O sweet everlasting Voices, be still;

Go to the guards of the heavenly fold

And bid them wander obeying your will,

Flame under flame, till Time be no more;

Have you not heard that our hearts are old,

That you call in birds, in wind on the hill,

In shaken boughs, in tide on the shore?

O sweet everlasting Voices, be still.

-W.B. Yeats

It had been a long night of indignant explanations at the Yard and while Sherlock was newly embittered and motivated to start searching through his encyclopaedia of reptiles (John decided not to ask), John was looking forward to a mug of tea, a round of toast and jam, and bed. But as the cab drove off and they approached 221B, Sherlock stopped abruptly and threw a hand up in warning. John careered into his back and sighed. 'What now?'

'Someone's in our flat.'

'The flat.'

'Our flat, John. Someone's in it.'

John peered at the living room window. An inviting golden light emanated from it. 'Could be Mrs Hudson?'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and flared his nostrils in a rather equestrian fashion, his hand still held up as if to receive a high five. 'She's at her cousin's wedding in Coventry. They didn't come in through the front door.'

'How can you tell?'

'Honestly, John, are you incapable of taking a look yourself? Must I translate everything for you people?' Sherlock was getting grouchy. 'No new scratches on the lock, the door has obviously not been opened since midday when we left because it is sealed shut. I could go on but you seem to be missing the point, John. There is a person in our flat.'

'You can put your hand down now.' Sherlock stubbornly kept it raised so John irritably took his wrist and forced it down to his side.

'Come on. Let's go and greet our visitor,' Sherlock said slowly, stepping closer to the door and wriggling his key in the lock. Indeed, the door had stuck a bit, just as it tended to do when left for more than half a day. John followed Sherlock upstairs, his hand on his pocket where his phone was. There were clattering, sizzling sounds, especially recognizable to John in his hungry state. He couldn't help his mouth watering as he smelt bacon. Someone was cooking.

Sherlock seemed to have decided the intruder wasn't dangerous, as his footsteps became quicker and he pushed the door open without caution. The most exquisite fry-up smell caressed John's olfactory senses and the pangs in his stomach sharpened. Nothing all day but bad machine coffee and chewing gum.

The boys followed the sound and scent. And in the kitchen, expertly sliding fried eggs onto plates and humming vaguely, was an extremely pretty young woman, with long auburn hair and legs up to her armpits. As they came to stand at the head of the table, she slammed a stack of fried bread into the middle of the table, wiped her hands on her very short skirt, grinned at them and exclaimed, 'Ta-da!'

Sherlock moved his head in the way that John knew meant he was taking a panoramic photo and playing spot-the-difference. He looked back at the woman and his eyes seemed to vibrate for a second as he deduced her.

'Are you trying to deduce me, Mr Holmes?' she joked. 'Come on, look at this fry-up. Eat. Please.' She pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat down.

'If the lady insists!' John said lightly, and took a seat next to her. It was a bit of a dream, having a gorgeous woman in your home cooking you supper when you most needed it. Sherlock paused for a moment, then loosened his scarf, threw off his coat and sat opposite John and next to the woman.

'Eat, Sherlock. I know you think it slows you down but believe me, you're not going to have much time to read your reptile encyclopaedia tonight, or tomorrow. You're too thin.'

John had already devoured half of the meat on his plate: plump and juicy sausages, salty bacon. It was a struggle to concentrate on the situation and the food at the same time; they were both interesting, but the food was winning. Sherlock kept his eyes on the woman, picked up a fork and speared a mushroom on it. She smiled at him encouragingly, clearly at ease with his manner. He chewed it slowly.

John took a slug of tea- two sugars, just how he liked it- and looked from one to the other. 'Um… do you two know each other?'

The woman said 'Yes,' just as Sherlock said, 'No.'

John shook his head and dipped a corner of fried bread in yolk. 'Nope, I still don't get it.'

'Neither do I,' Sherlock said carefully. The redhead smiled at him with unmistakable tenderness and pushed his plate closer to him.

'Please eat.' Their eyes locked for a few seconds, and John watched them, feeling very out of the loop as they appeared to be communicating wordlessly. Eventually, they broke their gaze and Sherlock picked up his knife and fork and began to eat voraciously. When the woman turned to John with a smile that seemed brave somehow, her eyes were shining with tears. She blinked rapidly. 'Glad you're enjoying it, John. Us Scots know how to fry.'

'I'm sorry, but could you please explain what's going on?' John asked. 'Who are you, how did you get in, how do you know about us…'

The woman straightened up and gave a little swallow, as if to steel herself. 'My name is Amy Pond. I'm here to… it's really complicated. You'll find out in time, and I can't tell you easily yet, it's too soon. But in this complicated… timeline I'm talking about, Sherlock and I trust each other. I'm his only friend.'

'No.'

John and Amy both turned to look at him.

'John is my only friend.'

Amy opened her mouth to speak, shut it, opened it again. She seemed to be struggling with something. Eventually she exploded. 'Just bear with me, okay? Everything will make sense in time, I promise. I really can't say much yet. Please. Please trust me. It is so crucial, you cannot even comprehend how urgent it is. I'm here to help you.'

Sherlock was watching Amy closely. She was composed again. 'Oh, by the way, I'm staying here. Don't worry, I set up my camp-bed.' She pointed over to the corner of the living room. 'Unless you want to take the situation as an excuse to sleep in the same bed, of course…' Amy Pond stood up and strode out of the kitchen. Just as Sherlock finally looked at John, his brow furrowed in intense concentration, Amy yelled, 'You two can do the dishes!'

Plump and juicy sausages.