chapter five
the portal to the past

"Ha ha," I laughed tensely, "that's a funny joke, Brandon. Especially considering your earlier disdain for all things fictional."
"Joking is the furthest thing from my mind at present," said the tall policeman. "I give you my word of honor that I mean what I say. I am Sherlock Holmes."
"But that's impossible," I stuttered.
"You are wrong," he countered. "It is merely improbable. And as I have said many times, when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be--"
"The truth, I know," I interrupted. I stared at the gentleman in the eerie blue light. Sharp features, an intense exp​ression, clear grey eyes. I had the feeling that if I saw him in his proper outfit he would look exactly like the Holmes I'd always pictured. Could it be?
"Please excuse me if I seem forward," I said, raising a hand to his face and running my fingers lightly over his aquiline features. Well, the man was flesh and blood, at any rate.
"I'm sorry to be so incredulous, Bran--Mr. Holmes," I said, "But you see, in this century, most people regard the stories about you as fiction only."
"I have become all too aware of that unfortunate fact," he said with an ironic grin. "But I also know that you do not conform to the majority opinion in that instance, Miss Ingham."
"How could you know that?" I asked in surprise.
"It was easy enough to deduce, once I made inquiries into your work at Crosby University," he explained. "You will forgive me, but circumstances have made it necessary for me to learn all I can about you and your unfortunate family. It was equally necessary for me to follow you and your cousin here from your hotel." He must have noticed my troubled exp​ression. "I do apologize, Miss Ingham," he said. "I understand that such behavior appears inherently disturbing to a lady of your century. I believe that 'stalking' is the term in usage? However, I assure you that I bear you no ill will, but am acting in what I believe to be the best interests of both you and your family members."
"I understand, of course." My mind was positively reeling at the web of fact and fiction, reality and unreality, that was wrapping around me and appearing more and more complex. "But I don't understand how you came to be in this century at all."
"That is a story in itself, and would be best told once we are safe in Baker Street," said Mr. Holmes.
"Baker Street? We're going to Baker Street?" Despite my worries about Jeanette, I felt my heart leap in spite of myself. Maybe this was all some sort of crazy dream. But even if it was, I was going to enjoy the dream for all that it was worth.
"Of course, Miss Ingham," said Mr. Holmes. "I have said already that the danger is greatest for you here, and there is no more work for me to do in this century at the moment." He stepped over to the Roman numeral switchboard and indicated the numeral for 1895. "The device was already set to take me back to my proper era. If we leave at once, we shall be only a few footsteps behind your cousin."
"Wait," I said, "Jeanette's parents--my aunt and uncle. They'll be so worried."
"If all goes as planned, we shall return to this century at the very moment we left it," said Mr. Holmes. "They will never have occasion for concern."
"But--" I began, and then stopped. This was certainly no time to try and argue with Sherlock Holmes about the logical paradoxes inherent in time travel. "Let's go then," I said.
"I humbly suggest that you take my hand, Miss Ingham. It will not help matters at all if we become separated."
I slipped my trembling hand into his firm, cold one. "The game's afoot," I said, with an attempt at cheerfulness.
"Yes," he said with a smile. "It most definitely is." And, hand-in-hand, Sherlock Holmes and I stepped across the threshold of the past.