Rose stifled a yawn, as flashes of color cascaded past the windows in a blur. A small smile made its way onto her face, and she closed her eyes for a moment. The rush took her away. She felt like everything was the same again: with the Doctor, in the TARDIS, feeling that exhilarating rush of adrenalin flow into her bloodstream. But when she opened her eyes, all she had around her was the silence of a early-morning metro. Sighing, she raised the newspaper back up to her view, taking extra notice of the police report column.

"Sherlock Holmes" seemed to be a recurring theme through out every report she'd read into since she was trapped on this alternate plane. The reports felt like the adventures she used to enjoy, but with a thrill even the Doctor could never have given her. A thrill of uncovering an answer for herself, without his all-knowing help. The paper was carefully slid back into her jeans pocket as the train came to a halt.

Stepping out the door, she made her way to the surface of the small port. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted it: the crime scene. She searched through her pockets until she pulled out a single sheet of blank paper with a grin.

"Inspector Rose Tyler." she said stoical, ducking beneath the yellow tape. Sargent Donovan sighed, letting the stranger pass. She stood in at the sidelines, keeping care as not to be noticed. She rubbed her TARDIS key between her forefinger and thumb absently, trying to make out what the officers were crowded around.

Meanwhile, Sherlock Holmes and his trusty blogger had just arrived at the scene. Albeit, reluctantly, in regards to the detective. "I don't see the point in me being here, Lestrade. The Yard doesn't trust me since my return." he muttered, shoving past pesky forensics agent Anderson. "Hey!" the man squeaked, "Welcome back, freak."

Sherlock merely grumble something profane, before walking towards the huddle of officers. "Move." he barked, as they all backed away quickly. Except one. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see her. Blonde hair, brown eyes, brown jacket and blue jeans. A key wrapped around her neck with a pink ribbon. But, her back story was coming up blank. Only one point stood out: she didn't belong there.

John, by this point, had also noticed the enigmatic woman. Making his way over to her, offering up another cheesy chat-up line. Sherlock shook his head violently, trying his best to focus back on the work at hand. He pulled a magnifier out of his coat pocket, bending over the victim.

Giggling. His mind reeled, and he looked up. She was standing there giggling uncomfortably as John rolled out another line. Something along the lines of: "The 'H' stand for how you doin'?" Her brown eyes avoided John's and suddenly latched onto his own. He felt his breath hitch.

From behind him, he heard Lestrade talking to some intern. Switching off. Sherlock shook himself again, returning back to the body once more. A figure suddenly crouched down across from him, brown hair messy and black glasses sliding down his nose. He looked around, before pulling a silver device out from his suit. It buzzed lightly, pulling the detective's gaze to it. The man looked up, noticing Sherlock's concern.

He placed it back in his pocket with a smirk. "Our little secret, 'eh, Holmes?"