I can't stop, so don't even ask me to try. Bit of Sherlock/Doctor Who because, well, who wouldn't? Tally-Ho!
The Science of Induction.
Sherlock Holmes wandered aimlessly around flat 221B, holding his violin in one hand and its bow in the other. Something was troubling him; he just couldn't put his finger on what. Something was wrong. Something was different. What? What was it? What?
"Sherlock?" A familiar voice filled Sherlock's mind, a voice he both respected and was easily irritated by.
"Not now, John. There's something wrong."
"Yes, there's-"
"Ssh." Sherlock put a finger to his lips, his bow almost hitting him in the face in the process. He didn't notice.
"Sherlock. Why is there-"
"Honestly, John. I'm trying to think. Do you have any idea how hard it is to try to think, when you're so used to your brain just doing that part for you?"
"Oh, none at all." John muttered sarcastically before turning his back to Sherlock. "But, really, Sherlock, why is there-"
"NOT NOW, JOHN." Sherlock practically threw his violin and bow down onto his chair in exasperation. "Something is wrong. What is it? What's wrong? John? What is it that's wrong?" He held up a hand. "Don't answer that, you're wrong."
John rolled his eyes and stepped into the kitchen, his eyes curiously scanning the object in his path.
"Don't you feel it, John? In the air, the atmosphere is different. The wind; it's changed..."
"Mary Poppins coming round for a cuppa, then? Should I inform Missus Hudson?" John threw a glance at the genius, before eyeing the object again.
"Yes, yes," Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "A cup of tea would be lovely, two sugars."
"Sherlock-"
"What, John?" Sherlock turned to look at John with icy eyes. John turned away from the object in order to raise an eyebrow at his flat mate. "What could possibly be so important that you must insist on interrupting me when I'm trying to figure out what's wrong with the world? Not that there isn't everything wrong with the world, but one problem at a time. What is it?" Sherlock stared at John harshly, but John just gave him a sort-of shrug, pointing a thumb over his shoulder towards the object in the kitchen.
"Why is there a telephone box in our kitchen?" He asked, though not very interestedly. "That's all I want to know."
"Please John; it's a Police Public Call Box not a telephone box." Sherlock muttered arrogantly, putting a hand to his forehead in an effort to block John's voice from his thoughts.
"My apologies," John said, clasping his hands together in front of his body and rocking back onto his heels. "Why is there a Police Box in our kitchen?"
"I don't know," Sherlock said, his head still in his hand. "It just sort-of appeared." He waved his hand dismissively for a moment before returning it to his forehead.
"Appeared?" John asked sceptically.
"Yes, appeared, John. As in, it wasn't here one moment and then it was the next. Now please, do you mind? I'm trying to think."
"There are more pressing issues than the fact that a giant box just happened to "appear" in our kitchen?" John nodded his head. "Okay." He had learned fairly quickly that arguing with Mister Holmes was pointless and a waste of efforts. So instead, he just picked up his laptop, sat on his chair and waited for Sherlock to notice the fact that-
"John," Sherlock looked up from his hand, wide-eyed. "There's a Police Box in our kitchen."
Ah, there it was.
John just nodded.
"Yes, Sherlock. There is." He said nonchalantly, before resuming his clicking at his laptop keyboard.
Sherlock all but ran toward the object, his eyes still wide and John watched him from over his laptop screen with amusement.
"Police Public Call Box," Sherlock muttered, his hands making their way over the wooden object. "This is what's wrong." He stated.
John nodded again. "You've finally noticed that there's a giant blue box in our kitchen. Well done." He said in a somewhat sarcastic, but somewhat fond tone.
"No, no," Sherlock stood back, away from the object. "The box itself is wrong." He looked at John lazily, like John was the epitome of stupid and there was an awkward pause.
"Well, come here, then." Sherlock may as well have demanded. John did as he was told, joining Sherlock in the small kitchen and wondering how Sherlock hadn't yet noticed that all of his experiments had been crushed by the gigantic box. Surely, he would go ballistic once he saw. John would make a point not to be around for that.
"It's not real," Sherlock began, hoping that, for once, John would be able to keep up. "It's the wrong shade of blue, firstly. The windows are misshapen, the light at the top is wrong. It looks like it should be from about..." He looked it over once more. "Nineteen-sixty-three—maybe four-, but none of the police boxes from then had these-" He pointed to the Saint John Ambulance sticker on the second panel from the top. "-issued on them." He turned to John. "Also, there's one very obvious tell tale sign that this isn't a real police box. One even you must see."
John glanced between the box and his crazy housemate, not even bothered that he should probably be offended by that remark.
"I don't know." He shrugged.
"C'mon, John! Think!" Sherlock turned back to the box.
"It's in our kitchen?" John asked, hopefully.
Sherlock said nothing, but gave him a menacing glare. That, in itself, told John that he had the wrong answer.
"Okay," John held up his hands. "Obviously not, then."
"Put your hand on it." Sherlock told him. John did as he was told, then looked to Sherlock for some form of explanation. "What do you feel?" Sherlock asked.
"Um..." John faltered and Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance. "It's... Smooth? I don't know."
"Exactly!" Sherlock grinned. "It's smooth!"
John looked at him once more for divine inspiration, although he really wasn't interested at all in this box. Only in how it managed to get into his house.
Sherlock eyed John gleefully. "And since when is the wood from a police box smooth?"