Part One: The Dead Boy and the Big Blue Box

"John… John!"

With an obnoxious twist, John Watson jerked upward from the position he held at his desk. He must've dozed off again—wouldn't have been a real big shocker. Sherlock had kept him up for the past forty-eight hours. In that time, the pair managed to chase two armed suspects down fourteen blocks, two flights of stairs and shockingly enough, right into the bait that had been set for them almost all the way at the River Thames. Detective Inspector Lestrade and his team of men had been waiting there, as Sherlock had told them to do, to catch the perpetrators. Once the details were exchanged, Sherlock and John took a cab home and surely enough, Sherlock was already looking into the details of new cases he could be taking on.

"Can't we rest for like—a moment? Maybe even a fraction of a moment?" John had asked, sure that Sherlock's response would be one he had no interest in hearing. For a moment, he was going to take it back, but it seemed the genius was too far into his work, or perhaps, his own bloody head, to notice John had said anything at all. "Alright, well, anything I can do?" Again, no response. That was when John drifted off into his slumber.

He knew now that it had only lasted a good twenty-five or so minutes, when his eyes glanced at the clock. It was half past four in the morning. Surely people weren't actually mental enough to stay up this late—early? Sherlock wasn't people. John supposed he wasn't people either, although he was much closer to normal than his flatmate. He'd decided long ago that normal was the most boring title a human being could ever acquire, so it wasn't an insult at any means. That didn't mean sleep wasn't of the essence. Cases could wait. John's pillow was just calling his name.

"W-what?" John finally half-slurred, rubbing the creases that had now developed upon his face from where his forehead had pressed into the patterns of his jumper.

"That's a record," Sherlock replied, causing John to quirk an eyebrow. The other man hadn't been looking at him though; therefore he added a verbal response.

"What's that?"

"Twelve times I had to call your name before you responded. I know you were in the middle of your REM cycle, but honestly, John, what if it had been an emergency?"

John craned his head to the left, his eyebrow still fixed in its quirk. "Well, had it been an emergency, I do hope your efforts to wake me would have been more arduous." This time, Sherlock looked at him with that expression and John knew that there was no winning with him—unless it was Sherlock collecting the end prize. "Right then—what's all the fuss about?"

"I do believe I've found something, John. Took me approximately forty or so rubbish e-mails to scroll through before it flagged, but oh me, this is a good one. I'm considering taking this one on merely to see how mental these people must be."

John perked up slightly, turning in his swivel chair to face Sherlock with his whole body and crossed his arms. What could he say? His interest was piqued. It wasn't often Sherlock got so excited about things anymore after all. "Always with the cliff hangers. Go on then!"

Sherlock had a grin placed on his face now, his eyes showing just how obviously he was revelling with the idea that he had something good. Even brilliant, maybe. "They're not cliff hangers; I just add a small bit of suspense in there to wake you up. Now that I've got your full attention—I've received an e-mail from a woman in Camden who's absolutely up the wall convinced that her son has been following her around for the past few days. She's sworn to have seen him at least three or four times."

"I—I don't understand. What's wrong with her son?" Somehow, Sherlock's grin widened even more.

"Well, he's been dead for the last three months. Died in a motor vehicle accident. Was put in a casket and all, there was a showing, people cried, so faking his own death is already ruled out."

John continued to process the information, wondering why Sherlock was so intrigued by it. "Who's to say she's not just nutters?" Again with the face, but this time, the darker man turned the laptop screen to face John. There were three images open upon it. Before John could say anything, Sherlock butted in.

"I know, I know. These images could be manipulated and tampered with. But there's no doubting it's not worth looking into. Not to mention, look at the second photograph. It was taken in her living quarters while she was watching the telly. But as you can see, the film that's playing, 'Dead By Friday', hadn't been released when her son had died. Causes for suspicion. After all, I almost found myself in the same sleeping state as you going through those other case files. I'd rather prove myself more useful." John instantaneously glared at Sherlock. "Besides that, as I've studied the photographs, I noticed a strange sort of aura forming in different places upon his body. Nothing that can be caused by lens flares or orbs. Also, these pictures weren't taken with any mobile phone nor a standard camera. They're all polaroids, those being the most difficult to manipulate. Of course, after she uploaded them onto her computer, she could have tampered with them there, but I see no reason to not go and check them out in person."

Watson leaned back in his chair, nodding his head with a slightly pouted lower lip to express how impressed he was. But he was always impressed with what Sherlock came up with. How the man recognised a film, mind you, a man who didn't even watch telly or go to the cinema came to this simple deduction—it was beyond him. John would have never noticed something so subtle. Sometimes he wondered why Sherlock kept him around, but then he shoved that thought far into the back of his mind to the shelf with the other things he didn't really like to think about.

Then John raised another question. "So what do you think's going on? Do you suspect he's a ghost or something?"

Sherlock let out a loud, obnoxious laugh. Just to point out how utterly ridiculous John's question had been.

"Don't be silly, John. There is no such thing as ghosts."

The overcast weather was typical for London. It was far too cold to step outside without a coat, but not chilly enough to apply so many layers that one's body became a sweatshop. Sherlock was driving, the man only recently giving John a hard time for not taking directions well enough. It wasn't actually John's fault. Sherlock had been screaming into his ear and it wasn't as if they were just taking a joy ride. It was more so a chase, which one would think to be easy because, well… all they had to do was follow the person in front of them. But oh no, Sherlock insisted on all of the shortcuts and back routes. He nearly gave John a heart attack by taking the wheel into his own hands, sputtering something along the lines of a field mouse could take direction better than you as he sharply pulled the wheel towards him for a dangerous left turn. To which he did apologise for later, but to avoid another instance like that happening, John decided to avoid driving for a bit.

"I really do think we should have brought an umbrella," John finally stated, breaking the prolonged silence as he studied the sky. The rain clouds were just threatening to give way and drown the whole city.

"I already told you," Sherlock replied, eyes still on the road ahead of him, "we won't get caught in the rain." John shrugged, although he didn't know why, aware that his friend did not have a gaze on him whatsoever. It was probably better that way. Sherlock may have been the master of multi-tasking, but that didn't mean he was necessarily safe about it. "Ahh, look. We're here. Twenty-seven Minerva Way."

As Sherlock parked the car up next to the curb, John studied the home. It seemed… ordinary enough. He didn't really know what to expect, to be honest. And he was willing to bet Sherlock didn't either; that was more so a rarity. The two unbuckled and descended from the vehicle in sync, John pulling his jacket over his chest more as to collect some more warmth in the frigid air. It really did look like rain. But how often was Sherlock wrong? All he knew was, it better not have started that day because rain mixed with the bitter air would not be something he'd like to get caught in. And he'd be damned if Sherlock didn't live down his complaining.

"Will you keep up?" Sherlock called back towards John, having already made it to the front stoop as the shorter man had been staring up at the sky in the middle of the lawn. Snapping back to reality, John trudged up the grass and joined the other man with a quick reassuring smile that he was all there. He was all there, after all. Even if he didn't seem it. Just so very tired.

Two taps, strong and loud from Sherlock's fist against the wooden door. There was no buzzer or bell, but it was unlikely anyone could so much as watch a television programme with that rapping noise Sherlock mustered. There was no answer though. "You did call before we came, right?" John asked, growing impatient at a quick rate.

"Yes, of course I called. I'm not a bloody imbecile. Always attempting to discredit me, you are." John had to hold back from rolling his eyes because this time, for once, Sherlock was actually looking at him.

"Sorry," he apologised with sarcastic pretences.

"I'll be right back."

John's eyebrows furrowed in confusion and Sherlock's long, gaunt limbs nearly leaped down the stoop and began trudging up the side of the house. "Where are you going? Sherlock?" Of course, the man didn't reply, just disappeared from the doctor's site. "Sherlock?! Oh, bloody hell." For good measure, and to make sure to distract anyone who might've been in that house from whatever Sherlock was up to, he began rapping against the door himself. If anyone came rushing as if it were an emergency, John could come up with something.

Then someone was there, pulling the wooden door back and John hoped to God that Sherlock wasn't off doing something absolutely stupid. But then, that worry quickly vanished. Because he'd already done that. Standing in front of him was the man himself.

"Really?" was all John could muster up.

"What? The back door was ajar. How was I to help myself?"

"Oh, I don't know, be normal? Couldn't you have phoned her or something first?"

Sherlock stepped back, as to let John in, and with a hesitant sigh, he stepped forward into the home so that the door could be properly closed again. "I'm already two steps ahead of you, John." In his right hand, the genius held up his mobile phone and in the left, he held up another. Presumably, the woman's.

"And where did you get that?"

"Pried it from her, myself. She's in the study. But the question is: who killed her?"

John's face contorted into shock, not sure if he should go and examine the scene at once or step right back outside where he'd felt comfortable. It wasn't as if it was the first time something like that had happened, but for Christ's sake. Sometimes him and Sherlock just looked so damn suspicious. "So she's dead… in the study? Maybe the 'ghost' sent the e-mails."

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock turned on his heel to guide John into the room where the deceased woman lay. "She hasn't been dead for more than five hours. I received that e-mail around midnight last night. It's now a quarter 'til two in the afternoon. Although, it is safe to assume that whoever did this probably had knowledge of that e-mail. Or of her suspicions. Now I am really curious as to what's going on around here."

Sherlock held up his mobile, grimacing at what he saw once he unlocked it. "Spotty service in here. Maybe it'll work better outside? That's where I initiated my call." The man was already back in the foyer, exiting the front door and nearly allowing it to close right in John's face as he did so. Oh, that man when he was really onto something.

"What are you doing?" John finally asked as he reached his friend outside.

"Phoning Lestrade. He'll want to know about this. Gets ever so cross when I don't inform him of these things. Not to mention, cause of death wasn't obvious. You'll need to go take a better look." While Sherlock was incessant on working his thumbs on his phone, John looked up. As he surveyed the area, he couldn't help but notice something that seemed out of place. Surely that hadn't been there when they'd arrived? He would have noticed it. John liked to think that he noticed things more since he started working with Sherlock. If he'd missed a big blue Police Box on the corner of the street, then he really was useless. Only one way to find out.

"Sh-Sherlock. Sherlock! Stop looking at that damn thing and pay attention to me! I don't remember that being there before. It wasn't, was it? I mean, it couldn't have been." John pointed his finger to the Police Box once Sherlock finally focused his attention on him. That's when he saw Sherlock's face contort into confusion—which was literally something that never happened.

Once again, his gangly legs were darting towards the object John had been pointing to, but this time the man followed him to it with just as much curiosity.

"That's impossible," Sherlock murmured, feeling the ridges of the deep blue wood. "I can't—I wouldn't have—no, I don't miss things like this. I have an eidetic memory, John and this was not here before." He attempted to pull at the door, but nothing happened.

Then a voice from behind both Sherlock and Watson radiated. "Can you not touch her like that, please? She's rather sensitive." Both men turned in unison to face the unknown visitor. John's eyes probably gave away his confusion before Sherlock's. The man in front of them was almost as tall and lanky as Sherlock, but more awkward in the limbs. He wore a tweed jacket with a set of braces and to top it all off, a bowtie. A rather ridiculous looking ensemble on most, but somehow, this man with long, just flippy hair seemed to pull it off.

"And might I ask who you are?" questioned Sherlock, face still unrelenting to any sort of emotion. God, he was good at that.

"Oi, I could be asking the same thing; you're the one who's getting handsy with my TARDIS!"

TARDIS? What the hell was a TARDIS? And why was he referring to this inanimate object as she? Must've been mental or something.

"Holmes; Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective." Still with the poker face. The man opposite them, on the other hand, was much more cheerful in his demeanour.

"Hello, Sherlock Holmes," the man replied, extending his arm. "I'm The Doctor. Just The Doctor."