Author's Note:

I do not own Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson (past or present), Doctor Who, the BBC, or in fact owt but the MacBook Air I typed this on. All I hope to gain from this is a single reader who thinks reading this is a better use of their time than watching repeats on telly. Which, obviously, you can't bank.

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Sherlock And Watson Take A Cab With A Stranger

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They strode down the pavement lit with the best electric that the City of Westminster could provide, Sherlock out of a sense of purpose, Watson more out of a sense of not wanting to be left behind.

"So where are we going?" he asked quickly.

"If the room was locked from the outside and housed no windows, then they must have already been inside when the place was sealed."

"But you'd still have to get out," he reasoned.

"Getting out is easy. Hide in plain sight. Getting in would be tricky, especially in a museum. And why steal an antique candlestick that isn't even worth the wages of the cleaner who dusts its case every night?" Sherlock demanded as they made good time down the street.

"So where are we going?" Watson asked again.

"I need to use the Yellow Pages."

"There might be one in the phone box there-"

"Last year's. There's one propping up the lamp in the sitting room."

"Why don't we get a taxi back then?"

"I need to walk. Helps me think."

The taxis and buses thundered past, the sounds of music and people enjoying a pretty decent Friday night encircled them, but neither of them really took much notice. Watson was trying to work out how getting in a museum room before it was locked had anything to do with why they were hurrying across extremity-endangering parky London streets. Sherlock's brain was awhirl with machinations that could have given the land-speed record a run for its money. His mind was rudely pulled out of its thrall as his eyes noticed something of interest and telegraphed his brain at top speed, kicking his attention out of the thinking process to take stock of the furious gesturing and urgent darting of his eyes. What it found was a man on their side of the pavement, doing nothing more exciting than walking toward them.

As the two parties drew closer, it was obvious the man in the long brown coat was lost. He stopped and twirled, a hand to the back of his head, as he stared around him. His white Converse - battered, still available in shops, replacement laces, unfamiliar mud, Sherlock noted - propelled him round in a dizzying circle just as the three men should have passed like ships in the night. Watson, a few steps to the right of Sherlock, was saved an elbow in the nose by virtue of his flatmate catching the heavy-coated limb and bringing it to a stop.

"Oop! Sorry!" the stranger said cheerily, rounding on the two of them. "Just looking for a street, but all these places look alike."

"At this time of night? Impossible," Sherlock said amiably, releasing his elbow. "Where is it you're trying to get to?"

"The V and A," the man said, his hands going out wide in mystification, letting the streetlamp overhead reveal the slightly rumpled brown suit he had on. "I know I should be in Kensington, but I just can't-"

"The Victoria and Albert Museum is closed," Sherlock interrupted curiously. "And we're closer to Marylebone."

"Marylebone! I knew it!" the man cried, and if his tone could have been made real and given a handle he would have been hitting himself on the head with it. "So Kensington is… uhm…"

"A bit of a walk," Watson put in helpfully.

"Bother," the man tutted, before turning to look down at Watson. "I needed that candlestick. Well, not that it's really a candlestick. Or even a stick. Never mind, it'll have to wait until morning."

"A candlestick?" Watson blurted. "One was just stolen this aftern-." He stopped short as the corner of his eye picked up how Sherlock was glaring at him. "Oh. Um."

"Stolen?" the man demanded, pinning the ex-army man with a gaze he could have bottled and sold as 'Surprise'. "Are you sure?"

"Well…" Watson glanced at Sherlock, but the other man's gaze was already dissecting and cataloguing the good-looking stranger. "Yes, we've just come from-"

"An old candlestick-looking thing, about this long?" the man asked, lifting both hands and indicating a gap running to about a foot. "Brown and almost rusty, red tips on what people think are the holders, got a couple of strange round green decorations on the side?"

"Yes," Watson said innocently. "Know a lot about ancient candlesticks?"

"It's not a candlestick," the man remarked.

"Oh. An historian, are you?" Watson ventured.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. He's not even from here. And he travels in time," Sherlock said dismissively.

"I'm sorry - you're telling me not to be ridiculous?" Watson scoffed.

Sherlock ignored him, lifting his chin and scrutinising the tall stranger.

The man in the striped brown suit stared back. "Have we met?" he mused quietly, his jaw jutting to one side, giving the impression that he was mulling something over.

"No," Sherlock replied. "Name?"

"Don't have one."

"A moniker, then. What do you go by?"

"The Doctor."

"You're not a medical man."

"How do you know that?" the Doctor breathed, all at once totally and instantly intrigued.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and a tiny suggestion of a smile flirted with his lips. "Your hands. You do a lot with them - they're used and covered in scratches, so you don't wear gloves - but they're not old enough to be your hands. Like you only got them a few years ago."

"Good," the Doctor marvelled with a small smile. "Go on."

"You're an alien," he added, folding his arms and reflecting the Doctor's apparent amusement.

"You mean immigrant?" Watson asked innocently. "He sounds English to me."

"What makes you think I'm an alien?" the Doctor grinned.

"You have two pulses in your wrist - it could be that you have a very interesting vascular arrangement, a very serious birth defect, or even that you have two hearts. Easiest and most practical explanation for the more efficient blood supply you appear to have? Two hearts. You're tall but you're always looking up not down - so you grew up in a place with nothing but tall buildings and they were worth looking at - could be somewhere like London or somewhere like Hong Kong. However - your eyes are always open far too much for someone used to this light - so you grew up in a place where the sky was a different colour or tint, probably orange, if your choice of suit colour and tie and your complete ignorance of the harsh streetlamp above your head that makes normal people squint are anything to go by. You're not even cold but it's around five degrees this evening, so perhaps your body temperature is higher, possibly caused by the two hearts, I'd say anywhere between five and ten degrees - am I close?" Sherlock paused, but the man simply grinned. "You've been here before but not recently, and yet you don't look old enough to have been here when you were. Ergo, you travel in time as well as space."

Watson looked from one man to the other, clearly confused. "Excuse me - how do you know when he was here?"

"His tie - a 1969 Marks & Spencer's if I'm not mistaken and I know I'm not," Sherlock said curtly. Then he looked back at the Doctor. "Bought recently and brand new - hard to do if we're not in 1969. It hasn't been worn more than a handful of times but it's your favourite one so you wear it often, so either that's a new shirt or the tie hasn't had time to make the fold in the collar," he rattled off matter-of-factly.

"Maybe it was an antique gift," the Doctor smiled.

"An antique that still looks brand new, the shine still on the silk? I don't think so. And this friend - from Earth, is she? This alleged gift-buyer? Probably a girl who knows you but not as well as she'd like, seeing as men don't give ties, and even then they're bought by their wives. And since people on this planet don't make a habit of skipping off and visiting others - which John informs me would be hard to do - you must have been here before close to 1969, either to visit this friend or buy the tie."

"Clever," the Doctor nodded, his hands whipping his long brown coat clear of his pockets to allow his hands to slip into them.

"What I don't get is why," Sherlock added suddenly.

"Why what?"

"Why you don't want to go home."

The Doctor eyed him, his smile gone, but it was Watson who interrupted.

"I'm sorry - you're saying he's an alien? Like a real, actual, from-another-planet alien? Not just from outside the EU?"

"Yes, John, I'm saying he's an alien," Sherlock replied irritably. "Keep up."

"But - an alien. An actual alien."

"You've said that four times. Why is it so hard to get your head around?"

"Alien! The word alien," Watson spluttered.

"Six," the Doctor and Sherlock said together. The Doctor grinned and then turned large, apologetic eyes on Watson. "He's right," he nodded. "I am from outside the EU."

Watson stared at him, then looked him up and down in befuddlement.

"Funny - no-one ever questions the time travel thing," the Doctor mused, looking over his head now. "It's always the 'well you look human to me' argument."

Sherlock shrugged further into his coat, his eyes still running over the tall man. The Doctor looked back at him in patient silence, and a long moment of mutual scrutiny passed. Finally, Sherlock's gaze shifted to Watson. He still looked as though he had run full-tilt through the streets of thought only to be smacked in the face full-on with a frying pan of shock.

The Doctor looked at Watson with a doubtful expression that could have rewritten history if only William the Conquerer had seen it. "Are you alright - uhm, John, is it?" he asked.

"Yes. John. And… I'll just have to get over it," he havered.

"Ah. Now you look sound more upset about me being an alien than your friend here going off on one about the minutiae of the universe," he said knowingly. "Does this a lot, does he?" he added in commiseration.

"All the time," Watson sighed. "Sorry."

"No no - it's fine. It's… brilliant, actually," the Doctor added, abruptly turning much more cheerful.

"It's my job," Sherlock said quietly, his eyes smiling where his face did not. "Of sorts."

"Well, you're very good at it. And your friend John, here?"

"Colleague," Watson supplied.

"Blogger," Sherlock corrected.

"Companion," the Doctor grinned. "So he's John. And you live in London, making a living out of observing and deducing and-. Hang on," he heaved, his face changing to an expression that could have turned milk. He looked at Watson, then nodded to his wrist. "What year is this?"

Watson almost glanced at his wrist before realising he didn't need to. "2011," he said dumbly. "Why?"

"Because you're John Watson, am I right?" the Doctor went on, his face screwed up in bafflement. "And he's Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes," Sherlock said quietly. "Do you read the internet wherever it is you're from?"

The Doctor turned his attention on him, looking him up and down as he circled him quickly. "Now I'm confused," he said loudly, coming to a stop behind the consulting detective. "How are you here?"

"We walked," Watson offered.

Sherlock didn't turn, but his eyes rolled to one side, as if listening intently. "Why are you surprised we are who we are?" he asked slowly.

"Because you're Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson," the Gallifreyan said clearly, looking them both up and down again before rubbing a hand into the hair at the back of his head, hissing in sudden discomfort. He wandered back round in front of Sherlock. "Only… you two were fictional."

"Were?" Watson echoed.

"He travels in time, John," Sherlock reminded him testily. "He's probably speaking fourth-dimensionally."

"Oh right, yes. Sorry," Watson politely, shaking his head. "Wait - what are you talking about?" he added in a rather frustrated voice.

"Seen 'Back To The Future'?" the Doctor hazarded.

"What's that got to do with-. Oh," Watson blurted. Then he blinked. "Are you serious?"

"As a DeLorean."

"And a load of Libyans?"

"Yup," the Doctor grinned.

"Oh," Watson managed, rather quietly.

"Good grief," Sherlock mused, eyeing the two of them. "Someone who speaks John Watson."

"And you two were made up by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, around… ooh, the 1890s," the Doctor added, peering at Sherlock.

"I do understand time on my own planet and I can assure you that would be impossible," Sherlock said mildly. "You can see me standing here, right now. Want to see some ID?"

"No…" The Doctor scrubbed his hand over his chin, then folded one arm across him to give the attached elbow something to lean on. "Hmm…"

"Shouldn't we be asking him questions?" Watson said overly politely. "Like 'what's your interest in this candlestick that just happened to be stolen this afternoon from the Victoria and Albert Museum?'"

"It's not a candlestick," the Doctor put in.

Sherlock looked at Watson, rather amused. Then he turned back to the Doctor. "Can we assume for the moment that you're more interested in finding out what happened to the alleged candlestick than avoiding our questions?" he asked.

"Ah, now, you should never assume," the Doctor said with a smile, letting his hands drop. "It makes an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me'."

"I thought if you removed 'u' and 'em', all you were left with was an ass," he replied smartly.

The Doctor inclined his head. "True."

"Whatever - can we get in out of the bloody cold?" Watson said. "We can stand here and yak all night, but I'd be frozen to the pavement before I understood half of what you two are on about."

"Quite right," the Doctor said. "Hope you've got tea at your gaff. 221B, isn't it?"

"How did you know that?" Watson asked with trepidation.

"Read it in a book!" he cried stoutly, kicking the 'k' from the back of this throat with glee. Watson opened his mouth but the Doctor was already going to the edge of the pavement and letting out a piercing whistle. A hackney carriage sprang forth from nowhere, to the impressed relief of the other two men. "Come on then - this is 'Act I - Sherlock And Watson Take A Cab With A Stranger'," he grinned.

Watson looked up at Sherlock. "He's off his nut. And he's an alien. And he knows where we live."

"All good observations," Sherlock breathed. "But you left out the most important one."

"I dread to ask."

"He's also a complete mystery."

His eyes glittered slightly, his expression tightened in indescribable anticipation, and he rubbed his gloved hands together in a way that suggested it had absolutely nothing to do with the cold.

Watson rolled his eyes. "Think I might take to drinking," he sighed, following the taller man toward the waiting cab.

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Thanks for reading so far!