A/N: Hey! :D Welcome to my maybe last Wholock story. It is written in honor of the 11th Doctor (even if he isn't often present, as you will notice, this story is all about him). I wrote it in fear that the 12th Doctor does not work with Wholock and I only had until Christmas to write for my favourite Doctor 3 I just want to say that i personally do not ship Sheleven as I like to call it but wrote this because I thought it'd be a very intersting theme. Reviews make better writers! :) Next chapter to be posted soon!

His cup of hot tea was shaking, and Sherlock looked aside from the microscope to watch as the ripples in the beverage started growing faster and closer together by the second. At first he ignored it, focusing on the Petri dish but when the whole room began shaking so strongly that he was unable to look into the lens clearly, Sherlock got suspicious. He got up and looked around the kitchen of 221B, trying to find the source of the rumbling. It was almost like an earthquake, but earthquakes didn't happen in London. He looked around and saw, as his many test tubes that were scattered over the counter and kitchen island shook, wobbling steadily to the edge. Sherlock turned to the living room of the flat when he felt wind emerging from it, though he hadn't left a window open. Just then, a loud, wheezing noise filled the flat, and from behind him, he heard glass break, and liquid pour. The foul smell of smoke, caused by the flammable chemicals he had preserved air-tightly stung his nose. Of course, the consulting detective would've done something, if in that moment, the wheezing hadn't become even louder and a giant, blue police box wasn't in the process of materializing next to his coffee table. He stared in confusion, trying to fit the fact that the object in front of him challenged all that he had learned up until then in his head. The wheezing, the rumbling and the wind stopped. Sherlock eyed the impossible box with his stern and clear gaze, his feet nailed into the wooden floor. He took a deep breath, rationalizing that it couldn't be real, and stepped forwards to the police box. He stretched out one hand, just to make sure it wasn't possible to touch it. Reaching for the door, Sherlock stiffened his fingers just before they would come in contact with the wood. That is if there was any wood. Which there wasn't.
In that moment, the door opened. The high-functioning sociopath found himself about an inch away from the face of a man.
"Who are you?" The time it had taken Sherlock to ask, the mysterious figure had walked past him to the kitchen and closed the door behind him. Sherlock watched him carefully and quickly wanted to open the door to the blue box, but when he pulled on the very real knob it had already locked.
"Hmmf," he mumbled to himself and turned back to the intruder.
"I said who are you," he ordered. The man in front of him was wearing a dark coat and black trousers. He revealed a bow tie and grey waistcoat hidden under the tweed once he turned around. The odd-looking man had dark brown, medium-length hair, and a warm and welcoming, yet very worried looking face.
"When and where am I?" he asked, concerned, looking around the flat disoriented.
Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows at him. The man turned around and then looked at him expectantly. Sherlock said nothing. He lifted his arms up.
"When and where am I?"
"What on Earth do you mean with 'when'?" Sherlock said, clearly put off track.
"Earth, 'kay, thanks, little bit more specific though, please… and you still didn't tell me when." He started pacing up and down the entryway between the kitchen and the sitting room.
Sherlock gave up on trying to find answers immediately, understanding that whoever this man was, he would be more cooperative if he received his answers first.
"You're in 221B Baker Street, London, 2013."
The man stopped pacing and looked at him carefully, as if he'd suddenly recognized that address.
"London, England?" he asked gingerly.
"Yes."
"What was your name again?"
"Sherlock Holmes." There was a brief pause. The man gave him a suspicious look and took a step closer. He then pulled out a metal device, which lit up the moment he pressed a button and pointed it at the consulting detective. Sherlock first thought it was some kind of threat, but soon he realized that the hand-held, metal object had no impact on him. A part of the device snapped up as the man in tweed retracted it and exchanged looking at Sherlock and it.
"That's not possible..." he whispered. Sherlock's curiosity rose higher by the second.
"What is?"
"You are."
"What do you mean, I'm impossible?!"
"I'm in the wrong place," the man said looking around nervously. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
"Why are you in the wrong place?... Who are you?!"
Again Sherlock asked as the dark-haired man ran across the room and opened the blue box with a key from his pocket. He ran into it and closed the door. Sherlock sprinted and banged his fists against the door as the wheezing began again.
"Wait! Wait! Who are you?!" he yelled through the wood, hoping the man on the other end would hear him and not just leave. The blue box disappeared and Sherlock, who was leaning against it, tripped forward. Quickly he re-took his posture and looked up at the ceiling.
"Who are you?!" he yelled twice as loudly as before.

Suddenly, the wheezing sound and the wind returned, and the blue box re-appeared, precisely where it had been before. The door opened again and the same man as before leaned into him and carefully made out every detail of the detective's face; his icy blue eyes, his alabaster skin, his dark brown locks. He only said four words:
"I'm The Oncoming Storm." And with that, the door closed once more and the police box dematerialized, leaving Sherlock once again alone in his gloomy flat.

That was the first time.