[AN: Hello everyone! This is a fanfiction present to my sister, who was fed up with the overwhelming number of truly awful Sherlock fanfictions out there. If you have come to this fic hoping to see characters get makey-outey with each other, then I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere. On the plus side, David Tennant is in it (not the Doctor, the actual dude). Anyway, I hope you enjoy my silly little fanfic.]

John reached past the bag of dead snakes to the jar of strawberry preserves, before closing the refrigerator door and sitting down at the least cluttered bit of table he could find. Molly had to wait until Monday night before unclaimed corpses could be distributed for scientific experimentation and/or Sherlock's curiosity, so John's only thoughts as he spread some jam on his toast that morning were, It must be Sunday, and, Wonder if the paper's arrived yet.

John was reading the paper when Sherlock came down the stairs in his robe and pajama pants. Before Sherlock could open his mouth, John said, "Nothing above a 5 this week, I'm afraid."

"Of course there isn't," Sherlock said, "you'd have put the paper on the table in anticipation of springing the news on me, instead of reading the entertainment page."

Sherlock took an apple out of the refrigerator, sat down on the sofa and started to eat. Oh no, thought Watson. Sherlock had three gears: on a case (no eating), contentedly experimenting while waiting for a new case (eating while looking through a microscope), and bored (eating on the sofa). When Sherlock was bored, it was only a matter of time before something got broken, shot, stabbed, melted, or exploded. And, sure enough, John had barely started the entertainment section when Sherlock reached under the couch, produced a bottle labeled "sulfuric acid," and un-stopped it.

"Give me the acid, Sherlock," said John as he put down the paper.

"Why?" asked Sherlock bitterly, without taking his eyes from the bottle. He started to swirl its contents.

"Sherlock, if you don't hand over the acid, I'm throwing out that bag of snakes in the refrigerator."

Outside the window, red and blue lights flashed.

"FINALLY," said Sherlock, and he tossed the bottle in John's direction as he rushed to the flat's door. John fell back over his chair in an effort to get away from the bottle, which smashed onto the ground. He checked his clothes quickly to see if any acid had splashed onto them, before he looked around the edge of the chair. His first reaction was to sigh with relief, since the hardwood floor was not sizzling or smoking. His second reaction was to mutter irritably, since this meant that the bottle had been empty the entire time. He looked up to see Sherlock watching him.

"Wanted to know how normal people react when a glass container of dangerous contents gets tossed toward them. Sometime later we'll try it again with a stopped bottle, but it'll have to wait, I'm afraid." Sherlock opened the door and looked down the steps. "Kidnapping. Why?" said Sherlock.

From the sound of the footfalls, LeStrade was about halfway up the steps before he stopped and, after a pause during which LeStrade decided against asking how Sherlock knew it was a kidnapping, said, "Well, that's for you to figure out, isn't—"

"I mean why come to me. What's special about it?"

"It's a celebrity," said LeStrade.

"Not interested," said Sherlock, and he slammed the door shut.

"It's not just that!" John heard LeStrade yell, as he continued up the steps, "He's disappeared!"

"John, would you kindly read through the door to commander LeStrade the definition of kidnapping? I'm going to go hang my head out the upstairs window and—"

"There's a tape of the event that was left by the kidnapper."

Sherlock paused, obviously debating whether hearing LeStrade out would more or less interesting than whatever he was planning to do with his head out the window. John, in part to get back at Sherlock for that acid trick, crossed the room and let LeStrade in before Sherlock could say anything. "Mind the broken glass, Greg," he said, as he gave Sherlock what he hoped was a withering look. Sherlock did not wither.

"Thank you, John," said LeStrade, "Now, do you have a VHS player?"

"No, because this isn't 1995," said Sherlock bitterly, as he glanced longingly up the stairs.

"That's what I thought," said LeStrade, as an agent neither John nor Sherlock recognized appeared behind him in the doorway, carrying a VCR. "Over there, Harrison," he said, pointing toward the television. "Now, while Harrison hooks this up, I'll fill you in on everything else we know."

LeStrade carefully walked over to the sofa, sat down, and took out his notepad. With an exasperated sigh, Sherlock stepped onto a chair facing him, sat with his knees near his chest, and gave LeStrade the "I'm listening, so you'd better impress me" stare. John went into the kitchen for the brush and dustpan to start cleaning up the glass.

"Our missing person's name is Mr. David Tennant—" LeStrade started.

"Wait, really?" said John from the kitchen.

"Yes, big tv star for— What is it, Inspector Space-Time? Some nonsense like that."

"It's called Dr. Who, and he's not on the show anymore," continued LeStrade patiently, as he handed Sherlock a picture of the kidnapped party, "but he was at a convention this weekend dedicated to it. Last night at 8:00, he finished a panel on the space ship his character uses on the show, and he managed to slip away from the crowds quietly. At 8:03, he took a picture with a fan just outside the parking structure which contained his car. At 11:30 last night, his wife came to the police station to tell us he didn't come home when he said he would. Ordinarily we tell wives to give it 24 hours and then come to us again, but the D.I. on duty at the time has a bit of a soft spot for the show and it was a quiet night, so he agreed to check things out. Sitting on top of one of the cars on the second floor, nearby Mr. Tennant's car, we found this."

LeStrade reached into his bag and pulled out a very old-looking video camera in an evidence bag.

"No prints, not so much as a hair on it for DNA, but it was still filming when the detective inspector picked it up. Are we ready to play, Harrison?"

The man nodded as he pushed the tape into the vcr and pressed play. On the screen, in horribly grainy quality, was a stretch of parked cars. The camera was positioned such that only the width of about six parking spaces could be seen, only two of which were filled with cars. Suddenly, whistling could be heard somewhere in the parking structure ("Oh Danny Boy"), and from the left entered David Tennant, twirling his car keys in his hands. Suddenly he stopped, looking at something off to the right of the camera view.

"Oh that's clever," he said, "That might be the best cosplay I've seen all day."

The lights flickered, then turned off for about a half of a second. When they came back on, someone that was dressed as a grey stone angel appeared on the right side of the screen.

"Well that's terrifying. Have you got a friend working the lights? I hope you're not one of those creeps trying to accost me and… tie me up or something."

The lights went out for another half second, then briefly flickered on to show the figure within three feet of Mr. Tennant, before they went out again.

"Got you," said a woman's voice, there was a whirring sound as a second passed and the lights went on again. Neither figure was there on the screen.

"It's all just an empty car park from here on out," said LeStrade, as he stopped the tape.

"Huh," said John simply.

Sherlock placed the tips of his pressed-together fingers over his lips. "Did you ask the wife about the significance of the angel costume?"

"Didn't have to," said Lestrade, "It's a gimmick from the show. In Dr. Who, there are aliens called Weeping Angels, which can only move when no one is seeing them, or else they're frozen in stone. If you let one touch you, you get transported back in time-"

"Yes, thank you. What kind of car had the camera on top of it?"

"A pick-up truck. We ran the plates—"

"Could've told you not to bother," said Sherlock, "If the truck owner had any connection with the kidnapper, they would've parked it with the front facing inward, rather than outward, for a wider camera shot. The kidnapper wanted us to see this; she would've wanted it to be perfect. Instead she was working with what she had. How about the camera?"

"Originally owned by a Mr. Allan O'Malley. He claims he sold it at a garage sale about a month ago, doesn't remember to whom. His alibi checks out, and his story seems consistent with the quality of the camera."

"And I suppose you want me to tell you how they managed to disappear," said Sherlock, sighing, "Good God, I'm going to need a chiropractor someday for all the stooping I do to explain these things. The kidnapper chloroformed him with that bit of cloth you can see in her right hand the second time she appears on-camera, then jumped beside the car with his unconscious body."

"Actually, we did think of that," said LeStrade, with a touch of pride, "We've gone over every single area with a fine-toothed comb where they might have jumped off-screen. Not so much as a smudge of that grey make-up or a fiber from his tee-shirt, and there's no evidence of a clean-up either. They've just vanished."

"Nobody just vanishes, LeStrade, and the day I trust Anderson's combs to be fine-toothed is the day the Prime Minister announces his affair voluntarily. Any request for ransom to the family?"

"None, but we've tapped Mrs. Tennant's phone in case one comes up."

"With an act this grandiose, they'd've called by now. No ransom, left camera, showy. Hm."

"Give us the address of the car park. We'll call a cab," said John.

"No we won't. Still a six," said Sherlock, but he was still staring intently into space, his fingertips pressed together and over his mouth.

"This is a seven and you know it. Besides, you can come if you like; I'm going anyway."

"Why? What do you care?"

"Well," said John, hesitatingly, "I just think this case is—"

"Oh right, I forgot. You love that bloody show."

"Not love, just like," said John defensively.

"Whatever the reason I don't care," said LeStrade, standing up, "I'll text you the address as soon as I leave, John. You can go in about five minutes. I'll try to get there before you and convince Anderson to get a cup of coffee."