(A/N): First of all, I would like to apologize to anyone who might happen to stumble upon my story. English is my 2nd language, so I'm afraid you'll have to live with my poor grammar and tense-shiftings Ö (I hope I haven't scared you off! :) )

Thanks for reading!

~PB

Disclaimer: I do not own either Holmes, Mrs. Hudson nor Watson. No profit is made.

CHAPTER 2 ~ WHO ARE YOU? ~

Thea ~ Tuesday 14th, October 1890

I lie on a very uncomfortable sofa. It is certainly not the one in my apartment. But if I'm not in my apartment, then, where am I? I open my eyes and sit up straight. Ouch! I feel a throbbing pain in my head. I bring a hand to my neck, to feel how big the damage is. My hand is covered in something wet and warm, flowing out from the back of my head. Blood. What happened? I remember that I was at Tanias party, and I remember the oncoming car and the blinding lights ... but what was I doing in the middle of the road? And where am I now?

I'm lying in what looks like an old fashioned room. There is a lighted fireplace, with letters hold fast in the wood by a dagger. Two comfy chairs on either side of the couch. A small table. Bullet holes in the wall shaping the letters V.R. What the ...? Is this a dream? As I turn my head, I see a desk with chemical experiments. Is this ...?

I must have hit my head harder than I had thought. I hear steps outside the door. I close my eyes, lay back on the sofa and pretend to still be knocked out.
"Where is this patient, you spoke of, Holmes?" An unfamiliar voice ask.
"I have placed her on the couch, in the gentlest position possible, considering her wounds," another voice says, and I hear a squeak, as the door opens.

Two men enter the room. I can hear them.
"She is indeed truly done in, old friend. Call on Mrs. Hudson, and get her to bring me water and some warm towels-"
The door opens again, and some china clink, water splashes. That Mrs. Hudson, whomever she is, can obviously read his thoughts. Spooky.
"Ouch!" I exclaim, when someone suddenly daps my neck with a towel. It stings. I suspect him of using alcohol.
Nicely done, Thea. You've blown your cover. Now they knows your awake ...

I open my eyes.
I examine the man looming above me. He is a blondish, medium height man with a mustache. He's probably in his thirties. His worn medical bag stands beside him. "Do not be alarmed, madam. I am a physician. My name is Dr. Watson. How are you?" His eyes shine with genuine concern.
How I am? Well, apart from the stinging pain in my legs and my aching head, then ... "Fine. I'm tolerable, all considered," I gesture at my legs.
The doctor cleans my head wounds. The realization hits me like a fist in the stomach. Did he say Doctor Watson? And the lady was called Mrs. Hudson? VR spelled with bullets on the wall? Hvordan can it be?

"Doctor Watson?" I ask the man with a shaking voice. "Can you tell me where I am?"
"Certainly, madam. I beg your pardon, for being so inconsiderable. You are at 221B Baker Street, at Mr. Sherlock Holmes' apartment. He found you, and had you transported here. I presume you've heard of him before?"
Sherlock Holmes ? Yes I have heard about him ...

I'm considering what Dr. Watson has just said. Baker Street ... It fits with what I remember... I went from Tanias Baker Street apartment, got hit by a car, and then – then an employee from the Sherlock Holmes Museum, located farther down the street, must have found me! Yes, it almost would make sense! And then the employees chose to stay in their roles as Sherlock Holmes-characters?
I decide to play along with their pretence.

"Well. Yes ..." I straighten myself. I should not have done that. My legs hurt just as heck. "Ouch! But only through your stories, Doctor Watson. Are my legs broken? "
He nods and smiles apologetically - as if it were his fault.

Watson examine my leg, cleans my wounds, and binds it with gauze.

"Have you succeeding in stopping bleeding yet, Watson? Ah, I see the patient is awake. I am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, madam at your service, and you are ...?" A tall man says. He got black, smooth slicked-back hair in a well-fitting suit, who pretend to be Sherlock Holmes. I cannot help but think, that he looks very much like what I had imagined Holmes would have looked like. He is actually quite good-looking. Well-chosen actor ...

"Miss?" Holmes repeats.
"Oh. Sorry. My name is Thea Dawson. And who are you? "
"I believe I just told you," the actor states impatiently. " I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes, "
I laugh gloomily. "No, I mean who are you really? I have seen through your games! It's not funny anymore," I tell them. No response. Actor-Watson looks surprised at the guy, who impersonates Sherlock Holmes.
I feel the smile, that usually accompanies a laugh, freeze on my face.

"Seriously: please stop. This is becoming pretty scary!" I look at them both. Again: no answer.
"Holmes," Watson says to Holmes. "I think the young lady has hit her head harder than I previously imagined. Can it be memory loss, that causes her to hallucinate? "

"I'm ABSOLUTELY not hallucinating!" I shout angrily. "I just do not believe, that you are who you you say you are. That would be impossible."
Sherlock Holmes seems surprised. He has raised one eyebrow. "Are you certain, that it is not merely improbable, madam?"

"Okay then, Mr. Holmes, then deduct something about me. Prove that you really are "The Great Detective"!"
"Holmes ...," Watson says quietly. "I think it might be wisest if you postpone this "deduction" until tomorrow morning, the woman is clearly -"
"- Rubbish, Watson," Holmes interrupts. "Obviously she knows what she is talking about. She is merely confused. Of course I will comply with your request, Miss Dawson. "

Thanks, I mumble.

"Your name is Thea Dawson, you are in your mid-twenties (24, maybe 25 years old?) of Jewish descent. You are neither married nor engaged."

Holmes approaches the sofa and then circles, in order to examine me from all sides.
"You are left-handed, write with blue ink, frequently plays the piano," he continues. "And as you just demonstrated to us, you have a great temperament. Your whole behaviour screams "youngest child." You have 3 siblings, if I am correct?" He formulates it as a question but does not expect an answer.
How does man know all this? Maybe they really are...?
He continues: "You have a nervous disposition, (note the state of the nails, Watson!) You are probably a member of the "suffragette" movement, since you – an unmarried woman – walks about in London (without chaperone, I might add) and even wearing men's clothes!" He pauses briefly for catching breath.

"Your accent clearly states, that you come from West End London, unless I'm much mistaken." I nod. He continues: "And now, let's talk about your accident. If it was an accident at all. It is a well-known fail, to form theories without sufficient data ... You have been hit by a vehicle from the left and thus broke your left leg. You were then flung across the street, landing head-first. It was that flight, that caused the minor scratches in your face. But ... What vehicle was it, that hit you?" He stops walking and just look down at me. "The marks on you indicates that you have not been hit by a cab. But what could it else be? An auto-mobile? In that case it should not prove a difficult task to locate the owner. There's no more than – perhaps – 1000 in the entire country... What is this nonsense I am speaking? The vehicle that hit you is larger by far and the tires too wide to be a regular auto-mobile. It is impossible. Unless ...," he stops completely, takes a pipe and stuffs it with tobacco on and puts it ponderously into his mouth.
Watson looks questioningly at me. I shrug my shoulders in response. I can only try to guess what the strange man is thinking about. Or ... is the Holmesian pondering also just pretend?
I need to know it now.
Is this a play, set up in my honour, or have something completely unthinkable happened to me? Something physically impossible? Something that nobody else has ever tried before?

"What year are we in, Doctor?" I ask Watson.
He seems taken aback. "1890, of course! Did you not know?"
I don't answer. "So before Reichenbach, that is" I mutter to myself.
"Pardon?" Holmes ask with a raised eyebrow.
"Nothing."

So far, Holmes have not said anything definite to prove that I've...
I must know what the truth is!

I turn my head and see a window. Perfect! I rise slowly from the sofa – ignoring Watson's protests – and force myself to the window and looks out.
I see a street, which seems to be the Baker Street I know - but maybe it isn't? Thick smog hangs over the old buildings. I see men in suits and bowler hats walks around arm in arm with women in big elaborate dresses, dirty little boys run around selling newspapers and old fashioned hansom cabs driving down the cobbled streets.

Shoot! I've been sent 120 years back in time! To Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson! They are the real deal!

I can not stop myself from fainting.