Late February. The wind crawled down the nooks, crannies and twisting roads of London. The rumble of the metal security door rattled the walls of the neighbouring building. A small complex, with just enough room for a consulting detective and an army doctor. The enchanting melody of a violin tumbled softly down the staircase of the complex and muffled its way through the black door of 221B Baker Street."John. We need milk!". The beautiful tune was interrupted by a low, husky voice of Sherlock's, thundering through the floors of the building. John, a smallish man sighed but reluctantly agreed and left the house, soon disappearing into the infinite roads of London. Sherlock stood, staring into the distance, with his concentration in full focus. Then from out of no where a faint flashing light coming from the empty road below. Sherlock ruffled his black curly locks and tried to return to full concentration. Then his focus was once again cut off, but this time by a sound. A sound he had never heard before, a mechanical sound of metal grinding it grew louder and louder until Sherlock felt he had to find out where this disruptive sound was coming from. As he looked out the window he froze on the spot, unable to say anything. A blue old police box was slowly appearing on the concrete of the road below. The sound grew louder and rubbish from the pavements flew in the air until the box came to a stop. Sherlock stepped back in awe and fear closing the curtains as quickly as he could. The deafening tune of the door bell filled the empty room. For the first time in years Sherlock felt a sense of fear. And he didn't like it