Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the intruder, annoyed. The mischievous grin faded from his lips. He let the cold mask set into his face, watched as the intruder squirmed. He hid the pleasure it gave him from his eyes.
"Now," Sherlock said in a midnight voice. Power shook through his words like thunder despite the hushed tone. "Tell me who you are and what you're doing here, and maybe—just maybe—you will leave my flat without so much as a collapsed lung."
The man swallowed hard. An impish smile played at his lips, but his eyes betrayed his fear. He raised his hands in front of him in submission. "I've told you already!" He glanced hurriedly around the room, trying desperately to find a way to escape. Sherlock smiled coldly. There wasn't any getting out of this that easily. "I'm the Doctor," the man whined desperately, sending a pleading look to John, who stood just behind Sherlock's left shoulder. Sherlock glanced at John. His arms were crossed, his back straight, his legs spread shoulder-width. A hard look on his face. There would be no sympathy from him.
"Doctor what, exactly?" John said, his voice tense. The intruder's face showed the ghost of a disappointed smile. His hands fell to his sides. "If you wish..." he muttered, but before either man could ask, the Doctor perked up again. "C'mon, Sherlock, I'm here because I need your help. You remember me, don't you? You were just a little thing when we met, and I suppose a looked a little different... Completely different, actually."
A fleeting memory. Being out in the garden as a child, hearing a strange noise coming from the forest behind the house. A man emerging from the trees, calling himself the Doctor and nothing else. Another man, not this one.
Sherlock bristled. "Don't play games with me, Doctor," he spat the word, taking a step toward the intruder, who took a step back in kind, toward the door. "I can prove it!" the man squeaked, shoving his hand into his pocket. A moment later he had a strange apparatus in his hand—strange, yet familiar.
"Remember this?" he said hopefully, holding it out for Sherlock. Sherlock didn't touch it. Rolling his eyes slightly, the Doctor held it in front of his face. "The sonic screwdriver. If I remember correctly, you thought it was a fairy wand when you first saw it."
John sputtered a laugh. Sherlock shot him a look. John shrugged. "Where did you get that?" Sherlock asked the Doctor, pointing to the thing, the sonic screwdriver. The Doctor looked offended. "I made it," he said defensively, cradling the apparatus like his child.
Sherlock paused, beginning to doubt himself. Could it really be...?
"Doctor...?"
The Doctor beamed. "There we are, Sherly!"
Unable to contain himself any longer, John burst out laughing. "Sherly?!" he snorted, wiping tears from his grinning face. Sherlock scowled. "Might I remind you, John, of the nicknames of your childhood that Harry was so kind as to share with me?"
John stopped laughing, muttering something that sounded a lot like "Prat". Turning to the Doctor, he said, "I'm sorry, er, Doctor, but my colleague has never mentioned…" he let the phrase hang in the air. The Doctor smiled pleasantly. "Really, no mention of me, Sherlock? I'd be offended if you weren't, well, you." The Doctor addressed John, "I'm the Doctor. I'm a Time Lord. An alien—and no, I'm not kidding." He winked.
Sherlock turned back to the Doctor. "What is it that you need help with, Doctor? And, not to be rude, but make sure it's interesting." The Doctor smiled. "Oh, I can assure you," he said, drifting past the two men and dropping lazily onto the couch, "this's one's a screamer."
Sherlock and John followed the Doctor's suit, John sitting stiffly next to the Doctor and Sherlock perching on his chair. "Do tell," he said, his interest perked.
"I'm looking for two men, recently seen in London," the Doctor leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "They've kidnapped a friend of mine."
Already, Sherlock's interest was waning. He was about to tartly decline the case when the Doctor continued, "from the records I've received, these men are wanted in America for multiple murders, kidnappings, grave-robbing, what-have-you. If you can name it, they've done it."
Sherlock stood, already working through the clues in his head. "Names?" he called as he strode across the room, grabbing his and John's coats from the rack.
The Doctor stood, a solemn look on his face. "Sam and Dean Winchester."