A cyclic wheezing, groaning noise emanated from an alley to the right; the sound a set of house keys would make if dragged along the strings of an old, gutted piano.
Sherlock stopped short, and backtracked.
At the end of the alley, where moments before there had been nothing, now stood a 1960's police box. No not a police box, the windows weren't the right size, and the POLICE BOX sign was too wide.
And he was certain it hadn't been there a moment before.
He was still trying to determine how exactly it had appeared—there were no drag marks, or tire tracks and the dirt wasn't disturbed enough for it to have been dropped from any significant height—when a man with dark brown hair and eyes, wearing a blue with rust red pinstripes four-buttoned suit, a shirt and a tie, a light brown faux-suede overcoat and pair of white trainers stepped out of the box.
Sherlock couldn't help grinning at the sight. He loved a good mystery.
Written as a birthday present for my dear friend Telepwen.