John slept soundly in the bed next to Sherlock, who was wide awake, staring up at the ceiling. There was a noise outside, one he had never heard before. It was akin to the sound engines, but not of engines he had heard before, these ones where wheezing outside on the street as a gentle light flashed through the curtains.
The detective leaned over and kissed John lightly on the forehead before he stepped out of the room and went down the stairs in his dressing gown, revolver tucked into the waistband of his pajamas. He creaked open the door and stepped out into the cold, barren street to find a 1950's style blue police public call box not fifty feet away.
He cautiously approached it, finding it incredibly strange— alien, even— to see the box appear so suddenly in the middle of the night. Was he dreaming? He looked around for tell-tale signs, pinching his arm slightly, no, he decided, this was real.
The door to the police box opened up and a man stepped out of it, above-average height, long billowing tan trench coat over his brown and blue pinstriped suit, majestic brown hair styled into a floppy fauxhawk. He seemed happy enough as he strode out of the box, even though— if you looked closely enough— you could read the loneliness and age in his deep brown eyes. He looked around, a little confusion shone in his eyes, as he searched for clues as to where— or when— he was. Then, he caught sight of the thin, disheveled detective and smiled widely, "Hello," he said, taking a few steps forwards, "Do you mind telling me where I am?"
Sherlock eyed the other man quizzically, reading him up and down, understanding that he was a very old time traveler, he returned the smile cautiously before replying, "London, 2012. Baker Street, about one o'six in the morning."
"Ah, of course," he looked around, it looked a little different the last time he was here, even though it only would have been a couple months before, if you were choosing a linear timeline, "I'm The Doctor," he said, extending a hand out to Sherlock, who took it in his own and gave it a firm shake.
"Sherlock Holmes," he said, "You're also an alien, I see. Very old, if I was to give it a number, I'd say… a thousand, but, you have just lost a companion. A… lover, I'd say? So, I'd place you at about nine hundred and… six? You're also the last of your kind, judging by the the loneliness in your eyes and your general demeanor."
The Doctor eyed him curiously, nodding, understanding the deduction and the way the man's mind worked, "Did you say you were Sherlock Holmes? The Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.
"Yes," he said, looking him up and down again, eyes growing more curious. He was going to be important later on, he could tell, "Is that a problem?" he replied.
The Doctor stuck out his lower lip slightly, shaking his head, "No, no, not a problem at all," he said, suddenly smiling, "Do you want to take a little trip? I can have you back before morning."
Sherlock shrugged, it was beginning to become a lot colder out there on the street anyway, and the man seemed to have honestintentions, "Might as well," he said, following The Doctor into the blue box. His eyes widened as he stepped inside the TARDIS, "Uh, no," he said, waving around the interior, "No. This is impossible, I won't have this."
The Doctor smiled sadly, looking at Sherlock, "But, you see, it's bigger on the inside! That's what's so great about it!" he said, the best part about showing new people in was the shock and awe of it, but Sherlock was simply refusing to take it in.
Sherlock backed up towards the door, "No, physics doesn't work like this. No, I'm sorry, Doctor," he said, eyes still wandering aimlessly and curiously around the control room.
"Just one trip, please, that's all I'm asking. One little trip," he pleaded, "I have somewhere I want to take you."
Sherlock sighed, it wasn't as though he would be getting any sleep anyway, "Fine," he said, "But I'm keeping my eyes closed until we get there," he sat on the floor by the door and the engines started again, wheezing loudly as they left Baker Street and resurfaced in London, 1895.
They stepped out of the police box and into the streets. Hansoms rattled down the busy streets and women in ruffly dresses shuffled along the walk ways, "Why did you take me here?" Sherlock asked, seeing no possible connection between him and the era.
"There's someone I want you to meet," he said, leading Holmes down the street until they stopped at a corner and pointed towards a rotund, mustached man, "That," he said, "Is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I doubt he will ever forget you."