always remain a house. Four walls, two windows and a door. You expect it stay the same, why should it change? Our world, our reality is constant. It doesn't change, not in that way. It's rather boring if you think about it.

At least...they don't change here..

But what if ours were not the only world. What if our world had a twin? In which time and matter were different to our own? Everything that we think is normal, was turned upside down? What would such a world look like?


In a perfect world, everyone finds their soulmate. In a perfect world, everyone has a best friend. Some people are extremely lucky, they find both in the same person. I am one of those people. It's funny because I never thought I'd find those people, let alone in the same person. And even with years gone by, marriage and loss, this one person has always been there. Whether it was by my side or in my heart.

This is the story of how we met. You can choose to believe it is nothing more than a fantastical tale. Wonderful but a work of fiction. Feel free to do so. It's your loss. But it is true. Every word.

This is the story of how I met Sherlock Holmes and how both our lives were changed forever.


The year was 1887 and it was the beginning of winter. Most of the leaves on the trees that bordered the cobbled streets on London were dead. For some people winter was a magical time. It meant Christmas and family. But there were those that didn't have either. For some people, winter was just another season, a depressing season. They held no magical illusions of it. John Watson was one such person.

It had only been five months since he had returned, invalided, from Afghanistan. An army doctor with no more people to save or stitch together. He felt his purpose in life for so many years was gone, vanished. He'd moved from his old lodgings, to a dismal little flat in London that had little more than a bed, a table and chairs, a bathroom and the tiniest of kitchens. Even with the addition of a desk, bookcase and little wardrobe, it felt even smaller. And it didn't feel like home. John had no family or friends in London anymore. What friends he still had were now in another land, fighting a war that didn't want to end.

He'd struggled to find work after returning to London. John considered himself quite a good doctor but had to make do on the small amount he still received from Her Majesty. He never really seemed to put it to good use. He spent more than he should on gambling. Each day started the same and ended likewise. He got up, he ate his breakfast, he read. At lunch he would take a short walk through gardens and streets. Limping of course, using a cane to aid his way. John's leg hadn't been the same since his return. Sometimes the doctor would try to walk somewhere new. Find a new path and discover where it took him. Always hoping it would take him somewhere exciting and different. Somewhere far away. But it never did.


He decided one day, perhaps I ought to find myself a flatmate. Someone to share a house, certainly not this one, or place with, until he could afford one on his own. An old friend mentioned it to him the week before so John had kept his eyes out in the papers, hoping someone would have written about wanting the same. Someone in a similar situation. Because who knew what it would bring? New job opportunities, friendship, anything. A better living standard most definitely.

His life was dull, it lacked colour. Like the world was muted in greys and blacks and dismal browns. John wanted colour. He missed it. John wanted life, vibrance. He wanted to feel alive again. Was that so much to ask of the world?


And then one day something amazing happened.

As things often do in these sorts of stories.

He came across an ad in the paper. A flatmate was required for 221b Baker Street. But...there was no 221b in Baker Street. The houses didn't go up to that number. But, he thought to himself, perhaps it had been miswritten. The ad asked for anyone interested to meet them in the Botanical Gardens, at three-thirty in the afternoon, in two days time. Such instructions seemed to border on the absurd. But that made him even more eager to answer the request.

And he was ever so glad he did.