"Wake up lass!" Called a manly voice annoyed and a hint of concern.
I tried to move but everything was heavy; I swallowed and tried to open my eyes. Slowly I began to see a familiar face that I saw before not long ago. His dark green eyes were glistening of curiosity and some eagerness but to what? Me? I started to look around me and recognised the environment. Is this all a dream or is it real as I am? How did I get here? Why am I here?
"Holmes, why do you think it is a girl when it is obviously a boy due to the clothes and short hair cut?" Gave the man with short straight golden-brown hair and a moustache upon his upper lip. His glance appeared annoyed to the other man who is called Holmes. Is it the Sherlock Holmes?
"You have again overseen the obvious my dear Watson." He paused and smiled at him. "The small booklet she carries in her pocket is written by hand and due to the writing, it is far too elaborate for any man. Also her name and address is written on the back of the cover including some strange numbers and another name that I don't exactly follow."
"He's right." I remarked hoarsely and quickly cleared my throat. That must be the telephone number and my e-mail address. He must have checked my pockets to know that. Slowly I was able to sit up.
"Don't overstrain yourself, take your time." Noted Watson with some concern and caution.
"Am I in Bakerstreet, London?" Came out of my mouth without thinking.
"Yes." Answered Watson.
"Then you are John Watson and he is Sherlock Holmes?" I nearly stuttered of surprise; pointing my finger first to Watson then over to Holmes who had seated at the time in his favorite chair close by the fire and smoked his pipe.
"Yes." Gave Watson in the same fashion as before. "What's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" I repeated and placed a hand to my head. "Actually nothing but I just can't believe it."
"Young lady, you surely have come here to share a story where you can't make heads or tails of it. My patience is wearing thin so please come to the point." Remarked Holmes in controlled anger.
He can't see it! Holmes, the master of deduction can not see my story from my clothes or booklet?
"Why so silent miss? Explain why you cut your hair and dressed yourself as a boy who's trying to be a journalist or author!" Gave Holmes standing up and walked a bit closer to me.
"That is not my story Mr. Holmes." I corrected.
Holmes froze and blinked, so did Watson.
Due to their faces which were price-less I held myself together from bursting out laughing but a smirk got away nonetheless. "These are my normal clothes from where I come from and I'm not a journalist but a leisure writer." I paused. "I am one of many secretaries of the company Nestle in Vevey, Switzerland." I knew very well that in the Victorian Era the company Nestle existed already and was well known across Europe.
"Miss, I know you are talking English with us and it all makes sense but then again not. Your clothes still confuse me." Spoke Watson.
Suddenly Holmes stepped in. "Miss Eleanor Wanett, could you please explain the numbers under your address and that other odd name written in your booklet?" Asked Holmes eager.
I was not surprised that he knew my name, because he checked my pockets. Quickly I drew out from my pocket my A5 format green leather bound booklet and showed them my address. "The numbers under the address is a telephone number and that below is nothing, just some scribbling I did the other day." I do not know if I influence some part of history if I mention the word 'e-mail'.
"Telephone number? How is that possible? Many inventors are trying to improve the telephone so that it can be practical for everyone. Especially from Switzerland, the land where many things run slower than usual." Gave Holmes surprised.
Wow! He knows Switzerland that well? Has he been already at Reichenbach, Meiringen? I wonder.
"This must sound absurd me telling this but I see no other explanation. Do you come from a different time?" Holmes asked. His eyes glistened with curiosity and searched in mine the answer.
"Holmes!" Called out Watson, looking over to him.
"Yes; from the year 2015 to be exact." I responded calmly.
They both glared at me in surprise. "2015!" They called in a chorus.
"How did you get here in London in the year 1885?" Asked Holmes eagerly. "Above all, how is it possible?"