The building I am standing in is obviously on Oxford Street in front of Hyde Park, but consider that the metal used to construct it is of an alloy that is entirely unknown to my formidable intellect and also clearly not made in the foundries of Newcastle. The automobiles, if I am to assume are the conveyance travelling in the roadways, are considerably more advanced than the sort I was confronted with during this morning's constitutional to the Yard.
Second, there is a quality to the light that is not created by either gaslights or the primitive style of electric lumination that Edison has been experimenting with. Additionally, the people passing by on the streets are neither dressed appropriately for the evening, nor the unseasonably cold October London recently has been experiencing yet the air is no longer chilled.
Third, a great gust of wind greeted me as I left Baker Street this evening, and has deposited me here on Oxford.
In conclusion, fantastic though it may be, I must assume that transport has occurred beyond that of known origin, and that I, Sherlock Holmes, am no longer in my correct time.