((Well, my goodness, I have not gotten so many reviews in such a short amount of time well... ever! I'm thrilled to see your enthusiasm for part two, so, as you requested, here it is! Disappointed? Excited? Leave me a review!))

There are many different kinds of cases.

Some are the kind that are, as Sherlock would put it, utterly and completely boring. The kind where inspector LeStrade would come into the flat and say two words and Sherlock would think for two seconds before coming up with "It was the butler". Those are most definitely the least time consuming, but also the least engaging.

Then, there are the fairly interesting ones. They don't exactly take undercover work and usually he and John are just running around for about a week in desperate situations before they figure it all. To Sherlock, this kind is most likely the most satisfying as they're short, not boring, and by the end, extremely satisfying to solve.

Lastly, there are the big ones. I'm talking undercover observation, say goodbye to John and move out of the flat for a few months, taking up a new house, job, and identity just to solve one goddamned problem. These were very rare, and that was only because very few problems were important enough for Sherlock to feel like he had to go that far.

This, however, was one of those cases.

Sherlock Holmes, or, as of now Peter Abbott, was now an insurance worker in Colchester, England with a personality a little more friendly and a little less, well, sociopathic. He slipped right into his role, investigating a few people who he suspected were planning a mass bombing of many countries around East Asia. It wasn't hard. It was just day in, day out, fake who you are, what you do, pretend to be friends with the suspects and find out as much as you can. So far, Sherlock had every reason to believe they were the ones and that was what they were planning, but also every reason to believe they weren't. He'd need to stay much longer before reaching any conclusions.

His path to his office was only about two miles. Well, 2.195 miles exactly, but who's (other than Sherlock, that is,) counting? He walked much of the time, just to add a little bit to the made up personality of Peter Abbott, which was rather optimistic and crunchy-granola and annoying. He sort of modeled him after Anderson, although it was mostly an unconscious decision.

On his way to fake-work, he passed several houses, a park, one apartment complex, two iced cream shops, three miscellaneous restaurants, one outdoor mall that branched out away from the road, one orthodontist office, and one mental asylum. It was a fairly normal walk in a fairly nice town, until he saw something that was fairly out of place.

He stopped. A paper airplane. Interesting, he thought. Some sort of memory flashed back to him, but he didn't really hold onto it. He stared at the white in the grass. Where did that come from? He looked up at the big white building casting an unpleasant shadow around him. The mental asylum. His heart constricted. All of this was familiar. Sickeningly familiar.

His chest for some reason tight with dread, he kneeled down and picked up the paper airplane. At this point it was neater and written in pencil as opposed to crayon, but he knew the handwriting ever. He could hardly believe it was him.

I've been working on the TARDIS. It can almost break the atmosphere, but I need an extra set of hands. Still interested?
Come at visiting hours. See you there, clever!

Sherlock looked down, staring at the letter for just a moment. His head filled with observations. He tried to keep him logical, but the voice of a child kept breaking in. Number two pencil, ticonderoga brand, It's the Doctor! Very dull, probably considered dangerous, from the asylum, It's our friend, it's the Doctor! Paper unlabelled; also from the asylum. Limited or no contact with the outside world. He really was crazy! Precision in the folds, folds a lot of paper airplanes - minor OCD, clear writing - misled, but not hallucinogenic, It's the Doctor! The Doctor, the Doctor!

He hissed in annoyance, tucking the message into his pocket. He couldn't focus, not now. He tried to remember the Doctor, but it was all a bit fuzzy. Something about him jumping out a window, thinking he had built a functioning spaceship that Sherlock had helped with. A strange boy, rosy cheeked and excitable. One of his few friends. It wasn't surprising to him that he turned out crazy.

The note still in his pocket, he headed off to work. The rest of the way there, he thought up a backup story as to why he would visit the insane asylum and started looking very upset and very nervous as he walked in. His sister (he'd pick a name later) had recently been admitted to an insane asylum after attempting suicide. He would say she was married to a man named Joseph and had two children, Abigail and Caitlin. He probably wouldn't need all that, but it was good to use as a precaution. The first thing he did when he got into work was log onto the database of the asylum, named Colchester Asylum. He hacked in, looked through the people there, and picked a name. Miranda Carol, hypothetically married to Joseph Carol. That would work. He didn't need it for long.

"Hey, Peter, watcha doin?" said a voice, coming up from behind him. He closed out the page, opening up to something he needed for work. He turned around his chair, putting a look of distress on his face. This was his co-worker, Gerald. He was thirty two, middle class, single, born in in Ireland but moved to England at two years old, and well, Sherlock could go on for hours after just one glance. He was ginger and a bit heavy with a sweet face and bright blue eyes, one of the suspects for the bombing that may or may not happen in the future. What Sherlock thought may have been helpful was that he was a closeted homosexual and desperately wanted a relationship with him. He figured he may as well play along, possibly able to get more information that way.

"Oh, nothing, Gerald," he sighed, going a little over the top, but human emotion always was.

"What's wrong?" he asked, frowning.

"Oh, it's my sister," Sherlock sighed, "She um…" he stopped for a moment, pretending it was difficult to continue, "She was admitted to the asylum downtown a few days ago, I was just told recently,"

"Oh no. What happened?" Gerald asked, turning closer to me and putting his hand on my shoulder. Sherlock sighed and put his hand on top of his.

"Oh um…" Sherlock began, tears coming to his eyes, "She um… she attempted suicide,"

"Oh, jesus!" Gerald explained. He spun around and squatted in front of Sherlock's chair, putting his hands on both his shoulders. Sherlock brought a few tears to his eyes but didn't let them fall.

"Yeah, I mean, she's always been a sensitive person, but I never thought… something like this…" he trailed off, swallowing. It was like a role in his play, just saying his lines. Easy.

"Oh, god, Pete, that's awful," Gerald said empathetically. He patted him affectionately on the shoulder. "Tell you what. This is a professional place, not really good to talk about it, but you clearly need someone to listen to you. Let's catch up for a drink this evening, I'm perfectly happy to be a shoulder to cry on."

Wow, did this seriously work on normal people? Sherlock shook his head, sniffing and blinking away the tears in his eyes, "No, not tonight," he said, "I've got to visit her." And then he mentally added, and getting a drink would just bring me closer to having to eventually have sex with you, which is not exactly an event I'm looking forward to.

"Alright, good idea," Gerald said, though disappointment shone through his voice. He stood back up, awkwardly patted Sherlock on the shoulder, muttered "See ya," and then shuffled off. He wasn't entirely unpleasant to be around, sort of just easy to ignore. Although, as he thought before, if he was getting into a relationship that would most likely involve both romance and sex. Both a chore. He turned back to his computer, finishing out his day of work and making sure he looked very upset as he went through it.

Pretty much as soon as he got out of work, he went to the asylum. He passingly checked for paper airplanes, expecting that the Doctor only needed to send the one and that there weren't anymore. He found he was correct as he headed up to the main doors.

He checked in, still looking very distressed, signing in as Peter Abbott, and then heading into the main room where everyone was being visited, which was sort of like a barren cafeteria.

It was a little hard to recognize him at first. He had changed a lot from when he was a kid in the obvious ways, his face having matured, his body becoming that of an adult's. His hair was less puffy and now thrown over casually to one side, and his face was slightly longer and much more adult. Still though, the excitable smile, prominent chin, rosy cheeks and hopeful olive eyes gave him away. He knew it was him after just a few seconds. Even now he was practically bouncing with excitement, and somehow the loose, white, V-necked asylum clothes suited him very well. Sherlock gathered all the information he could before the Doctor saw him.

Possible ADHD, fairly minor and benign, under-eats but isn't underfed, doesn't smoke, still possesses and works with many cigarettes daily, disliked amongst the other members, spends almost no time outside, comfortable in a mental asylum-

The Doctor spotted him, interrupting his chain of thought. Dread built in Sherlock's chest as he saw that same excitement as he had before. The words bounced around like bullets in his head. You're really smart, Sherlock! Thank you so much for your help!

He blinked hard, wiping the thoughts from his mind. No. Now was not the time for guilt, it was the time for analysis. So, without waiting another moment, Sherlock went over and sat across from the Doctor.

"Hi, Sherlock!" The Doctor cried. Sherlock winced, hoping nobody heard that.

"It's Peter," he hissed.

"I distinctly remember it being Sherlock," the Doctor said instantly.

"Well, you're wrong. It's Peter."

"Can't be. I wrote my message to Sherlock and you came," he said with a smirk. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Fine, but now I'm Peter!"

"Who changes their name?" The Doctor chuckled.

"You did, John." Sherlock sneered. The Doctor's smile briefly faded as he leaned back.

"Oh, please don't tell me you don't believe me anymore," The Doctor said, giving him a look of annoyance, "It's still the Doctor, same old Doctor as before."

Sherlock laughed, leaning back against the chair and setting his hands on the table, "You couldn't have expected me to?" he asked.

"Of course I did!" he told him with a nod, "You did before!"
"I was a kid," Sherlock responded coldly.

"Yeah, a clever one, and I could use your help again."

"I just said I didn't believe you,"

"That doesn't scare me," The Doctor said, shaking his head with a friendly yet slightly intimidating smile, "No one believes me, but how little would I have to believe in it for that to matter? Why do you think I'm here at all?" he laughed slightly, but his smile briefly faded, "But I see Gallifrey in my dreams every night and I can point to it in the sky. I'm not human, Sherlock. And I think at some point, even if it was a very, very brief period of time, you knew all that too." Sherlock said nothing, frowning slightly. He couldn't deny that. It was only for about five seconds when he was first being told, but he could look at the Doctor and see him as an alien, see Gallifrey in his mind. He glanced down nervously as the Doctor set his hands on top of his, Sherlock hardly even remembering putting them on the table. "So, please," He whispered, a youthful smile flickering at the corner of his mouth, "Help me like you did back then!"

Sherlock thought about it. He couldn't say that he didn't at least think about it for a few seconds when he looked at the same rosy cheeks and hopeful eyes he had known so long ago. He seemed so logical and, well, not crazy, with such a genuine sounding cause. He didn't exactly pity him, he wasn't upset. He just loved seeing him this way, and somehow just standing in his atmosphere was comforting and filled him with hope. He did want to help build his spaceship. He found the thoughts in his mind tempting him to try that same mistake, telling him maybe it would work this time…

But after all that, it was still a mistake. The Doctor was just some madman, and he owed him no favors. There was nothing he could do. He had a case to work.

He slipped his hands out from under the Doctor's, setting them on his lap.

"You know what happened the last time I fed into your delusions," Sherlock sneered.

The Doctor thought for a moment, before sitting up rapidly as he understood, holding out his hands, "Oh no no no no no, that wasn't you Sherlock, you can't possibly blame yourself, can you?"

"It's Peter," he snapped, which he found was a much easier answer than the real one.

"Look, that wasn't you!" he said with a comforting smile, "That was not you feeding into my delusions, Sher, that was me getting the adjustments wrong! But I got it right this time, we're getting close!"

"Last time you jumped out of a four story building as a kid surrounded in nothing but cardboard, resulting in a few broken bones and a concussion, but this is different. This building is at least forty floors, you try and 'fly' out of it and you will undoubtedly die."

"That is, unless I do fly," The Doctor added, unphased.

"Don't you get it? You won't!" Sherlock insisted, getting more and more irritated, "You're delusional, you made up all of this."

"You made your opinion very clear already, Sher."

"It's not an opinion, it's fact, and since when am I 'Sher'?" he said, spitting out the nickname like it was even more preposterous than the idea that the Doctor was an alien, "Nobody calls me that."

"I call you that," The Doctor said with a shrug. Sherlock creased his eyebrows at him.

"Don't. My name is Sh… Peter. It's Peter," he remembered, getting himself back together

"Whatever you say, Sher! Anyway, you wanna see the ship?" he asked excitedly leaning forward.

Sherlock hesitated, avoiding the question. "Say it were to fly. How? How is it built?" he asked. The Doctor straightened his back and grinned, clearly having waited quite a while for someone to ask that question.

"It's all about black holes," he said, leaning in passionately, "Time and space are not what people think, it is not a line, it is more like a giant ball of like… wibbly wobbly… timey wimey stuff, anyway, you get the picture! So, to get from point a to point b doesn't require you to travel the whole line, they're actually all pretty close together, so all you have to do is exit through a miniature black hole briefly brought into existence by the engine and then skip to any point in time and space you want. And the exterior of the TARDIS has an incredible defense mechanism so it doesn't get crushed in the void. All black hole stuff. That's also how it can be bigger on the inside, there's a warp hole in the interior. Although, I haven't quite figured all that out just yet! Soon! Either way, it's all very simple really. Clever, don't you think?"

Sherlock scowled, thinking it through. Nothing could protect something from a black hole and nothing could form one without the power of a dying star. "Outrageous," he told him.

"Outrageously clever?" The Doctor asked hopefully.

"No, just plain outrageous. Even if that were possible, this 'ship' would need the power of a thousand supernovas."

"Ah, well…" the Doctor said, casting his eyes down, "I confess it won't be quite as powerful as the ones on Gallifrey. But it only has to make one trip!"

"Look, even one trip the way you described-" he sighed, giving up on that thought. He'd just have another excuse, "So, what sort of power do the people of Gallifrey use?"

"Well, a TARDIS isn't a machine, per se, not a real one," he said with a shrug, "They're creatures. Creatures with unimaginable power and a free will to take you where they want. The Time Lords built ships around them to harness their power and travel through time and space. It's all Time Lord science."

"Yes, and that too," Sherlock began with an incredulous smile, "What exactly leads you to believe you are a Time Lord? You're obviously human, biologically at least."

"Yes, well, Time Lords look fairly similar, your basic humanoid. As for the rest of it the ship I was sent here in turned me human using a genesis arc."

Sherlock didn't even bother questioning that. "So, if you were biologically human all your life, how exactly could you be sure?" he asked.

The Doctor leaned in again, "It's just this feeling, Sher," he said, "You probably know it." He looked out at the other patients of the asylum, talking to family members, crying, laughing, talking about a number of things. He spoke as he stared out at them, "Look at them, Sherlock. They're like goldfish, all of them. They swim around you, go about their business, live perfectly normal lives. Of course you can talk to them. You can talk with them. Some of them are good friends of mine, care about me very much. And I care about them. But even still, how close can you be to someone in a fishbowl?" he paused for a moment. Sherlock looked the Doctor over, something between nervousness and wonder rising in his chest. He'd never heard anyone say it aloud before and capture it so correctly. He looked at the Doctor and then looked out at the people. For the first time, it felt like he wasn't completely alone on the outside of the fishbowl. He turned back to the Doctor as he kept talking.

"That's what it feels like," The Doctor said, "I can see them, I can hear them. I've been surrounded by them at every side, walking through the streets of London. But even still, I'm on the outside. Not quite…" he cast Sherlock a look that gave him chills, "Human." The Doctor turned back to face Sherlock, who still didn't speak. Despite it all, part of him said to believe him. Ridiculous, he knew it was. Yet still… that look in his eyes.

"I bet you feel it too, don't you, Sher?" he asked. He gave a kind smile, placing his hand gently on Sherlock's chest, "You've got the heart of a Time Lord."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" Sherlock asked, a bit concerned but not moving.

"The highest I can offer," the Doctor responded softly. Sherlock glanced down at his hand, unmoving. After a moment the Doctor moved his hand from his chest, setting his hands on the table. A mischievous, yet caring smile came to his lips as he looked right into Sherlock's eyes. "Come on! See the ship!" he tempted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know you blame yourself for what happened last time, but this time, you don't have to do anything you could possibly blame yourself for. Just see the ship. And when I finish, I'll send you an airplane, pick you up, and we'll be off to Gallifrey." He sighed passionately, leaning back, "Oh, you'll love Gallifrey, Sher. You'll fit right in. Everyone thinks. Everyone's just like us."

A cold laugh let out of Sherlock's lips.

"What?" The Doctor asked him, confused.

"Sorry, just, a world of me?" Sherlock asked with an amused smile, "Thank you, but I think I'll skip my trip to Hell." The Doctor smiled a little.

"Don't be so modest," he said.

"I'm really not," Sherlock insisted, shaking his head.

"I'm telling you, it's fantastic, Sher!" The Doctor insisted, "The entire city is made of diamond. You can see right through to the bright orange sky."

Sherlock stood up. He didn't want to hear any more, he wasn't exactly sure why. He had to go at this point, before he started believing the Doctor. "I have to go," he said.

"Will you see the ship?" he asked, before he could leave. Sherlock opened his mouth, intending to say the word 'no', but something else came out.

"Tomorrow," he said. The Doctor grinned.

"That's my Sherlock!" he cried. Sherlock turned to walk out the door, mumbling over his shoulder,

"My name's Peter."