"Who are you?" The man in the long coat looks at him with blatant annoyance.
The Doctor is positively beside himself. Here, in front of him, stands none other than the Sherlock Holmes.
"I'm the Doctor." He replies. His grin is impossibly bright on his face, while he looks the great detective up and down.
"So what's the crime then? Tell me the story!" The Doctor exclaims, eager to witness the brilliance first hand.
"It's quite simple actually. The woman was killed by her husband because she'd left him for a woman. Rather boring." Says Sherlock casually, leaving the Doctor gaping at the lack of dazzling exclamations of discovery.
Sherlock straightens from his crouch in front of the body that is draped over the chair. The Doctor is disappointed and his smile fades from his features.
"Of course, of course." The Doctor replies dejectedly in response. Though he'd as well seen the signs, being quite handy at deduction and observation himself, he had been secretly hoping for the great man himself to walk him through all those details. To hear the words from his mouth.
"What do you mean, 'of course'?" Sherlock asks defensively. "No one ever says that, why would they? That would presume they too arrived at the same conclusion, which they never do." He concludes with great certainty.
Sherlock is starting to look at the Doctor suspiciously, suddenly growing too curious about his presence. The Doctor coughs to break the silence and shrugs his shoulders as a response.
"What are you doing here then? You are not a cop -that much I can tell. Though I…" Sherlock's features twist with irritated confusion and his eyes squint and flit around in his eye sockets repeatedly scanning the Doctor and all that he might gather. The Doctor knows it won't be much but he's curious to hear the deductions all the same.
"You look young but the expressions you carry hold more weight than they should for your apparent age. You dress unlike other men of your age as well. Your hands in your pockets either say you are nervous and self-conscious or blistering with energy and have no idea how to restrain yourself. By your constant shifting of position and the way you remove your hands and then place them back when the fidgeting becomes too noticeable points to the latter. You behave with slight nervous tendencies, and yet your claims have a touch of arrogance. You're smart and effective, but are terrified of what you're capable of, always just holding yourself back. You hate staying still, probably explains the running shoes with a suit – which looks terribly ridiculous, if I might add." Sherlock huffs in annoyance. "With all that though, you're are still somewhat of a mystery and it intrigues me." The detectives mouth pulls into a hard line then as he continues: "It also irritates me. Do you work for Mycroft? Or worse, one of Moriarty's lackeys perhaps?" He adds dryly.
Sherlock leans forward at the hips and squints once again as if trying to read him more closely.
"You are a mass of contradictions with no real evidence of substance." He surmises vaguely.
The Doctor practically jumps back when Sherlock crosses the length of the room in three quick strides and is suddenly inches from the Doctor's face.
The Doctor hadn't made a peep throughout all this. He hadn't expected such… accuracy.
"Who are you?" The detective asks again menacingly. Those sharp blue eyes so close to his own.
"Weelll.. Like I said, I'm the Doctor. I travel around and see things, help things along, ya know." He leans back on his heels slightly. That Mr. Holmes is quite inside his personal space and the Doctor is beginning to find it a little uncomfortable.
"No worries though, don't work for anyone but myself... err… that's not to say I am here to annoy you on a personal vendetta of any kind. Just wanted to see the great man work." The Doctor stretches his lips in a flat expression. All he wants to do is go back to the Tardis. A feeling of deflation is shrinking his frame. This is not one of his best ideas, the Doctor realizes.
"The Doctor? A name perhaps?" Sherlock presses, not budging from his closeness of the Doctor.
"That is my name." The briefest of shadows must have crossed his face as he spoke because Sherlock's brow is raised, suspecting the lie. Though not a lie, just an obstruction of the truth, the Doctor reasons with himself.
"Anyway, I should be off." His excitement at meeting the great detective has retreated as swiftly as the detective laid out the deductions. The Doctor does not want to be deduced. He can't stand the idea of someone pointing out his faults; the things he's done. The immense guilt that he drags along side himself everywhere he goes.
He side-steps the detective and tries to leave but Sherlock moves as well, placing himself once again inside his personal space.
"Don't like getting too close to people do you?" Sherlock asks, his thoughts spot on with the Doctors inherent fears. The Doctor, refusing to reply, keeps his stare level.
"It's okay," Sherlock continues, "neither do I."
With that he moves out of the way and the Doctor is finally free to leave and yet his eyes can't seem to look away from the man in front of him. Both slaves to their minds, and forever alone. The Doctor wonders if there is solace for men like them.
"Nice meeting you." The Doctor says solemnly as he walks out of the crime scene and across the street to the park where his Tardis is parked along the pedestrian pathway.
He opens the door slowly and walks a few feet inside before stopping. The Doctor drops his hands to his sides and decides that for once in his whole crazy existence, and since he is alone, he is going to spend the night relaxing around the Tardis and thinking about his life, and his happiness.
His encounter with the great Sherlock Holmes has left him raw. He doesn't understand why it is affecting him so much. The Doctor feels exposed and can't seem to put up the armor he normally shields himself with.
A few hours have passed and the Doctor is sitting on the jump seat, his feet crossed at the ankles, propped on the console. He's humming loudly to himself when a loud, insistent knock at the door startles him so violently he almost falls off the seat.
"What?" He asks aloud to himself. He is not expecting anyone. No one even knows he's here.
Welll….. that is not entirely true, he reminds himself.
One look at the home screen and he sees "the great one" standing in the cold, collar turned up, scarf wrapped around that pale neck.
The great detective speaks: "I am sure it is rather uncomfortable, and though I have no idea how you've managed to securely lock this blasted thing, I do know that you are in fact inside." The detectives voice travels through the Tardis and the Doctor is wrestling with the idea of completely ignoring the man or giving in to the subtle temptation to try and persuade him into being his new companion. Has he ever had just a bloke? A pal of sorts to travel with? He can't recall.
Weeeelllllllll! That settles it then. The Doctor rushes up the ramp to open the doors.
Bollocks! It's freezing, thinks Sherlock. Why won't the bloody idiot just open the damn door!
Sherlock saw the man leave and decided to follow him, worried of course that he might be working for Moriarty. Sherlock was not expecting to find foot prints disappearing into the vintage police box. He had spent considerable time in his mind palace the past couple hours trying to fit the pieces of the man together along with this new strange occurrence.
Suddenly the door flies open and the Doctor, as he calls himself, appears. He is as bright-eyed as he was when he'd first arrived at the crime scene. Though Sherlock remembers that the look faded rather quickly. Was it the crime? He wonders. No, the man was disappointed not disgusted, he recalls. And not with the crime either, the evident disappointment only occurred after Sherlock had spoken. Perhaps it was him. How could I have possibly disappointed someone within seconds of meeting them? Sherlock frowns but is otherwise unaffected by the observation.
The Doctor steps out and shuts the door behind him. "Ya know, was just making a call." The Doctor says innocently while looking up at the sky.
Sherlock grunts in irritation. People are horrid liars.
"This Police Box does not work; there are no telephone wires below ground here; and what's more -you were in there for two hours and I have been out here the same amount of time and no sounds came out of it. Try again." Sherlock tempts.
This man is a mystery that must be solved.
"I.. uhh.. was on my cell phone. Texting." The Doctor replies.
"What are you hiding? Let me in there." Sherlock tries to push past the man in front of him but the Doctor's head finally snaps in his direction and the look Sherlock sees is fierce. The Doctor is very possessive of this stupid phone box. Why? What could be in this small box that is so important?
They continue staring at each other when the Doctor finally says something worth saying. It intrigues Sherlock ever more.
"Does it ever bother you?" The man asks in a faraway voice, and though the what is not indicated, Sherlock of course knows exactly what he is referring to since he can tell this man is somewhat like himself.
"There are ways to ease the chaos, if one is so inclined." He responds. The thought of getting some product and organizing his mind calmly was calling to him. It was that need that had brought him to the boring crime scene to begin with. Sherlock normally wouldn't have bothered for something so futile and obvious but he'd needed a distraction.
"Ridiculous!" Cries the Doctor. "How can you people treat your fragile bodies so badly? Your methods are well known to me Mr. Holmes and while I may find myself occasionally trapped inside my mind, I surely would never degrade myself with drugs." The Doctor is protective of whatever he means by 'people'. Sherlock finds this curious.
Of course, he cannot be referring to Britain's or Caucasians, as he is both, Sherlock reasons. I, therefore must be within the group of 'people' to which he is not.
Drug users. Yes. That must be it, he concludes.
"In that case, I have no other means of ease for you then." Sherlock responds.
Both men are now standing side by side, leaning against the Blue Box observing the sky.
"Company." The Doctor reflects quietly. "Company helps." Then without warning, the man quickly jumps in front of him and grabs his shoulders.
"...And adventures!" He exclaims, pushing Sherlock against the door. The Doctor must have reached behind him somehow because Sherlock finds himself falling into an open space.
He reaches behind himself and manages to brace the fall with his hands, as they land firmly on … metal grate?
Why and, more importantly, how is he on a metal grate inside a two-by-two police box?
Sherlock's eyes blink furiously as a bright light comes on. The moment his eyes begin to adjust his mouth drops. His tongue and inner cheek feel dry and he tries to swallow. His brain is momentarily stumped; which is shocking enough on it's own.
A few sparks sputter inside his brain as it restarts. And then the observations fly: buttons, levers, a seat – transportation? Large interior space, metal, other odd substances, foreign metals. Must remember to study foreign metals. Large cylindrical tube? The space, the space is the conundrum. Mirrors! Aha. Yes it must be. Of course. An optical illusion.
Sherlock stands purposefully and notices the Doctor is apparently standing several feet away. Impossible. Also an illusion.
"Nice magic trick." Sherlock smirks. "I've seen better."
"Oh you haven't seen nothin' yet!" the Doctor challenges. One hand cranks a lever, while the other smashes a large red button theatrically.
The police box is suddenly tilting and jolting! By God! They must be moving. Sherlock is thoroughly impressed at this point. He still fully believes it is a trick, for what else could it be? But it is a good trick nevertheless.
With a thud and a wheeze the box settles. Where could they be? Was the box moved somewhere, or simply shaken? Sherlock chuckles, surprising himself, since he has never had to ask himself so many questions and not been able to provide the answers.
"Please, Mr. Holmes, explain then the magic in this." The Doctor grins wickedly.
"I'd prefer if you'd call me Sherlock." The Doctor nods in acquiesce.
"Well, clearly the box has moved. Whether in place or to an alternate location, hard to tell. Regardless, can't have been more than several yards at most." He reasons.
"Ha! This is going to be brilliant!" The Doctor is laughing now and Sherlock begins to feel unnerved. Could he be wrong? No, improbable. He is hardly ever wrong.
The Doctor jogs lightly to the door, still chuckling to himself, and goes right past Sherlock. Immediately Sherlock knows his assumptions are off. His eyes were fixed on the movement from several feet away and he watched the entire sequence. He had believed this to be an illusion and yet… the inside of this box to his eyes is definitely bigger than the outside. But that is literally impossible.
If this is an illusion, it is an impossibly good one to be able to trick him.
"Before I open these doors, am I correct in saying that you find no use for the solar system, or the Universe to any degree, yeah?" The Doctors asks. There is mockery in his tone and Sherlock finds it rather irritating.
Why does everyone find the balls in the sky so bloody important?
"They have no bearing in my work and therefore do not take up space in my mind."
"I hope this will change your mind." The Doctor's smile is breath-taking. Which is a strange thought for Sherlock, but in fairness, he has never seen someone so excited… and strangely proud.
The door slowly opens. Revealed to his eyes is mostly blackness but with speckles here and there. Stars. To the right, he can see a giant gray ball that, even to his eyes, he can clearly see as the moon. To his left is… earth.
What is going on!?
Feeling like an idiot, but unable to stop himself, he places a foot outside the limits of the box and feels around. Not trusting his deductions that there must be ground, he refrains from stepping out with his full weight.
He bends his left leg while gripping the door and extends his dangling right foot out farther and begins tapping his toes around, trying to feel purchase against his sole. There isn't any to be found.
Sherlock practically falls out of the box when the man above him ceases to laugh silently and lets out the full guffaws that spread out into the void of space beyond them.
"You …look so….. ridic… ulous!" the Doctor squeaks out the words between laughing fits and is gripping the railing inside for support.
By this point Sherlock has resumed standing well inside the door.
The laughter dies down but with intermittent resurgences, for which the Doctor appears apologetic for.
Sherlock crosses his arms stiffly as the man's breathing returns to normal.
"Are you finished?" He asks through gritted teeth.
"Yes, yes. My apologies for that. Most people just say 'Wow!' or 'Amazing!'. You see it and still don't believe it." He says, evidently amused.
"Of course I don't believe it, its physiologically impossible. We would be dead." There was no way the man could argue that.
"Can you not think of any other alternatives?" The Doctor's eyebrows rise challengingly.
"No." Sherlock replies stubbornly. What is this man getting at? There are no other alternatives.
"May I have your hand please?" The man extends his arm, hand open, palm up as if he is asking Sherlock for a dance. Since Sherlock has never been so mystified in his life, he grasps the palm without hesitation, no idea where it will lead him.
The man's hand is relatively warm under his own which surprises Sherlock. The man is lean, like himself, and lean people normally have cooler extremities.
With a holding look, silently asking Sherlock to trust him, the Doctor places Sherlock's hand on his chest.
Sherlock can feel the soft material of the button down shirt; the silky touch of the tie; the rougher, thicker edges of the suit jacket and before he can ask what the reason for this whole maneuver is, he feels it.
More accurately… he feels them.
Hearts. Two of them. There is no mistaking it as he is well educated in human biology. He can feel the warmth of the skin beneath the shirt. The continual thumping is distinctly beneath the skin.
The Doctor removes his hand that was just on top of Sherlock's, as if he knows there is no way Sherlock will move now.
Sherlock presses harder and moves his hand slightly one way and then another while maintaining firm contact on the man's chest. He looks into the Doctor's blue hesitant eyes and just stares.
Sherlock is bewildered. A biological anomaly? He asks himself.
Sherlock switches into full examination mode. Using both his hands, he grabs the man's head and turns it this way and that, ignoring the words coming out of the head.
"What are you-" Turn to the right.
"-doing?!" Turn to the left.
Illiciting a strangled cry from the Doctor, Sherlock pulls the man forward – idiot probably thinks I'm going to kiss him – and sniffs his neck, hair, and wrists. He tries to find anything out of the ordinary to go along with the twin hearts.
And as a finale to his inquiry since he is becoming more and more intrigued, he starts running his palms all over the foreigners body. Sherlock concludes that he is most definitely foreign despite the English accent.
"Whoa! Whoa there! Okay, now I get that you are confused, and perhaps, knowing your methods I should have anticipated this, but –Ahh! Get away from there –" The Doctor swats at Sherlock's hand that accidentally grazed the Doctor's crotch, "Would you stop?!" He yells.
Sherlock straightens in bewilderment. "What's the problem?"
"Problem?! You come on my Tardis and start puttin' your hands all over me like your trying to put some sort of of puzzle together. Bit rude don't ya think?" The Doctor is angry and Sherlock is tempted to remind him that he had put Sherlock's hand on him in the first place.
It's not like he had done anything grossly inappropriate. Well... The graze was entirely accidental. Anyhow, if the man wouldn't have squirmed so much he could have finished his examination without any of those awkward mishaps.
"What are you?" Sherlock still has no answers but he knows for certain that this is not an ordinary man.
"For someone so brilliant, you're quite thick." The Doctor notes ironically.
"I am a Time Lord." Continues the foreigner. Sherlock still doesn't get it.
"Ugh… AL-I-EN." The Doctor clarifies with childlike emphasis.
"From which Country?" Sherlock has never met any foreigner with these attributes. Two hearts (biological anomaly?), optical illusions (magician, was he drugged?), Time Lord (odd fascination with time? Arrogant?).
Sherlock continues to ramble in his mind palace when the man known as the Doctor grips his head tightly and Sherlock is bombarded with images and knowledge beyond his imagination; even still – beyond his own intellectual capability. It's inconceivable and yet he knows it to be the truth. It's also utterly … amazing.
When the Doctor finally retreats, Sherlock falls against the railing of the walkway, breathing heavily and shaking.
"Do you understand now?" The Doctor asks him. sounding tired and drained.
"My God... Yes." Sherlock continues to pant but raises his eyes to meet the very old and very powerful Time Lord in front him. "Yes." He breathes.