From the memoirs of Dr John Watson:
I didn't see the visitors as Holmes and I entered the sitting room. Mrs Hudson had not spoken a word about them before we climbed the steps to our lodging. Holmes, in his own inimitable way, already knew they were there.
Holmes divested himself of his Inverness cape and I my greatcoat. When he had made himself comfortable in front of the fire, which Mrs Hudson had prepared prior to our arrival, I brought out my writing materials and sat down at the table.
I should introduce myself, I am Dr John H Watson, physician and friend of the illustrious Mr Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. We reside at 221B Baker Street, London. I have taken it upon myself to chronicle Holmes' many cases and the extraordinary way he has solved each one.
I looked up from my writing and saw the visitors. Holmes picked up his pipe and lit it. He spoke nary a word. I stood up and walked toward them. "I am Dr Watson; this is Mr Holmes," I said, gesturing toward Holmes. "Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"
The visitors were a man and a woman, dressed in contemporary Victorian clothing. The man picked himself up off the floor where he had tripped over the Oriental rug. I motioned both of them to sit down, noting that Holmes still was silent, but watching with his eagle eye.
The man was small and short of stature, with dark hair, a long nose and squinting hazel eyes. He appeared to be in his early forties. There was nothing extraordinary about his dress, except that all of his clothing looked completely new, as if it had just come from the taylor's shoppe.
The woman was a study in loveliness, her brunette hair in ringlet curls under her flowered chapeau. Her dress matched the hat and again, looked completely new. She had large blue eyes and full lips. She looked to be in her early thirties. Slim and statuesque, she appeared a bit taller than her companion.
"Eh, well, yes…my name is Maxwell Smart and this is my wife…eh…Mrs Smart." As soon as the man spoke, I knew he was American. Later Holmes informed me that, listening to the way Mr Smart pronounced his own name, my colleague determined his accent to be somewhere from the east coast of the American States. I noticed Smart's distinct nasal tone.
"Is there anything that I can do for you, good sir?" I asked.
"We seem to be a bit lost," said the woman. Her voice was soft and melodious, also American, but her accent, as I discovered later from Holmes, was from the mid-western states.
"You are quite welcome to share our humble quarters, Mr Smart," said Holmes, speaking up for the first time. We have a guest suite upstairs."
"We are very much in your debt, sir," said Mrs Smart.
"Tell me, when did you finish your case in London?" asked Holmes.
"We did just finish a case…how did you know? asked Max.
Holmes didn't answer immediately. He put down his pipe. "You are in London for some purpose other than just a visit. Your words 'You just look outside and you're in the 19th Century' intrigue me and tell me that you are both some sort of time travellers. I also saw your identification card fall from your wallet as you tripped earlier…it's still there on the rug. I can see it's for some official agency…Control…" Holmes motioned to me. "Watson, please show our guests to the apartment."
Mr Smart picked up his identification card from the rug and looked at it, stunned that Holmes understood what it signified.
"Mr Holmes," said Mrs Smart. "Why do you say we are time travellers?"
"Why else would you be surprised to look out from our windows to see what is normal for us to see?"
"There's no such thing as time travel!" said Mr Smart.
"Then what do you call yourselves?" asked Holmes. Neither of the visitors said a word. I took the two strangers up the stairs to the guest suite. Mr Smart tripped over the lintel as he entered the sitting room.
"I shall send Mrs Hudson to bring whatever you need," I said.
"Thank you, Dr Watson, you are very kind," smiled Mrs Smart.
As I left the room, Mr Smart sat on the rocking chair and removed his right shoe. He twisted off the heel, and detached the sole, revealing a small dial. He twisted the dial and spoke into the shoe.
I closed the door, but stayed to eavesdrop.
"Chief!" said Smart, in a loud nasal tone. "Can you hear me?…what? when are we leaving London?…eh, wait a minute…99, will you ask Dr Watson what year this is?"
Embarrassed to be found eavesdropping outside the door, I moved to leave my listening post, but Mrs Smart was quick and she opened the door.
"Dr Watson, what year is it?" she asked.
A strange question, I mused. "Why it's 1892, my dear."
"Thanks!" She left the door half-way open and told her husband, who relayed it to the shoe. Fascinated, I couldn't pull myself away from the scene.
"Chief, we'll be back in Washington in 82 years." Smart obviously heard something loud from the strange contraption in his footwear, and he dropped the shoe, picked it up again and held it at arm's length as what sounded like shouting emanated from the shoe. I took my leave of the guest suite at that moment.
"Max! What did you just say to the Chief?"
"I told him we'd be back home in 82 years. By then the airplane will have been invented and we can fly back to Washington…"
"Max, aren't you even a little upset? How did we go back in time?"
"I don't know, 99, maybe Mr. Holmes can figure it out. He seems to know something about it…" Max looked confused.
"Max, he's a fictional detective, from a book! He's not real!"
"That can't be true, 99, we saw him and Dr Watson too. And here we are in his guest apartment."
"Maybe it's a dream, love. If it's not, we'll never get back home to see the twins again!" 99 had tears in her eyes.
Max hugged 99 gently and wiped her tears with his handkerchief. "Sweetheart, don't cry, we'll get back soon." Max said. His bravado was all on the outside; he wasn't really so sure, and he looked worried too.
