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I have fainted twice in my life, from pain or shock, and this bids fair to be the third occasion. I steady myself against these unearthly surfaces, startled, and yes, afraid, but I must touch the wall, or fall.
Apology is upon Holmes' face.
"Circumstances and my nemesis have forced me to a decision that will quite overset the foundations of your understanding. I am sorry, Watson."
Breathlessly, I gesture at our surroundings. I might have protested, if our circumstances had not been so exigent, at the folly of hiding from assassins in a steamer trunk, of all things. And now, I am astonished, and Holmes is a stranger to me.
"What is this place?" I demand.
"One of safety," he answers.
I sputter, but he ignores my incoherence before walking to a mass of machinery that I can hardly describe. His expression is one I've seen before – Holmes, the showman, Holmes, the man with a great secret which he may deign to reveal.
"In another life, I was known as The Inquirer, and this place, Watson, is a TARDIS."
The machine emits a weird, rhythmic wail, and Holmes smiles. "Recover your composure, dear friend, and prepare to be amazed."