It was early autumn in 221B Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were spending the morning in the flat. It had been an average Sunday and neither man had spoken for several hours, both just content to sit in comfortable silence. Sherlock was staring out of the window, searching for something, anything. Just any detail out of place, anything to relieve the mind numbing boredom that had set in over the last few days. No cases. No news. His hand was twitching at his side, unnoticed by all occupants of the flat. Just four beats over, and over. One finger at a time.

Watson was resting in his favourite arm chair, paper in hand, trusty mug of tea by the side. The perfect Sunday set up. He was watching Sherlock. One doesn't flat share with the world's only consulting detective without picking up a thing or two after all! Sherlock was motionless apart from his left hand. Perhaps he was thinking of fingering for his violin? Oh yes. John was getting good at this. As he watched the man he lived with, he began to consider their relationship. He had noticed a change in recent months. Sherlock was beginning to let John into his life, and the two were becoming friends. Quite close friends actually, and although John had been out with women recently, he just couldn't get the detective out of his head, and none of them had worked out. That prick. Now he was going to ruin his sex life as well! Anyway John was sure Sherlock would never see him as more than a friend. God, he was lucky Sherlock considered him human most of the time! Sometimes he could swear Sherlock forgot he wasn't part of the furniture. And what was Sherlock anyway?! John had never seen him with a man, or a woman besides form that Adler woman, who he now refuses to talk about. John was staring to have trouble seeing Sherlock as anything other than asexual.

The silence had gone on long enough, and he scanned the room searching for anything to use as a conversation starter. His eyes fell on a silver watch that was lying on a pile of books above the fireplace. So John spoke. Simple words that would change everything.

'Sherlock, where did that watch come from?'

Sherlock pried his eyes away from the pavement, but did not look round, 'John I don't wear a watch, has your brain become so dull you're actually seeing things now?'

The doctor sighed, 'No Sherlock, despite popular opinion, I'm not that thick. The fob watch, on the mantel piece?'

Sherlock turned to face John, a blank expression on his face.

'Good god' John whispered. 'You really are out of it today aren't you? Sherlock. It's been there since we moved in. Right next to the skull as always'

John rose from his chair, and wandered over to the fireplace. Lying next to Sherlock's pet skull was a small pocket watch. There were markings on the front, an intricate arrangement of lines and circles, that reminded John of the patterns left by crop circles. He lifted it up, and was surprised to find it heavy, much heavier than he had expected. As if that one watch contained the weight of the universe. And it was cold. Colder than metal should be. The chain snaked down his wrist causing him to shiver, and just for a second... a whisper. Then it was gone, fading away into the apartment. A voice on the breeze. John frowned and stuck a finger in his ear, before holding the item up for Sherlock to see.

'Yep, there we have it! Silver, old by the looks of it, and completely forgotten by the great Sherlock Holmes! Wait, until I tell Mycroft about this, he'll have a field day!' John laughed. 'So, where is it from?'

Sherlock blinked, 'I don't know, it's not important John. It's just one of those things'

John stared at his flatmate, shock evident upon his face. 'You don't have 'those things' Sherlock. You know every detail of this flat. Seriously, you don't recognise it all all?'

Sherlock took a step forward, exasperated. 'What does it matter! It's of no importance. I'm brilliant with or without it, why should I care?'

'Because this isn't like you Sherlock! This morning you told me I had shaving foam on my cheek before I had even turned to face you! You notice things.'

The taller man snorted, 'An obvious deduction seeing as you smelled more strongly of the stuff than the towel you should have used to wipe your face on, and another thi-'

'Sherlock!' John interrupted his ramblings. 'I.. I guess it doesn't matter. But think about it, you are aware of everything. I bet you could tell me what was on my bedside table right now. But you didn't even know you owned this. Doesn't that seem... odd to you?'

John stood to exit the room, mug in hand. At the door he turned to face Sherlock. 'Maybe' he smirked. 'Maybe you're losing your touch'.

Sherlock stood stock still. This was ridiculous. Losing his touch? Him! Sherlock Holmes. He was a genius, and he knew it.

'I'll prove it' he thought. 'Johns bedside table; half an apple, started last night on a whim as a bedtime snack, he wasn't really hungry; one glass of water – half full, a copy of 'The Radio Times' wouldn't be like John to fall behind on his soaps, (Though he would never admit it) and one alarm clock set to 6.30. A military man never really steps out of his army boots'

A smirk played on the detectives lips. 'Losing his touch' ha! The concept was laughable.

'Still' Part of his brain insisted, 'you really had forgotten about that watch'.

Sherlock frowned. 'Ah yes. The watch.' Slightly problematic, and certainly unusual, but not an issue. The information was sure to be stored safely away in his mind palace. He only needed to find his way back.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

-Open mind palace-

Searching...

'Pocket watches the most common type of watch from their development in the 16th century until wristwatches became popular after WWI during which a transitional design, trench watches were used by the military. Pocket watches generally have an attached chain to allow them to be secured to a waistcoat, lapel, or belt loop, and to prevent them from being dropped...'

No! Not all pocket watches. This one. Right here above my fireplace, next to my skull.

Even as he thought of it he could feel his consciousness drifting away, as if fighting to forget the object again.

'Concentrate!' he scolded himself out loud. This was strange. Very strange. Sherlock Holmes could remember anything. He could remember a fountain pen borrowed from a colleague five years ago. He remembered the slight scratch on the side, most probably caused by being kept in a pencil case. But he couldn't remember this watch. His watch. An object in his possession! Even now he was having trouble recalling the bloody patterns on the thing, and John had held it up to him not five minutes ago.

-Open mind palace-

Searching...

Patterns – recent; speckles on the murder victim, the one John named 'the speckled blonde'; celtic runes; hieroglyphics on the Rosetta stone; crop circles. Nothing! Nothing of the watch.

Sighing, Sherlock turned away from his position at the window, and strode across the room. There it was! How could he have forgotten it? It's right there. It's his watch. A broken watch he's always had.

Yes that was it. The broken pocket watch Sherlock has had his whole life.

'But where did you get it?' The voice in his head popped up.

'I don't know! Mycroft will have given it to me! And it's broken anyway.'

'You know that's not true. You made it up. How do you know it's broken if you've never looked at it properly?'

And it was true. Although he was certain that the watch was broken, he couldn't remember ever having looked at it closely. Had he ever seen the dial? Was it really broken at all? He could feel himself being drawn to the object still lying in front of him. He was staring at it. Curiosity flooded through him. His only thought the watch and what it meant for him. The broken, forgotten fob watch that Sherlock Holmes had somehow erased from his memory.

He reached out his hand, and picked it up. One word. One word reverberates through his brain, shaking cells and clearing everything else out of his mind.

'Timelord...'

That word, completely foreign. Completely familiar. Hadn't that word been visiting him in dreams for years? Sneaking into his head while his mind was occupied by more important things. And the voice, his voice. Because it had been his voice hadn't it? But it sounded so different. The voice had sounded old and powerful and terrifying. Sherlock Holmes, the man who stares down the barrel of a gun and laughs, was scared.

But still the watch was calling him. 'It is time' It said. '..open'. Trembling he raised his forefinger to the top of the watch, and ran it over the catch. Summoning all the courage he could muster, he pressed his finger down, and opened the watch.

The front of the watch flew open, and the dial was revealed. A light was spilling out of the watch, glowing shining, speaking to Sherlock. The light reached his eyes and he was bombarded with images, emotions, sounds. The pain of a dying race, doomed by one of it's own. A thousand years of travelling, alone. Always alone. And running, so much running away. Away from enemies, with friends. Monsters, lost love, impossible things! The very secrets of the universe were flooding through Sherlock's mind. The mind of a genius was overpowered by the knowledge, so many years, so much information. His brain was being stretched, altered by the strange images. But they were his images. He remembered them all now. Memories of different faces on different worlds with different people. But they were defiantly his memories from his life.

The fog was starting to clear now. Sherlock's brain was adapting. But he wasn't Sherlock Holmes was he? Not really. He was so much more.

It was then that John Watson came running into the room. 'Sherlock! Are you ok? I saw a light and...Oh god you didn't make an explosion did you?'

The light had faded by now as it had moved into Sherlock's body, the light of the universe was residing in a tall floppy haired man from baker street.

'I'm sorry John.' He said, 'I really am, but Sherlock Holmes isn't here.'

'Sherlock, what the hell are you talking about?'

'Don't you get it John? Sherlock was a creation'

John stared at his friend. A thousand thoughts were racing across his mind. Not this again, 'Sherlock, we agreed, I trust you. It doesn't matter what the papers are saying. I believe in Sherlock Holmes' John almost sighed. This had to be a major step backwards. Sherlock was obviously doubting himself again, starting to believe the scandals published in the tabloids. 'Not now' he thought. 'we're so much closer, he was letting me in.' And John was right. Sherlock Holmes had begun to consider John as a friend, more than a friend perhaps. But the man standing in front of him was no longer Sherlock Holmes.

'John, I'm sorry. But Sherlock Holmes is a fake'

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