AN: I own nothing.
"It must be stated for the record that there was an unusual amount of snow in London during the Christmas season of 1892, for most years had that great city been witness to heavy rainfalls followed by a light dusting of that cold powder. This was certainly the case as far I can remember, yet I digress. Just know that London had rarely been visited by Jack Frost and his minions to such a degree before, which meant that all their hard work had to be cleared away in a rapid manner. In an act of charitable good will much aligned with the approaching holiday, the recently founded scientific institute of Professor Henry Norman volunteered to remove the snow from obstruction. With the railways into the city reopened thanks to the efforts of those noble gentlemen, I took it upon myself to return from a visit with my sister and her family out in the country and find new employment as a novelist.
At this point the reader may be wondering who I am and why I have started this narrative with a discussion about snow, for which I advise patience and trust that all will be explained in time. Time: even now I still fail to grasp the enormous burden of that word. My experiences since that eventful Christmas may have opened both my eyes and mind to things both joyful and horrifying, yet I would still refuse to follow another path if given the chance. However, to bring some organization to my currently fractured memories, I have deigned to record my story for the posterity of the ages regardless of its inevitable classification as fiction. No doubt this literary work of mine will also give much enjoyment to my niece and nephew, who, like all children, devour any tales of the fantastic and impossible.
Still, if I continue with these reminiscent tangents than nothing shall be accomplished, so I shall dispense with them for the present and return us to where we left off, that being my return to London in search of work. Suffice to say that such a task proved daunting, for I had originally left the city due to an unfortunate disagreement with the governess agency I was originally employed for. Having recovered from my initial fears of becoming a pariah amongst that honorable class of women, I was determined to find a publishing house that might accept me into their ranks and prevent my fall into destitution. Acquiring proper lodgings in the meanwhile wasn't going to be an issue though, for I had read of a notice in the paper before boarding the train that promised a cheap room within an acceptable area of Baker Street. Promptly after arriving in Paddington Station, I hired a cab with some of the money I had left from my last assignment, and soon arrived at my destination.
It was to be expected that others had witnessed the same advertisement I had, yet suffice to say, the shocking sight of various hopeful tenants lined up completely around the block like a snake encircling a mouse had dashed my hopes somewhat. I was not a lady known for giving up however, as my aggrieved parents can readily testify, so I took my place at the end of that serpent's tail and patiently waited for my turn to come. After the sunrise of morning transformed into the sunset of evening, I was admittedly beginning to feel just as bitter as the winter cold when the gruff old man who had been called in before me stormed out not ten seconds after entering, muttering about the daft fool who wasted his time. It was at this point when I began to reconsider the wisdom of my current actions and prepared to leave, when a maidservant bade me enter the house which against better judgement, I complied.
"Anyone left, Anna?" called a tired voice from the parlor and steeling my courage to the sticking place, I ventured forth to my fateful interview.
Closing the door after me, the maid explained that I was the last for today, while I beheld a man not much older than myself, dressed in violet and wearing a bowtie. He looked at me quizzically before asking in a bored tone, "So, why do you want to live here?"
A little taken aback by this rudeness, I stubbornly countered with, "Why do you wish to know?"
This response may have cost me lodging anywhere else, yet in this instance it must have been the correct one, because he smiled with amusement and shook my hand with pride, declaring, "Congratulations miss, the room is yours. What's your name?"
Surprised by this sudden turn of manner, I stammered out, "C-Clara. Clara Oswin Oswald. May I ask yours, sir?"
"Oh, not sir, never sir," the odd man explained, a twinkle in his eye. "I'm the Doctor. Welcome to Baker Street."