Sherlock Holmes was a boy of many great things,among them were knowledge and dedication. Not among them, however was the gift of making friends. Sherlock Holmes was a very lonely boy, and had only one friend, who went by the name of Jim. However, Jim was loud, cruel, and neglected Sherlock for days on end, so Sherlock found it debatable whether or not friend was the correct term. This is why, when the rift showed up in Sherlock's room, the only person who knew was Sherlock. The exception to that was Mycroft, but he had it in his mind that the opening was an ordinary crack and could not find a single reason for his brother to get so worked up about trifles such as that. The crack, however, was more than that, it led somewhere else all together, somewhere far away from Sherlock's house, 221B Baker Street, and, if his deductions were correct, somewhere far from his planet all together.
The crack made Sherlock aware that his well being was in danger; for anyone else the awareness would be known as fear. Which is what brought Sherlock to his current position, kneeling at his bed, hands clasped in a steeple, eyes closed in concentration.
"Dear Einstein," He started, "there is a large crack in my wall, about a meter long and very thin. There are voices, and sometimes a soft glow, emanating from the crack. If could please send Hawking or Fr-" Sherlock is interrupted by a very large and very loud crash, which is followed by softer, alien noises. After looking out the window, Sherlock quickly dons his bathrobe and runs to inspect the big blue box that had just crashed into a rubbish bin on the side of his apartment. He doesn't think to be quiet for Mycroft's sake, which is all fine, seeing as he'd gone out for the night, not bothering to inform his little brother. As he approaches the police box, as it is clearly labeled, a raggedy, sopping wet man is climbing out of it.
"Your box is bigger on the inside. How?" Asked Sherlock, eyes bright.
The man's eyes widen in curiosity. "Will we- have we met? How did you know that?" Said man got very close to the small boy's face, whipping out a silver mechanism and shining a blue light at his head. The thing buzzed weakly, and the strange man hit it against his thigh several times before the contraption hummed proudly. "Hm," The man pondered, consulting the thing in his hand, "you aren't alien. I don't know you in your past. How did you know my TARDIS was bigger on the inside?"
Sherlock looks skeptically upon the man, pondering the casualness with which the stranger said 'alien'. "The way you climbed out. It was a long fall, I can tell by the way you walk. Somehow, though, you're not critically injured, you should be..." Sherlock bit his knuckle for a moment, thinking. "You have a swimming pool! You must be alien, considering your technology and your second cardiovascular system." As the man opens his mouth, Sherlock puts up a finger, answering his unasked question. "Your veins, too many and in all the wrong places." At this Sherlock tapped the man's forearm, where veins were prominent. "Are you here to fix the crack in my wall?"
Grinning, the alien placed his hand in Sherlock's, shaking it firmly. "I am the Doctor, and I'll fix your crack as soon as you get me some jam."
The Doctor was a strange man, Sherlock thought, as he made two jam sandwiches and two cups of tea. He was telling him of his crack, restraining the questions he had for the alien. Silently, the child regarded the man, taking in his short appearance, his blond hair, his old eyes, and his new face. "My brother doesn't believe me, though." Sherlock summed up. "He thinks my childish subconscious is making the monsters up for some reason." The Doctor took his sandwich, chewing on it and thinking.
"Are you making it up?" He finally asked, swallowing.
"No, of course not." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Come and see it." With that he led the Doctor down stairs, into his room. "I don't think Doctor should be your name. It's a title, and one you have to earn. Do you have an ordinary name?"
"I suppose you can call me John. John Smith, it's what I call myself sometimes." The Doctor replied absently, inspecting the crack in Sherlock's wall.
"Much too average, not convincing at all! How about John... Brown? Brown is a less common name. Or maybe... Watson?"
The Doctor looked up and straightened himself, grinning at Sherlock. "John Watson is a respectable name as any, I suppose." He stood there a moment, Sherlock and his John Watson, grinning at each other, when there's loud crash, and then the Doctor groaned. "My TARDIS! It's getting away from me!" He ran out the door, Sherlock on his tail.
"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked him.
"My ship! It needs to be stabilized, a quick trip across your solar system should do it... I'll be right back!" The Doctor jumps to the ship, scrabbling up the side of it.
"Wait, John, let me come!" Exclaims Sherlock, scared that this fantastic man would leave him. "What if you don't come back?" At this the alien jumps down, kneeling to Sherlock's height.
"It's dangerous in their, far too dangerous for a kid your age." At this Sherlock opens his mouth, but the Doctor puts his finger up. "Even if you are remarkably smart. I'll be right back, I promise, five minutes." Then the strange man in the raggety suit jumped over the ship's wall and dived into the ship.
Once Sherlock heard the splash of the swimming pool he ran inside, grabbed his suitcase and started flinging clothes in. Once he was done he donned his jacket and sprinted to the place the TARDIS crashed. He sat on the suitcase and waited, silently counting the minutes.
That morning Mycroft would find his brother asleep outside, head resting in his arms.