Hi yet again…usual disclaimer applies, and the plot may even make an appearance this chapter! This story does have one, I promise. On to chapter three: In Which Stuff Happens.

They looked at me like I was totally insane for a long moment, then Holmes said, "Prove it."

"Fine. You want to hand me the bag that I came with?" he reached down to the floor to retrieve the bag that lay half concealed beneath the bedclothes and dumped it into my lap. I glared at him and then upended it.

Many 'strange' things tumbled onto the white sheet: a cell phone, a walkman, several brick sized paperbacks, and two bottles, one filled with a thick whitish subliminal solid, and the other filled with what looked suspiciously like blood.

I flipped the cover on the phone, hoping against hope that it worked and I would be out of this time before very long, but to my unending chagrin, the phone that was supposed to have service everywhere was roaming.

I looked up Holmes and Watson and said, "You know, modern conveniences are highly overrated. Never trust a cell phone, especially when you really need it." They looked a bit bemused, but refrained from comment. I went back to rummaging.

After some deliberation, I decided that my CD player would be the best means of convincing them, but the problem was that I had the Jagged Little Pill by Alanis Morisette in.

If you've never heard the album, take my word for it that it would not be appropriate for two well-mannered Victorian English gentlemen. However, there was nothing else I could do; I had to prove my case and that was the only way to do it. Hence, I threw caution to the wind and said to Holmes, "Alright, come here."

He looked at me for a moment and then leaned in. I settled the headphones over his ears and pressed play. The song that was on was 'You Oughta Know '. As the lyrics flooded into his ears he turned pale. As the song hit the middle, he tore the headphones from of his ears and walked disgustedly out of the room.

Watson watched his friend leave the room then turned to me quizzically. I answered the unspoken question in his eyes. "The lyrics of the song are…questionable…at best. I should have looked at the song before I played it for him. I hope that I didn't pis- I mean I hope I didn't make him too terribly angry."

"I am sure that he will be more in control of himself the next time that you see him." Watson said, not really answering the implied question. "However, you should get more sleep, you hit your head quite hard. Would you like a sleeping draught?"

I shook my head and laid back down, realizing that I was still tired. I heard Watson chuckle as he left the room. My last conscious thought was that this whole episode was playing out very like the fic that I had just recently finished. But that was impossible, I thought, people don't just get sucked into fics. But they usually don't get shot back in time either, a logical bit of my mind told me. I shook my head and put these disturbing thoughts out of my head for a time when I had more leisure to think about it, like when my head wasn't threatening to explode.

*~*~*

The next morning found me in the very well stocked kitchen of the Baker Street apartments.

I had woken up at four o'clock in the morning and, unable to go back to sleep, wondered down to explore the house. Now, I have a…rather unusual nervous habit: where most people bite their nails or the inside of their lip, I bake. A lot. The first time that my mother came to my dorm to visit, I broke into the campus kitchen and came out with four cakes, a gross of cookies, and two pies. But I digress.

It was eleven in the morning when Holmes dragged himself out of bed and went looking for people. I assumed, because I didn't see her, that it was Mrs. Hudson's day off. Holmes was obviously foraging for food, and he stopped short when he saw me in the kitchen. I honestly think that he forgot that he had another roommate, of sorts, in the house and that he thought that I was the cat burglar. He pulled himself together and took in the singular sight that was his landlady's kitchen.

I had been there, as I said, for seven hours, and let me tell you: there is a lot that you can bake in seven hours. I had turned out three trays of danishes, four of scones, a batch of rum balls, and a raspberry tart. I spun on my heal when I heard his footsteps behind me and said, very eloquently, "Um, do you want something to eat? As you can see, you have quite a bit to choose from."

"How long have you been awake?" He asked, still standing in the doorway, wrapped

in a silk dressing gown. The sight of him still in pajamas reminded me that I was only wearing a nightgown, but I was ok with that and he either didn't notice or didn't care.

"Seven hours." It didn't sound nearly as stupid in my head as it did out loud and to the Great Detective.

"Go back to bed." He ordered me. "Watson said that you may have a concussion and that standing and walking around may not be favorable to your delicate health."

"First of all, I can't go back to bed because I have cookies in the oven, and secondly, I am fine. I have, after all, been upright and moving around for seven hours and I haven't passed out yet."

"You should not be up. And, for that matter, if you insist on being up and about you may want to put more clothing on."

I blushed to the roots of my hair, but stood my ground. "There is no reason for me to go back to bed and, if you haven't noticed, this is an exceedingly stupid argument. We really should give it up, call it a draw and have brunch."

He seemed to consider this for a moment, then his face broke out into a smile and he offered me his arm. I raised an eyebrow at him, but took it and let him lead me to the small round table. He pulled out my chair for me and I sat, trying to stifle my giggles. I was trying to picture a guy from college having manners, and was having a hard time doing it. He must have seen my huge smile because he said, "Pray tell me what you find so amusing, that I may share the joke."

"I was just trying to picture some of the guy-I mean some of the young men that I go to school with having as many manners as you and Watson. It is amazing how much the acceptable standards change in a hundred years."

"Really? I would love to hear about it, if you would not mind the telling."

"You mean you believe me? You really don't think that I'm crazy?"

"On the contrary. There is no other plausible explanation for your sudden presence here. When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Now, I would like a lesson on twentieth century manners, if you please."

"Ok, but I don't think you are going to like it."

"Why?"

"Because there aren't any. Or rather, there aren't many. As far as language goes, anything is acceptable in almost any situation. I must get called a bit*h or a whore at least once a day. People don't even stand up when a lady leaves the room anymore!" I had meant that last as a joke, but he seemed horrified.

"The human race must have sunk very low indeed for them to treat a lady so crudely."

"We all got over it really fast. I think that it would shock me more to have them pull out a chair for me to sit in then if they took a swing at me."

The look on his face was one of mingled horror and disgust. "You must be joking." His voice was tight with anger. Why on earth would he be angry? I thought to myself.

"Please tell me that you do not know anyone that would hit a woman."

I was still trying to fathom his anger, and nearly missed the implied question. "No, of course not, it is just a figure of speech." I would not look at him as I said this, and I think that he knew that I was lying, but he did not press the subject, and for that I was grateful.

After that awkward anecdote, talk turned to more pleasant things. As I removed the cookies from the oven, he asked me if I had attended school, and I told him that I was in my second year at Oxford. He asked what I was studying, and I told him that I was majoring in French, looking to be either a teacher or an interpreter. He asked me if I had given any thought as to what I would do here, and to his surprise, I had.

"Actually, I thought that I would advertise to see if anyone was looking for a person to teach French to their children. I figure, all parents want their kids to be bilingual, why not start when they are young?"

"That is a very good idea. I do not believe that even I would think of that. We will have it in the afternoon papers."

"Great!" We heard a bell sound somewhere in the house and Holmes stood. "That must be Watson; he said that he would be back this morning to check on you, make sure that you were still alive."

"Oh that's really nice," I muttered. "Make sure that I'm still alive. Inspires a lot of confidence in my mental state, that does." I got the distinct impression that he was holding back laughter, but he was doing it so well that I really couldn't tell. In the next instant, Watson came into the kitchen, gave a violent start (I don't know if it was because I was up or because I was only wearing a nightgown, and I thought it would be rude to ask, so you will have to let your imagination run wild with that one), and said, "You should be in bed"

I heaved a dramatic sigh and replied, "Yes, so I have been told. However, after having been up for seven hours without having passed out, I think that I will be fine."

The good doctor was about to retort, but Holmes cut him off. "There is no use arguing with her, Watson, she is one of the most stubborn people that I know."

I turned on him. "And you came to this conclusion after having known me for, what, twenty minutes?"

"Yes." I was just itching to slap that smug look off his face, but before I could, Holmes continued. "Now, perhaps you could go back upstairs and dress while Watson and I discuss things that would not be suited for delicate female ears.

Again, I had the strong urge to hit him, but he had a point. I did need to put some clothes on. So I went. I didn't like it, but I went.

Back in the room that I had occupied, I found a dress laid out with a note from Mrs. Hudson saying that she would be happy to be of help with the dress if I needed it. Holmes, I thought, must have told her that I wasn't used to clothing like this. I rang for her, and she helped me into the corset that had to go on before the dress. The dress itself was rather plain, and in a shade of maroon that I liked very much. Mrs. Hudson also twisted my long black hair up onto the back of my head, and nearly made me pass out, poking me with the pins. Instead of going back down stares, I sat in one of the large overstuffed chairs that inhabited my room and thought about my situation. I could not help but notice that what had happened to me ran very closely with what I had written in my fic. My main character had been based on myself, so the French thing stood. I also remembered writing a fight in a dark alley, but I think that the details were a little bit different. All in all, I concluded, it was way too much of a coincidence for me to get thrown back in time and into my own fic. It just could not happen. Could it?

~~

There you go. Chapter three and I am truly sorry about the wait. My computer was down so I couldn't even send this to my beta. Poor you people. Questions or comments? Review me and I shall answer as best I can. However, keep in mind that this story has I life of its own, so I may not be able to tell you some things. Also, remember that every thing in that bag of hers will be significant eventually. One more thing that I am sure is not clear. This is something of a diary kept by Anna. It isn't ever going to take diary form, but be more of a running narration of her life. And someone is reading it.

R/R thank you!

~Anna~

Nip~ what gook at the bottom of chapter two? And I know about the beta, and yes I have one. And it took you bloody well long enough to review me, damn it! And he gave her opium because he didn't have aspirin on hand, happy?

Hare~ thank you for betaing (?). you'll see about the nasty substances in the bottles later…sorry about the spelling…I'm awful.