At a temporary flat, the sea of a sensual melody flows out of the beautiful, small mahogany string instrument that is in the clasp of a pale hand that has fingers longer than a string of tangled lies. The bow glides across the taught strings like an eagle in flight. The room was a forest of scattered clothing items that seemed to be used for incognito purposes; the attire ranged from hooded sweatshirts to well made suits. The window that was near the sweet sound maker overlooked a main artery of London itself, Oxford Street. The red and white blood cells of people flowed through the sidewalks with utter ease stopping at almost every store and shopping until they dropped. Taxis and cars had filled the streets transporting people to where they ought to be. The sky was the colour of cigarette smoke and as if on queue, a torrent of rain poured from buckets onto the innocent bystanders below. The darkening of the sky draped the violinist's flat in mischievous shadows that seemed to overpower every ounce of joy. The red sofa had turned a malicious blood red and the pale yellow walls had turned into a murky goldenrod pigment. The beige flooring had turned russet and the unevenly distributed garbs painted shadows in the shape of apparitions onto the floor and nearby furniture and walls. The kitchen was similar to the rest of the flat, dark and dimly lit by the lacking sunshine from outside. The charming noise that erupted from the violin had been cut short by the frustrated violinist. Playing an instrument and living a double life are not easy, even for a man as clever as Sherlock Holmes.
As he began composing a new song once again, an uncanny monastral blue police box had materialized behind him near the sofa by the door. The abnormal sound that emanated from the alien contraption made Sherlock's composing stop abruptly once again and made him turn around in pure curiosity. Police boxes have not been around since the thirties and yet this one appeared to be unscathed or eroded; even the light still worked on the top! The only form of discharge from the box was smoke that looked like steam. Sherlock furrowed his brow at the oddity before him making his coal black curls bounce in excitement. As he meticulously put his violin down onto a nearby wooden chair the narrow door on the right hand side of the box had opened. A man whose attire consisted of a brown tweed jacket with auburn elbow patches with a white shirt underneath, a red bowtie, black trousers, thin braces to hold the trousers in place, and ankle high onyx boots had exited the bizarre box. The man also had a prominent jaw line and peculiarly styled brown hair.
"Oh, hello there!" The man announced to Sherlock as he gingerly shut the door.
Sherlock immediately started to deduce this mysterious man bit by bit, "Let me guess," He responded deprecatingly, "You're a nine hundred year old alien, the last of your kind, that police box behind you is your time machine, this is practically the past for you since you're wearing a red tie instead of a blue one, and you're here for a reason."
The man's eyes widened as he stammered, "W-Well aren't you straightforward? However, you've missed the most important deduction," he smirked, "I'm pretty clever, too."
"Well with nine hundred plus years of traveling through time and space under your belt, it's only natural to pick up on some things."
"Blimey, you're a snarky one."
Sherlock put his arms behind his back, "It tends to be a prominent quality of mine."
"Well, if you didn't know already I go by the Doctor."
"That's good. It would be rather tediousto call you by anything other than your name. Now I just have one question, why are you here?"
"You should make tea."
The flat on Baker Street was a mute trying to scream. The living room only consisted of the unmoved clutter and one depressed man who now let a waterfall of Jack Daniels destroy his unsuspecting liver. The room was flooded by small pools of dim luminosity that came from artificial light sources. The pathetic man sat in his usual chair staring at the vacant one in front of him. Other than the sound of melodramatic sighs and the soft noise of rain pelting the nearby window, the flat was deathly silent. Suddenly, the reverberation of knocking at the door ringed at the man's ears. He quickly rose from his seat, grabbed his cane, and answered the door to the most unexpected visitor.
The young woman was tall, big breasted, and had a long inferno of carroty hair. The man marveled at how she towered him by at least a head or two. She was of medium build and was closing up her navy blue umbrella as he opened the door. Her apparel was a red fedora, a Naples yellow button down shirt with an olive coloured waistcoat, jade corduroy trousers, and a tan, papery pea coat that nearly covered the torso of this attractive girl. Her large emerald eyes looked down on the man endearingly; her pale skin and freckles made her look like the most pleasant girl you would ever lay eyes on.
Her voice radiated compassion and an American accent, "Hello. John Watson, I presume?"
"Um yes, may I ask who you are?"
"The name's Summer and it is a pleasure to finally meet you."
John rested onto his cane and asked with inquisitiveness, "Finally meet me?"
"Yes. Don't fret, I'll explain everything. May I come in?"
"Uh yes," he stepped away from the doorway to allow her in, "of course."
When Summer sauntered inside, she oddly placed her umbrella onto the floor near the door. She then noticed the nearly empty bottle of whiskey near the crimson chair, "Been drinking I see."
"Yeah, I should put that away," he hobbled over and snatched the bottle, "Would you like some tea?"
"That would be lovely." Summer took off her coat and draped it on the desolate chair John would always gawk at as she sat on it. As John was in the kitchen preparing the Earl Grey tea, she glimpsed around the room. "Well this flat has changed since the last time I was here" she remarked nonchalantly.
John nearly dropped a tea cup, "Y-You've been here before?"
She chuckled, "I think I recall telling you that I'll explain everything. Now go back to making my tea, Martha."
This girl has an attitude, John thought, maybe she has met Sherlock. "Tea's ready" Summer walked over and clutched onto her cup and meandered back to her seat; John then did the same.
Once the two were seated, Summer began leisurely, "I would sip your tea slowly, this is going to take awhile." She drummed her fingers on the left arm of the cobalt chair, "Hmm….where should we start?"
John took a sip of tea, "From the beginning, I suppose."
Sherlock had prepared tea and the Doctor was sitting on the sofa feeling the leather. "Lovely couch," the Doctor commented. The glass coffee table in front of the sofa contained two coasters, one near the Doctor and one away from him on the other edge of the table. Sherlock handed him the cup filled with the brunette liquid from behind the sofa, "Ah, thank you." Sherlock then pulled up a blue loveseat by the opposite side of the table and then placed the steaming mug onto the coaster.
"So, where should we begin?" Sherlock asked.
The Doctor peered around the room, "How about all this clutter? Blimey, haven't you heard of drawers?"
"Irrelevant. Now tell me why you're here and how you found me."
"Well the TARDIS can find anybody, anywhere and the other question isn't as easy to answer."
"And why not?"
"Well frankly, you were the one that made things complicated."
Sherlock shrugged indifferently, "It's a bad habit."
"I can tell," the Doctor took a sip of tea, "Anyway, my duty is to save you humans emotionally and physically. Your friend," he swallowed, "John is it? He's completely heartbroken that you jumped off that building."
"Why do you even care about him?"
"I care because he's important. It's also because there's nothing worse than seeing someone die when they still exist. Understand?"
"You must know it feels, to die but still live."
The Doctor's lip twitched, "More than you'll ever know."
"That's why you do this, isn't it? This whole saving humanity thing is just so you don't see people suffer as much as you have. But you've obviously failed multiple times."
His tone had gotten more indignant, "Yes, yes I have failed. It doesn't mean I'm a failure as a person."
Sherlock smirked, "You must tell yourself that a lot."
The Doctor had gotten more somber, "Every chance I get."
Sherlock detected his sullen expression was getting them both nowhere, "Anyway, what's your plan?"
"My…plan?"
"Yes, don't you have one to get John and me to reunite?"
"Plans are for amateurs because they always fail."
Sherlock grinned slightly, "I thought I was the only one who thought that."
"I guess we have more in common than we thought."
"Apparently so."
"Anywho," the Doctor took another taste of tea, "I need to ask you some questions."
"Go right ahead."
Summer sighed, "The beginning huh? Well that's not gonna be easy."
John replied, "Just do the best you can."
"Well let's see, it was five years ago when I was thirteen. I saw him in my parents' flat with my parents dead on the ground. Both of my parents were executed."
"Executed?"
"Yeah, their arms were tied behind their backs and the bullets exited through their foreheads. On their corpses there were the Bloods' gang symbol spray painted in red; obviously they were in a gang I didn't know about until that day. I still wonder why they joined one."
"Wow, that's….pretty intense for a thirteen year old."
"Oh I got over it, especially after what they did."
"What did they do?"
"Spoilers."