Disclaimer: Okay, this is all a bunch of words I just wrote down. Holmes
and Watson and any other regular characters belong to Conan Doyle, and the
little references about Harry Potter and all the ideas that go along with
those works are owned by the ever-so-lucky J.K. Rowling. My humble little
character, Alice/Krystin, is mine.if you could put it that way.
All I did was sit down at the computer downstairs to work on my homework. Really! That's it. Just sitting at the computer, ready to do my stupid English report, when suddenly, I find myself in another dimension. Truly. No joke on this one. This is too serious a matter to joke about. I'm just here one minute, somewhere another. It makes no sense! I'm here right now, trying to preserve my computer battery. Hey, I have no idea how long I'm gonna be stuck here. I have five extra batteries, though, and each one lasts for like two to three hours. That makes somewhere between twelve to eighteen hours. I can work this out. I think. I'll just type like the wind.
Anyway, guess where I am. Just try to guess. I'll give you a hint: there aren't any plugs here. I'm dead! At least I brought lots of batteries for my headset, too. And I have lots of cd's with me, too. Good thing. If I didn't have them, well, along with my laptop, I'd die of boredom! Unless there's more in store for me here than meets my own seemingly-blind eyes.
Give up yet? Well, I'll just tell you, then.through this little story.
I can feel a floor beneath me, but it's hard. My body refuses to respond to the commands I give it. Heck, I can't even open my eyes or move my mouth.
I can hear someone above me. "And what do we have here? Odd.I don't see many people unconscious in this neighborhood." It sounded somewhat cynical, this male voice. It was almost biting, the way it spoke. "Looks like a broken rib or two, possibly a fractured bone in her leg. But why is she unconscious? I see no problems with concussions here. Hmm.but this is not my expertise. I had better take her back to the rooms. Hopefully the doctor's in." And then, more blackness.
When I woke up, I found myself in a very comfortable bed with covers piled on me. I've always loved lots of covers in bed. It was so deliciously warm and comfortable.until I felt the pains of bruises and bones. I must have let out a soft moan, for someone suddenly materialized over my head. My first thought: is my hair a rat's nest right now?
Without my glasses (I must have misplaced them somewhere), I had a hard time making out who this person was. I mean, I didn't want to be intruding too much to anyone, you know. Especially if it was a guy. That's when I realized that I wasn't in my own clothes. Yeah, my underclothes (ya know) were still on, but I wasn't wearing my peasant shirt and flares. Where were they, anyway? I didn't like to wear someone else's outfits, especially male pajamas. So, I was found by a bachelor, or bachelors. I wonder which? I suppose I would find out soon.
"How was your night?" Bachelors. The voice was much different. It was deeper, less sharp, very kind and solicitous. He seemed a very nice guy. At least, that's what his voice told me.
"Fine," I said, slipping into British mode for some odd strange reason. I usually don't do my British accent, but I just kind of did it in my subconscious self or something, but that's what came out. "Thank you for asking."
"Why of course. I am a doctor, you know." That's when I realized that something was on my chest. Like right on my chest. I must have blushed or something, because he smiled widely. I hate that. It's so infuriating at times, but he made it look almost nice. "It's all right, dear. You just had a few broken ribs and a severely sprained ankle. Your bones will be hurting for a while, but I wouldn't put my mind's focus on them." That accent was purely British upperclassman. You could tell a mile away. Who was this guy, anyway? Not to be impolite or anything, but I like to thank my doctor by name.
"Umm.excuse me, Doctor."
"Oh, excuse my incorrigible manners. My name is Watson, Doctor John Watson. And you are."
"Chandler.Miss Alice Chandler." I have always liked my pen name. But I was in shock. THE Dr. John Hamish Watson? But he lived in my books in London in the late 1800's, not in the real world in Pennsylvania in the early 2000's. This was too much to take in. "Excuse me.but.what year is this? I'm very sorry, but my head hurts horribly.must have hit it off something or other.but I can't remember.where exactly am I?"
"Well, Miss Chandler, you are in 221b Baker Street, London. The year is 1891. It's January 14, if that helps you any. You have been in bed for just a night. You have seemed to sleep off the concussion very well. I hope, though, that you will enjoy the rare sunlight that streams through your window; London is one of the cloudiest places imaginable these times, yet there is sunlight pouring out of the clouds, as if just for you."
Heh. If only you knew. I smiled when he had finished. My smile is one of my best weapons. It disarms the best of the best when it comes to people set in stoicism. Heh. "Thank you, Dr Watson. And, also, I wish to thank you for your two accounts of Holmes you have written. They have kept me occupied for many a long night." By January, he had only published his two novels on Holmes, though the first short stories were about to begin. It then dawned on me. The year, I mean. This was the year in which Holmes disappeared. One of the greatest mysteries of the Canon might just unfold right in front of me, if I waited long enough here: where did Holmes go for those three long years of hiatus? Just a few more months, right? It was some time in May, wasn't it? And this was January. Hmm.
Watson was still smiling from my compliment. I believe there was a tinge of a blush on his face. Heh. "Thank you, Miss Chandler. I am very glad you enjoy them." He then just noticed that I was squinting to see him. "Oh, excuse my ill manners. Here." He placed my glasses on my nose. To my surprised, he placed them on my face correctly. Whenever anyone in my family tried to do that, they always put them on me in some type of odd fashion or another. (Crud. Now I'm typing in Victorian English.)
Now I could see him. He was exactly as I had pictured him. He had thinning sandy blonde hair streaked with gray at his temples. His eyes were a misty blue. His skin was a very vague tan color, his mustache, the same color as his hair. He was not rail thin, but not beefy, either. Just a nice in between. He stood before me; I'd say five foot ten or eleven at most. Not the tallest of men, but taller than my five foot four. I wonder if Holmes would live up to my expectations of him? Most likely not.
I must have been staring at him. "Miss Chandler?"
"I'm very sorry, Doctor. I must have spaced off." Drat. I wonder if they used the phrase 'spaced off' in Victorian England? Most likely not.
He gave me a quizzical look, then spoke. "I see.ahem." He cleared his throat in an oh-so-English way. "Well, I shall be talking to you some time soon. I must go off on my rounds. I will look in on you in a few hours?"
"Yes, that would be appreciated greatly, thank you, Dr Watson," I said, smiling to make up for my spaciness.
He nodded as he walked towards the door. Before he left, though, I stopped him with a question. "Doctor, exactly how long will I be in bed?"
"I'm not sure exactly how long," he said, turning around, "but I should say no more than a week." Great. A week. I might as well be a permanent invalid.
"Did you happen to find a bag with you when you found me?"
"I did not find you; someone else did. And yes, your bag was found. It is right next to the bed. Would you like me to place it next to you in bed?"
"Yes, thank you. That would be very helpful." Good thing I had planned to spend a few days at my friend's house before I was brought here. It would have been difficult if I had not. Very difficult. Good think about everything imaginable with me when I travel to her house, too. I usually find myself needing everything, too.
He placed my bag next to me, along with my purse, strangely. I was very glad I had it, though; it has my brush in it, and I knew my hair must have been a rat's nest.
He left the room, leaving me to my thoughts and my bags. Heh. I wonder if they looked into my bags or not? Considering the fact that Holmes was in the same apartment, he probably had. Great. How do I explain? Well, I'll get to that when he asks, and only then. I have enough to think about. Like how to get back home. And get back to school.
Well, I decided that, while I have some free time, I was going to do my homework on my laptop. I got my laptop out of my bag, checking the battery: it was still good. I opened it and booted it up, beginning to make an introductory paragraph in my mind.
As I typed, I thought. How exactly did I get here? Why here, of all places? And am I in another dimension of some sort? Or were Holmes and Watson real people? What was I going to do, anyway? Did my magic still work here? Or was I muggelized through this whole ordeal? I truly hoped not.
For a test, I decided to try healing myself. It worked. Anyway, bandages are such nuisances.
Now that I could stand on a healed (yet slightly weak) ankle, I decided it was time to go use the facilities. I took my makeup bag I used as my toiletries holder and headed out the door, deciding that, just in case Holmes came across me, I'd act like I had a sprained ankle; in other words, I hopped to the bathroom while holding onto the wall for support. Good thing my friend wasn't here to get a picture of this one.
I stopped in terror. I had no idea where the bathroom was! Drat! I had forgotten to ask that one. Then again, how would I have gotten there with a sprained ankle alone?
Well, I'd have to chance it. I'll just randomly open doors until I come across it. It can't be that hard to find, can it?
Well, here was the first door. I decided to try it. It was locked. Either Holmes was using the restroom, or it wasn't the restroom. I opted for the latter, and kept searching for the right room, stumbling upon this other room, half opened. I, being more curious than a cat, was unable to resist the temptation: I walked into the bedroom. Holmes' bedroom.
It was a simple affair, with forest green walls and a simple four-poster bed of mahogany. This was definitely not Mrs. Hudson's furniture. It was too rich, too nice. Even the bedspread was a beautifully quilted affair of dark greens and blues, mixed with cream. His dresser matched his bedpost, a beautiful mahogany, polished to shine, even though it was somewhat more tarnished after the years have gone by. I ran my sleeve against it, remembering not to leave fingerprints. I accumulated much dust on my sleeve. Obviously, Mrs. Hudson was not allowed in this room. She would have never let it go to this if she had the chance to come and clean.
It was when I was speculating these things when I could hear footsteps coming from the other room (which must have been the bathroom). He must be finishing up. Drat. He better not come into his room. That would not be a good thing.
Luck seemed to have favored me, because I heard his footsteps leave the small hallway and walk away from the door. I breathed again, though still very silently. I heard a door shut. It must have been the door that separates the sitting rooms from the hallway of bedrooms. Fine with me. I could do with that nicely.
I hopped my way towards the bathroom, my bag in hand, very happy I could do my business privately. I was even happier when I entered; there was indoor plumbing! And a nice hot tub sat there, inviting me into it. But, I decided, that would take too long. Anyway, there wasn't any plug for my hairdryer. I'd do it later. I just needed to get this nasty taste out of my mouth and clean myself up, not to mention to do my business. And putting in my contacts would be a relief.
A few minutes later, I walked out of the bathroom, forgetting the sprained ankle entirely, when I saw Holmes pop his head into my room. Watson must have commissioned him to look in every once in a while. He must have gotten a little shock when I wasn't in there. What I would have given to see his face! He must have heard me giggling, because he spun around on his heels to look at me.
And so, we stood opposite each other, both staring at each other, though his stare was most likely more calculating than mine. Mine was purely shock. I mean, it's not every day you get to meet a Legend of literature in person.
He was exactly as I had imagined him to be. He had brown hair, wavy, brushed back, even though a little bit slid into his eyes. His features were thin, straight, but with lots and lots of character. His face was thin, too, with a slightly larger nose, a cross between a Roman and Greek nose. His eyes, though, were the first things that caught my attention. Those eyes had life of their own. They were a sparkling grayish blue, lively, quizzical, and alive. They were alive. His eyes were like nothing I have ever seen before, full of energy and brightness. I wish I had my camera then.
We kept staring at each other for a few minutes, then he spoke, saying, "Do I have the pleasure of meeting a Miss Chandler of Pennsylvania?" Hmm.where did he get the Pennsylvania thing? Do I look like a Quaker or something?
"And do I have the pleasure of making the acquaintance of a Mr. Sherlock Holmes of Surrey?" That caught him off guard. Not bad, not bad at all. Holmes must have asked if Watson told me his name yet or not. Which he didn't, of course, explaining the catching of him off-guard.
He regained himself very well, though, and within moments, he was back to his aloof self, though there was a twinkle in his eye. "It seems that we already have been notified of each others' presence."
"Actually, I'm very sorry to burst your hopes, but Watson never told me the name of the person who lives here. You, namely, Mr. Holmes." He stared at me some more. I was beginning to get a little unnerved by it, too. I couldn't show it, of course. I mean, this is Sherlock Holmes, the guy that has a problem with the female gender all around. It was time to prove him wrongly. I smiled ingratiatingly at him. He almost glowered, but kept his composure, being the gentleman that he was. Heh.
"I do hope you are feeling better?" Drat. I still had my ankle down. I hope Watson didn't tell him about that, too. Most likely not, though. Drat.
"Yes. Much, thank you." Well, the game was up, Chandler. I walked over to him, seeing he wasn't going to do it himself. I held out my hand.
He must have been very surprised because, for a while, all he did was stare at my hand. Again, he composed himself very quickly and shook my hand. He had a firm grip, too, to add to his thin body, though you could tell there were muscles and a six-pack. (Exercises, I tell you! He exercises, no matter what he says about it!)
It must have been an odd contrast. He, dressed in a gentleman's suit (not his dressing gown, mouse-colored or otherwise), I, wearing his pajamas, which made him to be a few inches over six feet. He, with brown hair; I, with long, straight, black tresses. He, with gray blue eyes; I, with dark brown ones. He, with tall muscular body; I, with short slim body. His skin, pale; mine, tanned. We made quite a pair. Quite a pair.
He looked at me again. His eyes were piercing through my soul right then. "It is good to see you walking about."
"Yes, it is. I am feeling much better now. Dr. Watson does wonders." Heh. No, really. "Do you mind if I eat luncheon? I am somewhat hungered after my.incident.last night." Without asking much more, I brushed past him towards the door. He was probably wondering how I knew the time-good old ring watch! Knew it would come to use some day!
As I entered the room, I stopped. It was exactly as I had thought it would be. The jackknife with its notes behind it, the Persian slipper near the comfortable chair, the violin case in a corner of the room. A table for two on the side. A desk. A few lamps. Very intriguing. A Holmesian's dream. Then again, this whole experience would be a Holmesian's dream. I don't blame them, either. This was, partially, my dream, too. But meeting Holmes and Watson were first and foremost. Looks like three dreams on my list have been met. Good. I'm making progress I thought would be impossible to make. Not bad at all. I noticed that coffee had been sent up, but not breakfast. It looks like Holmes entered around then, too. He kind of just stared at me as I stared around the room like a gawking patron at an art museum or someone visiting Versailles.
He cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Miss Chandler." I turned around immediately when he cleared his throat. "Breakfast has not been sent in yet. It shall be in a few minutes. Would you please wait for a few moments? It will take Mrs. Hudson about ten minutes before breakfast will be ready. I have been experimenting with different acids and their properties. If you do not mind.?" And with that, he was at work on his chemical experiment, leaving me to my own entertainment. Which was very nice of him, in my opinion. I suppose he did not feel like being solicitous with me. Fine by me. I knew I'd get enough of that from Watson. I was expecting something like this, but maybe more questions about why I was here and so forth. Oh well. He'll get the answers eventually. I just have to make them up, first.
I decided to back to "my" room and figure out exactly what I was going to do. I didn't want them to hear my computer logging on. I didn't want to chance my headsets, either. I seem to blast them pretty loudly. I guess I haven't grown up entirely. But then again, a twenty-year-old isn't exactly grown up, is she? I'm allowed to be a little bit like a teenager, right? Right. For me at least.
Well, since I couldn't do much, I decided on reading. Let's see.what have I brought with me? I have my whole Mary Russell series with me (wouldn't it be funny if Watson or Holmes got their hands on these!), my complete compendium of Holmes cases with a million appendixes in the back, a few romances, and the Harry Potter books (Heh. Good thing the person that wrote these books decided to put them in fiction! Their veiled truths, if ever found out, would terrify the muggle world!). Amazing how I got all those books in my bag, let alone my computer and headset and cd's.magic is one of the best things to ever happen to this world!
I decided I'd read one of my romances. The title of the trilogy was Mark of the Lion. They'd be less offensive than anything else I had brought with me. Especially my Russell books and my Holmes stories. Watson would keel over! Holmes would keel over, for that matter! We can't have them knowing anything about those, now could we? No. That'd be just too much for them, I know.
I sat there, reading my engrossing book. Yeah, I'd read them already, but they were good! They're the only romance novels I enjoyed, and that's because they really weren't all that romantic! They were more drama/action/adventure/angst, you know?
Anyway, I must have sat there for two hours, for I heard my stomach rumbling. I then realized that lunch must be frozen in there by now.
I left the room and went into the main room, Holmes still working at his chemicals, though the room now had a smell of acids and sulfur, which was not appealing to my taste buds at the moment.
The food sat at the table, a silver cover on top of them. Mrs. Hudson must know either that her food is never eaten directly after she brings it up, or that some chemical will make it taste like paint and arsenic. Smart woman, Mrs. Hudson is. She knows Holmes and Watson better than a mother knows her sons. Funny, I thought. Very funny.
I sat down at the table to my cold lunch. Mmm.roast beef and mashed potatoes with green beans and a hot roll. This is more like my dinner! Or, should I say supper?
Regardless, I began to eat, the sound of liquids being poured and the clinking of glass beakers as my background music. I slurped my coffee loudly, making Holmes start and almost drop the beaker of acid in his hands. He gave me a murderous look, telling me plainly that the liquid must have been very acidic, and turned back to his work.
With his head bent, he asked, "Enjoying your luncheon?"
"Yes." A long pause. I was almost done with my lunch when he decided to interrupt my chewing again.
"Are you enjoying your stay?" he asked, his head bent down to his experiment. His hair slid down into his face.
"Yes, thank you," I said, feeling a flush beginning to creep up my face. I have always been horrible at talking to any kind of men, except my father, of course.
Instead of sitting there in discomfort, I decided it was time to leave and go back to the bedroom. I stood from the table, made a face at Holmes' bent head, and walked out of the main room, shutting the door behind me as I entered my room. I went back to my reading.
I love books. They let me forget where I am and who I am. They let me lose my identity for a while. It was a nice change from my reality, my true life.
What is my true life, you might be asking? Well, being one of the most powerful witches in America in over two centuries and only twenty isn't easy to handle. Joining with the famous Ian K. Qwest of England to defeat the infamous Dark Lord de Lotrum, also known as Waldo Mumrolt Reid, was not exactly a walk in the part, either. Well, not everyone has a reasonable middle name! (Waldo Mumrolt Reid. I am Lord de Lotrum. Confusing, but you get the idea.) But, as things turned out, I was the only one to return home with every part of myself intact, including my mind and spirit. All were battle weary, of course-myself included-but I came back with all of my appendages, with my two ears and two eyes, with my sanity still there and my spirit still strong and willing to keep on living. Qwest.well, he came back, still with his spirit and sanity, but he had lost two fingers in the process. Now, as I look back after a few months of battle, I was probably the first one to get used to regular wizarding life again. Odd, how the one that went through the most-apart from Qwest, who went through everything I did and more-went back to normal mode first. It's amazing that the battle took place only five months ago.
What happened to Qwest? Well, he became engaged to Ivy Hunter. I think they are supposed to get married in five months. Well, according to when I left home, January 6, 2003, they were to get married in five months. Here, it's a little bit more different.
And what became of twenty-year-old Krystin S. Yatsumi? Well, she went back home to her own life and decided to try out a muggle college. She had already graduated from Salem Academy, the American Hogwarts, but she didn't feel like teaching there just yet. Maybe some other year in the near future, especially after what has happened. But, she decided to major in journalism in the muggle college, and must do lots and lots of reporting, editing, grammar, and practicing. That is why I'm writing this account. I wish to see how well I can manage this. And no quick quotes quill, thank you very much!
Now, I am here, trying to figure out why and how this happened. A wizard or witch could have figured out how to make someone travel time (and dimensions, possibly) and set a trap for me as a guinea pig. Or it could have been a mistake. Or this might just be a reality world set up by some evil death eaters that still linger. (Yes, they are called death eaters, though why, I haven't the slightest. Rawling did keep that tidbit for some reason or another.)
Whatever it is, I think I'm going to enjoy it. So, if it's my enemies, HA! I'm enjoying this to the fullest! It's not every day you get to meet one of your idols and his trusty companion!
So.what do you think? Good? Bad? I know; it is EXTREMELY informal, but I've been writing enough reports to make me simply and utterly disgusted by the thought of writing something so formal. I get sick of that kind of thing easily. Other chapters will be better, I hope. *gulp* Please, tell me what you think by pressing that little button down in the left-hand corner.I'd really appreciate it! All flames will be used to cook some yummy hotdogs on an open fire! Constructive criticism would be great!
All I did was sit down at the computer downstairs to work on my homework. Really! That's it. Just sitting at the computer, ready to do my stupid English report, when suddenly, I find myself in another dimension. Truly. No joke on this one. This is too serious a matter to joke about. I'm just here one minute, somewhere another. It makes no sense! I'm here right now, trying to preserve my computer battery. Hey, I have no idea how long I'm gonna be stuck here. I have five extra batteries, though, and each one lasts for like two to three hours. That makes somewhere between twelve to eighteen hours. I can work this out. I think. I'll just type like the wind.
Anyway, guess where I am. Just try to guess. I'll give you a hint: there aren't any plugs here. I'm dead! At least I brought lots of batteries for my headset, too. And I have lots of cd's with me, too. Good thing. If I didn't have them, well, along with my laptop, I'd die of boredom! Unless there's more in store for me here than meets my own seemingly-blind eyes.
Give up yet? Well, I'll just tell you, then.through this little story.
I can feel a floor beneath me, but it's hard. My body refuses to respond to the commands I give it. Heck, I can't even open my eyes or move my mouth.
I can hear someone above me. "And what do we have here? Odd.I don't see many people unconscious in this neighborhood." It sounded somewhat cynical, this male voice. It was almost biting, the way it spoke. "Looks like a broken rib or two, possibly a fractured bone in her leg. But why is she unconscious? I see no problems with concussions here. Hmm.but this is not my expertise. I had better take her back to the rooms. Hopefully the doctor's in." And then, more blackness.
When I woke up, I found myself in a very comfortable bed with covers piled on me. I've always loved lots of covers in bed. It was so deliciously warm and comfortable.until I felt the pains of bruises and bones. I must have let out a soft moan, for someone suddenly materialized over my head. My first thought: is my hair a rat's nest right now?
Without my glasses (I must have misplaced them somewhere), I had a hard time making out who this person was. I mean, I didn't want to be intruding too much to anyone, you know. Especially if it was a guy. That's when I realized that I wasn't in my own clothes. Yeah, my underclothes (ya know) were still on, but I wasn't wearing my peasant shirt and flares. Where were they, anyway? I didn't like to wear someone else's outfits, especially male pajamas. So, I was found by a bachelor, or bachelors. I wonder which? I suppose I would find out soon.
"How was your night?" Bachelors. The voice was much different. It was deeper, less sharp, very kind and solicitous. He seemed a very nice guy. At least, that's what his voice told me.
"Fine," I said, slipping into British mode for some odd strange reason. I usually don't do my British accent, but I just kind of did it in my subconscious self or something, but that's what came out. "Thank you for asking."
"Why of course. I am a doctor, you know." That's when I realized that something was on my chest. Like right on my chest. I must have blushed or something, because he smiled widely. I hate that. It's so infuriating at times, but he made it look almost nice. "It's all right, dear. You just had a few broken ribs and a severely sprained ankle. Your bones will be hurting for a while, but I wouldn't put my mind's focus on them." That accent was purely British upperclassman. You could tell a mile away. Who was this guy, anyway? Not to be impolite or anything, but I like to thank my doctor by name.
"Umm.excuse me, Doctor."
"Oh, excuse my incorrigible manners. My name is Watson, Doctor John Watson. And you are."
"Chandler.Miss Alice Chandler." I have always liked my pen name. But I was in shock. THE Dr. John Hamish Watson? But he lived in my books in London in the late 1800's, not in the real world in Pennsylvania in the early 2000's. This was too much to take in. "Excuse me.but.what year is this? I'm very sorry, but my head hurts horribly.must have hit it off something or other.but I can't remember.where exactly am I?"
"Well, Miss Chandler, you are in 221b Baker Street, London. The year is 1891. It's January 14, if that helps you any. You have been in bed for just a night. You have seemed to sleep off the concussion very well. I hope, though, that you will enjoy the rare sunlight that streams through your window; London is one of the cloudiest places imaginable these times, yet there is sunlight pouring out of the clouds, as if just for you."
Heh. If only you knew. I smiled when he had finished. My smile is one of my best weapons. It disarms the best of the best when it comes to people set in stoicism. Heh. "Thank you, Dr Watson. And, also, I wish to thank you for your two accounts of Holmes you have written. They have kept me occupied for many a long night." By January, he had only published his two novels on Holmes, though the first short stories were about to begin. It then dawned on me. The year, I mean. This was the year in which Holmes disappeared. One of the greatest mysteries of the Canon might just unfold right in front of me, if I waited long enough here: where did Holmes go for those three long years of hiatus? Just a few more months, right? It was some time in May, wasn't it? And this was January. Hmm.
Watson was still smiling from my compliment. I believe there was a tinge of a blush on his face. Heh. "Thank you, Miss Chandler. I am very glad you enjoy them." He then just noticed that I was squinting to see him. "Oh, excuse my ill manners. Here." He placed my glasses on my nose. To my surprised, he placed them on my face correctly. Whenever anyone in my family tried to do that, they always put them on me in some type of odd fashion or another. (Crud. Now I'm typing in Victorian English.)
Now I could see him. He was exactly as I had pictured him. He had thinning sandy blonde hair streaked with gray at his temples. His eyes were a misty blue. His skin was a very vague tan color, his mustache, the same color as his hair. He was not rail thin, but not beefy, either. Just a nice in between. He stood before me; I'd say five foot ten or eleven at most. Not the tallest of men, but taller than my five foot four. I wonder if Holmes would live up to my expectations of him? Most likely not.
I must have been staring at him. "Miss Chandler?"
"I'm very sorry, Doctor. I must have spaced off." Drat. I wonder if they used the phrase 'spaced off' in Victorian England? Most likely not.
He gave me a quizzical look, then spoke. "I see.ahem." He cleared his throat in an oh-so-English way. "Well, I shall be talking to you some time soon. I must go off on my rounds. I will look in on you in a few hours?"
"Yes, that would be appreciated greatly, thank you, Dr Watson," I said, smiling to make up for my spaciness.
He nodded as he walked towards the door. Before he left, though, I stopped him with a question. "Doctor, exactly how long will I be in bed?"
"I'm not sure exactly how long," he said, turning around, "but I should say no more than a week." Great. A week. I might as well be a permanent invalid.
"Did you happen to find a bag with you when you found me?"
"I did not find you; someone else did. And yes, your bag was found. It is right next to the bed. Would you like me to place it next to you in bed?"
"Yes, thank you. That would be very helpful." Good thing I had planned to spend a few days at my friend's house before I was brought here. It would have been difficult if I had not. Very difficult. Good think about everything imaginable with me when I travel to her house, too. I usually find myself needing everything, too.
He placed my bag next to me, along with my purse, strangely. I was very glad I had it, though; it has my brush in it, and I knew my hair must have been a rat's nest.
He left the room, leaving me to my thoughts and my bags. Heh. I wonder if they looked into my bags or not? Considering the fact that Holmes was in the same apartment, he probably had. Great. How do I explain? Well, I'll get to that when he asks, and only then. I have enough to think about. Like how to get back home. And get back to school.
Well, I decided that, while I have some free time, I was going to do my homework on my laptop. I got my laptop out of my bag, checking the battery: it was still good. I opened it and booted it up, beginning to make an introductory paragraph in my mind.
As I typed, I thought. How exactly did I get here? Why here, of all places? And am I in another dimension of some sort? Or were Holmes and Watson real people? What was I going to do, anyway? Did my magic still work here? Or was I muggelized through this whole ordeal? I truly hoped not.
For a test, I decided to try healing myself. It worked. Anyway, bandages are such nuisances.
Now that I could stand on a healed (yet slightly weak) ankle, I decided it was time to go use the facilities. I took my makeup bag I used as my toiletries holder and headed out the door, deciding that, just in case Holmes came across me, I'd act like I had a sprained ankle; in other words, I hopped to the bathroom while holding onto the wall for support. Good thing my friend wasn't here to get a picture of this one.
I stopped in terror. I had no idea where the bathroom was! Drat! I had forgotten to ask that one. Then again, how would I have gotten there with a sprained ankle alone?
Well, I'd have to chance it. I'll just randomly open doors until I come across it. It can't be that hard to find, can it?
Well, here was the first door. I decided to try it. It was locked. Either Holmes was using the restroom, or it wasn't the restroom. I opted for the latter, and kept searching for the right room, stumbling upon this other room, half opened. I, being more curious than a cat, was unable to resist the temptation: I walked into the bedroom. Holmes' bedroom.
It was a simple affair, with forest green walls and a simple four-poster bed of mahogany. This was definitely not Mrs. Hudson's furniture. It was too rich, too nice. Even the bedspread was a beautifully quilted affair of dark greens and blues, mixed with cream. His dresser matched his bedpost, a beautiful mahogany, polished to shine, even though it was somewhat more tarnished after the years have gone by. I ran my sleeve against it, remembering not to leave fingerprints. I accumulated much dust on my sleeve. Obviously, Mrs. Hudson was not allowed in this room. She would have never let it go to this if she had the chance to come and clean.
It was when I was speculating these things when I could hear footsteps coming from the other room (which must have been the bathroom). He must be finishing up. Drat. He better not come into his room. That would not be a good thing.
Luck seemed to have favored me, because I heard his footsteps leave the small hallway and walk away from the door. I breathed again, though still very silently. I heard a door shut. It must have been the door that separates the sitting rooms from the hallway of bedrooms. Fine with me. I could do with that nicely.
I hopped my way towards the bathroom, my bag in hand, very happy I could do my business privately. I was even happier when I entered; there was indoor plumbing! And a nice hot tub sat there, inviting me into it. But, I decided, that would take too long. Anyway, there wasn't any plug for my hairdryer. I'd do it later. I just needed to get this nasty taste out of my mouth and clean myself up, not to mention to do my business. And putting in my contacts would be a relief.
A few minutes later, I walked out of the bathroom, forgetting the sprained ankle entirely, when I saw Holmes pop his head into my room. Watson must have commissioned him to look in every once in a while. He must have gotten a little shock when I wasn't in there. What I would have given to see his face! He must have heard me giggling, because he spun around on his heels to look at me.
And so, we stood opposite each other, both staring at each other, though his stare was most likely more calculating than mine. Mine was purely shock. I mean, it's not every day you get to meet a Legend of literature in person.
He was exactly as I had imagined him to be. He had brown hair, wavy, brushed back, even though a little bit slid into his eyes. His features were thin, straight, but with lots and lots of character. His face was thin, too, with a slightly larger nose, a cross between a Roman and Greek nose. His eyes, though, were the first things that caught my attention. Those eyes had life of their own. They were a sparkling grayish blue, lively, quizzical, and alive. They were alive. His eyes were like nothing I have ever seen before, full of energy and brightness. I wish I had my camera then.
We kept staring at each other for a few minutes, then he spoke, saying, "Do I have the pleasure of meeting a Miss Chandler of Pennsylvania?" Hmm.where did he get the Pennsylvania thing? Do I look like a Quaker or something?
"And do I have the pleasure of making the acquaintance of a Mr. Sherlock Holmes of Surrey?" That caught him off guard. Not bad, not bad at all. Holmes must have asked if Watson told me his name yet or not. Which he didn't, of course, explaining the catching of him off-guard.
He regained himself very well, though, and within moments, he was back to his aloof self, though there was a twinkle in his eye. "It seems that we already have been notified of each others' presence."
"Actually, I'm very sorry to burst your hopes, but Watson never told me the name of the person who lives here. You, namely, Mr. Holmes." He stared at me some more. I was beginning to get a little unnerved by it, too. I couldn't show it, of course. I mean, this is Sherlock Holmes, the guy that has a problem with the female gender all around. It was time to prove him wrongly. I smiled ingratiatingly at him. He almost glowered, but kept his composure, being the gentleman that he was. Heh.
"I do hope you are feeling better?" Drat. I still had my ankle down. I hope Watson didn't tell him about that, too. Most likely not, though. Drat.
"Yes. Much, thank you." Well, the game was up, Chandler. I walked over to him, seeing he wasn't going to do it himself. I held out my hand.
He must have been very surprised because, for a while, all he did was stare at my hand. Again, he composed himself very quickly and shook my hand. He had a firm grip, too, to add to his thin body, though you could tell there were muscles and a six-pack. (Exercises, I tell you! He exercises, no matter what he says about it!)
It must have been an odd contrast. He, dressed in a gentleman's suit (not his dressing gown, mouse-colored or otherwise), I, wearing his pajamas, which made him to be a few inches over six feet. He, with brown hair; I, with long, straight, black tresses. He, with gray blue eyes; I, with dark brown ones. He, with tall muscular body; I, with short slim body. His skin, pale; mine, tanned. We made quite a pair. Quite a pair.
He looked at me again. His eyes were piercing through my soul right then. "It is good to see you walking about."
"Yes, it is. I am feeling much better now. Dr. Watson does wonders." Heh. No, really. "Do you mind if I eat luncheon? I am somewhat hungered after my.incident.last night." Without asking much more, I brushed past him towards the door. He was probably wondering how I knew the time-good old ring watch! Knew it would come to use some day!
As I entered the room, I stopped. It was exactly as I had thought it would be. The jackknife with its notes behind it, the Persian slipper near the comfortable chair, the violin case in a corner of the room. A table for two on the side. A desk. A few lamps. Very intriguing. A Holmesian's dream. Then again, this whole experience would be a Holmesian's dream. I don't blame them, either. This was, partially, my dream, too. But meeting Holmes and Watson were first and foremost. Looks like three dreams on my list have been met. Good. I'm making progress I thought would be impossible to make. Not bad at all. I noticed that coffee had been sent up, but not breakfast. It looks like Holmes entered around then, too. He kind of just stared at me as I stared around the room like a gawking patron at an art museum or someone visiting Versailles.
He cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Miss Chandler." I turned around immediately when he cleared his throat. "Breakfast has not been sent in yet. It shall be in a few minutes. Would you please wait for a few moments? It will take Mrs. Hudson about ten minutes before breakfast will be ready. I have been experimenting with different acids and their properties. If you do not mind.?" And with that, he was at work on his chemical experiment, leaving me to my own entertainment. Which was very nice of him, in my opinion. I suppose he did not feel like being solicitous with me. Fine by me. I knew I'd get enough of that from Watson. I was expecting something like this, but maybe more questions about why I was here and so forth. Oh well. He'll get the answers eventually. I just have to make them up, first.
I decided to back to "my" room and figure out exactly what I was going to do. I didn't want them to hear my computer logging on. I didn't want to chance my headsets, either. I seem to blast them pretty loudly. I guess I haven't grown up entirely. But then again, a twenty-year-old isn't exactly grown up, is she? I'm allowed to be a little bit like a teenager, right? Right. For me at least.
Well, since I couldn't do much, I decided on reading. Let's see.what have I brought with me? I have my whole Mary Russell series with me (wouldn't it be funny if Watson or Holmes got their hands on these!), my complete compendium of Holmes cases with a million appendixes in the back, a few romances, and the Harry Potter books (Heh. Good thing the person that wrote these books decided to put them in fiction! Their veiled truths, if ever found out, would terrify the muggle world!). Amazing how I got all those books in my bag, let alone my computer and headset and cd's.magic is one of the best things to ever happen to this world!
I decided I'd read one of my romances. The title of the trilogy was Mark of the Lion. They'd be less offensive than anything else I had brought with me. Especially my Russell books and my Holmes stories. Watson would keel over! Holmes would keel over, for that matter! We can't have them knowing anything about those, now could we? No. That'd be just too much for them, I know.
I sat there, reading my engrossing book. Yeah, I'd read them already, but they were good! They're the only romance novels I enjoyed, and that's because they really weren't all that romantic! They were more drama/action/adventure/angst, you know?
Anyway, I must have sat there for two hours, for I heard my stomach rumbling. I then realized that lunch must be frozen in there by now.
I left the room and went into the main room, Holmes still working at his chemicals, though the room now had a smell of acids and sulfur, which was not appealing to my taste buds at the moment.
The food sat at the table, a silver cover on top of them. Mrs. Hudson must know either that her food is never eaten directly after she brings it up, or that some chemical will make it taste like paint and arsenic. Smart woman, Mrs. Hudson is. She knows Holmes and Watson better than a mother knows her sons. Funny, I thought. Very funny.
I sat down at the table to my cold lunch. Mmm.roast beef and mashed potatoes with green beans and a hot roll. This is more like my dinner! Or, should I say supper?
Regardless, I began to eat, the sound of liquids being poured and the clinking of glass beakers as my background music. I slurped my coffee loudly, making Holmes start and almost drop the beaker of acid in his hands. He gave me a murderous look, telling me plainly that the liquid must have been very acidic, and turned back to his work.
With his head bent, he asked, "Enjoying your luncheon?"
"Yes." A long pause. I was almost done with my lunch when he decided to interrupt my chewing again.
"Are you enjoying your stay?" he asked, his head bent down to his experiment. His hair slid down into his face.
"Yes, thank you," I said, feeling a flush beginning to creep up my face. I have always been horrible at talking to any kind of men, except my father, of course.
Instead of sitting there in discomfort, I decided it was time to leave and go back to the bedroom. I stood from the table, made a face at Holmes' bent head, and walked out of the main room, shutting the door behind me as I entered my room. I went back to my reading.
I love books. They let me forget where I am and who I am. They let me lose my identity for a while. It was a nice change from my reality, my true life.
What is my true life, you might be asking? Well, being one of the most powerful witches in America in over two centuries and only twenty isn't easy to handle. Joining with the famous Ian K. Qwest of England to defeat the infamous Dark Lord de Lotrum, also known as Waldo Mumrolt Reid, was not exactly a walk in the part, either. Well, not everyone has a reasonable middle name! (Waldo Mumrolt Reid. I am Lord de Lotrum. Confusing, but you get the idea.) But, as things turned out, I was the only one to return home with every part of myself intact, including my mind and spirit. All were battle weary, of course-myself included-but I came back with all of my appendages, with my two ears and two eyes, with my sanity still there and my spirit still strong and willing to keep on living. Qwest.well, he came back, still with his spirit and sanity, but he had lost two fingers in the process. Now, as I look back after a few months of battle, I was probably the first one to get used to regular wizarding life again. Odd, how the one that went through the most-apart from Qwest, who went through everything I did and more-went back to normal mode first. It's amazing that the battle took place only five months ago.
What happened to Qwest? Well, he became engaged to Ivy Hunter. I think they are supposed to get married in five months. Well, according to when I left home, January 6, 2003, they were to get married in five months. Here, it's a little bit more different.
And what became of twenty-year-old Krystin S. Yatsumi? Well, she went back home to her own life and decided to try out a muggle college. She had already graduated from Salem Academy, the American Hogwarts, but she didn't feel like teaching there just yet. Maybe some other year in the near future, especially after what has happened. But, she decided to major in journalism in the muggle college, and must do lots and lots of reporting, editing, grammar, and practicing. That is why I'm writing this account. I wish to see how well I can manage this. And no quick quotes quill, thank you very much!
Now, I am here, trying to figure out why and how this happened. A wizard or witch could have figured out how to make someone travel time (and dimensions, possibly) and set a trap for me as a guinea pig. Or it could have been a mistake. Or this might just be a reality world set up by some evil death eaters that still linger. (Yes, they are called death eaters, though why, I haven't the slightest. Rawling did keep that tidbit for some reason or another.)
Whatever it is, I think I'm going to enjoy it. So, if it's my enemies, HA! I'm enjoying this to the fullest! It's not every day you get to meet one of your idols and his trusty companion!
So.what do you think? Good? Bad? I know; it is EXTREMELY informal, but I've been writing enough reports to make me simply and utterly disgusted by the thought of writing something so formal. I get sick of that kind of thing easily. Other chapters will be better, I hope. *gulp* Please, tell me what you think by pressing that little button down in the left-hand corner.I'd really appreciate it! All flames will be used to cook some yummy hotdogs on an open fire! Constructive criticism would be great!