The spectral flashes had become more frequent, more vivid. Elara would be mid-sentence, her hand steady as she sutured a wound, and then wham – the antiseptic scent of a modern ER would assault her nostrils, the cacophony of monitors and shouted orders would ring in her ears. Just as quickly, it would vanish, leaving her breathless and disoriented in the gaslit world of Victorian London.

These glimpses weren’t just fleeting memories. They were opportunities. Once, she’d briefly felt the smooth, cold metal of a scalpel in her hand, a far cry from the rough-hewn instruments she now employed. Another time, she’d seen a monitor displaying a complex array of vital signs, a language she understood implicitly, a diagnostic tool light years beyond anything available to her now.

The pull was strong, a siren song of familiarity and ease. The thought of returning to her well-equipped operating room, to the comfort of disposable gloves and readily available antibiotics, was almost unbearable. She could be back in her own life, surrounded by colleagues who understood her, respected her, didn't whisper about witchcraft behind their hands.

But then, she would look at the faces around her. The gaunt, hopeful faces of the patients who travelled miles to see her at the clinic. The resolute, determined faces of the nurses and apprentices she’d trained, each now carrying the torch of modern medical knowledge into the darkest corners of the city. And, of course, she would look at Harrington.

His face, once etched with grief and guarded cynicism, now softened with a warmth that mirrored her own. Their connection was undeniable, forged in the crucible of shared adversity, solidified by a love that transcended time and circumstance. To leave him, to leave all of this, would be to tear a hole in her soul that even time itself could not mend.

The decision, agonizing as it was, came not in a sudden epiphany, but in a quiet understanding. She had been transplanted to this era for a reason. Not to simply survive, but to thrive, to heal, to leave her mark on history. Her life in the 21st century, vibrant and fulfilling as it was, could not compare to the profound sense of purpose she had found here, in this unlikely corner of the past.

One chill November evening, after a particularly vivid flash of her former life, Elara found Harrington in his library, poring over a geological survey map. The soft glow of the oil lamp illuminated his features, highlighting the lines etched by worry and the nascent smile that always bloomed when he saw her.

She walked towards him, her footsteps muffled by the thick Persian rug. "Harrington," she began, her voice soft but firm.

He looked up, his grey eyes meeting hers. "Elara, you seem troubled. What is it?"

She took his hand, her touch surprisingly firm. "I've been having…visions. Of my former life."

He nodded, understanding dawning in his eyes. He knew, without her having to spell it out, that she was not simply mad, as some whispered. He had witnessed too much to dismiss her as anything less than extraordinary.

"And?" he prompted.

"And," she continued, "I've been given a choice. To return… or to stay."

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken emotion. Harrington’s hand tightened around hers, his gaze unwavering. He did not plead, did not beg, did not try to sway her. He knew that the decision was hers alone.

"I choose to stay," she said, the words ringing with conviction. "I choose you. I choose this life. I choose to make a difference here, with you by my side."

A wave of relief washed over Harrington's face, transforming him. He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair. "I never dared to hope…" he murmured. "Thank you, Elara. Thank you for choosing me, for choosing us."

The next few years were a testament to Elara's unwavering dedication and Harrington's unwavering support. The clinic thrived, a beacon of hope in a city often shrouded in despair. Elara, now widely known as the "Surgeon Saint," continued to practice her unconventional medicine, blending her modern knowledge with the accepted practices of the day. She taught her methods to aspiring healers, challenging the rigid hierarchy of the medical establishment and inspiring a new generation of compassionate and skilled practitioners.

She introduced antiseptic techniques, drastically reducing post-operative infections. She championed the importance of hygiene and sanitation, fighting against the ingrained filth that plagued the city's slums. She even managed to convince some influential figures to invest in rudimentary sewage systems and clean water sources, laying the groundwork for future public health reforms.

Harrington, using his wealth and influence, tirelessly advocated for Elara's work. He funded research into the environmental toxins plaguing the city, using his scientific expertise to expose the unscrupulous industrialists who prioritized profit over the well-being of the people. He established a foundation to support medical education and research, ensuring that Elara's legacy would continue long after she was gone.

Their love story, once whispered about in hushed tones, became a legend. A brilliant doctor and a reformed nobleman, united by their passion for healing and their unwavering belief in a better future. They defied societal expectations, challenged the status quo, and carved out a space for themselves in a world that was often hostile and unforgiving.

Elara never completely forgot her life in the 21st century. She often dreamed of the sterile perfection of her old operating room, of the familiar faces of her colleagues, of the ease with which she could diagnose and treat even the most complex ailments. But those dreams were no longer tinged with longing. They were simply reminders of the knowledge she carried, the power she possessed to make a difference in this new world.

She continued to innovate, adapting her modern medical knowledge to the limitations of the Victorian era. She developed new surgical techniques, using her ingenuity and skill to overcome the lack of advanced technology. She taught her students about germ theory, even before it was widely accepted, emphasizing the importance of cleanliness and sterilization.

Years passed, and Elara and Harrington grew old together, their love deepening with each passing day. They watched as their clinic flourished, as their students went on to establish their own practices, as their ideas slowly but surely began to permeate the medical establishment.

One crisp autumn morning, Elara awoke feeling weaker than usual. She knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that her time was near. She summoned Harrington to her bedside, her hand reaching for his.

"My love," she whispered, her voice frail but clear. "It seems my journey is coming to an end."

Harrington's eyes filled with tears, but he held her hand firmly, his grip unwavering. "Don't speak like that, Elara. You're not going anywhere."

She smiled, a faint but genuine smile. "I am, my dear. But I leave knowing that I have lived a full life, a life filled with purpose and love. And I leave knowing that my work will continue."

She spent the rest of the day surrounded by her loved ones: Harrington, her students, her colleagues, and the many patients whose lives she had touched. She shared stories, offered words of wisdom, and expressed her gratitude for the opportunity to have lived and loved in this extraordinary era.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the room, Elara took a final breath and closed her eyes. A peaceful smile remained on her face, a testament to the life she had lived, the love she had shared, and the legacy she had left behind.

News of Elara's death spread quickly throughout London. The city mourned the loss of the "Surgeon Saint," the woman who had defied convention, challenged the status quo, and dedicated her life to healing the sick and serving the underserved.

Harrington, heartbroken but resolute, ensured that her legacy would live on. He continued to support the clinic, expanded the foundation, and worked tirelessly to promote Elara's ideas. He wrote a biography of her life, chronicling her extraordinary journey from a modern-day trauma surgeon to a pioneering healer in Victorian London.

Elara Blackwood, the Surgeon Saint, became a legend. Her name was whispered in awe and respect, her story inspiring generations of medical professionals to strive for excellence, to challenge convention, and to always put the needs of their patients first. She proved that even in the darkest of times, hope could prevail, that even in the face of adversity, love could conquer all.

And somewhere, in a corner of the universe beyond time and space, Dr. Eleanor Ainsworth smiled, knowing that her life, in both worlds, had been well-lived. Her legacy, like a faint but persistent echo, resonated through the corridors of medical history, forever changing the course of healing. Her tale became a whispered legend, a reminder that true healing transcends eras and is defined by the boundless capacity of a compassionate heart.