Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or Doctor Who. *cries*
He wasn't stupid.
In fact, he was probably the farthest thing from it. John had told him many a time that he was 'brilliant'.
So enough was enough. The 'Great Consulting Detective' was starting to get irritated, and an irritated Sherlock Holmes was maddening to anyone that was around him.
He smirked a little, thinking back to the conversation he had had earlier. He had been in the flat, stood by the window staring at the blue thing outside that had been annoying him for the past two weeks. His flatmate was sat in his usual chair, cup of tea in one hand, newspaper in the other.
"Sherlock," John Watson said with as much control as possible, "you aren't going to find out what it is unless you confront it head on. Go to the source." He flopped the newspaper down so he could let the detective see he was serious. Draining the last of his tea, he placed the mug on the table and took the paper in both hands, opening it out but still watching Sherlock.
The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched as he tried to hold back a smile. "You know John, I think I am going to go and confront the problem head on. Get to the source."
"That's what I sai- Right, yes. Do what you want." John sighed, flicking the newspaper back up in front of his face expertly, trying to hide his smile. But it was too late, Sherlock had seen it. John snorted and folded the paper down again, looking to the detective with amusement in his eyes. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to try and stop the smirk that was creeping up his angular face. He took a subtle breath and let out a shaky one, covering it up with a cough, but Sherlock couldn't help the small grin that formed on his face.
"Be back before 7, Mrs Hudson is making us Sunday dinner." John said, flipping the newspaper up once more in finality and then settling down in his chair. Sherlock looked at the army doctor for a minute before picking up his phone off the cluttered desk and tucking it into his pocket.
"Might be late, don't wait for me." With that, he whipped his coat and scarf off the hat stand and strode out of the room, ignoring John's complaints with a small grin on his face.
That conversation had brought him here. He stood from a distance observing the blue box, trying to see if there had been any change. But of course, there hadn't.
He waited for maybe two hours; time for the detective always seemed to go by very quickly. For example, last month he was yet again analysing the 234 types of tobacco ash and at that moment in time, comparing the ingredients with the flavours and smells of the Cavendish, Virginia blend and Honeydew Perique. And then suddenly two weeks had passed, with only the intervention of John practically shoving food down his throat being a reminder that the Earth still existed. World War 3 could have started and he wouldn't have noticed, although it definitely felt like it had done from the rage John directed at him. He ranted and raved about how Sherlock couldn't just sit down for a fortnight with no human contact, barely any food or water. He said it wasn't natural, to which Sherlock had sniggered at. Mrs Hudson had been coming upstairs, but paused and turned around quickly, trying to get away from the warzone – she had no such luck; John dragged her into the conversation and tried to get her to side with him. However, Mrs Hudson, being Mrs Hudson had managed to get away, ending up practically running off saying something about her bins.
Sherlock tended to deviate from the task at hand when he thought about the past, so he dragged his mind back.
He pulled out his phone and quickly texted John, 'I'm going in. SH'
'About bloody time. JW' came the reply a few seconds later. Sherlock could almost hear the exasperation in John's voice. He put the phone into his pocket, looked left and right and crossed the clear road.
He stood only 400 yards away from it and looked intently. It was unlike any police box he had ever seen. He had only seen two other police call boxes in his life, they weren't very common anymore – the two he had seen were old and disused. However, this one was different; although it had the odd scratch, it looked clean and pristine. But the windows were too high and small, and the whole thing was overly conspicuous. This model, Sherlock noted, was from the 1960s, with an electric blue exterior. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to deduce anything else out of the ordinary in its appearance. However, there was one thing he could say about it in general, that was indeed strange. The blue box had been everywhere Sherlock had been in the past two weeks; the corner of the street by St. Bart's, the new Japanese restaurant down the road. Even next to the dented lamppost beside the chip shop. John of course, thought Sherlock was "Off your rocker" as he put it. But Sherlock was perfectly sane. Well, as sane as a highly functioning sociopath could be.
So here he was, now stood outside of the blue police box. The same one that he had seen exactly 17 times. He raised his hand and gingerly touched it, drawing it back quickly looking at his fingers as they tingled. It was made of strong wood which was warm, but the thing that had surprised the detective was that it was humming. He touched it again and held his hand there. Yes, definitely humming, he thought. He looked around quickly to see if anyone was watching and then he pushed the door open.
The sight that greeted him was a curious one; Sherlock had never seen anything quite like it. For one, it was bigger on the inside. It was also decorated in the strangest fashion, odd bits of metal sticking out here and there and to be quite frank, it was a rather dull colour. But it was the centre of the room that intrigued the consulting detective, who let the door swing shut, walked up the steps and stood in front of it cautiously. It looked like a control panel, but there were random buttons, switches and knobs placed everywhere. It looked like a child's toy, with flashing lights and exciting controls. Sherlock reached a hand out to touch the console, but another hand grabbed his arm pulling it away.
"Ah, yes. Best not do that. Who knows what would happen." Said the tall, dark haired man in a loopy voice.
It was instantaneous. As soon as the shaggy haired man had touched him and spoken those few words, Sherlock's mind went into overdrive. He grabbed the man's arm, whirled him around and shoved him against the flashing panel. He reached into his pocket quickly, drawing out a set of keys to 221B – it was the only 'weapon' he had. It would have to do. Digging a key into the stranger's neck threateningly, he growled out "Tell me who you are. Now." The lanky man struggled for a second, before beaming at Sherlock.
"I'll show you" He flashed a hand behind himself and jammed it down on a button, still grinning. The lights dimmed and a terrible cyclic wheezing, groaning noise filled the room.
"What did you just do?"
"Oh nothing, just sending us on a little trip" he sang. The man pushed Sherlock off with a little force and brushed himself down. He looked to the detective with mischievous eyes, swirling the keys to 221B around his little finger. Sherlock clenched his now empty hand and stared at the man, eyes narrowing and suspicion crossing his features. "Who are you?"
The man smiled.
"My name is The Doctor, and this" he paused for effect and motioned around the room, "is my TARDIS."
TBC