A.N: Hello wholockiverse! I am planning on updating this once a week (I've got three chapters so far), but when summer ends, that may change.

Enjoy!

The Doctor always wondered what it would feel like if he went too far. What it would be like if something pushed him over the edge and turned him into an insane madman that thought the universe and all of its laws were his to bend however he wanted. He wondered, with a tad bit of fear and worry, what it would be like if he became the very thing he detested.

Now he knew. And oh, by Rassilon's throne he wished he had been left ignorant. The memory burned like someone had plunged him in oil and lit him on fire. The memory was his purgatory, his eternal punishment. This was something he would have to live with for the rest of his lives. Not that they would be long. His song was ending.

He wondered if it was time. He had become a monster. There was nothing left for him to live for. How easy it would be to give up. To let his song end. Yet some part of him rebelled. Some part of him thought he should continue fighting. Even now, it was plotting and scheming and imagining what-if scenarios and cleverly escaping whatever the universe threw at him, like he always did.

The Doctor hated the part of him that wouldn't stop trying to escape the inevitable. Even as a battle raged within him, the knowledge of what he had done and the knowledge that his song was ending warring with the instinct to survive, his mind was searching for an escape from his inescapable fate.

The patter of footsteps jarred the Doctor out of his thoughts. He shifted slightly, the cold concrete under him making him sore.

A human girl peered over the edge of the cement, giving the Doctor a look of confusion as she stepped onto the roof of the flat building.

"Oh hello." The Doctor jumped up as he spoke the words. "I'm sorry if I bothered you. I'll leave now. I was just… Resting."

The girl scanned him with a wary eye before responding. "You're fine. I just come up here to write. Don't let me bother you."

He cautiously sat down again, ready to leave the moment his fidgeting became overbearing. "Alright."

The human, a young woman about twenty with thin, long brown hair and light skin, pulled a laptop out of the backpack she was carrying. She sat down on the edge of the roof, feet dangling over the edge. The screen illuminated her face in the near darkness, as the only other source of light was the descending moon and rising sun. She began typing, pausing every few moments.
Now that there was somebody else there, he found himself unable to return to his brooding. He ended up going through his pockets, looking for entertainment.

His screwdriver, a bunch of bananas, an odd assortment of wires, the TARDIS manual. He made a face at the bigger on the inside, three hundred thousand page, boring as can be book that he had thrown into a supernova. Boring, boring boring. There was absolutely nothing to do.
The Doctor sighed. Bored. He should just leave.

"Hey, you any good at reading and editing writing?" She was looking at him expectantly. He jumped up.

"Well, I wouldn't consider myself an expert, but I do have a lot of experience in editing."

Her voice had an amused tone when she responded. "There's a reason experience and expert are derived from the same word. They tend to come hand in hand."

The Doctor wasn't sure what to say to that. "Ah."

"I'm Meg. Just tell me what you think about the manuscript and if you would watch it as a television show."

"Right. Okay."

Meg passed him the laptop.

The story was titled "Sherlock." The Doctor frowned. There was something familiar about that name.

"I've been working at this for years now. I really want to become a screenwriter, but it's a really tough profession, almost impossible to be successful."

Her British accent slipped a bit, hinting at… American? Meg, American, Sherlock. Why did that seem so familiar?

"I'm sure it will be brilliant," he assured the human next to him.
The Doctor glanced at the next words. Once again, something was familiar about the title, he just wasn't sure what.

"A Study in Pink. Sounds exciting," he mused.

The script was an unedited, rough draft about a detective and his companion, narrating the meeting of the two, then plunging them into a murder mystery. It was well written, with well-rounded characters and a strong plot. It had humour and plenty of bantering. The story was enjoyable, though it still needing a bit of finer editing. The Doctor glanced back at Meg, who was fidgeting with her hair.

"This is really good."

His voice was serious and honest. Meg glanced at him suspiciously.

"You're not saying that just to be nice, I hope. Lying isn't good for people."

"No, this is good. Very good. You humans can be smart when you want to."

Meg glanced at the strange guy. Funny sense of humour. She could roll with that.

"Some of us humans are absolutely brilliant compared to you aliens. But the aliens I've had encounters with were absolutely dimwitted, so you may need to clarify the supposed compliment."

The Doctor's eyebrows rose.

"Oh? And how many aliens have you encountered?"

"More than you ever will. You'd scare them all off with your unusual… style."

The Doctor pouted. "This is all the fashion on Torboca Two, you know."

"Mhm. Because nothing says fashion more than pinstriped suit and Converse."

"Yes. Nothing. It's a functional outfit, good for running and it's stylish. Just wait until the twenty-third century. Pinstripes are all the rage and-"

He stopped rambling when Meg gave him another smirk. She picked up her laptop.

"Hmm. The overcoat though. Maybe Sherlock could wear a long cape-like coat so when he runs it fans out behind him. The cape did wonders for Superman. But it wouldn't be brown. It would be black. And would have a cool sticky-up collar. Assuming I can find an actor that looks good in long overcoat. And assuming this script somehow gets accepted as a television show."

Meg leaned over her laptop and began typing. "It's a cool idea, though. Thank you."

Black overcoat. Why did this seem so familiar to the Doctor? He knew he had heard of it before, and judging by the quality of the script, the script became a TV show, but what was so special about this one? It was significant to Earth history, but why?

The Doctor would eventually remember. When he did, the information would no longer be of use. Nasty, dusty Time Lord memory.

"Do you have any other scripts? I would love to read them."

Meg thought for a moment before responding. When she did, her voice was cautious.

"I do, but it's mostly musings. It doesn't fit in the actual series. Maybe sometime, but it has more of a science fiction element to it. It's also a first copy, which means it isn't edited."

"I would love to read it anyways."

Meg pulled up a new document, this one going by the title "New Reality."

"It's just ramblings, really. But it's how I get ideas for the actual story."

"No, no. I love ramblings. I am the king of rambling. In fact, a Zormph once gave me a title which means the equivalent in their language, but a slightly different variation…" He trailed off when he realized he was rambling again. "Sorry."

She just snorted.

"I wish I had your imagination."

The laptop was once again passed over to the Doctor. He began to read.

London was just beginning to wake up when Tori arrived in a flash of light that rivaled the brilliance of the sun. It was sudden and unexpected, for both her and her new surroundings. The street in which she had landed was famous, both in her home and her new one. The address on the sign towering above her damaged head read in plain white letters "221B Baker Street". Only time would tell if had been luck or great misfortune that she landed in front of the home of the best detective to have ever roamed the streets of the famous city.

Even in the early hours, the city was busy. Taxis drove along the worn pavement. Rumbling trucks rattled the buildings and unleashed puffs of smog into the polluted air. It was impossible for Tori's stunning arrival to go unnoticed. As she fell from the sky, brakes screeched and a loud orchestra of car horns announced her. When she landed on the pavement with a crack, smart phones were already out, fingers tapping out the emergency number, alerting the authorities and ambulances. The extra surveillance cameras monitoring 221B Baker Street didn't miss Tori's arrival either. Baffled employees monitoring the street of the most dangerous man in London hurriedly alerted their boss, who happened to occupy a minor position in the British Government. And the most dangerous man in the wide variety of people alerted to Tori's unexpected arrival, dangerous because he would stop at nothing to figure out who she was and where she had come from, found his new case.

Sherlock was jolted from his thoughts when he heard what sounded like an accident outside his window. He got off the faded couch and went to the window of his dimly lit flat. What he saw immediately piqued his curiosity. Sherlock wasted no time leaving his flat and entering the small crowd of people gathered around the unconscious girl in the middle of the street.

Usually, Sherlock would never leave his flat for something as boring as a stupid, average person getting hit. Serial killers were more his thing. Yet Sherlock could see from here the strange custom clothing the unconscious figure wore, styled as ordinary modern clothes, but with a fabric he had never seen in his life. He could see the shocked expressions on the civilians faces, as well as the fear, something you never saw when someone had been hit by a car. They were in London, for goodness sake. People got hit by cars all the time. The fear indicated something different, something special.

People gave him a wide berth as he strolled through the crowd, many recognising the famous Sherlock Holmes from the news. His commanding and icy demeanor radiated off of him in waves. Even if they didn't recognise him, a subconscious instinct told the ordinary people to back off.

Sherlock could hear the whispers and mutters of shocked pedestrians, all about the girl. What he heard made him even more curious.

"How did she do that?"

"Some trick for media attention, probably."

"But she just appeared in thin air and fell from the sky!"

Sherlock glanced at the person who had said the last phrase. The man's face was ashen, hands trembling by his side. Whatever he had seen had provoked a terrified reaction.

Sherlock heard John's voice.

"Out of my way! Sherlock, will you tell these idiots to move?"

Already, Sherlock could hear the sirens drawing closer to the scenes. A car was navigating it's way through the chaos. It pulled to a stop and his older brother stepped out. Ooh, Mycroft doing legwork. This was turning out to be a very interesting day. If his brother was here, than the evidence wouldn't be for much longer. He wouldn't have long to deduce. Sherlock ignored the noise behind him and focused on the center of the chaos.

It was a thirty-something female with dirty blond hair pulled back into what was now an extremely messy ponytail. Her forehead was littered with stress lines. She wore, as observed from the street, clothes that were not anything he'd seen, which implied custom made. Her backpack, which had landed next to her, had several airplane tags hooked to the handle, all with a date close to the current month. Three quality notebooks spilled out of the bag. Sherlock glanced at them. They were well worn, and used often. There was no ring on her finger. She had written, however, a note on her palm, in a quick, hurried handwriting. "Remember to make edible food for trip to..." The rest had smudged off in a smear of blue ink. Her fingernails were healthy, as was her hair, which was washed with a high-quality shampoo. Her left arm had a pale, jagged, white scar along the back, the only notable, past injury on her body.

Words came to him as he studied her. Rich, picky eater, traveler, writer, single, high-stress job. Writing had been the least obvious, though he assumed investigating her book bag would make it more so. The worn fingerprints, traces of ink on fingers, three notebooks, and handwriting all suggested writing for a living, but Sherlock was uncertain.

Sherlock picked up the backpack lying near her side. He pulled out a wallet, a phone, and a laptop, as well as a granola bar and a plastic water bottle. He analysed the wrapping on both food items closely, a puzzled frown on his face. He had never heard of either of the companies named on the packaging.

Unwrapping the snack bar, Sherlock examined it with a close eye. The label read 'Nature's Peanut Butter Chocolate Trail Mix Bar'.The compressed bar was composed of several different wheat products, cane sugar, chocolate, dried cranberries, and an assortment of nuts. It was slightly squashed, pushed at the bottom of the bag. It may have been there for a while. He took an experimental bite, then retched and swallowed it with a strangled breath. That was… Sugary. Why was it so sweet? He hurriedly put the snack bar down and moved on to examine the electronics.

The smartphone looked normal. He turned it on. There was no passcode. The lock screen picture was a picture of the woman in front of Big Ben. Nothing abnormal about that, though it did indicate she had at least visited London, as the picture was taken on a phone. He unlocked the phone. What he saw changed the rating of the possible case to a ten.

The background picture was a picture of the woman, John, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and him standing in front of the Tower of London, arms around each other and smiles on their faces. This confused Sherlock to no end. Why would he be smiling? Was this picture a photoshop? No, unlikely. Photoshopped pictures had a distortion around the edge. Was this some technology the world hadn't seen yet? Also unlikely, though more than possible when considering her rich appearance.

Why would she have a picture of the five of them standing in front of a national landmark, dressed in casual clothing? Who was she? Sherlock had most certainly never met her. Did she want something from Mycroft, like Irene? All of the reasons Sherlock came up with were ridiculous and far-fetched. Did it have to do with Moriarty? Had he somehow survived? Or was this a new enemy, someone doing this to once again threaten him. It made no sense.

He examined the picture again. What he saw confused him even more.

It was most certainly the Tower of London. The architecture was exactly as Sherlock remembered it. But there was something different. Something only a brilliant mind like Sherlock's could have picked up. The bricks were darker. The windows were taller. Little things. Things that didn't make sense. Once again, it could've been an unknown technology. That was becoming more and more likely.

Sherlock couldn't question this right now. He had too little time before this case would be yanked out of his hands. Even now, he could hear the voices of Mycroft and John, shouting at him. Sherlock absentmindedly told them to shut up, then got back to work. He filed the picture in his mind palace to examine later. Next came the laptop.

The laptop did have a passcode. It was a long one, with twenty two spots for symbols. Sherlock glanced at the woman again, then at the keyboard on the laptop. The keys were worn, some beyond recognition. She used this laptop a lot, yet this model had been released only two months ago. Like Irene Adler, this device was her life. Anybody that spent that much time using an electronic would protect it with everything. If Sherlock wanted to find out more information, he would have to unlock the laptop.

Smack. Sherlock felt the sting of flesh against flesh. He rubbed his face, growling, then looked up from the scene with an annoyed glance.

"What?"

The look on Mycroft's face was serious, more serious than it had been in a long time.

"Brother, give me the laptop."

"I thought you didn't do legwork," Sherlock snapped. He moved the laptop away from his brother's hands.

Mycroft gestured to the two people that had appeared behind him.

"Take her into the car. Be careful, I don't want her dead. Bring her to the hospital." He turned back to his younger brother.

"Sherlock, give me the laptop and phone."

Sherlock glared in response.

"No."

His brother released an irritated sigh.

"I am missing a meeting with the prime minister currently. Do not make me order you."

Sherlock glowered, but didn't respond. He complied.

The ambulance arrived, squealing to a stop, lights flashing and sirens wailing. A wave of a badge from Mycroft and the two paramedics from the vehicle backed away and drove off, with a few wide-eyed "yes sirs" and hasty salutes. Mycroft and Sherlock watched the centre of all the chaos get loaded into the back of the white van parked near the scene.

"This is a government matter. I want all civilians and pedestrians to please leave immediately." One of Mycroft's underlings shouted the commanding phrase into a megaphone.

The nervous crowds dispersed, watching the scene even as they backed away. Sherlock continued to study the mysterious human, even as the unconscious stranger was loaded into the van. Two men with gloves picked up her laptop and backpack and brought them to Mycroft. He looked over them with a careful eye, then said something to the two men. They went towards Mycroft's car. Mycroft, however, approached Sherlock.

"Brother." His voice was hesitant. Sherlock did not respond. "You are not to investigate this case."

"And whyever not?" Sherlock snapped, his tone irritated.

"It's not your area."

"You have no authority over me, Mycroft. You might as well stop right now." Sherlock looked his brother in the eye, his teeth clenched. Mycroft remained calm, but his eyes were narrowed and his voice clipped.

"Brother, this case is like that of Baskerville, but infinitely more complicated. I will not endanger your sanity for the sake of your selfish entertainment."

"I will do as I please, Mycroft. Go find some other goldfish to bother."

Sherlock stalked off, his mood dark and his resolve firm. He would find out exactly why his brother wanted him to have nothing to do with the accident and who the mysterious girl was.

Mycroft watched him go. He sighed deeply, then beckoned to one person from his group.

"Get my brother's and his flatmate's laptop and phones before he does. I want his security and monitoring upgraded to maximum level. If he tries to intervene with the appearance of the stranger, stop him.

Mycroft left in his car, preparing to interrogate their unexpected guest

The Doctor glanced up at Meg. Her eyes were focused on the screen, presumably reading along with him. She finished a moment later. He handed her the laptop.

"That was good. You should add this in your TV show." His voice was serious and honest.

Meg shrugged.

"The level of writing, whether it's good or not, doesn't really matter. It's mostly luck. You meet someone that works for a big company and they like your writing, then you can consider yourself hired. But I couldn't publish this. It doesn't match the tone of the series. This was just for fun."

"It's good."

Another shrug. "Sure."

"Oh, c'mon. You don't believe me? I've seen a lot of different writings, with all my traveling."

Meg sat up.

"You travel?"

It was obviously an attempt to distract him from commending her writing. But she did seem to be honestly curious, so the Doctor went along with it.

"All the time."

"What was your favourite location?"

The Doctor replied with a question of his own.

"Are you interested in travel?"

She laughed. "Oh yeah. Travel is definitely an interest." Meg asked her question again. "So what was your favourite place?"

"Ummm."

Oh, that was hard. His favourite place. Out of all and time and space? That would take some thought. No, better not to mention the whole alien thing. On Earth, in the twenty first century? He wasn't sure.

"I don't know. I've never really thought about it before."

She sighed. "Fine. But you owe me a story."

"A story?"

"Yeah. Something interesting. I just let you read two stories. You've got to have one of your own."

"Nah. Nothing too interesting."

Meg was persistent. "Fine," she said. "Not interesting. Why not the first thing that crosses your mind?"

The Doctor immediately thought of something, but it wasn't something he wanted to think about. The disastrous moment on Mars was something he wanted to run away from. Running was what he did. Mars was in the past. He was a time traveler. He could jump straight to the future.

Hmm. That wasn't such a bad idea. The Doctor could visit Earth in the twenty fifth century, maybe become the president of the Alaska Republic. Or he could visit Ploom. A lovely planet, especially when the sun lined up with the four moons. It was time to leave. He had finished sulking. It was never good to dwell on things for long. Even now, that instinct in his gut was pulling him, calling him to leave.

"No. I've got no stories worth sharing."

Meg groaned, disappointed. She had wanted to hear a story. They were good inspiration, the best. This man had seemed likely to have plenty of interesting ones.

"But I've got a mystery."

This brought the grin back to Meg's face. A mystery. Possibly even better. "What kind of mystery?"

The Doctor inwardly smiled. Her tone was curious, her eyes inquisitive. This would be more than satisfactory payment for Meg's two tales.

"Watch." The Doctor sprung up. He ran down the stairs, Chucks landing with loud thuds against the metal, trench coat fanning out behind him. He grinned. Nothing better than running.

"Where are we going?" Meg was not far behind him, her voice breathless.

"Downstairs." The Doctor didn't bother explaining. It was a mystery, after all.

He had parked the TARDIS against the tall building, along the side. He reached the bottom of the staircase, Meg arriving only seconds later.

"What are you doing?"

"Giving you a story." With that, the Doctor pulled out the TARDIS key. He unlocked the door, waved at a confused Meg, and disappeared inside, shutting the door firmly behind him.

"Where did this box come from? Did you bring it here?" Her voice was muffled and distant.

"Just watch." The Doctor turned on the screen. The TARDIS had a camera pointed directly at Meg's face. He loved this part. The Doctor started the dematerialisation sequence. The time machine began to whir and groan. Meg's confused and cautious face became one of wonder and delight. A big smile began to grow, as she watched the blue box slowly fade out of existence.

For just one moment, the Doctor wished he could bring her along. The disbelief and fascination in her eyes would only multiply tenfold if she could see what the rest of the universe had to offer. The Doctor imagined taking her to the Phoenix Cluster, or the Saidron Marketplace. For just one moment, the Doctor wanted a companion again.

The feeling was quickly stamped out by the consuming grief and guilt at what he'd done to all of the innocent human beings he'd brought with him. All of them destroyed, all of them gone. After Donna, the Doctor had sworn never to bring along a companion again.

He sent the Tardis into the Time Vortex, taking one last glance at Meg's face, before switching the screen off.

Meg watched the blue box dematerialise with disbelief. The wind whipped at her hair, blowing the loose strands around her face. She shivered, though from the wind, or the excitement of the strange man's "mystery", she wasn't sure.

She stood there for a few more minutes, with a strange longing, wishing he would come back and explain.

A mystery indeed.

He had left her with a puzzling enigma, one she doubted she would ever figure out. Her mind was whirling with the possibilities. Was he an alien, or with the government? Some supernatural force? She would never know.

Oh. He gave me a story.

Her earlier grin began to return. Clever. It was his payment for sharing the stories with him. Her mind was racing, coming up with all sorts of plots and ideas, thanks to the strange man with the blue box. Not only that, but he had let her in on a secret. There was more to the world. The fiction was reality.

Meg slowly walked back up to the roof, a distant smile on her face. She had a mystery. It was one she was going to solve.