You were just an ordinary bookworm with an obsession. Your shelves overflowed with Enola Holmes mysteries, the spines cracked from re-reading, your notebooks littered with your own deductions and theories. One book- your most treasured was dog-eared, tea-stained, and somehow… humming?

Late one night, under the dim glow of street lamps outside your window and the comfort of your favorite reading blanket, the book flared to life. Words shimmered, pages curled into themselves, and before you could scream, gravity gave up on you entirely.

You fell.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

Branches scratched at your arms as you tumbled through a kaleidoscope of ink, quills, and whispered narration. When you crash-landed into a thicket just outside a grand estate nestled in the English countryside- moss clinging to cobblestones, roses wild and unpruned- you knew this wasn’t home. Or… you know, 2025.

You’d fallen into the story. Your very own ‘Toto we I don’t think we are in Kansas anymore’ Dorothy Tornado, Alice falling down the rabbit hole moment!

And as you stagger to your feet, covered in leaves, confused and sore, a tall figure in a dark coat emerges from the woods. His brow is furrowed, his eyes razor-sharp. You know that face. That trench coat. That calculating, intense gaze.

Sherlock bloody Holmes.

“Well,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “People don’t usually fall from the sky… not unless they’re either terribly lost or terribly dangerous.”

You try to explain, but he’s already scanning you like a puzzle waiting to be solved. But could you blame him? He’s from a time where you wearing anything from 2025 was nothing less than scandalous and provocative.

“Your clothes are… peculiar. I assume you aren’t from around here. And you know my name, though I’m quite certain we’ve never met. Fascinating.”

You can practically see the gears turning in his mind.

He doesn’t trust you. Not yet. To be fair, you just faceplanted out of thin air near his childhood home. But despite the suspicion in his voice, there’s a flicker of intrigue in those stormy eyes. He offers his hand- gloved, cautious, and hesitant.

“Come with me. You’re either about to cause trouble… or you are the trouble.”