Author's Note: My first foray into the Doctor Who fandom. If all goes well this will be a five plus one with John meeting the Doctor in various situations. I have vague ideas for the next five chapters. Tell me what you think! I do not own Doctor Who or Sherlock and never will.

John got mugged in the stupidest way; he was blindsided while running another crazy errand for Sherlock.

Before John had met his genius yet sometimes spectacularly ignorant flat mate, he had never made evening trips to strange pawn shops in order to inquire after a man who had pawned a large collection of watches recently. As it was, he had gone to three shabby establishments so far, searching for Sherlock's suspect.

"Are you a cop?" The proprietor of the fourth pawn shop John had entered in two hours asked.

"I work for Scotland Yard. As a consultant." Only a small lie.

"And the Yard is wondering how many watches we have?" The man raised a greasy eyebrow. "Are we under investigation?"

John smiled tightly. "Not that I know of. All we need to know is if a man came in wanting to pawn a large collection of Rolex watches."

Sherlock hadn't told John much about this particular case—"Barely a four, John. Hardly worth a full investigation."—all John knew was there had been a rash of robberies involving Rolex watches. Sherlock was called in because the last two robberies ended in murder.

"This man kill somebody?" The pawn shop proprietor looked far too interested in the subject of murder.

"Yes. Could you answer my question?" John was too tired to deal with bloodthirsty shop-owners.

"No watches. Sorry." The man grimaced at him.

John sighed. "Thanks." The sentiment was said without any real gratitude.

Exiting the pawn shop, John saw the last of the sunlight disappearing. John's sigh turned into a yawn and he pulled out his phone to inform Sherlock he was done for the night.

'Four shops, no luck. Are you sure the suspect stole the watches to pawn them?' He texted Sherlock.

Sherlock responded in two minutes, the time it took for John to walk down the road and onto a nearly empty street.

'He needed to get rid of the evidence quickly and he also needed money. A pawn shop is the obvious choice." -SH

John was beginning to type a response when he was shoved from behind.

He staggered forward to keep his balance. Three men surrounded him.

"I have no money." John said into the expectant silence. This was a lie, however. Sherlock probably wouldn't miss his credit card if it was stolen but John would, after all, he was the one who paid all of their joint expenses.

The biggest of them stepped forward to restrain John while another punched John in the stomach. John struggled, breaking one of his arms free and swinging blindly behind him, hitting the man who was restraining him.

John threw a punch and hit one of the men, breaking his nose. While he groaned and clutched his nose, John kicked him hard on the shins.

The second and third men began raining punches on John's face and torso. John fought back wildly; no technique, just a fight to protect himself.

The man with the broken nose was ordering his goons to just take John's wallet and run.

"He's puttin' up a fight. I can't get to his pockets." One man responded.

"Push him down."

The goons obliged, knocking John roughly to the pavement so that John's head bounced off the hard cement. Once he was down, the men kicked him to keep him there.

John groaned and felt tears of pain and shock rise to his eyes. He stopped fighting and lay curled up on the ground as the men rummaged his pockets.

"His phone is broken. Too bad. It's a good model." The biggest goon muttered. He kicked John hard and triumphantly said, "That's for my nose."

John let his eyes flutter close and listened to the retreating footsteps of the men.

His ribs felt bruised and tender, and he definitely had a concussion. John inwardly cursed Sherlock for his fool errands to the shadiest places in London.

John felt shame overtake the pain he was in; he was a soldier, he shouldn't be put out of commission so easily.

As he was debating whether to get up and stumble home—going to the police was pointless, and a hospital was unnecessary—or lay on the pavement until his ears stopped ringing, John heard the sound of a whooshing, squealing engine.

He kept his eyes closed, not entirely sure he hadn't imagined the noise.

When he heard squeaky hinges indicating a door opening and then footsteps, John opened his eyes. And then someone tripped over him.

A tall man stood over him, slightly off balance because he had stumbled over John lying prone on the ground.

"Whoa, hello! Sorry about that! I've never been good at landing. But, look at the bright side, eh? At least, the Tardis didn't land on you!"

Peering down at John, the man made his apologetic speech. The man's hair hung down in his eyes; he had sharp cheekbones and a prominent chin.

John blinked the fatigue out of his eyes and tried to form a coherent thought through the throbbing in his head. This man seemed to have just stepped out of a phone box. A phone box that had just appeared out of nowhere.

John shut his eyes again tightly and thought, I must've hit my head really hard.

"You hit your head?"

Oh. He'd said that out loud.

"Is that why you're on the ground? You'll have to forgive my lapse—I'm feeling a bit slow and stupid today. Haven't been among humans in ages. Do you need to see a doctor?" The man who had emerged from the phone box chuckled at this last statement as if it were a funny joke.

John tried to push himself up, but was hindered by a stabbing protest from his bruised ribs.

John couldn't even remember if hallucinations were a symptom of a concussion. Despite not fully believing the man who had emerged from the blue phone box was real, John responded.

"Uh, no. I don't need a doctor. I'm a doctor." John said, bringing his hands to his head and compressing it as the pain had elevated after he spoke.

"Really? A real one? That's exciting. Do you need help getting up? Who hurt you? Was it an alien with tentacles? Lots of teeth? Suckers? I've met one with all of the above."

When John opened his eyes the man (possibly elaborate hallucination) was beaming down at John. John didn't know which of the man's questions to answer first.

"Yes, I'm a real doctor. Yes, some help would be great, thanks. And no, no, uh, aliens involved in my injuries, just a couple members of greedy humanity." John's head gave another painful throb and he groaned. Why was this man talking about aliens?

The strange man made a disapproving noise as he helped John sit up, and lean against the blue phone box. "Your own species." The man said, "It's a real shame when violence is the only way to settle issues."

The man crouched next to John and smiled at him. "Sorry again about tripping over you. I'm normally great at first impressions."

"That's alright." John couldn't look away from the man; there was no way his imagination was this elaborate. And talkative.

"Wouldn't have set down here in London at all, but the Tardis has gone wibbly." The strange man said, patting the phone box almost affectionately, "I knocked something important loose on the console the other day. Volleyball. Dangerous game. Amy's forever reprimanding me for playing with the ball in the engine room. Now I'm strictly forbidden to the volleyball court."

In an upright position, John's ribs felt even more tender and bruised. His head was spinning and he felt vaguely nauseous. He needed to get home and put some ice on his injuries and yet here he was, making no effort to get up and listening to the man with a shock of brown hair and high cheekbones talk about a broken console in his... phone box. The man was still beaming at him. John thought it must be exhausting to smile as much as this man seemed to.

"I don't think I got your name." John tried talking quietly so as not to cause another flare of pain in his head. It didn't work.

"Oh right. I'm the Doctor." Still smiling.

"The Doctor." Another burst of pain. "That's it? Just the Doctor? Doctor who?"

The man's smile got impossibly wider. "If you like. What about you? I haven't gotten your name. All I know about you is you're a doctor and you have a penchant for getting attacked in alleyways."

John sighed. "John. John Watson." He said. "And I don't have a penchant for being attacked."

"Nice to meet you, John Watson, despite the unpleasant circumstances." The man said, holding out a hand for John to shake.

John obliged, then stared at the man, trying to decide once and for all if his concussion had created a detailed hallucination. He—the Doctor—wore a tweed jacket and suspenders. His red bow tie was lopsided.

"I... I don't mean to be rude. But, who the hell are you?" John had decided the man was real. He would never be able to dream up something as strange as this.

"I told you: I'm the Doctor."

"Right. Okay." John guessed no other name was forthcoming. "Well, I'd love to stay and chat Mr. Doctor—"

"Just the Doctor."

"But I have to get home. Sherlock's probably having a panic attack because I haven't responded to his text yet." John vaguely recalled his muggers saying his phone was broken, and he looked around for the device.

Locating it, John saw that it was indeed shattered.

"Oh, that's a shame." The Doctor said, looking at John's phone. "The sonic might be able to fix it, but it could also give it an update that you wouldn't see accomplished for several centuries."

John decided not to ask what a 'sonic' was and why it could make his phone a technological miracle.

"Who's Sherlock?" The Doctor asked.

"My flat mate." John's head throbbed with a vengeance, as though punishing John for neglecting his injuries thus far. "I have to get home."

"Are you sure you don't need to go to the hospital?" The Doctor narrowed his eyes at John, "You're getting blood on my Tardis. I'll have to get disinfectant wipes as well as duck tape."

"Duck tape?" John scooted forward and saw that the Doctor was right: he had blood soaking the back of his head and he had dirtied the blue box when he had leant his head back.

"Yes, duck tape. To repair my broken console. I knocked a knob loose."

"You mean duct tape."

"Hm. Are you sure? I've been calling it duck tape for a century." The Doctor looked thoughtful.

"I'm pretty sure it's called duct tape."

The Doctor pouted at this confirmation in a petulant way that reminded John of Sherlock.

"They should've called it duck tape. Maybe I'll talk to the inventor."

John's head throbbed again as he tried to process this sentence. "What? No. Never mind. I don't want to know. Can you give me a hand up?"

The Doctor stood up and held out a hand which John grasped. At John's loud groan upon standing, the Doctor made a noise of disapproval.

"You should go to the hospital."

"No. I'm a doctor, victims of muggings are just told to ice and get some rest. Going to the hospital won't accomplish anything." John said, unsteady now that he was standing.

"Alright. Well, being a good Samaritan, I'll help you back to your house."

John was too tired too deny the help. Nodding at John's expression of gratitude, the Doctor let John lean on him and together they walked down the street.

Once they made it to the main road, John hailed a cab.

"I can make it from here, Doctor." John said when the cab pulled up beside them.

During their short trip, John had tried not to let his imagination run away from him as he theorized about who this man was. It wasn't any of his business, and yet he couldn't help being curious.

"Goodbye, John Watson. It was a pleasure to meet you." The Doctor said with a smile as John got into the cab.

"Yeah, likewise. Thanks again for the help."

John closed the cab door, and watched the strange man's retreat back the way they had came as the cab pulled away from the curb.

John wondered if Sherlock would believe his odd encounter.