John knew Sherlock's homeless network was indispensable, but when Sherlock needs help on his newest case, they are used to summon a very different sort of Doctor...

You know I don't own this show, various writers and people do, so thanks to them for making drivel like this possible.

Sherlock scribbled the note quickly and concisely in his messy handwriting as he sat in the living room of 221B Baker Street. He was alone, which made it easier - No one could know the great Sherlock Holmes was asking for help. Sherlock admired his own work, and rolled it up in a crisp, new £50 note. He had to make sure this arrived. He walked swiftly out of the door, closing it quietly and striding out onto the street with a purpose.

He paced Baker Street, looking for a person who would make sure this arrived. He knew homeless people who resided here at times, and searched for one now. Suddenly, he saw the perfect candidate. Her life flashed before his eyes from 20 feet away. Sherlock took in her scars, her clothes, her hair. She was 16, having been kicked out of school. Her parents had beaten her, so she'd moved out 6 months ago. Having no place to go, she'd appreciate the money, Sherlock thought, but she'd been around long enough to know where to take this message. He'd used her before. She was safe.

He walked briskly up to where she was slumped in her khaki coat. She looked up with recognition, and Sherlock saw her wondering how she'd spend her gift. A hat, he deduced, and a cup of tea. The rest she'd save. It didn't matter to Sherlock, but he couldn't help noticing.

"Here," he handed her the money discreetly, the note concealed, "Buy yourself something nice." He smiled briefly and halfheartedly. He walked away, and the girl watched him leave before taking in the money.

A hat, she thought, for winter. And maybe some coffee at lunchtime. She grinned warmly in anticipation. She knew there was a note here, and she couldn't help but read it, though she knew it wouldn't make sense. It didn't:

"Get the Doctor," she muttered to herself, "We need him."

She didn't know what he meant, the mysterious man who gave her cryptic note, but she knew exactly how to find someone who would.

**4 Hours Earlier **

Lestrade stormed into the police office, a worried look on his face.

"You mean to say there's no witnesses?" Lestrade put his head in his hands, trying to think.

"None at all. It's the third time this month, and they've been completely untraceable." Anderson looked through the three missing person reports. He felt completely clueless, but the rest of the team were ill with the flu that had been going round, and only Lestrade and him had been unaffected. So helping and clueless he was.

"No body?" Lestrade couldn't get his head around it.

"For the last time, we don't know anything! There's no bodies, no witnesses, no complaints, no traceable phones, no notes, no blood! They're just gone. And the last place they were seen, all of them, was driving out of town by a traffic camera. They're just gone."

"Why are we treating them as suspicious, anyway?"

Anderson stood up to show Lestrade the reports on his desk. "You see, exactly 17 minutes after leaving London, the missing person would send a text. Every time. The location is untraceable, but unmistakably their number. It reads "You're next. :)" And it's always sent to the next victim."

"How do you know? I mean, I thought they went missing?" Lestrade ran his hand through his hair, frustrated at the confusing case.

"That's the thing, though," Anderson slumped back into his chair, defeated. "Both of the two most recent victims are reported by family members to have received the text, and shown people. The most recent victim, a 19 year old, put his text on Facebook as a joke. He didn't think any more of it, and now he's gone."

"Well, you know who to bring in. Just make it quick."

** Meanwhile **

"Bored!" Sherlock shouted out of the window, startling two students below. They looked up at him, shielding the sun from their eyes, then scuttled away. Sherlock gave a half smile - temporary entertainment.

It was true though. Without constant stimulation, genius minds begin to fester. His had been festering since the last case with the hallucinogenic drugs. What was it called on John's blog? The Hounds of Baskerville? He felt fidgety: he needed a case. There was no one at home: John was with another one of his series of short term girlfriends, and Mrs Hudson was God knows where. He disliked it when Mrs Hudson left. She was always guaranteed company, especially when John was gone. He missed John the most. He liked to chuckle at his expense, but they were friends, really. It was weird, having a "friend". It was always one of those incomprehensible normal people things, like church and reality TV. Thanks to John, he had tried two of the three. Television wasn't a substitute for friends, though. He'd never noticed he missed people before.

He got up, quickly, carefully, his movements minimal but still exaggerated. He walked over to his skull and picked it up, examining it.

"We're okay, aren't we?" Sherlock spoke softly to his skull. He remembered when his "friend" died and left him this skull. True, Sherlock had killed him, but he still considered him the first sort of friend he'd had.

He felt silly talking to it now though. Once, he'd spent whole days discussing cases with his skull. Now, he couldn't bring himself to strike up a conversation. He placed it back on the mantelpiece and promptly forgot about it.

He got as close to surprised as Sherlock Holmes ever did when the phone rang a few seconds later. He should have known...

He picked up: "I'll be there soon," he replied, without letting Anderson speak. He knew what he wanted, and couldn't be bothered to listen when he talked.

** 1 Hour Later **

"Sherlock, what took you so long?" Lestrade looked exasperated as Sherlock strolled into the station.

"Oh, you know, things to do, people to irritate..." He trailed off, glancing at Anderson, who rolled his eyes.

Lestrade watched the exchange and sighed. Sherlock was so petty at times. "Look, can we just get on? We're already behind, and we need to get this solved before it happens again."

"Fine." Sherlock looked away from Anderson, and sat down as far away as possible from him. He started to read the cases laid out on the desk. "Talk to me," he demanded.

"Well," Lestrade began. "We've got three missing people, nothing to go on, no leads, only texts. You can see there," Lestrade pointed to a piece of paper on his desk, "the first one, Becca Kennedy, showed none of the usual signs of depression, or abuse. She just didn't come back from work. It's the same with the others. The footage of them doesn't appear to be suspicious, and they don't look forced. They may have been mugged, we think, or-"

Sherlock interrupted him. "No, they've been kidnapped. Or killed."

Anderson looked at him. "How could you know? We haven't visited a crime scene, or interviewed a witness, you can't know!"

"I don't know if you've noticed, Anderson, but there isn't a crime scene, or a witness. So you can trust someone who knows what they're doing, or convince yourself that your fairy story is true. I suggest you stay on the right side, agreed?" Sherlock smirked at Anderson.

Lestrade nodded. "Sorry Anderson, but we should probably listen to him."

Anderson looked at his feet, humbled by his boss, then spoke: "But... How did the kidnapper or murderer force them to leave town..?"

Sherlock sighed. "He didn't force them, of course. He just found them on the way."

Lestrade nodded: "I suppose that makes sense. What now? How do we stop it happening again?"

"I don't..." Sherlock stopped himself. "Well, I don't know." Anderson smirked.

"Could we track texts?" Lestrade suggested, ignoring Anderson. "Ask people to look out for that text?"

"No." Sherlock stopped him. "If word gets out, it will become impossible to trace the text. People will use it as a joke, and our only warning will be gone."

"What about finding where they go 17 minutes later?" Lestrade was determined to solve the case.

"How? Thousands of people travel down that road every day. Do we track them all and see where they are 17 minutes later? It's impossible."

"Well," interjected Anderson, "What do we do?"

"I... Don't know." Sherlock was worried. He couldn't solve the case. What would people think? How many people would be taken? He couldn't stop it - it was his fault.

** 2 Hours Later **

Sherlock had gone to the lab to work on another case. He found he could often work out the answer to one case by working on another, so that was what he did. He sat at his microscope, pretending to work while he pondered the situation. Why would the victims leave their homes voluntarily? None of them were on their way to work, and it didn't seem like normal behaviour of any of them.

Sherlock sighed and got up from his chair. He'd set up a TV to play the traffic footage from the case across from where he was stood, to look for suspicious behaviour, and decided to play it again, examining the edges of the photos for extra details. Three times through, all of the tapes. They looked completely normal. Just ordinary people on their ordinary way, and now they were missing. Sherlock hated unsolved cases. He kicked a wastepaper basket in despair, then sat back down on his chair, running his hands through his hair. His shirt sleeves rode up at the gesture, and Sherlock saw a glimpse of something. He suddenly burst out laughing. He knew who was responsible, he just needed the help of a friend to catch them.

The Doctor.

**Meanwhile**

John was with his newest girlfriend, Carrie, when he received the message. It was going well, and he really liked her. Admittedly, he wasn't sure how long it would last, as she lived over two hours away, but it meant when he did go and see her he got to stay a few nights. He had arrived this morning to her house, and was planning to stay for the whole week. He hoped Sherlock would be okay without him, but he was putting that whole area of his life out of mind for the next week.

The text was simple, from an unknown number. John read it, frowned, then disregarded it, going back to discussing the merits of soap operas with Carrie. It wasn't important, he hoped, though he did wonder what it could mean:

"You're next. :)"

A/N: Sorry, I know everyone hates these things. I know this chapter is a bit Sherlock heavy, but we'll have more Doctor Who in the next chapter. I hoped you enjoyed the first chapter, if you did please review, because I'm not sure if I should carry this on. Thanks in advance for anything good or bad you have to say about the story, and if all goes to plan I'll have chapter two up in the next couple of weeks, although we'll see. I love you all, my dear readers, and hope you stick around for future updates. 3