Bored, John thought.
It was a lazy Sunday in 221b, a thing that was still very new to him. It had been some time since he had had the luxury of doing nothing on a Sunday afternoon. Now he would give anything to be dragged from one end of London to the other, chasing some half-explained lead that he wouldn't fully understand until the cab ride home, if then.
Maybe I could phone Lestrade, he mused, Maybe he has a new case. Weekends are always good for murder, Sherlock said. But no, Lestrade seemed to have learned his lesson about letting people onto his crime scenes, and had been extremely closed about his work on the few occasions he and John had spoken since Sherlock's death.
His thoughts were inturrupted by a knock on the downstairs door. Who could that be? He wondered. Mrs. Hudson never bothered to knock, and Mycroft hadn't been round since the day he'd come to collect his brother's posessions.
John pushed himself up out of his chair by the fire and made his way down the steps to the door. He tugged it open and suddenly found himself face to face with a tall man in a red bowtie and a ridiculously wide grin.
"John!" the man exclaimed. "Fantastic to see you again, absolutely fantastic! How've you been?"
"Do-do I know you?" John asked as the stranger pushed past him into the entry hall and bounded up the stairs to 221b. John follwed him as quick as he could manage. "You've redecorated!" the stranger cried, evidently not listening. "Very clean now, isn't it? How did you get him to pick up his things?"
"I-what?" John stammered, entering the flat behind his self-invited guest. "I don't think-"
"Never mind" the man said, cutting him off. "So sorry John, I would love to stay and chat, but I really must speak with Sherlock. Where is he?"
A ringing silence fell across the flat.
"Ah . . . er, you do remember me, right? Or have I . . . OH!" The man jumped backwards, his hands flying to his already wild hair. "Right, right, new face, I keep forgetting." he muttered, running a hand across his chin. "Right!" he said again, straigtening his bowtie, "Sorry John, I ran into a spot of trouble since we last met, and, well . . . anyway, it's me, the Doctor!"
John had not moved an inch since the man's last question. After a moment of dead space the Doctor shifted uncomfortably. "Remember?" he prompted. "Scadrial? You and Sherlock helped me-oh I don't have time for this, John! Where is Sherlock, I really must speak with him. I need his outside opinion on something. Someone, rather."
"Is this some sort of joke?" John managed.
"What? No, why would this be funny? Listen John! I really must get back, I've left Amy alone with what may or may not be a Shifter, and I need Sherlock to help me tell whether its who it claims to be, now where is he?"
John just stared at him, trying to decide if this Doctor was as crazy as he sounded.
"Dead." He finally responded. "Sherlock's dead."
It was the Doctor's turn to be speechless, though not for long. Nothing could shut this man up. "What? When? How?"
"Jumped off a building." John muttered. "Where've you been the past month?"
"Jumped off a building . . . but—" he stopped abruptly, eyes widening. "John, quickly, what year is it?"
"2012," John answered flatly.
"Twelve." The Doctor smacked himself in the forehead with what seemed an undue amount of force. "Blast it, the focus continium is still off! John, I am so so terribly sorry. If you would do me a favor and forget I was ever here. Forget everything I've said, I'll just be off. Goodbye John, It was nice to meet you!" and with that the bizzare man fled down the stairs and out the front door before Watson could open his mouth.
John blinked hard a few times and slowly returned to his chair by the fireplace.
What the hell did that mean?