Chapter One: Nighttime Noises
Sherlock Holmes strummed a few notes on his violin. Or at least, Watson thought they were supposed to be notes. The more accurate term was "noises." Yes, he was making "noises" with his violin. And it was four in the morning. Watson rolled out of bed and instinctively went for his cane, before remembering that his limp had mysteriously gone within the first days of his moving in with Holmes. Watson snorted. Psychosomatic, my arse. Holmes' brother Mycroft was right. He had missed the danger, the violence the war that came along with the fight for justice. That limp was real. It just needed the right medication. Which happened to be tracking down cab-driving serial killers with the world's only consulting detective. Who also happened to play the violin. All the time.
Watson rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stumbled into the living room. The tall, thin man with the unruly hair didn't stop playing; in fact, the noises only grew more manic and, of possible, more out of tune.
"Holmes, you do know it's four in the morning."
"My dear Watson, you do know that I told you I think best during the times that no one else is. Keeps the atmosphere unclogged with useless thoughts. You are currently clogging up my atmosphere."
"I wouldn't be if I could sleep. And with you making music out here, that's pretty much impossible."
"Well, without my music it's impossible for me to think."
"You just said you needed the atmosphere unclogged."
"I do."
"Well, doesn't your music clog it up quite a bit? Don't those loud, scraping sounds clog your mind like dirty hairballs in a drain? Because that's what they do to me."
The two were on their way to bickering like an old married couple, which wasn't unusual for them despite only being in the early days of their flat-sharing. Their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, would often come upstairs to find Watson peeling nicotine patches off of a resistant Holmes with much eye-rolling and medical advice, or Holmes attempting experiments on Watson's cell phone much to the Doctor's chagrin. However, this time they were not interrupted by Mrs. Hudson, but rather, by a strange, whooshing sound. It was such an unusual sound that Holmes couldn't help but throw down his violin and rush to the window. Watson subtly kicked the violin behind the sofa before joining him in pressing his face against the glass. Holmes turned to him.
"Doctor, what do you think is happening?"
Watson looked at his flat-mate, mouth agape, before staring back out the window into the still-dark morning.
Meanwhile, miles above London, a blue box hurtled through the atmosphere towards Earth. A tall, thin man with unruly hair lived here too. However, this one's name was…well, no one really knew his name. Most people called him the Doctor. Like the pretty redheaded girl who fell on top of the control panel and held on for dear life, pale knuckles growing even whiter.
"Doctor, what do you think is happening?"
As if on cue, the three people aboard were rocked around even more violently. The one called the Doctor crowed "Geronimo!" with joyous laughter, glorying in the roller-coaster ride he had grown to love over the course of nine hundred years. The other two were still growing used to the raucous ride. One ducked away, hand over his mouth.
"Rory, what's wrong now?"
"I think I'm going to be sick."
"Oh, you big baby!"
"Now, Amy, be nice to your husband."
"Hey, now, Doctor, I don't need your protection. I just need some Dramamine."
Suddenly, the TARDIS—for that was indeed the name of the little blue box, an acronym for Time And Relative Dimensions In Space—came to a rattle, a whoosh, and a jarring halt. The young man who was about to be sick sank to the ground gratefully and massaged his stomach. He swallowed deeply and cringed. His name was Rory Williams.
"Thank goodness for that."
The leggy, sassy redhead who was Rory's wife, Amy Pond, sank to the ground next to him and squeezed his shoulders affectionately. "You'll get used to it," she whispered with a grin. She then addressed the third person in the room.
"Doctor, where are we?"
The Doctor turned around slowly. He had been examining the control panel of the TARDIS and had discovered something intriguing. "We've been summoned here. A feeble little distress signal. Someone needs our help."
He bounded away, his unfathomable age seemingly not affecting his bottomless source of energy. Then again, who wouldn't be filled with childlike wonder nearly every moment of their life if they were able to travel through time and space, from one end of the galaxy to another, from the beginning of time to the very end? His nonstop travel and encounters with danger had kept the Doctor young in spirit, even though inside he was also as wise as befits his age.
The Doctor threw open the door and squinted into the gloom of dim yellow streetlamps. The stars twinkled faintly above them despite the smoke and gloom that naturally rose from the city. Amy stuck her head out of the TARDIS as well and peered around his shoulder. Rory fought for his own bit of space in the doorway, but as usual, found it difficult to compete with the dominant personalities of his wife and the Doctor. Nevertheless, despite his relative lack of travel experience, he was able to identify the street before them.
"Are we…in London? Twenty-first century London? On Earth?"
The blue box had landed…on the pavement in front of 221B Baker Street.