Author's Note: A tidy little Wholock crossover for your entertainment. :) Please enjoy.


Mycroft Holmes was ten years old when he first met The Doctor.

He had driven his mother half-mad with his loud complaints about his younger sibling. Sherlock had barrelled into Mycroft's room and had toppled the carefully constructed card house which had been Mycroft's pride and joy for the last two days. When Mycroft had leapt out of his chair in outrage, Sherlock had merely laughed and spread the cards out further on the table. Mycroft had screamed at Sherlock and told him to get out and stop ruining everything. Sherlock had promptly burst into tears.

Mummy had been very cross with Mycroft as she had come into his room and gathered Sherlock into her arms. She had been working at her dissertation and had given Mycroft strict orders to play nicely with his baby brother until lunch. "He's just a baby, Mycroft," she had said sternly, wiping at Sherlock's face to clear away the tears. "He is three years old and he does not understand why he can't play your big boy games."

"He's stupid," Mycroft had said, resentfully. Sherlock always got off the hook for destroying his things.

"No," Mummy had said, "he's simply not as developmentally advanced. He'll be a real playmate to you, soon. But, for now, you have to be understanding."

"You're stupid, too," Mycroft had muttered. "I'm never going to play with Sherlock. He's a silly baby."

"That is quite enough of that, young man," Mummy had said sharply, standing with Sherlock balanced on her hip. "I have heard just about enough of your whining, today. Go outside and play until lunch."

Mycroft had miserably complied. The front garden was full of pleasantly tall, green grass and all kinds of plants and animals, but he had wanted to construct card houses all day, not run around outside. He had sulkily donned his sturdy 'explorer's boots' and had buttoned his rather chubby body into a macintosh with a huff of anger. The sky outside had looked ready to pour water down onto an unsuspecting boy's head, but Mycroft had refused to swing an umbrella from his arm while he play-acted in the garden. Mummy had always said that a little water never hurt an Englishman.

In the tradition of all intelligent children, Mycroft had quickly been distracted from his woes by fascinating flowers and bugs. He had taken out his magnifying glass and studied beetles up close. The beetles had been very obliging. One had even clung to Mycroft's macintosh and refused to leave. As the morning had wandered into noon, Mycroft had wandered farther from his house, leaving the garden proper in favor of the outer field. He had been thoroughly absorbed in his scientific endeavors until the threatening clouds above him had shown their true colors. Mycroft had only managed to flip up the hood of his coat before the bottom had dropped out of the sky. Rain in gigantic sheets had swamped the land.

Now, standing in the field, Mycroft peered about, trying to find his house in the blinding rain. He began to walk, trudging through the fast-appearing mud with a frown on his small face. Mummy would be so cross. She liked muddy boots about as much as she liked being called stupid.

A noise to his left made him turn his head. Mycroft looked carefully into the bushes, wondering if a lost cat could make such an odd, thrumming sound. The bushes didn't move, but the sound had definitely originated from that direction. When the noise began again, Mycroft stopped walking and called out, "Hello?"

There was no answer. On second thought, Mycroft reckoned that the sound was more akin to a hive of bees, and that bees couldn't talk. Still, he tried again. "Is there someone there?"

The noise fluctuated, humming louder and then dropping to a lower frequency. Mycroft's curiosity was piqued in the same instant as his fear instinct. Something was wrong with those bushes or, rather, what was inside them. He backed away slowly. The noise reached a new pitch. His heart began to race. As if in response, the humming increased. "Mummy," Mycroft whispered to himself, "I think there's something wrong with your hydrangeas."

Something burst out of the bushes. It was not a cat and it was definitely not bees. Mycroft didn't bother to get a very close look; all he knew was that it was bigger than him and it was clearly not human. He let out a shout and tore off in the opposite direction, slipping and sliding in the rain-slicked grass. The thing behind him released another series of hums and began to chase him. Mycroft knew his hunter had gotten closer when its humming drowned out the sound of his frantic respirations.

To Mycroft's unending dread, a second hum joined the first. Another creature had risen from behind Mummy's azalea hedge. Then, to make matters thrice as dire, a third creature slid out from the holly. Wheezing with effort, Mycroft put on extra speed. His first thought was: 'Go home! Go home! They can't get you in the house!' But, before he had even finished the thought, another came on its heels: 'Mummy and Sherlock are at home! Mummy's a girl, and Sherlock's a baby!'

As any proper Englishman would do, Mycroft ran away from where he suspected his house to be. His father had always told him not to put women and children in danger. He had to be a man, now, or risk hurting his family, and he was much too clever to let his fear get control of him. Still, he couldn't help the whimper as it passed his lips. He was ten years old, and he was going to be eaten by monsters.

He hoped Mummy would at least cry, when she found his body. If she found his body, Mycroft corrected the thought morosely.

There was another wailing hum, and Mycroft thought his chest would burst from the breaths exploding from his lungs. This new noise was strident and not like bees at all. Then, quite suddenly, a shape began to materialize before him: a blue box the size of a garden shed. When the hum had faded, the blue box stood solid and impossible, directly in Myrcoft's path. The door swung open and a man leaned out.

"Hurry!" The man shouted, stretching out a hand as Mycroft dashed forward. "They're right behind you, lad! Run!"

"Can't-make-it," Mycroft gasped. "Too-fat! Monsters-win!"

"Rubbish!" The man jumped out of his box and surged toward Mycroft. He overtook the boy easily and grabbed him under his armpits, swinging him into his wiry arms. "The monsters will never win, as long as you keep fighting," the man told Mycroft. Mycroft clutched tightly to his leather jacket and fought not to throw up all over his savior.

The humming noise behind them grew to a frantic pitch, but the blue box was within reach. The man threw Mycroft unceremoniously through the doorway and slammed the door just as the humming creatures rushed toward it. Mycroft lay flat on the floor, trying not to cry as his terror overwhelmed him. "Monsters are in my garden," he said, still panting. "Wait!" He sat up. "Mummy and Sherlock are still at home! They'll be eaten!"

"No," the man said, "the Onkaku are psychic receptive and can only hunt their prey in open spaces without doorways. Your house has a threshold. They can't cross it without being invited in, and your mum is likely too smart to let an alien into her parlor."

Mycroft squeezed the tears from his eyes. "Aliens aren't real," he said, his voice trembling. "Daddy proved it to me, scientifically. There are journals about this sort of thing."

"What do you call those great, humming monsters, then?" The man asked, with a laugh. "Come on, lad, up you get. Welcome to the TARDIS, by the way."

Mycroft sat up. His jaw dropped open as he gazed around him. The blue box had somehow become huge on the inside, and its interior was filled with soaring support beams and a large center console. To Mycroft, it looked like one of the scenes from the science fiction shows Mummy sometimes watched on television. The man who had saved him from the monsters looked rather out of place in such a magnificent setting: his black trousers, black leather jacket, and dark purple shirt looked as normal as Mycroft's macintosh and boots.

"This blue box," Mycroft said, somehow finding his voice, "what is it?"

"I told you," the man said, "it's the TARDIS."

"That's not a proper name."

"That's because it's an acronym." The man tilted his head. "You do know what an acronym is, don't you?"

"Of course," Mycroft said stiffly. "I'm not stupid. What does it stand for?"

"Time and Relative Dimension in Space," the man answered, with a large smile. "This is my space-and-time machine. I can take myself to any place, at any time, which is how I saved you from your garden variety aliens."

"A time machine!" Mycroft forgot all about his fear as he stood, gazing at the TARDIS. He walked to the center console. The many buttons and levers across its curved surface were unlike any of the aeroplane or boat control panels that he had ever studied. "It's impossible!"

"Nope," the man said cheerily, "it's only impossible for humans, and I'm not a human!" He strode over to the far side of the console and flicked several switches. His hands reached out to pull at cables or to pound on buttons. The console beeped accordingly.

Mycroft processed the man's statement and felt a moment's unease. "You're an alien, too, then?" He said, uncertainly.

"'Course I'm an alien," the man said, looking up from his task and fixing his blue eyes on his young companion. "Do you know of any humans with a time-and-space machine?"

"I don't know," Mycroft answered, "I've heard the Russians have got lots of space technology." He frowned suspiciously at his savior. "How do I know you're not going to kidnap me? What if you're going to sell me off to another alien?" He gulped and backed up to the wall of the TARDIS. "Are you going to take me to an alien butcher's shop? Do you eat humans?"

"Don't be ridiculous," the man said. "If I was going to kidnap you, I'd put you in handcuffs, wouldn't I, so you couldn't escape? And if I was going to sell you to a butcher or eat you, I'd have picked a much less chubby boy, wouldn't I? You're not good eating by anyone but an Onkaku's standards."

Mycroft considered this answer for a moment, then reasoned that the man must be telling the truth. He wasn't a good choice for a hearty meal; he was not very muscular and he had a large middle. This man looked much too cunning to pick the wrong dinner. Even though the man's words made sense to Mycroft, he remained as far away as possible, staring warily at this new-found alien.

The man seemed to know about Mycroft's doubts. His hard-planed face softened somewhat. He left the console and came to crouch in front of Mycroft. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said gently. "I don't like hurting anyone, believe me. I'm a decent sort of alien to know. I've even got tea, and it's regular, old English tea. Would you like some?"

Mycroft looked hard into the man's eyes and saw kindness there, along with loneliness. He was suddenly reminded of an old soldier that lived near his home who would always take a walk around dusk, stumping through the town with his cane. Mummy had never tolerated any rude questions about the soldier and had told Mycroft that the reason the soldier looked frightening was because he had seen very sad things at war and he had no one at home to talk to.

Mycroft wondered if this alien had seen terrible things and was all alone, too.

"Just regular tea," Mycroft repeated, and the alien nodded. "You haven't tampered with it in any way?"

"Who could spoil earl grey with alien modifications?" The man asked in horror. "That would be a sacrilege!"

As the man winked at him, Mycroft smiled timidly and offered his hand. "I'm Mycroft Holmes," he said, as the alien took his hand and shook it.

"Nice to meet you, Mycroft," the man said. "I'm The Doctor."