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John walked slowly down Baker Street, kicking a pebble along, and trying desperately not to let his thoughts wander down the same desolate path they did every time he’d gone home for the last two years. Finally he gave up, and giving the pebble one last, savage kick, he leaned against the wall.
Sherlock,
he thought, feeling tears drip down his face,
why did you have to leave us? Moriarty was dead! Just because you didn’t have an enemy doesn’t mean you had to die! What about your friends!
Wrenching himself away from the wall, John wiped his face roughly with his sleeve. He would tell Mrs. Hudson the he’d had a hard day at work, and she would look past the tear stains on his collar. He would look past hers, and tell her about his newest patient while she poured tea. They would discuss the news, carefully avoiding any crimes, and go to bed. It was what they did every evening. John stopped in front of the door to 221 and was taking out his keys when the streetlamp went out. Frowning, John glanced towards it, mumbling something about paying too many taxes for this, took out his phone, squinting to find the right key in the dim, blue light provided by the screen. He never succeeded. A shadowy figure rushed him from behind, covering his mouth with something warm and slimy, cutting off his air. Before he had time to react, something struck his head, and he blacked out.
Down the street and just behind the corner, a much taller figure had seen the brief exchange. A strangled noise escaped his throat, and he made a jerking movement – whether towards or away from the huddled shadow was anyone’s guess – when the shadow straightened, stepped back from the door, and vanished with only a small humming noise. The street lamp flickered back on, and the taller man stared blankly at the street, taken completely by surprise. John was gone.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The T.A.R.D.I.S. hummed, clicked, and whirred her song of travel to the lanky man leaning against her console. He had fallen asleep there, and not for the first time, she thought. Or maybe it was the first time. It was often hard for her to tell, and she couldn’t see his face. She felt herself slipping into her time dreams, happy memories of her Doctor, past and future. Suddenly, she felt a sort of jangling, recognizing it immediately as her Doctor’s emergency phone. Irritated at it for disturbing their rest, she was about to pass it on to that River woman when she thought to check its source. Tracing the call through space and time took much of her concentration, but she soon had it – and woke the Doctor immediately.
The Doctor was dreaming a tangled dream of Gallifrey, made of roses that screamed for him in the voices he tried so hard to forget. It was a dream he’d had many times in the past two hundred years, and even though this time he tried to tell them that it was all right, he was going to save them, not kill them, they still screamed, and burned, and turned to bits of ash that floated away even as he tried to gather them up and press them into a new ball, or rose, or something he could
save
. Then he sat up – and whacked his head on the bottom of the T.A.R.D.I.S. control board. “Ow….” He muttered, and then noticed that his emergency phone was ringing. He carefully crawled out from under the control board. Blinking the sleep from his eyes and shoving his nightmare to the back of his mind, he reached for the phone – a split second too late.
“What was that?” called a sleepy voice from the balcony above him. “Do you have another phone inside the T.A.R.D.I.S. too?
“Yes – well sort of.” The Doctor answered as Clara walked down the stairs. “A friend gave me this for emergencies, but that was a few hundred years ago.” He held up the mobile; the back was open and dozens of tiny wires streamed out, connected to various spots on the T.A.R.D.I.S..
“I gave the number out to a few people, in case they need me, but that means I have to keep it forever! Takes quite a bit of work too.” Clara looked at the mobile. With all the wires coming off it, it looked like some sort of weird spider. She grinned. “Do you still pay the phone bill?” she asked. “ Do I – of course I still pay the phone bill!” the Doctor answered, stealthily taking his sonic screwdriver out of his back pocket and changing the mobile’s setting to automatic payment.
“Now then,” he said, quickly changing the subject, “that phone call. I just missed it, and I never found the message thingy after the T.A.R.D.I.S. upgraded, so I’ll have to trace it – oh look! She’s done it for me! Oh dear…” He suddenly became very absorbed in the screen. Clara peeked over his shoulder, but the spinning circles and strange colored blobs held no meaning for her.
“Sooooo… who called, then?” Clara asked, watching the Doctor putter around his screens and buttons.
The Doctor turned towards her, wringing his hands distractedly. “Clara… how do you feel about Sherlock Holmes?”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
No one noticed as the blue box materialized in the predawn light in downtown London. It seemed to have some trouble doing so, fading in and out for several seconds before finally stopping. Clara and the Doctor stepped out of the T.A.R.D.I.S., Clara looking all around her with growing skepticism. “I thought you said Sherlock Holmes, Doctor. This is London! Well, my London. Modern London. Whatever.”
“I said parallel universe, not 1800’s England! Are you sure I didn’t mention that he lived in the 21
st
–ish
century?”
“No, you didn’t. You were too busy muttering about insensitive people in parallel universes.”
“Yes, well, speaking of insensitive people, Clara, don’t ask him any questions. Ever. He knows much more about you than you think. Be impressed.”
“I have read the books! I know what he can do. How did he get in the books anyway? Did you bring whatever-his-name-is, Doyle, here too?”
The Doctor gave her a scornful look. “No. Although I did meet him in a coffee shop once. Wonderful man! Brilliant too. Not as brilliant as me of course, but he made a good effort.”
“Well then how did he know about the real Sherlock?” asked Clara, trying to keep the Doctor on the subject.
"It's a wonderful thing really," he answered her. "Some humans, a very few actually, can sort of - hear the universe. Or other universes, as it turns out. They often become the great artists of the human race. Or they go mad. Vincent Van Gogh was one."
“So the author sort of – heard – this Sherlock’s life and wrote it down?” Clara asked, trying to understand.
“Sort of,” came the answer. “Ah, here we are! Sherlock’s favorite restaurant!”
Clara’s stomach rumbled as she surveyed the Hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant that stood before them. “It looks delicious!” she remarked, starting towards the door. The Doctor grabbed her arm.
"We're not eating here, Clara." he said. "Sherlock doesn't really eat."
"Well then why does he have a favorite restaurant?"
"I'm not sure," the Doctor answered, "I’ve only met him the once."
“How did you meet him?” wondered Clara as the Doctor led her around the building into a little alley.
“Some strange type of alien was trying to break into this universe, using ours as a launching pad.” The Doctor replied. “The T.A.R.D.I.S. got caught up in the fluctuations of the universal – never mind. We all ended up here, anyways. It was a heck of a time fighting off those aliens too. Never figured out what they were called, or even what they looked like. Apparently, they jump into a universe, find a nice little galaxy to strip of resources, and jump to the next universe. Rather handy little system, actually. I might try it myself someday.”
Clara ignored the Doctor’s last comment. “But how did you meet Sherlock Holmes?” she insisted patiently. Keeping the Doctor on task could be rather like herding cats!
The Doctor shushed her and pointed towards the end of the alley. A man was rounding the corner. "Now remember, don't ask him questions!” The Doctor whispered to Clara, “and don't be offended by anything he says. He can be a bit rude, but he's not trying to be upset you, just impress you."
"So he's a bit like you then?" Clara grinned impudently.
The Doctor looked shocked "I'm not rude! When have I ever been rude?"
They were interrupted by the man "Doctor, if you would stop jabbering for a minute, we have a serious problem here.” He peered at the Doctor and Clara in the dim light of the alley. “How old are you, Doctor?” he asked.
“ 2150, give or take a few years. Why?”
Sherlock groaned, and leaned against the wall. “Oh, that’s just great. You finally get here on time, but you’re only ----! I don’t suppose I could send you back and get a more qualified one?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I’ve been here more than once, then?” the Doctor inquired.
“Wonderful,” muttered Sherlock, burying his face in his hands. The Doctor looked alarmed, starting towards him before remembering that this was
Sherlock
.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “What happened? Was it Mycroft? Have you met any, um,
professors
recently?”
Sherlock laughed bitterly. “If you mean Moriarty, he’s been dead for two years now. I’ve almost finished tracking down his people.”
Clara noticed that the Doctor’s hands, which would usually be dispensing a hug, or a pat on the back, were uncharacteristically still.
He really must not like being touched,
she thought with a touch of pity for this distraught man. “I’m sorry,” she called to him, almost hiding behind the Doctor. “Two years is a long time to be alone.”
Sherlock looked almost startled for a moment, and then gave her a contemptuous, almost hateful look. “Really, Doctor? Another one? You go through them like… pudding cups! This is the third –“
“Sherlock!” He was cut off by the Doctor’s exasperated shout. “If I’ve been here again, then I must have told you about spoilers! You can’t just spout off like that! Not to mention you’re being unspeakably rude to Clara.” He saw something in Sherlock's hard face and softened. “You must be really upset if you’re forgetting about spoilers. Do you have a room or somewhere where we can talk? Or we can use the T.A.R.D.I.S.?” Sherlock brightened almost imperceptibly. “The T.A.R.D.I.S. please, Doctor.”