Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who or Sherlock Holmes. I don't even own the meeting, since it happened apparently during the time of the 8th Doctor or something like that, but this is me ignoring it completely. -IGNORE!-

Author Notes: Blame Jeremy Brett, Protector of the Gray Fortress, KCS, Pompey and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I'd blame the people who created Doctor Who as well, but I think I already have. Not sure if I have yet...if I haven't, totally blame them too, though I'd blame the 9th more for getting me into it, the 10th for being fine and keeping me interested, and Donna for being the best Companion so far.

Rose's a complete Mary Sue (though I liked her sometimes) and Martha, she got the short-end of the stick and didn't know what to do with it. Donna at least took the stick and beat him with it, or beat up something else with it, even when she first came in.

Synopsis: Lestrade and Holmes trail a murderer while Watson finds himself in the company of a singular woman bent on his protection. But what is the connection?

Lovely Portals of Night

How lovely are the portals of the night, when stars come out to watch daylight die. ~Thomas Cole

The Demon Aloft, twice the score to cut it

If Lestrade didn't kill Gregson for giving him this assignment, he most assuredly would ask Holmes for advice on it. Lord knew he probably held his share of secrets and this was possibly one that he wouldn't mind keeping for the Inspector.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose and trying to concentrate and not think of going to Holmes again, Lestrade set himself back to his task. He had been forced to call upon Holmes twice in as many months, and he disliked the fact. Not because Holmes never took the credit if he could help it, but because he was attempting as much as he could to find the 'threads', as Holmes called them, himself. Years of working with him, or around him, had taught Lestrade to respect the consulting detective's methods, and despite his rather abrasive and condescending nature, Lestrade at least enjoyed the company of Doctor Watson enough that he would return on random events to speak of vague cases. But this case was taking up all of his time, so much so that he didn't know if he had the time to consult Holmes.

Standing and stretching, Lestrade walked around his desk, beginning to reconsider the facts from whatever point of view he could think of. In the morning around 6 o'clock, a maid had found Mr. John Wilsan dead in his room from a soft-nose revolver bullet. The window had been opened and a good length of strong ivy had showed off traces of use. There had been no struggle, and the coroner put the time of death at 3.08 in the morning. Along with obvious signs of it being a murder, there was a note within the victim's hand which read "The Demon Aloft, twice the score to cut it" but had no other clues. There was no water mark, it was simply paper with nothing unique to it, and the ink was the cheap kind found just about anywhere. There were no witnesses, and for some reason the noise of the gun had not been heard, so Lestrade realized it had to be muffled by something, though they had yet to find the item but it appeared a pillow was missing.

Motive…if ever there was a more normal and placid man then Mr. Wilsan, Lestrade didn't know him. He lived a normal life and had no enemies, hardly a fault…there was no reason for such an act, or for the note. There was no connection that any of them could see.

So maybe in the morning—

Lestrade groaned and sat, leaning back in his chair and then drumming his fingers on the table. A man named John Wilsan was dead. The man had been in the Army, had been in battles but nothing very interesting happened to him. He returned in 1880, the same time as Watson, and established himself in London. He led a very dull and normal life of a writer of—

Lestrade caught a small thread and blinked. John Wilsan's initials were the same as Watson's initials, but that could be a coincidence. While he wasn't one to belief in superstitions, he did know something about numbers, and there was the same amount of numbers in Watson's name as in Wilsan's. Both were in the Army, both returned at the same time, both were writers…but Wilson wasn't a doctor.

Lestrade thought back to a few years before, to the case which brought Sherlock Holmes back to England and to life, much to his surprise and relief. Moran had used a soft-nose revolver bullet that created no sound with a rifle, but there was only one of it's kind and the schematics of it never left the Yard.

A knock on his door caused him to blink at his watch and bark the order to come in. He'd been up working on the case since 7 and it was nearly 5 in the morning.

"Inspector," the constable said, "we have another murder, and another one of the papers."

"What?" Lestrade gasped, grabbing his coat and hat from it's rack.

"Yes Inspector, but this is different. We only realized the connection because of the paper with the body," the young man paused to swallow before continuing, "Inspector…the body was partly eaten by a giant dog."

The body of man and dog were in the same room, and Lestrade was not ready for such a sight really, even after following Holmes and Watson during that Baskerville case. He went about getting the information, trying to hold down his panic and the urge to go and get Holmes now until the official channels were closed and he could leave for Baker Street, ungodly hour that it was. Still, the hopes that he would only wake Holmes and not the Doctor was a high priority, as he would rather have Holmes worrying instead of both, and he knew that Holmes would ensure Watson's safety no matter what. He still recalled a few cases where the good doctor had been hurt and the felon was more then happy to be put into police custody. The few that didn't make it to court were all usually found to be due to self-defense, either on Holmes or Watson's part, and Lestade, along with a few others in the Yard, were not quick to bring up any point against it, especially after more then one had seen the effect that Holmes' absence had done to Watson. A few thoughts on the matter usually ended with the thought that Holmes might not survive Watson's death, or if he did it would only be because crime rates soared and all the criminal masterminds were let loose.

Another reason for Lestrade to call upon Holmes so early, though he was somewhat happy to see that Holmes was indeed awake, even though he looked like he normally did when he hadn't had a case for a week. His gray eyes looked over the note as Lestrade laid out the details of the two cases, though he currently omitted the names in the hopes that he could get Holmes' curiosity up before adding that particular piece.

"I see that it is indeed a hard case," Holmes told him, pacing a little, "but there are also very few facts, Lestrade, and I know you are holding something back from me!"

Confound him and his analysis! Lestrade shifted in his chair before saying, "I'd rather tell you outside of this place, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes frowned at the pronouncement, then nodded, heading inside of his room to change and motioning to Lestrade to leave, telling Mrs. Hudson rather quietly that if the Doctor inquired, say that he had gone out on an early case and would return when he could. She nodded, still a little sleepy, and the two headed into the waiting cab before Holmes said, "Now, Lestrade, what was so dire that you didn't wish to risk Watson overhearing it?"

With a deep breath, Lestrade outlined what he knew of the two men who had been killed, what their names were, and what he suspected might come up along the way.

Watson

The woman standing before the door of 221b Baker Street was one which I shall not forget for a very long while, nor, indeed, shall I try to. The first glance of her showed off a remarkable figure, with dark ginger hair done up in the current fashion, a lovely dark hat that suited her outfit and a long dress that was quite fashionable. She looked over at the number then, upon approach, at me quickly, revealing intelligent and strong eyes as well as an equally lovely and strong face.

"May I help you?" I asked.

"You live here?" she questioned, motioning to the shared rooms with Holmes. At my nod, she smiled and nodded. "Then yes, but the thing is…well…I'm not really here for help."

I frowned as we headed inside, I asking Mrs. Hudson for some tea and learning that Holmes, who had left earlier that day with Lestrade, was still out on the case and had not returned.

"What are you here for, then?" I asked as we reached the sitting room, offering a chair that she refused quickly, shifting from foot to foot.

"It's about a possible murder," she told me, "See, I'm traveling with a friend of mine, a Doctor, and we found out that someone is after you."

I froze and blinked at the pronouncement, trying to figure out how she'd gotten to that with what facts I had. "Me?"

She straightened, nodding, "You are Doctor Watson, right?"

"I am…but how did you--."
She smiled, "I'm a fan, actually, a huge one when I was a little younger. Read all but a few of your stories about Mr. Holmes and you. You…well, you're a little grayer then I imagined, but you're exactly how I imagined you from the stories as well. Plus I don't think Mr. Holmes would've been checking out my ankles so much."

While I was happy to have such a person in the room, I was still a little shaken at the pronouncement and asked again how she was sure I'd be next on the list.

"It's involved," she told me, "Quite a bit, in fact. You sure you want to hear it all?"

I nodded and she finally took a seat, near me on the settee, and said, "When I said I traveled, I meant all over, every world and time you can imagine. I have some proof, if you want it, and I'm not crazy before you suggest it either. The Doctor, he's an alien, and he has this machine that can take us anywhere or anywhen you'd like. So we traveled off to this nice planet where there are every type of translation you can get, and the Doctor warned me some of them were off. I noticed right away a few of the books I read and even one of yours had a bunch of misspellings. Someone who knew of him asked for his help, 'cause this man who read yours got hold of a transport that could take him back in time." She stopped for a breath. "He wanted to go back here, and we found one of your books with your name circled. Only problem was they had a few notes, not all of them. I knew more about you then he did, but he knew enough that he might be able to find you and kill you." She paused again, waiting for a question before forging on, "The Doctor said he couldn't be about London 'cause of some trouble he had a few years back at Torchwood House involving a were-wolf and trying to kill the Queen…"

I found my voice at last, "Wait, wait…you're saying a man who's an alien…and who apparently looks human enough to pass off among us, is going to try and kill me because my stories were misinterpreted?"

She nodded. "The Doctor explained it like translating something from English to American English, then fitting it with the times by changing values and beliefs, and then returning it to English and translating it into something like Chinese and a phonetic alphabet…you lose something within each translation and can't be sure if it's all the same as the original or not. The man's beliefs were such that he thought you're being abused by Holmes, and feels that killing you is the only way to free you of the influence."

"WHAT?"

"I'm just saying what the Doctor and the man's psychologist said!"

"Psy—what?"

She blinked and nodded. "See, like that! A man who examines other's heads to see what's wrong."

"Like Dr. Mortimor?"
"No, like Freud."

"Ah, an alienist."

"That's a stupid term for it."

"And psychologist is better?"

"It is."

"Are you so certain?"
"Alienist sounds like a bloomin' alien specialist. Psyche is mind, so psychologist is better."

The argument was so odd in contrast, as well as her posture and tone so serious in the matter, that I almost had to laugh at the whole situation. I was in danger from something or another that appeared to be extra-terrestrial, and now here I was arguing about a word with a woman who claimed to have been to that planet!

I took in a breath before asking, "Why does he think I'm being abused by Holmes?"

The woman sat back and shrugged. "Dunno. I didn't read the books he had, but I do know that he's not sure what your last name is, and that he can't read our English very well. He has a few conflicting issues as well, so that might hurt other in looking for you."

I frowned at the thought, shifting before saying, "I take it you can't tell the police due…what you mentioned earlier?"

"The whole werewolf thing?"

I nodded, then frowned as I thought about it. "Should I ask?"

"All I know about it was something that involved Queen Victoria, a werewolf being that apparently wanted to possess her, and the Doctor being Knighted then banished in pretty much the same breath."

I blinked at the pronouncement, said obviously from second-hand knowledge. "Really?"

"He doesn't stay anywhere long enough for him to care, I think."

"Ah." There was some part of that which I could almost imagine like Holmes, a man in a black mood randomly who went about solving problems and refusing whatever he could for as long as he could, the thrill of the 'game' being more important then rewards.

The woman looked over at me before saying, "I'm not crazy, you know."

"No, no, I believe you," I told her, straightening before leaning forward and adding, "Not that if you have proof I wouldn't want to see it, if only to help convince Holmes that it's not you who wish me harm. I'm still quite put-out that my stories were misread in such a way as well."

The truth is I understood it to some respects. I had been to at least one signing of a recent story, The Hound of the Baskervilles, that had proved to be book-length, and was accosted by a few people who believed I shouldn't be Holmes' friend or biographer due to the events from "The Final Problem", the news that he was really alive, and due to him leaving me 'unguarded and alone' to face any danger during the adventure on the moor, as well as on other adventures which I had written about. At least one felt I was 'under appreciated' as a biographer and should leave, and still another offered that they didn't see how I could call someone as 'self-centered' as Holmes a friend. At the same time, my calm words and demeanor seemed to stop many of the questions or accusations, and I had not spoken to Holmes about it, though I am sure he is aware of some of the ideas put forth and has gotten his fair share of complaints about me or about my treatment.

"I am sorry," I finally said with a smile, "I didn't get your name."

She smiled at me, obviously happy to see how well I was taking the odd news. "It's Donna Noble. A pleasure to meet you, Doctor Watson."