Johnlocked on the TARDIS

by Little.Miss.Whovian

The Doctor visits 221 B Baker Street to deliver some startling news, and needs a little help from Sherlock Homes and John Watson. Along the way, passions will flare and love will bloom as The Doctor, Clara, John and Sherlock track down a dangerous criminal.

On a warm spring morning, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were taking tea together in the living room. As they discussed the case they had just closed, or rather, John continued to go on about certain aspects of it between arrowroot biscuits, a blue police box appeared perhaps two blocks away. As Sherlock listened, his mind continued to race as it always did. It was virtually impossible to quiet his thoughts, regardless of the situation. "Sherlock..." John said, trying to attain his friend's attention. He'd realised that Sherlock had been staring off into space for who knows how long. John had always wondered just what it was that Sherlock was thinking about whenever he was lost in thought. Knowing him as John did, he felt that it would likely be about something rather complex. Sherlock could sit for hours on end, merely staring and thinking. Often, when this occurred, he was utterly oblivious to his surroundings. "Are you even listening to me?" John asked a little more loudly, brows furrowing. Sherlock's sharp eyes focused as he turned them on John. "Of course, I am." He answered simply, and took a sip of his tea, which had grown cool.

"Oh, right." John said, not completely convinced. He took a sip of sugarless black tea from his favourite mug and crossed his legs. Sherlock gave him a bit of a look before quickly rattling off a complete summary of everything John had said in the past twenty minutes or so.

Meanwhile, the blue police box sat on a street corner, gathering surprisingly little attention from the public. A youthful man wearing a bow tie stepped out of it, with an attractive young lady following behind him. "So..." She started, looking around. "When and where are we then?" She asked, feeling fairly certain that it couldn't be far from her own time by very much, if at all. The man looked about, and then adjusted his bow tie. The Doctor looked at her. "We're in London, obviously, and the year is 2016... June, I should think." He answered. "There's someone important that we need to pay a visit to." Clara brushed back a stray hair, watching The Doctor as he adjusted his beloved fez. "And who would that be?" She asked, genuinely curious. Travelling with The Doctor, she had already met a number of rather famous and important people in the past ten months. She'd had meaningful conversations with a young Queen Elizabeth, Pocahontas, as well as John F. Kennedy since stepping into the TARDIS for the first time. And, she'd even met Dr. Sam Beckett, whom they had been able to help leap home at last. Although, Clara hadn't been too keen with Dr. Beckett's friend, Admiral Al Calavicci, constantly hitting on her. Clara had been thoroughly enjoying her time with The Doctor, with few exceptions. The Doctor half smiled. "Oh, I think that this time, I'll leave it to be a surprise." He answered, knowing just how much she hated to be left in the dark. Once in a while, it was fun to keep her guessing.

Back at 221 B Baker Street, John was in the kitchen preparing to bake a loaf of raisin bread, which happened to be Sherlock's favourite. John was constantly doing little things like this to try and make Sherlock happy. Much of the time, it seemed that those efforts went unrealised. But sometimes, Sherlock let him see that he'd noticed and let him know that whatever it had been, was appreciated. Of course, this always gave John a little thrill.

Just as he was adding the cinnamon, the doorbell rang. Of course, Sherlock pretended to be oblivious to it. Then again, it was just as likely that he was lost in his fervent thoughts once more. John sighed and rolled his eyes. He could only recall once or twice out of the years they'd spent living together that his friend had ever answered the door.

"Oh, I'll get it, shall I?" He grumbled under his breath, as he wiped his hands on the green apron tied about his waist and exited the kitchen. He strode over to the door, preparing himself to greet a potential client. John glanced into the living room on the way past, giving Sherlock an exasperated look that went unnoticed. The doorbell had only been rung once and usually that was an indication that on the other side of the door was a potential client. He opened the door, a pleasant smile on his face. "Hello." He neutrally greeted the man and woman on the doorstep. John eyed the man wearing a red fez and bow tie, and then gave a thin smile to the young lady accompanying him. "Can I help you?" He asked, silently critiquing the male's fashion choices.

"Hello!" The man said, "You're John, aren't you?" He asked enthusiastically, his eyes sparkling with an almost childish excitement. John got the impression that this sort of enthusiasm was usual for the stranger at the door, as he wondered how the stranger knew his name and what it was that was that he wanted. John straightened his spine, beginning to feel a little on edge. "Have we met?" He asked a little suspiciously, his eyes squinting slightly due to the sunlight streaming down. John was fairly certain that he would have remembered such a person if this was the case. The Doctor raised his nearly hairless eyebrows a little. "Actually, no, we haven't." He admitted with a friendly smile, before introducing himself. "I'm The Doctor, by the way." The man began, and then gestured to his companion. "And this is my good friend, Clara." She gave a little wave at John, feeling too warm in her white jumper. Perhaps she should have worn something a bit lighter.

The Doctor smiled. "Nice to properly meet you at last, Mr. Watson." He said, reaching to shake John's hand. John frowned slightly, ignoring the proffered hand. "Dr. Watson." He corrected out of hold of John's right hand, shaking it in a friendly fashion. "Good to meet you, Dr. Watson." He said genuinely, letting go of John's hand. John wiped his hand on his jumper, wanting these people to just leave. The Doctor didn't take any notice. "We're here to see Sherlock Holmes. He does still live here, doesn't he?" The Doctor asked. As John was about to answer, Sherlock came up behind him. "You were taking so long; I was beginning to wonder..." He told John, who quickly explained the situation as The Doctor and Clara wondered if she had heard the name properly. Was the tall man in front of her really the one and only Sherlock Holmes?

"Yes, I've known The Doctor for some time. Nearly two decades, now." Sherlock told John, who looked surprised. John knew that Sherlock liked to keep quite a lot to himself, but felt that someone like this would have been worth mentioning at some point. Despite living together for so long, Sherlock remained somewhat of an enigma. "I see you've obtained a new companion." He observed tonelessly, glancing briefly at Clara, who was beginning to feel that she must have misheard the man's name. She gave him a small wave. Then again, the other man was Dr. Watson. Clara glanced at the numbers on the door, realising where she was. 221 B. On Baker Street. She looked back to the tall, thin gentleman standing in front of her and gave him a very big grin. She'd read and heard so much about him, and come to admire Sherlock Holmes greatly. Naturally, she was thrilled to have the opportunity to meet him in person, and it showed. Sherlock inclined his head ever so slightly in her direction, giving her a very small polite smile before politely ushering the guests inside to the den.

As they all sat down, John offered the guests refreshments. The Doctor declined as he sat down. Clara requested a glass of water, as she tried not to stare in a star struck fashion at Sherlock, who was looking at The Doctor. "It's been two years, give or take a fortnight." Sherlock pointed out to The Doctor. "What is it that brings you to Baker Street?" He asked curiously, his sharp eyes focused on The Doctor. He knew that The Doctor never came by to merely visit, which meant that something wonderfully interesting was about to take place. Sherlock could honestly say that The Doctor was the one person who had never bored him. John returned with Clara's water, noticing how intently Sherlock was paying attention to the strange man sitting in his favourite chair. He could feel a twinge of jealousy come over him, as he tensely set the drink in front of Clara a little harder than he'd meant to. She pretended not to notice, and thanked him.

John moved in front of the window that Sherlock liked to play his violin in front of, and he began to sulk a bit. He blew out a deep breath as he leaned against the wall, wondering where exactly this was all heading as he watched the scene unfold. He contemplated returning to the kitchen to finish making bread, but decided to wait and see what would happen in the den.

The Doctor turned his warm gaze onto John. "Why don't you sit down, Dr. Watson. Or might I call you John?" He asked in a friendly manner, indicating the empty spot on the sofa. John cleared his throat. "Um, you can use whichever one you prefer, I suppose." He answered the question in a non-committal fashion, not really caring, and then sat beside Sherlock almost possessively. The Doctor looked at them both, his thin lips forming a subtle smile as Sherlock gave him an apologetic look for his flat mate's rudeness. The Doctor didn't really mind. It was nice to see that someone cared so much for Sherlock, after his being alone for so long. "The reason why I'm here is actually..." The Doctor paused, his expression becoming solemn. "Well, it's about your daughter." He said carefully, watching closely to gauge the reaction to the bombshell he'd just dropped. John's eyebrows knitted in utter confusion. He felt quite certain that this man was completely mistaken. He knew quite well that he hadn't sired any children, and would be willing to bet his life that Sherlock hadn't either. Even Sherlock's own brother had dubbed him a virgin. "Sorry, whose daughter would this be?" He asked, rather unclear of exactly who The Doctor had been speaking to and wishing that this man and his 'companion' would be on their way, leaving them in peace. After all, did he actually expect them to believe such rubbish? The Doctor hesitated, not wanting to make this more difficult than it had to be. "The daughter that I speak of is genetically linked to both you and Sherlock, John." The Doctor answered seriously. "The both of you will share a daughter." He finished, understanding John's disbelief, but needing him to hear the truth regardless. John couldn't help but burst into stressed laughter at this point, as Sherlock just sat there quietly with two fingers pressed to his lips, obviously deep in thought. John pinched the bridge of his nose, his laughter ebbing as he decided that The Doctor was obviously mad.

John wiped a tear away, as he looked at The Doctor incredulously. "We... We don't have children!" he said a little breathlessly, feeling the need to assert reality. "And for the record, I'm not gay." He gestured between Sherlock and himself. "We're not a couple." He added, suddenly feeling annoyed. So many people just assumed they were together. After a while, it became rather irritating. John had always disliked assumptions, correct or otherwise. He felt that any sort of assumption was just plain rude, and he despised being labeled. Despite his deep affection for Sherlock, he was unhappy that so many people believed right off the bat that he was gay, slamming him into a category whether or not he was comfortable with it. John didn't consider himself to be obvious, and just didn't understand why people that he met jumped to such conclusions.

Sherlock had mentioned shortly after they met that he wasn't looking for a relationship, and appeared to feel that same way now. Because of this, John desperately tried to hide his feelings. He was afraid that if Sherlock were to find out, that his presence might not be wanted any longer. That he would lose the best friend that he'd ever had. Just the thought of that upset John. No, if anything romantic were ever to happen between them, he would let Sherlock make the first move.

Sherlock closed his eyes in annoyance, after hearing John state that he wasn't gay for what must have been at least the thousandth time. "Oh, for Heaven's sake, John!" He snapped, his voice going startlingly deeper with the aggravation. "Do you ever plan to stop with that?" He asked rudely, before continuing to go on. "You, of all people, know that bisexuality does tend to mean being attracted to both genders. Or, 'gay' to a certain extent, wouldn't you agree?" He finished blatantly, looking knowingly at John, who turned crimson. Sherlock had been fully aware of John's desires. He felt angry and more than a little hurt, not to mention humiliated. Sherlock immediately felt guilty for his unnecessary outburst, and turned his gaze to the floor. "It's nothing at all to be ashamed of." He added swiftly but meaningfully, before looking up and back to The Doctor. "Please, continue." He encouraged, eager to move on. The Doctor looked a little uneasy, as John sat in stunned silence. Sherlock waited impatiently for The Doctor to begin speaking once more, trying not to concentrate on the pain that he'd just inflicted. Not that Sherlock believed that John's bruised feelings were so unimportant, but that it was imperative that he concentrate on the issue that The Doctor had brought with him.

"Of course, you don't have a daughter right now." The Doctor said softly, looking at John almost apologetically. "But, you will. In exactly one year and six months, the two of you will be the proud fathers of a healthy baby girl." He paused, before adding, "But, she needs you now." The Doctor put a hand in the air, gesturing flamboyantly. "Well, to be technically correct, she will need you." He laughed a little tensely, trying to ease the situation as much as possible. "She hasn't been born yet, so she couldn't possibly need you right now, could she, eh?" He asked somewhat nervously, as he realised that he was doing just the opposite. He looked at John, who seemed to be growing more ill at ease as time went on. John blinked rapidly, wondering why on earth Sherlock was actually taking him seriously. He seriously believed that this man was obviously beyond mad. The Doctor waited for them to say something. Neither John, nor Sherlock uttered a single word. "Of course, I don't expect you to believe me until you see some actual proof. I can't say that I blame you." He said earnestly, aiming this more at John, and then was quiet for a moment. It was as though he wasn't entirely certain how to proceed. He took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "If the both of you are willing, I urge you strongly to come with me." He said, knowing that without their assistance, his task would be impossible. His tone was entirely serious, and the enthusiasm in his eyes had been replaced by a hard glint. Sherlock knew that whatever it was that was wrong, it was really wrong. The Doctor had only requested his assistance a handful of times before, and each time he had truly needed Sherlock's immense skills. He stood up, not breaking eye contact with The Doctor.

The two men went into a far corner of the kitchen. "Where have you put the TARDIS?" Sherlock inquired, fully intending to take John and meet him there. The Doctor gave him precise directions to the blue box. Sherlock tucked a stray curl behind his ear unconsciously. "I need to talk to John first, but we will meet you there shortly." He said quietly. "We'll be there as soon as possible." The Doctor nodded, fully understanding. "Yes, of course." He glanced over at John, who was watching them suspiciously. "Do you really think that John can handle this?" He asked, doubts crossing his mind. Sherlock looked at John, knowing that with a little time, he'd be able to adjust quite well. He remained quiet as he thought of how he was going to convince John to go along with all of this. Sherlock looked back to The Doctor. "John will manage. He's much more resilient than you would think." He answered seriously.

The Doctor walked back into the den and over to Clara, "It's time we were on our way. Come along." He told her, and then looked quickly to both John and Sherlock. Clara peered up at him, and cocked her head, feeling a bit confused with the entire situation. John felt relieved that they were leaving, and heaved a frazzled sigh. He wasn't sure if he could have taken much more nonsense. Clara stood up, smoothed her skirt, and followed The Doctor out of the flat without saying a word. She had questions, of course, but they could wait.

Sherlock waited until they had closed the door, before letting out a deep breath, and turning away from the kitchen window. He slowly meandered back to the den, joining John on the sofa again.

Sherlock sat there in complete silence for nearly a full five minutes before he spoke. "We will be leaving Baker Street for a while." He stated simply, shattering the dead quiet. John snorted. "Is that really all that you have to say?" He asked in disbelief, as Sherlock stared at him unblinkingly. He scoffed, putting his hands to his face. "What the hell is going on, Sherlock?" He asked with a sigh, feeling a migraine coming on. Sherlock watched John in concern. "You're feeling unwell." Sherlock said softly, a frown on his young face. Sherlock's mind raced faster than it ever done before. He could feel the stress level growing higher as the minutes passed. "I just don't know what the hell is going on, and it's extremely irritating." He answered, the tips of his ears turning red as they always did when he was upset.

John leaned back, looking up at the ceiling as he tried to relax. "Honestly, the way you just listened to all that rubbish." He said almost disapprovingly. "I'm glad you finally asked him to leave..." John cleared his throat. "Now, what's this about going away?" He asked, wondering exactly what had brought that decision on. Where they in some sort of danger in their flat? Sherlock pressed his generous lips into a thin pink line. "I can't give you any details now; you'll simply have to trust me." He quietly said, with a quick glance out the window. "Pack a bag, if you like, but we need to get going and quite soon." John frowned once more. He did trust Sherlock. He'd trusted him with his life on multiple occasions, and as odd as things felt, he would trust him now. His mind reeling, he got up. "Can you at least tell me how long we'll be?" He asked, needing to understand what was happening. Sherlock thought for a moment. "I can't honestly say." He answered vaguely in an apologetic tone, wanting to be able to explain things the best that he could to John. Sherlock knew that John wouldn't understand, and that any attempt to enlighten him would only hinder Sherlock's plan to get John to the TARDIS. John grudgingly went into his bedroom and roughly began to place clothes, sanitary items and his laptop in a small fabric bag. He would go along with this, but he wasn't happy about it. When he had finished packing his small grey duffel bag, he slung it over his shoulder and went back to the living room. "All packed." John said needlessly.

As John locked the door to the flat, he swore. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this. "What is it?" He asked, fixing the scarf about his neck. It wasn't like John to swear, and Sherlock wasn't sure of he liked to hear such language from him. John obviously wasn't taking the situation well, and it bothered Sherlock to see him so agitated. John hung his head, closing his eyes tightly. Nothing was going right at all. John had simply wanted to spend the day lounging about the flat, and take care of a couple of errands. He had wanted to have a simple day off for once. "I was in the middle of making a batch of raisin bread, when those two rang the doorbell." John gave a small shrug. "You know how I hate to leave things unfinished." He grumbled unhappily. John was nearly obsessive when it came to finishing tasks. Sherlock hid a smile. "You hate raisins even more than butterscotch sweets. And that is really saying something." Sherlock pointed out, giving him a kind look. He'd known that John had been worrying that he wasn't getting enough to eat, and that John must have realised that he'd never turn down raisin bread. It was, after all, one of his favourite foods. He'd never even mentioned to John that he'd liked raisin bread, and the fact that John had noticed that about him was something that really meant something to him. Sherlock was able to instantly notice quite a volume of things about anyone he ran across, but it was rare for someone to even try and deduct anything about him. He swallowed a little hard at the thought that John cared enough to make such an effort. John sighed. "I might hate raisins, but you don't." He said. "It's nice to do something for others, you know." He didn't want Sherlock to see how big of a deal it was to him. And with that, they began to walk.

Back in the TARDIS, Clara leaned against the console. "That was the Sherlock Holmes…" She said almost in disbelief, slipping her shoes off. The Doctor smiled. He knew that she would enjoy meeting such a famous genius. "Yes." He confirmed, removing his fez, and set it down in the usual place of honor. She nodded. "I'm going to be time travelling with Sherlock Holmes." Clara grinned in excitement. "Now, that's not something you get to say every day." She said with a happy laugh. "So, how did you become friends with him, anyway?" She asked, rather curious. The Doctor reminisced for a moment before answering. "I saved his life." He said, as he recalled how small and fragile Sherlock used to be. If it hadn't been for The Doctor, Sherlock wouldn't have survived childhood. "It was almost impossible, with the event nearly being a fixed point in time, but I managed it." Clara nodded, and was quiet for a moment. "If I hadn't already known, I would never have guessed that he was gay." She blurted, as she pulled her cardigan back on, the TARDIS temperature was a little cool for her liking. "Not that there's anything wrong with it, of course." She quickly added, noticing the way he was looking at her. He had a vaguely disappointed expression on his face as he shook his head. "Honestly, you humans." He said almost sadly. "Most of you get hung up on so many unimportant things, and ignore the ones that really do matter." He sighed. She stammered. "I- I didn't mean it like that." She said, feeling as though she must have said the wrong thing altogether. He looked at her a little more softly. "I know." He told her. "I just wish that humans wouldn't jump so quickly to matters like that when meeting someone new. There is so much more to a person to focus on than those sorts of things." Clara was quiet, thinking about what The Doctor had been saying.

John and Sherlock approached the TARDIS, and stopped. John couldn't think what such a thing would suddenly be doing there, or why Sherlock had brought them to it. The police box hadn't been there the day before. He stared at it, a light wave of nostalgia washing over him. "I haven't seen a police box since I was a lad." John said, looking at it curiously. "What do you suppose it's doing here?" He asked, as Sherlock knocked on the door. "I really don't think that you're going to get an answer." John said, as Sherlock waited for an answer. "You're not going to tell me a damn thing, are you?" John asked with a frown. He crossed his arms impatiently, feeling ignored. Sherlock could be simply exasperating at times. A moment later, the door had been opened and Sherlock walked inside. John followed after him, not sure what to make of this development.

Sherlock had been in the TARDIS many times before, and knew what amazing things the seemingly ordinary police box held. The first time he'd been inside, however, it had felt as though his brain would break. It was an impossible thing, inexplicable, something that shouldn't exist. His brain had ached as it hadn't before, as he made a generous, yet entirely futile, effort to solve the puzzle. Even yet, the fact that he was unable to understand how the TARDIS could possibly be smaller on the outside made him feel a special kind of aggravation. Upon his first visit, it had taken him nearly a full day to be able to fully function once more.

He looked at John, a little worried. He didn't always take things very well, and Sherlock was fairly certain that this would be one of those times. John's eyes were wider than they'd ever been. He was baffled. "Wha-… How?" He spluttered, turning around clumsily, his eyes wild as he looked about. On the inside, it was wondrously spacious with silver metallic walls and filled with a number of odd things. It seemed to go on forever. And the outside… Well, it was just a plain old blue police box, wasn't it? "What is this thing?" He asked, his voice faltering momentarily as he blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of things. The Doctor put his hands in his pockets, a little offended. "She's not a 'thing'." He answered defensively, "She's the TARDIS... That stands for Time and Relative Dimension in Space, by the way." He stated proudly, giving John a moment to think about that. John couldn't decipher that sentence whatsoever. "And what does that mean, exactly?" He asked gruffly, suddenly feeling ill at ease and a touch dizzy. Sherlock guided him to a nearby chair. "This is what you might call a space ship." Sherlock told him, even though he knew that John wasn't likely to believe him. "It's possible to travel in both time and space with it." John scoffed, just as Sherlock thought he might. "Yeah, right." He said roughly, suddenly feeling a little dizzy. He felt like he must be dreaming, or drugged, perhaps. Things like this just didn't happen in real life. Yet, at the same time he knew full well that neither thing was the case. He knew that what was happening was real life. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt rather light-headed, and began to slump where he sat. Sherlock placed a hand on John's shoulder, ensuring that he wouldn't end up falling out of the chair. , then glanced at The Doctor. "Would you mind if I took him to lie down?" He asked, with a note of concern in his voice. The Doctor nodded, frowning. "By all means, take him upstairs to rest. You remember the way, of course." He said, looking at John with a worried look on his face. Sherlock guided John to his feet, an arm around his swaying friend. John felt rather embarrassed, and tried to push Sherlock's hand away, despite the room beginning to spin. Sherlock was having none of that, and kept a strong hold on John. "Quite well." He assured The Doctor confidently, and slowly assisted the entirely overwhelmed Dr. Watson upstairs. Once they were in the bedroom that would be John's for the entirety of the trip, he carefully helped John onto the king sized mattress. As he looked around, he realised that the bedroom was arranged exactly the same as it had been the last time he had stayed in it. Regretfully, that had been some time ago. Sherlock sighed. The Doctor was coming by less and less frequently over time. He wondered if one day, The Doctor would simply stop coming.

Downstairs, The Doctor put a hand on his neck. "Well, that didn't go as well as I'd hoped." He said with a note of distress in his voice. He had expected John to be a little slow to accept the facts, and had known that the TARDIS was likely to do a number on him. The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck. Clara raised an eyebrow. "Is that how most people react?" She asked, remembering her very first time in the TARDIS. She felt that she'd handled things pretty well, considering. "It all depends on the person, really." He told her. "I've seen all sorts of reactions. Once, a woman that I used to travel with fainted dead on the spot as soon as she was inside. Another time, a very stubborn girl rushed into the TARDIS and refused to leave." He chuckled, recalling a certain rather difficult companion from long ago. "She was actually oblivious to the difference at first. To this day, she's been the only one to react like that." Clara smiled. "She didn't notice at all?" She asked incredulously, finding that hard to believe. The Doctor nodded, continuing to reminisce. He somehow found himself telling her all about a certain incident involving Sarah Jane Smith, K9 and cybermen.

Despite how long it had been, The Doctor still missed Sarah Jane terribly, and wished that she had decided to come with him the last time they had met. Clara was wonderful, but there was nobody else quite like Sarah Jane. She stood out among the numerous people that he'd invited to come with him. After he finished his tale, he was quiet for some time. He went on to think about a number of his other companions, especially Rose. Oh, yes, Rose had been his ideal companion. He turned away from Clara, as his eyes began to tear up. Rose Tyler had been the best of the best. He'd loved her from the beginning, when he had saved her from the Nestene Invasion, in a certain shoppe's storage room. He could still remember the lilac scent she always wore, how soft her bleached hair was, how startlingly beautiful her dark brown eyes were and how lovely her wide smile was. Rose had a different smile especially for him, which had always melted his heart instantly.

He still loves her to this day, still misses her, and often thinks about how things ought to have been. The Doctor's hearts ached as he thought of his love, trapped in another dimension, raising their child. In the last moments he had seen her via hologram, Rose had denied being pregnant. Her sweet lie was one he had seen through instantly, but couldn't bring himself to let her know that. He thinks about the family that they should have been, and so nearly had. He had learned to live with this pain long ago, not that it had lessened any with time. On the contrary, if anything, it had grown stronger. There was a gaping void inside him that could never be filled. Rose had completed him, and he knew that he would never be able to be with her again.

John turned onto his side, suddenly feeling rather tired. Sherlock took out a thin blue blanket from the in-room closet, and draped it over John, who wriggled to get comfortable under it. "This is real, isn't it?" He asked quietly, looking into his friend's exquisitely stunning eyes. Sherlock simply nodded, feeling glad that John was beginning to adjust. "And I suppose that The Doctor is right about everything, then." John tucked the blanket under his chin, seeking comfort. Sherlock nodded again, his gaze softening. He wanted to console John, but wasn't entirely certain how. John stared at the ceiling. "You trust him, and that's the most important thing, I suppose." John sighed, suddenly remembering what Sherlock had said in annoyance to him that morning. "How long have you known about me?" He asked, terribly embarrassed. Sherlock smoothed a wrinkle in the blanket. "Since the afternoon we went to look at our flat." He answered gently. "You did give me a thorough looking over." Sherlock bit his bottom lip, noting how John's mood was sinking lower.

Sherlock felt bad for the unnecessary way that he'd snapped at John earlier. He'd witnessed that startling look of pain on John's face, had caused it. "I am sorry." Sherlock said. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at his hands, wanting to make things right. "That was cruel of me." He said, his voice low and soft. John looked at Sherlock, blushing slightly. "It's true, though." He pointed out hesitantly, watching Sherlock closely. John had never before seen him look so vulnerable before. It was almost shocking. Sherlock fiddled with his hands in an upset sort of way, as a small child is apt to do. How was it possible for John to make him feel like this? Not a single person had ever affected him this way, evoking such feeling from him. "It's actually okay, I think." John said, attempting a smile, but failing. It turned out to be more of the look of an upset stomach than anything. Sherlock sighed. "John, I do…" He began to say, with a quick flash of dread in his eyes that did not go unnoticed by John. "Well, I… Care for you." He blurted, the words feeling strange as he said them.

John's pulse quickened. He'd always felt something significant for Sherlock, his feelings deepening more and more as time went on. But he'd never truly believed that his feelings would be reciprocated. Then, he realised that he may have misinterpreted Sherlock's words. "You care for me?" He asked cautiously, not daring to believe that Sherlock had honestly confessed his love. He must have just meant that John was a very dear friend. "Do I really have to say it?" Sherlock asked uneasily, looking into John's eyes. John nodded, wanting so badly to hear the words that he'd imagined Sherlock saying a hundred times before in his mind. Sherlock sputtered, unsure if he could manage it. He cleared his throat, stroking his outer thigh nervously. "John…" He started. John sat up, leaning against the polished maple headboard. "Yes?" He asked, feeling a tad giddy. Which was something, considering how exhausted he'd felt only minutes before.

Sherlock combed his long fingers through his dark curls. "You are the one person I can see myself spending the rest of my life with and I… Well…" He blinked rapidly. "I love you." He uttered finally. John's breath quickened, as Sherlock's pale cheeks glowed rosily. He broke eye contact, and suddenly felt incredibly exposed and vulnerable. If it had been anybody other than John, he would have loathed it. However, while very uncomfortable, he felt a sort of strange relief at finally admitting it. John put a hand on his shoulder. "I love you, too." He said softly, a gentle smile on his lips. Sherlock glanced at him, suddenly feeling an overwhelming urge to have John closer. He leaned in, wrapping his arms around John, and kissing him at last. And in that moment, everything was okay. It was more than okay, it was perfect.

Sherlock slowly pulled away, as they gazed at one another, reveling in the moment. "Your eyes have gone green." John noticed. Sherlock's eyes often changed colour. His eyes were one of his strongest features, and John savoured looking into them. Sherlock blushed once more. John couldn't help himself. "You never blush." John stated teasingly, which made Sherlock blush all the more. "Stop it." Sherlock told him, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. John laughed softly, immediately regretting it. Sherlock actually looked a touch hurt. "Sorry." John quickly apologised. Sherlock shrugged it off. "There's no need for an apology." He said quietly, then felt John's forehead. "You're fevered." He said. "I'm going to get a cool cloth, lie down." He ordered, getting up and leaving the room. John couldn't help but notice Sherlock's firm behind as he walked out of the room. He bit his lip, feeling heavily aroused.

Sherlock returned shortly with a cool, damp cloth. He gently placed it on John's forehead. "I'm going to let you rest now, but should you need anything, there's a bell on the wall." He pointed out the small white button on the wall beside the bed. John nodded, his eyes closed. He was already half asleep. Sherlock turned out the overhead light, and left the room, closing the door halfway. John always liked to have his bedroom door like that.

Sherlock headed downstairs to the console room, which was where The Doctor spent much of his time. "You look a little tired." The Doctor said as he walked down the last few steps. "I'm not." Sherlock lied. "Now, this would be the perfect opportunity to reveal a few more details, don't you think?" He asked, as Clara stared at him. He turned towards her. "There is really no need to act so impressed with my presence." He stated bluntly. "Except that you're the one and only Sherlock Holmes." She said, hands on her hips. "Who wouldn't be impressed?" She asked. Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to be patient. "This really isn't the time." He told her bluntly, turning back to The Doctor. Clara huffed, and went to sit down. "Shouldn't we wait for John?" He asked. Sherlock knew that they should, and hesitantly agreed. "How've you been?" Asked The Doctor. "Bored, as usual?" He grinned. Sherlock leaned against a wall. "Quite often, yes." He said honestly. "At least there have been a decent amount of cases lately." He noticed that The Doctor had lost a significant amount of weight, had become almost dangerously underweight. That his hair wasn't as lustrous as it should have been, and that his expression was much more solemn than last they'd met. "And, you, Doctor." He said. "You've not been as well as you could have been." The Doctor explained what had happened to him, how he had been locked away and tortured for nearly a month shortly before coming to London. If it hadn't been for Clara, he wasn't certain how he would have escaped. Sherlock gave Clara a look of thanks, before turning back to The Doctor. "I am glad that you made it out all right." Sherlock told him earnestly. "It's a good thing that you decided to find yourself a new companion. I worried about you, being all alone for so long." He looked thoughtful. "Isolation is a terrible thing, but the type that you've gone through… I doubt many people would survive such a stint with their sanity left intact." He finished. Clara continued to watch the two converse, feeling very much like a third wheel. She quietly left the room.

Clara headed upstairs, opened the door to her room, and went to lie down on her bed. She gazed up at the ceiling, which had been skillfully painted. A Gallifreyan scene of the Citadel of the Time Lords covered the entire ceiling. She always found herself getting lost in the image. Something about it was incredibly enchanting. She wished that she could visit Gallifrey, could see where The Doctor came from. Like nearly all of his other companions, Clara was immensely fond of The Doctor. She wasn't in love with him, but did feel an incredible bond with him. A bond unlike anything she'd ever experienced before or would ever know again. She wanted very much to know more about him, though he never seemed to be in the sharing sort of mood.

Suddenly, she heard incredibly loud snoring come from across the hall. It was John. She got up, crept across the hall, and peeked into the room. John was sprawled gracelessly; face down on the bed, one knee up by his chest with his trouser leg halfway up to his knee, and the other leg dangling off the side of the bed with most of the blanket wrapped around it. He was drooling onto the pillow, and had a blissful look on his face. She hoped that she didn't look like that when she slept. She went back to her room, shutting her door to block out the sound entirely. Each room in the TARDIS was completely sound-proof, which she found quite useful at the moment.

Back in the console area, The Doctor fiddled with the controls. The TARDIS was having difficulty finding the location they needed to land, and was being fussy on top of things. He had to do things himself, more or less, rather than rely on the TARDIS. If things continued on this way, it could be some time before reaching their destination, or anywhere. "How's Mycroft these days?" The Doctor inquired. Sherlock shrugged. "Well, he's quite the same as always." He answered, not really wanting to discuss his brother. "The two of you are never going to get along, are you?" The Doctor asked earnestly. The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned down slightly. "You've never met my brother." He reminded The Doctor. "He's impossibly intrusive, often attempting to assert his dominance, and rather demanding." He said tonelessly. "He may be my brother, but I doubt we shall ever become what you would deem 'friends'." The Doctor thought about this. "Yes." He said, "But, he is your brother. If nothing else, that is why you should be friends. Family is one of the most important things one can have." The Doctor looked a little sad at this. "I just don't want you to be in the unfortunate situation of finding out exactly what you have after you've lost it." He gave Sherlock a stern look, and Sherlock nodded his acknowledgement. "I mean it, Sherlock." He added for good measure. "Yes, I know." Sherlock replied, trying to put Mycroft out of his mind for the moment. The Holmes brothers had a complicated relationship. From little on, things had been difficult between the two. However, despite this, the brothers were there for one another when it really mattered.

Later on, in the evening, John finally awoke. He attempted to find his way back to the control room on his own. After nearly an hour, he found it. The TARDIS was substantially larger than he had realised. Sherlock, Clara and The Doctor were each there. Sherlock sat at the end of the stairwell, completely absorbed in a book that he'd found in the library downstairs. Clara sat at the open TARDIS doorway, staring out into space beside The Doctor, which gave him a jolt. He tried not to look out the door, the light-headedness beginning to return as he thought about the vast galaxies that lay just outside the TARDIS. He walked down the stairs, stopping at where Sherlock sat. He was reading some sort of compilation of complex scientific theories. John watched him for a few minutes, going unnoticed. "Hello." He greeted at last. Sherlock looked up at him quite suddenly, nearly startled. "Hello, John." He responded, as John sat down with him. "I see that you're feeling better." Sherlock said, noticing the colour back in John's cheeks and the sparkle back in his eyes. John nodded. "A bit, yeah. I'm still getting over the whole 'bigger on the inside' thing, but I'm dealing with it." Sherlock smiled. "It does take some getting used to." He agreed. "You'll adapt quickly." John's stomach rumbled emptily. "Is there anything to eat around here?" He asked. Sherlock got to his feet. "Follow me." He said, heading off to the kitchen.

The kitchen was rather large, just as most of the rooms were. Sherlock opened a massive refrigerator stocked with a multitude of different types of edible items. Many of which, John was unable to identify. He sat down at a large wooden table, decorated with circular Gallifreyan. "What are these symbols? I've seen them in a few places here." He asked Sherlock, who was still rummaging through the fridge. "It's Gallifreyan, The Doctor's language. Those words etched into the table top roughly translate as:

'Some have meat and cannot eat;

Some cannot eat that want it:

But we have meat and we can eat

Sae let the Lord be thankit!'"

John looked mildly surprised. "You can understand this?" He asked.

Sherlock brought out some eggs, celery and chives. "Well, I did start learning the when I was seven years old, shortly after first meeting The Doctor." He replied, as he started to gracefully crack the eggs into a clear bowl one handedly. "You've known him for some time, why haven't you mentioned him before?" John asked curiously. Sherlock turned his back to the counter, looking at John. "Can you honestly tell me that you would have taken my word for it?" He asked, knowing full well that he wouldn't have. John looked down. "Well… No, I probably wouldn't have." He admitted. Sherlock gave him a look that said 'Well then, you see?', turning back to the counter and beginning to chop the fresh vegetables.

Before long, dinner was ready. Omelet, Italian style garlic toast, and freshly pressed Concord grape juice were on the menu. "This looks really good." John said, sniffing the wonderful aroma. He was hungrier than he had thought, and was grateful to have a decent meal. "Thank you." Sherlock told him, as they began to eat. John chewed the omelet slowly, thoroughly savouring each flavour of the ingredients. "You should cook more often." He suggested earnestly, hoping that Sherlock might actually go for the idea. John tried his best, but his cooking skills were atrocious. Not that he let that stop him from trying. Sherlock smiled, content that John was enjoying the meal. Perhaps when they returned to Baker Street, he would begin to cook more regularly for John.

Sherlock often went periods without eating, usually when working. He claimed that digesting slowed him down. John worried whenever Sherlock skipped meals, attributing that particular habit in part to Sherlock's rather slender frame. Sherlock had made only enough for John, and consumed merely a glass of water in place of dinner. John wanted to say something, but didn't feel that it would help things. He would usually try to encourage Sherlock to have even something small, but knew that this time there was no chance of Sherlock obliging him. Not when he had something so massive on his mind.

When the meal was finished, John washed the dishes as Sherlock dried. Sherlock had been worried that after what happened earlier, that things might have been a little awkward between them. Yet, that wasn't the case at all. Not even in the slightest. Things felt… Incredibly natural. He felt more comfortable than he ever had with John. He was quite content, and knew that the feeling was mutual. As Sherlock began to put the dishes away, The Doctor and Clara came in.

"Good evening." The Doctor said, and they returned the greeting. "You're feeling better, I hope." He said to John, who nodded. "Good." The Doctor said, meaning it. "And you've both eaten?" He asked. They confirmed that they had. He turned his attention to Clara, who was putting the kettle on. She'd already eaten, and The Doctor didn't really eat regular meals. "We're going to head upstairs, would you mind being left on your own?" The Doctor asked Clara, who waved him off. "Of course not, I'll be fine!" She said. The Doctor had been rather clingy lately, so she was glad to have some breathing space. She felt bad about feeling that way, but couldn't help it. The Doctor was spending nearly every waking second with her, after coming so close to losing not only her, but everything. She supposed that what had happened to him in that prison must have really left a terrible impact on him.

The Doctor brought them to the den, wanting everyone to be as comfortable as was possible. It was a very relaxing sort of room, with beautiful things in it. The furniture was mahogany with a lovely burgundy fabric, a set that The Doctor had picked up when he was 796. Delicate lighting came from the massive antique diamond chandelier that had once adorned the Queen's bedroom. The long walls were entirely covered in books. This was Sherlock's favourite room aboard the TARDIS, and he was glad to see it once more. He had spent many happy hours here, just reading about things that completely filled his mind. Books had always been a passion of Sherlock's, and The Doctor had the biggest collection that he knew of. They all sat down, The Doctor in one of the chairs opposite the couch that John and Sherlock convened.

"We really should discuss the reason I've asked you to come with me." The Doctor began a little darkly and folded his hand in his lap. John sat up a little straighter at his tone. "Yes, you, um, mentioned a daughter." He prompted, still feeling a twinge of disbelief, but managing to keep it well hidden. He knew that The Doctor must have been telling the truth, despite how utterly strange his words had been. "That's right." The Doctor said, crossing his legs in an effort to get comfortable. "Well, we'll only be going twenty years into your future. Your daughter will be 18, of course." He paused to allow them a moment to adjust to that thought. "She… dies. Her life is stolen from her. I know who it was that brought about the sad event, but I am unable to prevent her death alone." He paused briefly, his nose crinkling. A high pitched sneeze suddenly escaped him, startling John. He excused himself, before continuing. "Her entire life is a fixed point in time, and she is supposed to live well beyond the year 2102." He looked directly at Sherlock, whose eyes had grown cold. "The man linked to the crime likely hadn't meant for the girl to die, you should know that right now." The Doctor stated firmly, needing Sherlock to realise that it had likely been an accident. He didn't want to have to keep Sherlock from getting blood on his hands when they finally had found the killer. "I have already tried to stop the event from happening, which is what landed me in that prison cell. I won't get into that right now, but I need your intellect and your skills, Sherlock. She needs them. I can't reverse what's happened without you." Sherlock and John exchanged glances. "Nor without you, John." The Doctor told him and reached into his pocket, retrieving a small photograph. He passed it, Sherlock taking it from his hand. "This is your daughter." The Doctor said quietly, watching as wonder crossed over John and Sherlock's faces. He smiled, thinking of his own daughter for a moment.

As they surveyed the photo, they could each see distinct features of themselves in the girl. She had long curly hair, which was more of a sandy colour, similar to John's. She had Sherlock's prominent cheekbones, although she had a round face. She was fairly thin, and of short stature. She had John's nose and Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock began to feel overwhelmed once more. He had never admitted it to anyone, but had wanted children for the longest time. And as he looked down at the beautiful young woman in the photograph, knowing that she would be his daughter, made him feel things he never had before. In that moment, he knew that he would do anything to ensure her safety, whatever the cost may be.

The Doctor smiled, clasping his hands and looking at each of them with a warm smile. John suddenly looked up at him, asking, "Exactly how can she genetically be our daughter? At this point, even Sherlock looked confused as he realised that The Doctor hadn't mentioned this yet, his nose wrinkling as his brows came together. "Please explain." He requested. The Doctor uncrossed his legs, and then crossed them again in the other direction. "2017 was a breakthrough year for you humans. Life was discovered on Mars, and same sex couples could have children with only their reproductive specimens." He explained the extremely complex scientific process, which John understood only a portion of, while Sherlock had no issues whatsoever grasping the concept and was very interested in the idea.

"She really is ours." John said in hushed tones, feeling breathless as it truly hit home. His heart beat faster, as he finally accepted The Doctor's words as fact. "That is… Well, it's bloody amazing, is what it is." He'd always figured that he'd become a father sooner or later, although not like this. Not that he was disappointed. It was a bit of a shock, certainly. But, a good sort of shock, really. He was slowly finding everything easier to believe. John turned to Sherlock, who had been watching him quietly for the past minute or so. They simply looked at one another, not knowing what to say. They realised that words would have been utterly useless in this moment, would have more or less gotten in the way. They searched one another's eyes, expressing so immensely much in only a simple gaze.

The Doctor was quite pleased at how John was accepting the information, and now felt certain that he would be just fine. A very serious expression on his young face, he spoke to Sherlock, who turned away from John with a dopey look on his face. "This will likely be the most difficult puzzle that you'll ever attempt to solve." The Doctor warned sincerely. "I'm not even certain that it can be done. Sherlock, if there's anyone who can do this, it's you."

A very determined look came over Sherlock's face, his jaw clenched. He glanced down at the photograph once more, silently vowing to prevent his daughter's death, no matter what the cost. "Oh, I shall find the bastard and put an end to their plans." He promised grimly in a low growl. The Doctor was a little shocked at the intensity with which Sherlock had responded. He wanted to prevent a murder, not exchange one life for another. "You cannot kill the person responsible, not unless there is no other choice, you understand." The Doctor told him firmly. Sherlock took a moment before agreeing, his brow furrowed. He was a fiercely protective man, and The Doctor knew that completely. He easily recalled what had happened to the man that had dared to lay his hands on Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and John's landlady. He could well imagine what would happen to the being responsible for his daughter's death. Sherlock had agreed, and The Doctor would hold him to that. "Good." The Doctor said. "Unless you have any questions, I'll take my leave." He stood up, stretching his arms. His guests looked at one another. They were unable to think of anything to ask him. as their minds worked away on everything they'd just been told. The Doctor vacated the room, leaving the picture on the oak table.

John carefully picked it up, holding it beside Sherlock's face. "The resemblance is incredible." He stated in impressed tones, his eyes wide as he looked from the photo to Sherlock, and back again. "I agree." Sherlock told him softly, trying to keep his emotions from overwhelming him. "She's undeniably ours… It's a good thing one of us is attractive enough to balance things out in her favour." He stated. John nodded, not really listening. Then it clicked. He tilted his head to the side. "Yes, that's very funny." He said sarcastically. He'd always been a little self-conscious in regards to his looks, not being good looking in the way that most people seemed to prefer. Sherlock chuckled, his deep laugh rumbling softly, "You always take things in the worst way, John." He said, shaking his head. "That wasn't a joke, was it?" John asked, staring at him incredulously. "You actually think that you're unattractive." He'd had plenty of trouble believing what he'd heard that day, and this was no exception. Sherlock gave him a look. "I'm horsey faced, too tall and my mouth is rather large." He said with a shrug. John suddenly looked upset. "Well, I don't think that's true at all." He said quietly, setting the picture back on the table. "I like how tall you are, your mouth is perfect, and you are most certainly not horsey faced." He said defensively. "You are the most handsome man that I've laid eyes on, without exception." John frowned. "Don't you dare think such things about yourself." He crossed his arms harrumphed. "Honestly." He scoffed. Sherlock found John's argument slightly amusing, and most certainly adorable. Despite knowing how John felt about him, the comments did catch him slightly off guard. "That's really quite flattering." He said quietly in thanks, beginning to feel a tad overwhelmed once more, which was entirely unlike him. The entire situation was beginning to take a toll on him. John raised an eyebrow, wanting to make sure that he got the point. "It's also true." He said stubbornly, nearly pouting. Sherlock couldn't help himself. He leaned in close, John closing the rest of the gap between them without hesitation. They kissed, gently, sweetly. John leaned back, breaking the kiss to gaze into Sherlock's gorgeous eyes briefly, before Sherlock kissed him again, less gently this time, taking his time. Sherlock hadn't felt anything like this before, and it threatened to overtake his senses. John's hands began to wander across Sherlock's long and well-muscled back and chest, as Sherlock's self-control began to ebb away. And for the first time, he didn't care.

John moaned happily, reaching to put a hand on the back of Sherlock's long neck. Their lips finally parted, and Sherlock was eying him with an aching hunger. Sherlock pulled John's sweater up and over his head, letting it fall to the floor. Sherlock placed a warm hand on John's smooth chest, allowing his hand to begin to trail slowly downwards, feeling his desire beginning to become insatiable. Then, Sherlock abruptly pulled away. "No." He said breathlessly, eyes shining with lust. "If we continue any further, I doubt that I'll be able to contain myself." He wiped his forehead. "We just can't. Not now." Sherlock added, unable to look away from John's half naked body. He gave a nearly inaudible groan, wanting more than anything to quickly remove the rest of John's clothes, to give and receive the pleasure that they both craved potently. But, this was neither the time, nor the place. John bit his lip, wanting so very badly to continue. 'But this is exactly what I've been waiting far too long for.' He thought longingly, but said nothing. John didn't want to push the issue. He put his shirt back on, trying not to display his disappointment. Perhaps it was something that he'd done that had turned Sherlock off. He cleared his throat, and glanced at his watch. "Well, it's late… I suppose we ought to get some sleep." He said thickly, the touch of Sherlock's hands and lips still tantalising his skin. Sherlock nodded slowly, his breathing still not quite back to normal. He was still feeling the moment as much as John was, if not more.

A few minutes passed without either one of them saying a single word. "I, uh, don't remember the way back." He admitted to Sherlock, who naturally offered to guide him.

The entire way to John's room, neither of them spoke. They exchanged a mumbled 'Good night', and Sherlock headed to the bedroom next door.

Sherlock entered the room, closed the door and leaned against it. He closed his eyes, and heaved a heavy sigh. He managed to quiet his mind for a quick moment or two, before his thoughts began to race again. The day had been tedious, to say the least. And now, nothing would ever be the same. He hadn't decided how he felt in that respect.

A week or so after first meeting John Watson, Sherlock had begun to realise that he was starting to genuinely care about him. And, after Jim Moriarty had a bomb strapped to John's chest a few years ago, it became quite clear just how much he cared.

Even so, he did not act upon his feelings. Feelings complicated life too much, made him vulnerable. He couldn't allow that.

Sherlock walked over to the large bed in the middle of the room, and lay down, stretching his long legs. He turned the small white lamp on the bedside table on, and stared at the painted ceiling.

John had changed him more than he wished to admit. Before John, he had never before had romantic interest in anyone. And, if he was honest, acting on that interest was a daunting prospect. Yet, somehow, he had managed to get beyond his hesitance today.

Sherlock toyed with one of his soft curls as he wondered where the courage to kiss John had come from. He had wanted to kiss him for ages, so badly in fact, that at times he found himself watching John's soft lips as he wondered what they tasted like. Luckily, John hadn't noticed. The few times that he had, Sherlock realised that John had simply passed it off as him retreating back into his thoughts.

He grinned as he remembered an evening quite some time ago, very shortly after they had first met. He had bought John something to eat. Of course, he'd ordered nothing for himself, which was fairly typical. John had been asking if Sherlock had a girlfriend, and he had answered negatively. From there, John had asked if he'd had a boyfriend and proceeded to vaguely flirt with him, then fairly denying his interest when Sherlock had told him that he wasn't looking for a relationship.

He knew quite well that John had been interested in him since the very beginning. Over time, Sherlock couldn't keep track of how often John's eyes had travelled along his body. Less than subtly, Sherlock might add.

And yet, John was always baffled when people assumed that he was interested in men. Oh, and how he objected so whenever someone made such an assumption! This never failed to amuse Sherlock whenever he observed such an occasion. Was it any wonder that people thought such things, when John really was quite obvious? Not that he thought so.

Sherlock's eyelids grew heavy. He was really quite exhausted. Sherlock peeled off his clothes, wriggled to get comfortable again, and let out a yawn. He was rather averse to clothes for sleeping. Sherlock never could get a good night's rest when clothed. He turned the lamp off, and closed his eyes. Sherlock fell asleep within minutes.

Clara, on the other hand, was wide awake. She was an insomniac, and liked to spend the time she couldn't fall asleep in the enormous library. The TARDIS library holds more books than a person could even imagine. It is one of the largest rooms on board, and The Doctor had read every single book on the numerous shelves. It would take an average human more than two hundred lifetimes to read each book, that's how many books the library holds. And more literature was added as time went on.

As she sat in an overstuffed chair in her long green nightgown, reading about the Raxicoricofallapatorians, she jiggled her leg impatiently. All she wanted was to get some sleep! Usually, she was able to at least find herself entirely absorbed in a book, which would distract her from her insomnia. Though not tonight. Whenever something really exciting had happened, or was going to, her insomnia was incredible. Clara would often go the entire night awake in those situations.

She closed the book, and decided to take a walk. She stood up, and stretched satisfyingly. On a whim, she decided to head down to the console room. She still had some jelly babies left over from when The Doctor had given her some the other day, and felt like something sweet to nibble on. She hoped that she still had some blue ones left. They were her favourite.

She sauntered across the room to where the small paper bag sat, and she unrolled the top to reveal a few dozen jelly babies. She shook the bag, viewing the contents. There didn't seem to be any blue ones left at all. "Shoot!" She said disappointedly. Clara turned her head as she heard footsteps from behind her. "Clara?" Came The Doctor's voice from one of the halls. Clara set the bag back down. "It's me." She called back.

The Doctor walked into the room in his typically awkward fashion. "Is it your insomnia again?" He asked, reaching out and removing a piece of lint from her long dark hair. "Too much excitement… Perhaps you should take a break from travelling with me, go back to your normal life for a while." He looked worried. Clara's insomnia had been worsening as time went on, and the more exhilarating the adventure, the less she slept. "You could get some rest, and then join me again." He suggested, disliking the sight of her being so worn. Clara's eyes widened. "Not a chance!" She objected in a high pitched voice that The Doctor suspected would bypass human ears and make dogs howl in pain. The Doctor hadn't thought that she'd go for the idea.

"I'm fine. Honest." She told him adamantly as she crossed her arms. "Trying to get rid of me now that you've got someone else, huh?" Clara teased, winking. The Doctor shook his head. "I would never try to make you leave, Clara." He told her seriously, a subtle sadness in his eyes which Clara noticed. She felt bad. "It was only a joke." She said, biting her lip. The Doctor half smiled. "Oh, I know that." He said softly. "But, I thought you should know. If I had my way, you'd never leave me." He came closer to her. "Though, one day, you will. You'll leave me, as all the others have. That's simply the way of things, I suppose." His smile was slightly bitter, though his voice remained gentle. Clara found herself close to crying, as she realised once more just how alone The Doctor found himself as often as he did. It made her heart ache. She tucked her hair behind her ears, which is something she found herself doing whenever she wasn't certain what to say. She wanted to tell him that she would never leave, that she'd always be there. That the adventures together would go on forever.

Of course, she couldn't say those things. They weren't true, no matter how much she might wish it.

"I'll stay as long as I possibly can." She told him in a steady voice, swallowing back her tears. "And that's something you should know."

The Doctor's eyes sparkled as the bitterness faded away for a moment. "My Impossible Girl." He said gently, happy to have her with him. He put his thin arms around her, pulling her into a bear hug. Clara smiled, and hugged him back. The Doctor noticed the white paper bag, and grinned. He remembered a time when he had never gone anywhere without a stash of them in his pocket and would offer them to nearly anyone he ran across, friend or foe.

He had given Clara her first jelly babies earlier in the week, and she instantly loved them. He had been pleased to learn that the blue ones were her favourite, as they had always been his. He finally let go of Clara, and felt much better.

"You really are something special." He told Clara, who grinned. "I know." She replied without hesitation, and grabbed the bag, popping an orange one into her pretty mouth. She held the open bag towards The Doctor. "Would you care for a jelly baby?" She asked slyly, quoting one of his earlier incarnations. He laughed heartily, as he took one. "I can't believe you remembered that!" He boomed, pleasantly surprised and slightly embarrassed that Clara retained that from one of his rambling stories about the past. Clara smiled, happy that she could make him laugh. Being able to make The Doctor laugh was always a joy for her, especially considering that he'd become rather more serious in the time that she'd known him. He seemed almost like he was tired, and no amount of rest could reverse the effect. It saddened her greatly to see him like that.

After an hour or so, The Doctor suggested that Clara should try and get some sleep. He knew that in the past four days she had had minimal sleep, and he was afraid that she would take ill if things continued on like that. Clara agreed, and headed back to her room.

The Doctor decided that after (hopefully) saving John and Sherlock's daughter, the next stop would need to be Ceftaigh, a small planet quite near the Helical Galaxy. There, he would be able to obtain a powerful spice that should cure Clara's insomnia for weeks at a time. He was surprised that he hadn't thought of the idea before.

The next morning, The Doctor was the first one to rise. He needed very little sleep, and could go up to a fortnight without it. However, he liked to kip for a few hours each night. As was his usual routine, he made breakfast. He decided on eggs benedict and French toast. He headed to the kitchen, and proceeded to gather the ingredients.

Sherlock was the next one to wake. He was typically an early riser, and preferred to maintain his morning schedule, which he set about to do.

He commenced his usual exercise routine, showered and brushed his teeth. He mousturised his pale skin with strawberry seed oil before getting dressed. He checked his phone, which, of course, The Doctor 'upgraded' for him. This meant that he could fully use his phone anywhere and anytime in existence, which was quite handy.

With the exception of a text from Mycroft, informing Sherlock that he expected his assistance yet again. Sherlock clicked his tongue. Mycroft always expected him to comply sooner or later with whatever it was he had in mind and it annoyed Sherlock to no end. Luckily for Sherlock, Mycroft was usually able to offer him something interesting, and he ended up deciding to indulge his brother.

He simply deleted the text message, knowing that Mycroft would just send another one later, and tucked the phone into his inner jacket pocket before exiting the room. Sherlock noted the time on his watch, and recalled that this was the usual time frame that The Doctor made breakfast. Sherlock was confident that The Doctor still performed this daily ritual, and therefore started off to the kitchen after checking to see if John was still asleep. Considering it was 6:24 am by his watch, he hadn't expected John to be up. John rarely was awake before 10:00 am unless he had to be. Therefore, it came as little surprise that John was still completely asleep as he peeked inside the room. The blanket was in a crumpled heap on the floor, and John's shirt was halfway up his chest as he lay curled into a shivering ball. Sherlock shook his head in amusement, and went to place the covers back over John before leaving the room.

Sherlock arrived in the kitchen to find breakfast almost entirely made, but still politely offered his assistance, which The Doctor accepted. He stood in front of the stove, and finished making the French toast as The Doctor put the finishing touches on the eggs benedict.

"Do you remember when I introduced you to Queen Anne when you were ten?" The Doctor asked pleasantly; glad to have Sherlock with him again. He wondered how different things would be had Sherlock joined him as his companion all those years ago when he had first asked. "Of course, I do." Sherlock answered, dipping the last piece of bread on the egg mixture before placing it into the frying pan. "You're asking, obviously, because that's when I first tried French toast." He observed easily. "Honestly, after that trip, I badgered Mycroft incessantly for French toast at every meal for nearly a month. I must have driven him within an inch of his sanity!" He chuckled at the thought. The Doctor smiled. "You did the same thing to me, before I dropped you off at home. You wouldn't eat anything but French toast the entire time you were with me." He remembered, as he reached for the PA microphone and announced breakfast.

Sherlock knew that John had no idea where the dining room was, and went to fetch him. He passed Clara on the way, and they nodded 'good morning' to one another.

John had been positively startled by the loud announcement that had sharply jolted him awake. His pulse was still a little fast, as he made his bed. He could feel that it was still early, and groaned. He was most certainly not a morning person, and despised waking up early.

He heard a knock at the door, which was open halfway. "Yes?" He called, not entirely certain who it was. Sherlock swung the door open the rest of the way. "Good morning, John." He said, stepping into the room. "Did you sleep well?" He asked. John nodded. "I did sleep quite well, considering everything." He answered. Sherlock leaned against the door frame, his head nearly touching the top of it. "With all that snoring, I should think so." He teased. "Honestly, I've heard quieter industrial machinery." Sherlock went on. John rolled his eyes. "Oh, please." He said crankily. "I don't snore!" He denied. Sherlock stifled a laugh. "Trust me, John. You do snore. You can ask anyone in our building, they'll tell you the same." He replied. John shook his head. "I've never snored in my life." He said stubbornly. Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "If you say so." He said. John was being his usual tetchy early morning self.

"Get dressed." Sherlock told him. "Breakfast is ready." He tossed the duffel bag to John, who fumbled and nearly dropped it. Sherlock exited the room, slowly closing the door. "I'll wait outside to show you to the dining room." He said before latching it.

John bent over and picked up the bag. He set it on the bed, and took out a change of clothes, wishing that he'd brought the white jumper with the west highland terrier design instead of the plain cream one. "Oh, well… It's too late now." He muttered to himself, and took off yesterday's outfit. He quickly changed into the fresh clothes and met Sherlock in the hall. There was a fleeting moment of fairly passionate eye contact, before Sherlock turned and motioned for John to follow him. John would have rather skipped the morning meal for a bit of time alone with Sherlock, but put the idea out of his mind. He knew that was an item that wasn't on the menu.

After all, the whole reason that they were there was to keep their future daughter safe. A strange, but very sobering thought. John was a fair amount shorter in stature than Sherlock, who as per usual, was walking at a decent pace, leaving John speed walking to catch up. "Oi, slow down, will you?" He huffed, causing Sherlock to stop, and turn to look at him. "Sorry." He apologised, looking down at John. "Sometimes I forget just how short your legs are." He said, not meaning to cause any offence. John shot him a look. "They're not short, they're just… Not… long." He said awkwardly, unable to think of anything better to say, and immediately wishing he'd kept quiet altogether. He never could think clearly before breakfast. Sherlock bit back a grin, and John pointed a finger at him, squinting. "Don't even…" He said, feeling ridiculous. Sherlock kept a straight face. "I wasn't going to." He replied with a shrug, and continued down another hall at a slower pace than before, with John at his side.

In the dining room, everyone enjoyed a lovely breakfast. It made The Doctor think of the meals he had shared with his family all those centuries ago on Gallifrey. While this did cause him some pain, it also made him happy to remember the days that not only his family, but his entire planet, was alive. He looked around the table, and felt whole. It was moments like this, filled with dear friends all together, that made him long for a normal sort of life. Sometimes, he quite nearly felt like giving up this life of instability. Felt like trading this life for one as a human. Of course, he never could. All of his friends, everyone he knew, would continue to age. And he would stay the same. The Time Lord, who never looked a day older. Even if he tried, he wouldn't be able to live a normal sort of life.

On some level, he was okay with this. He spent his life righting wrongs, defending the defenseless, and exploring the vast universe. And really, that wasn't so bad, was it? If it wasn't for the life he had chosen, he would never have met such extraordinary people like Martha Jones, Sarah Jane, Rose, Amy and Rory Pond, or Ace. He'd had the privilege of meeting and travelling with so many exceptional people, making so many irreplaceable friends. And, he wouldn't have traded that for anything.

After the morning meal had been consumed, The Doctor and Sherlock retired to the den, while John got to know Clara.

"So…" Clara dragged the word out, a hand on her hip. "How are you coping?" She asked, noticing that he seemed to be doing better. John gave her a thin smile. "Well, I'm still trying to make sense of a few things, but other than that…" He replied honestly. "So, not too badly, I suppose." He took in a deep breath, letting it out through his nose. He still wasn't feeling his best, although his crankiness had lessened a good deal since having breakfast. Clara waited for him to say something else. He didn't. "I'm dying to know, what's he like?" Clara asked, wide eyed. She was what you might call a fan of Sherlock Holmes. She had followed John's blog for some time, and was more impressed by Sherlock's keen abilities with each new post she read. John blinked. "Um, well," He began. "Let's see…" He thought for a moment. "He's intense, extremely clever, often bored." He looked at Clara, who was hanging on his every word. "Oh, he's musical, as well." He added. "He plays the violin and the piano."

Clara was enjoying herself. "Is he funny? What sort of books does he like?" She asked enthusiastically, making John smile. "You're really interested in Sherlock, aren't you?" He asked, wondering where this was going. Clara nodded. "Yes." She said, "I find him absolutely fascinating! He's solved so many difficult cases with his intellectual wealth. I mean, the police actually ask for his assistance." She explained, getting a bit loud in her excitement. "I've read so many books about him, and to be able to meet the man… I mean, I never thought that I'd have this chance. It really is such an honor." She finished, beaming.

John raised an eyebrow. "Really, books about Sherlock?" He asked her. Clara flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Loads of them! In fact, The Doctor has a number of them in the library." She answered. "There's even a few about you." John cocked his head. He made a mental note to visit the library later on. Those books would make for some rather interesting reading material. "When are these books from, then?" He asked curiously. Clara leaned back in her seat. "Most of them are from around the 2030's, although he wrote a biography in 2019." She replied thoughtfully. "The biography is the best one I've read, to be honest. It's really quite revealing." She said as she checked her nails. "Oh, but you can't read them, of course." She quickly added, making John's face crumple in confusion. "Why not?" He asked, crossing his arms. They were just books, what harm could come of reading them? Clara's smile faded. "The way that The Doctor explained it to me, is that history can nearly always be changed." She began. "But, should you read a book that involves your future, whatever it is you that read then becomes impossible to alter. That can end up being disastrous." She told him warningly. John found this a little hard to believe, and this showed on his face. Clara's expression turned solemn. "Honest." She said. "You don't want to go fooling about with this sort of thing. I'd avoid reading those books, and advise Mr. Holmes to do the same." She told him in a very serious tone. John nodded slowly. "All right, I'll make sure to keep that in mind." He told her honestly, before answering her earlier questions.

Meanwhile, Sherlock and The Doctor discussed the matter at hand. "Who is it that we are looking for, then?" Sherlock inquired. The Doctor scratched his temple. "One of my oldest enemies." He answered. "I never have told you about him." The Doctor sighed. Perhaps it would have been better to have killed him one of the numerous times that he'd had the chance. So many lives could have been spared. The Doctor took a breath. "He's called The Master." He answered finally. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "The Master." He repeated in his deep voice, crossing his legs as he listened. "Let me guess, he chose the title himself." He said in disapproval. The Doctor confirmed Sherlock's statement, not surprising him. "Each Time Lord would choose a name that spoke to them." He explained, before telling Sherlock all about The Master.

When he had finished, Sherlock put his hands together, and pressed them against his lips. For the first time, he had a good idea of just how difficult this was going to be.

The Master was mad, and powerful. He had abilities that Sherlock didn't, which obviously gave him the upper hand. The Master was a skilled hypnotist, and had quite the capacity to dominate. The body counts that he had left in his wake were staggering. Of course, Sherlock did have The Doctor on his side, which helped to level the playing field.

"I am having some trouble locating him." The Doctor admitted. "I had pinpointed him precisely, but he's relocated. He must know that I'm seeking him out." Sherlock leaned onto his knees, running a hand through his hair. "Don't worry, I'll find him. This is simply a minor setback." The Doctor reassured him, his soft brown fringe falling into his blue eyes. He brushed the hair back slowly, as he sighed. "Considering that I have to pilot the TARDIS almost completely manually, until she's back up to par, things might be a little slow." The Doctor hung his head, feeling a little exasperated. Back in the days of Gallifrey, a TARDIS would have a team of Time Lords to man the controls. But now, of course, he was alone. He had to take on every duty himself. Which, he never did complain about. Though, since the TARDIS was being a little touchy, his attempts to take on all of the manual duties were quite nearly too much for even The Doctor.

Sherlock put a hand on The Doctor's shoulder, and looked into his ancient eyes. The Doctor gave a weak smile, Sherlock watching him seriously. "It's more or less that she's being touchy, not that she needs repairs." The Doctor continued. "I had brought a man, well, an android, actually, on board." Sherlock removed his hand, and listened closely, interested in where this was going. The Doctor always did have marvelously interesting things to say.

"Data. He was with us in the TARDIS for perhaps a week and a half." The Doctor went on, "He had kept Clara safe while I was locked away, taking her into his own home." He grimaced momentarily, as he suddenly recalled a particularly intense torture session he had suffered. "It had been quite some time since he'd been able to travel along the galaxies, and had missed it. And so, I took him on a little trip in thanks." The Doctor gave a short laugh. "It was only a matter of days… But, the TARDIS went and fell in love with him." He told Sherlock, who was surprised at this turn in the story. "And that's why she's being so uncooperative." Sherlock said, understanding. "Because, she's pining for her lost love." The Doctor nodded a little sadly. "Yes." He said, "Not that Data was interested in the slightest, which she's oblivious to, of course. Data more or less believes that he's human now… I'm not entirely certain that he can even remember what he really is." He shook his head. "Naturally, he didn't feel an attraction to the TARDIS." He finished a bit sadly. The Doctor gave a sigh, feeling the familiar exhaustion that had been coming over him more and more often the past while. Perhaps he had lived too long.

By the afternoon, Clara and John had become familiar with one another, laughing and joking. And The Doctor and Sherlock had discussed the matters at hand in great detail, catching up with one another.

Sherlock was impressed with how quickly John was adapting to his new surroundings. Usually, John wasn't one who enjoyed change. He liked to have things the same comfortable way most of the time. And yet, with the initial shock being over, John actually seemed to be fairly content, considering.

He decided to bring John a few biscuits and a cup of green tea. The Doctor didn't have any of John's favourite tea in his cupboard, and he'd simply have to deal with it. John could be downright picky, especially when it came to food and drink. Sherlock found John in his room, researching The Doctor.

Sherlock handed him the cup and saucer. "Cheers." John said, setting them down on the bedside table. "Is that… Green tea?" He asked a little hesitantly. He detested green tea even more than raisins. Sherlock stood up a little straighter, if that was possible. "Yes, John, it's green tea." He said, wondering if he should have just brought milk instead. John looked at the cup, trying to mask his disgust. "Ah," He said, not looking forward to consuming its contents. "Well, that's not usually what I have, but that's fine." He wondered if he'd be able to somehow get away with not drinking it. John had always been of the opinion that green tea tastes strongly of old grass clippings. "Thank you." He said closing his laptop, and setting on the end of the bed, reaching eagerly for a biscuit.

"You're welcome." Sherlock responded, watching as John ate. "So, looking at naked women again, I suppose." He added, evoking an annoyed look from John. "Right," He said sarcastically, "Because that's all I ever do on my laptop. Blog and look at naked women." He popped the rest of the biscuit in his mouth. Sherlock shrugged. "I suspect that it's not strictly women that you view…" He added bluntly, enjoying getting a rise out of John. He always looked so cute when he was upset. John choked on crumbs at this point, causing Sherlock to get up and pat his back. Unfortunately, Sherlock often didn't realise just how strong he could be, and ended up nearly hurting John with his efforts.

John spluttered, and waved him off. "Okay," He said. "It's okay, I'm fine now." He coughed. "Except for the massive trauma to my back, that is." He added under his breath. "What?" Sherlock asked, not catching what John had said. John faked a smile. "Nothing." He lied. "Oh, and just for the record, I've been doing a little research on your friend, The Doctor." John added. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "And?" He asked, not really interested. John nibbled at another biscuit. "And, he's appeared in quite a number of historic photographs and records throughout history. He also has a small cult following." John told him. "Yes, I'm well aware of those facts." He replied. Sherlock's text message alert went off, and he reached into his jacket to retrieve the cell phone. It was Mycroft again. John eyed the tea, feeling rather thirsty after the dry biscuits, as Sherlock fired off a response to what he felt was a fairly pointless message.

John took a sip from the cup. The tea tasted exactly as he suspected it would. It was just as terrible as it had the last time he'd given it a chance. Still, Sherlock had tried. At least this time, the tea was warm. Last time Sherlock had brought John a hot beverage, he had gotten distracted, losing track of time. By the time the drink had reached John, it was stone cold.

"It's not so bad… Actually, this is probably the best green tea I've ever had." John lied, trying to be kind. Sherlock's mouth twitched upward. "No, it isn't." He objected, calling John out. "You really are a terrible liar, John." Sherlock stood up and righted a picture that had been hanging slightly crooked. John glanced at him with a slightly sheepish look on his face. Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling tense. How could so much happen in only one day? He wondered, sighing heavily. John moved behind Sherlock, placing his small hands on Sherlock's shoulders, beginning to gently massage his tight muscles.

"Honestly, Sherlock, do you ever truly relax?" He asked, unsure if he would be able to work out all the knots. Sherlock groaned in delight as John worked his shoulders. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had done this for him, and it felt so good. "Every now and again." Sherlock answered, beginning to slouch comfortably. John was surprised. Sherlock was not one to allow his impeccable posture to slip, and he took this as a sign that he was doing well in helping Sherlock to relax. "All right," John said unusually sternly. "Take off your shirt and lie down on your belly; I'm going to work on your back now." Sherlock was a little surprised. It wasn't like John at all to be quite so dominant. He thought that perhaps he rather liked this side of John, as he obeyed.

John had taken out a small glass vial of peppermint oil from his duffel bag. He liked to use it on his sore muscles, or whenever he needed to relax. He removed the cork, and poured a small amount into his left hand, rubbing the palms of his hands together before setting about massaging Sherlock's back. If it was possible, Sherlock's back muscles were even tighter than his neck had been. The oil felt cool against his delicate skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth from John's hands. Sherlock slowly felt himself let go of all that had been troubling him. His muscles were beginning to loosen, and his thoughts slowed as John worked his magic. Before long, Sherlock was so entirely relaxed that he had drifted into sleep. John stopped, and watched Sherlock dream for a few minutes. He looked utterly peaceful, happy, even. It was something that John didn't often see, and it made his heart lighter to know that Sherlock was content.

John took a spare blanket from the closet, and draped it slowly over Sherlock's unconscious form. Sherlock moaned slightly in his sleep, as John got onto the bed carefully, jostling him ever so slightly. He lay down next to Sherlock, close enough to feel the warmth from his body. It was quite soothing, and the sound of Sherlock's gentle breaths relaxed him somehow. John felt himself steadily drop into sleep, as he tried to imagine what their daughter would be like. Whether she would have a bubbly and vivacious personality, be solemn and intellectual, free spirited and silly or withdrawn and shy. He wondered what sort of things she would like to do. He imagined that Sherlock would teach her all sorts of things from early on, cultivating a lasting passion for learning. He smiled, as he drifted into dreams about what the future could hold for them. He knew that they would be good parents, and he looked forward to the day that their daughter would be born. This, according to The Doctor, wasn't far off at all.

The Doctor wouldn't be sleeping that night. Instead, he was trying to encourage the TARDIS to listen to him. He was having some difficulty managing the entire console that a team of Time Lords would usually man. He was doing an admirable job, but he needed to reserve all the energy that he could. Going up against The Master once more wouldn't be easy. The last they'd met, he had grown more powerful than ever. A few of his abilities were a good deal stronger than The Doctor's. However, that didn't stop The Doctor from trying. And, he usually came out on top for it.

While The Master was powerful, The Doctor was a fair amount more intelligent in a number of ways. He was nearly always able to find a way to get out of a snag, no matter what the situation. But, if he was going to be able to save that girl's life, he was going to need to be at his best. So far, the TARDIS had been less than responsive.

"Oh, come now." He said. "Things will turn out all right; we'll find someone for you yet." He told her encouragingly. "And, anyway, you'll always have me." He added softly. The Doctor and the TARDIS had been a sort of team for so long; it was like they were connected to one another. As though, she was an extension of him. He knew that it wasn't the same, that she wanted Data to come back and for everything to be happy ever after. But, that wasn't likely to happen, and she realised it. He was doing everything he could think of to cheer her. Now, some of you may not realise just how alive the TARDIS is. How much she feels, knows, and does. Well, she is very much alive. And right then, she was hurting. She felt lonely, despite having The Doctor around. Which, he could understand. He became lonely even having her. "I'll tell you what." He began. "After this is all said and done, we'll go find him." He patted a wall. "Would you like that?" He asked, listening closely for her answer. The Doctor heard her make a specific sound. He became a little more hopeful. "Of course, I'm sure he'd like to go for another trip with us." He answered her. "After all, he was rather impressed with you." The TARDIS made the same sound again, this time a little louder. The Doctor looked relieved. She was finally agreeing with him at last. "Right, then." He said enthusiastically, "Directly after this, we will go and find Data, and convince him to join us for a while." He gave a little nod, as her engines began to power up in agreement. Because The Doctor was unable to constantly keep at all the controls, they hadn't been moving for the past few hours, while he took some rest. But, now, they could continue on.

The only problem was that The Doctor was still unable to locate The Master, despite concentrating very hard on finding any sort of indication of his whereabouts. He couldn't sense him anywhere. When they had set out on this journey, he'd had a sparkling clear image of where The Master was, could tell you his precise location. But, for reasons unknown, he had gone into hiding. Perhaps he could tell that The Doctor was doing his best to find him, or maybe he had found himself in trouble. As much as The Master denied it, there were creatures far more powerful than he was, and it was possible that he had made an enemy of one of them. Not that it mattered much as to why he had gone off the map. All The Doctor could do was to constantly keep trying. He spent the night mentally scanning for any sign of The Master, as his friends slept soundly. Including Clara. He was glad for that, as she needed the rest. At least the TARDIS was cooperating now, that was something. He had been worried about her, and knowing that she was hopeful instead of heartbroken came as something of a relief to him.

He didn't believe that Data would ever feel the same way the TARDIS did, but if he had learned anything in over a millennia, it was that it was possible for just about anything to happen.

As he concentrated on honing in on any scrap of an indication of The Master, he imagined the sort of scenario he might well expect when they did finally meet once more.

Little did The Doctor realise just how close he was to The Master, who had whisked himself away to the only place he felt completely untouchable. The Sol System in the Stellian Galaxy was where he kept a small hideaway, a cave that had been transformed into a fairly comfortable place to stay. It had all the necessities. The Master ensured that it was always stocked with a fortnight's worth of food rations, and there was a fresh water spring just inside the mouth of the cave. There was even a small makeshift bed. The Doctor had no idea that this hideout existed, though The Master had kept it for a number of centuries.

The Master knew exactly who was trying to track him down, and he was fairly certain as to why. He had made a grave mistake, one that he actually regretted quite deeply. And it was one that he wasn't able to remedy. His TARDIS had grown weak, and died. He had none of the tools that he liked to keep on him, not even his laser screwdriver. All that he had now was this cave and his life. Worst of all, he had lost someone dear, that he had never expected to have in his life in the first place and had meant more to him than anyone ever would. A woman that he had come to actually love, and who loved him back in return. Certainly, he'd had his share of women in the past, but had felt nothing for them. Mainly, they had been a way to entertain or serve him in some way or other. Hamish, however, had been different. And even as he knew this, he couldn't understand why. She wasn't all that extraordinary at first glance. Small and slender, with sandy curls and piercing eyes, she didn't really stand out from the crowd. Certainly, she was quite pretty, but The Master wasn't so superficial.

He supposed that if anything, it had been her personality that had drawn him to her, that had influenced him to spare her life. He had fully intended to let her die with the rest of the pathetic, sniveling humans that one day, two years ago. Hamish had stood up to him, regardless of having witnessed him slaughter eighteen people in cold blood. She didn't seem to care what sort of power he could wield, that he could have killed her excruciatingly where she stood. Not a single human had ever had the gall to do such a thing before. The Master had laughed in delight at finding such a creature. Wherever he went, his reputation seemed to have preceded him, and he was met with fear and hatred. Often, he did as he pleased, and not a single soul attempted to stop him. He had decimated a small number of planets, and those who knew of him also knew of what sort of damage he could do. There weren't many who, even in great numbers, would have been able to defend themselves against one of The Master's attacks.

And, yet, here stood this woman. Not a shred of fear. Hamish had long been able to shove down her feelings entirely, allowing her to think clearly. It was something that she'd learned to develop in her early teens, when she'd begun to be bullied by the other school children for being 'different.' For being more intelligent, for having confidence, and for standing up and doing the right thing.

The Master had actually stayed his hand, allowing the rest of the crowd to live at the request of this strange woman. It was then that he decided he wanted her to come with him. The Master had used his powers of manipulation just a little, only enough to persuade her to come with him.

Not long after she was in his TARDIS, he had stopped using those powers, and she came back to her senses. Oh, at first she was unhappy, but over the days and weeks, she had come to like him. Stockholm syndrome had set in, she had identified with her captor. She had eventually fallen in love with him. She hadn't even realised exactly what had happened, and no longer cared that The Master had done such unspeakable things. She felt that she understood him to a point, and so she defended him in her mind whenever she had any doubts about him. She shoved those doubts, those negative feelings away.

Hamish didn't realise just how dangerous the situation was, had become blind to it.

She had travelled by his side for two years, as he travelled the galaxies, doing as he pleased. He had wanted to take her to the End of the Universe, but the last three women he had taken there, had gone mad. And, he cared quite a lot for Hamish. For once, he had found someone that he thought he could not bring himself to hurt in any way. Caring about someone was something entirely foreign to The Master, and he found himself doing everything he could to ensure her safety. Whenever he planned on carrying out a plan that could endanger her, he made sure that Hamish stayed within the TARDIS, keeping her well away from harm.

But then, he had found himself face to face with an unexpectedly dangerous adversary. He had gone too far, and The Master had to fight with everything he had to get out of that battle alive. The drums had been incredibly loud as the violence and testosterone raged in each of them. And while he had escaped with his life, it was only barely. His opponent was dead, no longer a threat. He was nearly too weak to get back to the TARDIS, though somehow he managed it. There was no way that he'd be able to regenerate, and his life was quickly ebbing away. He could see the fear and pain in Hamish's eyes as she looked at him, not knowing how to help him. There was too much damage, quite possibly beyond assistance and he sensed that.

But, he was not going to just die like that. No, he wouldn't die then, not yet. He gave Hamish clear instructions as to where she could find a device that would transfer some of her life to him, just enough to sustain him. Once he was strong again, he would easily be able to restore those stolen years to her.

Hamish rushed as quickly as she could to find the item he had described, and carefully injected two of the four needles running from it into his chest. She then did the same to herself, and initiated the process. Hamish was terrified, as pain coursed through her entire body. A half hour later, he felt well again. Hamish had grown quite pale, and she was having difficulty keeping her eyes open. Her eyes had become dull, the life in her was fading. He had let this go on too long. He speedily fiddled with the switches, turning the machine off completely. But, it was too late. He had taken too much life from her, and she was fading fast.

She was dead before he was able to take her into his arms. There hadn't been time to even utter a simple goodbye. The Master enveloped her, sobbing into her hair as the sense of loss overwhelmed his being. Hamish was gone, and he hadn't the ability to bring her back. If he had been as strong as he once was, he would have been able to go back and undo his actions, saving her. But, he was far too weak for that. He was entirely to blame for the whole situation, and he knew it. When he was able to bring himself to his senses, he stood up and slumped over to the controls. The Master set the coordinates to Earth, to the time Hamish should have been, and left her body in the little flat she had been renting. He placed her gently on the bed, and kissed her. He looked down at her for a moment, and then returned to the TARDIS, tears flowing down his cheeks as his hearts ached from the loss. He powered it up to a dangerously high level, and took off to nowhere in particular.

He had been drifting around the Isop Galaxy, when The Master could feel The Doctor honing in on him. That was the last thing he needed. Normally, he would be glad to have a chance to make The Doctor suffer, but all he wanted right now was to be alone with his pain. It was what he deserved, what he craved. And so, he brought the TARDIS power up to a dangerously high level, and went to the Stellian Galaxy, to his hideout. The Doctor wouldn't be able to find him there, where his cave was invisibly cloaked. Not a single other soul could possibly find him there.

It was roughly 2:00 am, London time, when The Doctor received a call. He had taken to carrying a cell phone with him, under Clara's insistence. It was Captain Jack Harkness, who, at River Song's request, told him exactly where The Master might be. The Doctor had asked them both to see what they could find out, and they had delivered. He could always count on Jack and River. "The Stellian Galaxy?" The Doctor repeated into the phone, which Jack confirmed. "Yep." He replied, "That's what River told me." The Doctor thanked Jack. "Honestly, what would I do without the pair of you?" He asked, glad to have a lead. "But, how did she learn of his whereabouts?" He asked curiously. He had a feeling that as per usual, River had taken too large of a risk in order to get this information. Jack was quiet for a second or two. "She explicitly told me not to tell you that." He answered seriously. "Sorry, Doctor." He added, a little more softly. "I've been sworn to secrecy, here." The Doctor sighed at this. "Well, all that matters is that I have something to go on." He replied. "Did she say where in the Stellian Galaxy, by any chance?" The Doctor tapped his fingernails against the console as he asked this. "No." Jack answered regretfully. "But, we're both still doing what we can." Jack realised just how important it was to find The Master. Without him, restoring things to how they should be would be impossible. And that would be incredibly disastrous.

"I see." The Doctor said. "Well, we're a lot closer to finding him now than we were. Thank you, Jack. And thank River for me." He brushed a bit of hair out of his eyes. "I will." Jack said. They ended the call, and The Doctor let out a slow breath, absorbing what he'd just been told. He wasn't happy that River had likely put herself in danger to find out the location, though he was grateful to have a notion as to where The Master was now.

He went over to the controls, and took the TARDIS to the middle of the Stellian Galaxy, where he would wait until he could proceed further. What more could he do?

Over the next few days, The Doctor was unable to get any further in finding The Master. Clara, John and Sherlock became more acquainted over that time. Sherlock approved of Clara as a companion for The Doctor. He felt that she suited him rather well. She was resilient, of slightly higher than average intellect, and listened to The Doctor. As he understood it, Clara was actually the first one to listen to The Doctor when she was told to stay put. That alone spoke volumes about her. Yes, she did very well as a companion for The Doctor, even if Sherlock did find her somewhat annoying.

During that time, John and Sherlock also became closer. John was learning more about Sherlock, which he was pleased with. Sherlock, of course, naturally knew more about John, than John knew about him. It had felt strange telling John such things about himself. He had never indulged anyone's interest in him like this before. He answered many of John's questions about him, but found it difficult to share so much. He felt overly exposed, and it was beginning to unnerve him ever so slightly. Even though it was John, it was still difficult.

John could tell that it was tough on Sherlock to share so much with him. He'd been incredibly private about most things for as long as he'd known him. Even with Mycroft, his own brother, Sherlock had been quite private about his life. It was just his nature. John knew that it would take some time before he knew Sherlock as well as he wanted to, and accepted that. He was just glad that Sherlock was finally opening up to him. It was just too bad that it had to take something so big for that to happen.

On the eighth day aboard the TARDIS, in the mid-afternoon, The Doctor was able to discern a brief, and somewhat vague, signal indicating where The Master was.

The Doctor knew that he was on the ancient planet Xaos. It was so old, in fact, that it had been the first planet it that particular galaxy. There were many who believed that all life had stemmed from Xaos, which is why the Valley of the Gods had been created there. If one was to visit the Valley of the Gods, they would find many large and impressive statues of various gods that the people of Xaos used to worship. Over time, the planet's inhabitants had died off, and the statues were now relics of what for the most part, was a forgotten past.

It was a perfect place for The Master to retreat. Uninhabited, yet the planet could still sustain life.

The Doctor hadn't been able to detect exactly where The Master was, and Xaos was a rather large planet. The size of Earth multiplied nine times. But, it was a great deal more information than he'd had yesterday. They were getting close.

As soon as The Doctor had made the realisation of The Master's general whereabouts, he immediately brought the TARDIS to the planet's surface. Upon arrival, The Doctor swiftly went to announce the news to John, Sherlock and Clara who had been discussing the case of The Speckled Blonde in great detail. At hearing this, Sherlock was immediately on his feet, ready to work. He had been atrociously bored, having had nothing much to stimulate his high functioning brain. It had been a sort of torture for him. Most times he had been with The Doctor in the TARDIS, he had quite often been engaged in wonderfully complex discussions. The Doctor knew exactly how Sherlock's mind worked, and treated him the way that he needed. Most people didn't know how to fully engage Sherlock in a real conversation and keep him interested. Then again, most people weren't as intelligent as Sherlock, and were content with average conversations. But, this time, he hadn't had that privilege, as The Doctor had been far too busy to indulge him.

Now that he finally had the chance to put his skills to use and really think, he was getting impatient to begin. John watched as Sherlock drummed his fingers against his leg, anxious to get things started. First, The Doctor would need to give them all a bit more information. They couldn't just go rushing about willy nilly on a strange planet without a game plan.

The Doctor briefed them on the planet, how it was uninhabited, had oxygen rich air, and how the planet only had eight hour days. Three hours of sunlight, and five of darkness. The Doctor knew that they only had perhaps a half hour of sunlight left. Not nearly enough time to get anything done. It was too easy to get lost in the dark on this planet, even with torches. They would simply have to wait until dawn to begin their search.

Sherlock groaned audibly at this, and sank back into the chair that he had practically claimed as his. He closed his eyes, leaning his head on the back of the chair. Everyone felt a little badly for him, realising just how difficult the wait would be. "At least it's only five and a half hours." Clara said, attempting to lighten his mood. It was no good. He merely gave a slight sneer, his eyes still closed. She shrugged, at least she had tried. John wasn't sure if he was all that keen on exploring a foreign planet that he'd never even heard of before. For all he knew, The Doctor was wrong, and they would suffocate as soon as they left the TARDIS. There could be booby traps, dangerous animals, and who knows what else awaiting them.

He realised that these thoughts must have shown on his face, because The Doctor patted him on the shoulder and gave him a reassuring look. Everyone was quiet for a while, as they waited. It was terrible, the silence. Then, The Doctor clapped his hands together. "I know! Why don't we all have a game of Cluedo?" He suggested suddenly. It was one of The Doctor's favourite games. John did not look pleased. "Uh, no, I don't think that would be such a good idea." He said, glancing at Sherlock, who hadn't moved at all since he had sat down twenty minutes ago. "Actually, I know it wouldn't be." He added with a dry laugh. The Doctor frowned. "Why not?" He asked. "It's good clean fun, and it'll help pass the time. If I could, I'd just have the TARDIS take us five hours into the future, but that's just not possible on Xaos. Time is… Different here." He stated vaguely, as he fidgeted with his hands in an awkward fashion. John couldn't recall ever meeting someone as awkward as The Doctor was. Everything from his walk, to his social skills was incredibly awkward. "Now then," The Doctor said. "We may as well try to pass the time as pleasantly as possible. John, are you sure you wouldn't like to try and have a nice game of Cluedo?" He asked, sounding a little disappointed. John scoffed. "Have you tried playing Cluedo with Sherlock?" He asked, eyes widening as he recalled the only time that he'd had made that attempt. The Doctor shook his head no. John put a finger in the air. "Well, trust me, you don't want to." He warned. The Doctor was curious now. John scratched the back of his head, as The Doctor asked him why.

Sherlock sighed, sinking deeper into boredom. "It's because the only logical explanation is for the victim to have committed the crime." He said in an annoyed tone, also remembering that single occasion that he and John had played the game. "That's it, the only solution." He looked at John, who shook his head. "That's not how it works, Sherlock!" He said, gesturing with his hands impatiently. Sherlock straightened. "It's the only solution, John." He said confidently. "How can you not see it?" He frowned, not understanding how John could be so stubbornly blind. The Doctor put his hands in the air. "All right then, definitely no to Cluedo." He stated, realising that he might have done well not to have brought the game up in the first place. "Okay, how about a game of poker, then?" He asked, trying to get everybody in better spirits. John shook his head once more. "Not with Sherlock, I'm afraid." He said, with a half-smile. "Not if you want to have any chance of winning." John felt a little bad for saying this, but it was true. Sherlock was simply too intelligent for such games, putting all of the other players at a staggering disatvantage "Would you have Monopoly, by any chance?" He asked, knowing that this was a game that Sherlock would play from time to time, despite finding it rather dull. Even so, once in a while he would indulge John and play a game.

The Doctor went to check. "Ah, yes." He said, taking the game from a hidden compartment and showing it to John. "How about it, Sherlock?" The Doctor asked hopefully. Sherlock would have rather had his hand slammed in a car door at this point, being in a foul mood due to being cooped up so long with nothing to stimulate his intellect. But, he swallowed that down as best he could, and was polite. "Monopoly it is, then." He said in even tones. And so, they all sat down and played a long game of Monopoly. Far too long, in Sherlock's opinion. After it had finally ended, with Clara winning the game by a large margin, he swore never again to play such a mind-numbingly boring game.

After the sun had risen, they set out on their long trek. The Doctor led them, concentrating on picking up any trace of signal that would lead them to The Master. It was nearly sunset when Sherlock, with his sharp eyes, noticed a trail of footprints among other clues to where their prey had been. He could tell that it had been a man of roughly 5'4, with a slender build and a slight limp who had passed by the previous day returning to wherever it was that he was staying. They continued to follow the trail to its end, which hadn't been as long as they could have hoped. Upon reaching the trail's abrupt end, Sherlock fervently searched for other indications of The Master. Of course, it wasn't long before Sherlock picked it up once more. The Doctor watched, impressed he always was with Sherlock's incredible abilities. It went on for a mile or so, and ended strangely, with only a half footprint. Sherlock could easily tell that wind hadn't been to blame for the vanishing trail. He couldn't see anything to explain it either. As Sherlock tried to take a step to the side of the half footprint, looking for clues, his body met with something very hard. He tumbled to the ground heavily, feeling a distinct stinging sensation along his face. There wasn't anything to be seen at the end of the footprints, yet Sherlock had most definitely walked directly into something. He got to his feet with John's assistance, feeling blood trickle down his neck from a deep scrape on his cheek. John took a clean handkerchief from his pocket, dampened it with some of the water from the canteen that The Doctor had given him, and proceeded to reach up and clean the wound. Sherlock tried to swat his hand away so that he could further inspect the scene, but John made him stay as still as he could, and cleaned the scrape, along with the trail of blood leading to his chest. "There, all finished." John said, putting the canteen away. "For now." He added. After Sherlock had done his looking about, John planned on applying a bit of antibacterial cream to the wound from the tube that he always carried.

Sherlock bent down, and reached out to where he had stumbled. He could feel something cold and rough. It was unmistakably stone. He slowly stood up, feeling along the vast invisible rock. "Doctor, perhaps you should try the sonic." He suggested thoughtfully. Sherlock could remember one other time that they'd run across something similar. The Doctor had explained the phenomenon as some sort of cloaking device that made whatever was being protected, entirely invisible to anyone other than the being who had initiated the device in the first place. The sonic screwdriver had proven to be useful in that situation, and Sherlock felt that it was worth a try now. John, Clara and Sherlock watched closely as The Doctor made use of the sonic, and for a brief moment, a large amount of grey mountainous slate appeared. John's mouth hung open in shock. "Well… That's, um…" John mumbled incoherently. He turned to Sherlock, who was standing to his left. "What was that he just did?" He managed to ask through his shock. Sherlock kept his eyes where the object had appeared. "The Doctor utilised his sonic screwdriver to breach an alien security device, which allowed us to see exactly what it is that The Master would rather have us unaware of." He answered as simply as he could. John wasn't certain if he understood. "I see." He lied, looking at Sherlock with a blank look on his round face. "I'll explain later." Sherlock told him, fully aware that John wouldn't be able to grasp the concept without a good deal of explanation. There wasn't time for that now. The Doctor activated the sonic screwdriver again, this time for more than mere seconds, keeping it trained on the spot. He had pointed it at the same area, and once more, the item appeared clearly. They could all see that it was indeed a mountain, if on the smaller side. And, they could all see why the trail had simply stopped so cleanly. There was a small opening to a cavern within the mountain, and they could now see the other half of the last footprint.

Sherlock was fascinated once more with The Doctor's sonic. It could do such an amazing variety of things. Well, unless any of those things involved wood. Then it was fairly useless. For whatever reason, even yet, The Doctor's sonic does not have a wood setting. Sherlock had practically begged for The Doctor for his own sonic screwdriver, aware that The Doctor could easily make one for him. Of course, The Doctor had declined. He could only imagine the sorts of things Sherlock would get up to with one.

The Doctor entered the cave first, with Clara behind him. Sherlock insisted that John go ahead of himself, and was the last one inside. They noted the small stream to their immediate left, a copper pitcher beside the water. The interior was quite spacious, and it was obvious that someone had been living there. While all they could see from the entrance way was a hall, that hall had been painted with luminescent white paint. Sherlock instantly realised that this was to help light the way for anyone using the cave, and pointed this out. Clara had already come to that conclusion, but didn't feel the need to point this out. They continued down the hall, doing their best to be quiet. In all likelihood, The Master was lurking somewhere within and the element of surprise would certainly be in their favour.

As they walked, Sherlock mentioned to John that it must have been easier for him to get through the entrance, being the smallest of the group. He teased John lightly, in hushed tones, about his height in correlation to a hobbit being fairly close. This evoked a loud, derisive snort from John, who was fairly sensitive about his short stature. The Doctor looked back at them, a finger to his lips. John looked at him apologetically, and was quiet the rest of the way. Before long, they had reached the hall's end.

They walked into a very large room, which contained a handmade bed of sorts, as well as makeshift cupboards that held a decent amount of food within them. There was a pile of clothes against the cave wall, which confirmed Sherlock's description of The Master from the footprints. Not that anyone was surprised. It was obvious to Sherlock that The Master had only been there a matter of a few days, and had spent much of the time in the ramshackle bed. The food cupboards had remained untouched for what had been at least six months. Sherlock also noted a large bloodstain on the cave floor, though it was old and of little relevance to the situation. He looked about for other information that could give him some indication of where The Master was at that moment.

The Doctor soon noticed a doorway with a path leading upwards directly across from the bed, and the group decided to follow it. There was nowhere else to go, and if The Master was inside, then following that path would lead them closer to him. As they moved towards it, Sherlock noticed the slightest movement in the shadows and had the group stop. John realised that The Master must have been just inside, hiding. He crept off to the side of the doorway, out of site. If The Master attempted to dart past, John was confident that he could tackle him to the ground. The Doctor had his sonic at the ready, and Sherlock was close behind. The Doctor had Clara wait with John, not wanting her to get hurt. She was a little offended, but obliged. The Doctor could be a little old fashioned and archaic in certain respects, but he meant well. And considering there wasn't whole lot she could see herself doing to help at the moment, she didn't really mind so very much.

The Doctor went first, and as soon as he was through the doorway, saw a speedy flash of movement in the darkness. As Sherlock quickly reached out and grabbed at what had moved, The Doctor aimed his screwdriver. It had been relatively easy for Sherlock to get a grip on The Master's shirt, and with The Doctor's sonic still trained on the rogue Time Lord, he dragged the man out into the main area. John was a bit surprised, he had expected catching The Master to be much more difficult than this. Yet, it was almost as though he had wanted to be caught. But, then John saw his pale, gaunt face. His eyes were dull, and his skin pallid. He was dying, despite having consumed another's life force. He may have been weakened, yet he was far from helpless.

Sherlock lessened his grip, glaring at the wretched creature. So, this was The Master. This was the one that had murdered his future daughter. John stared at the stranger, thinking the same as Sherlock, feeling very uneasy. This was no ordinary man, and he had no idea what to expect should The Master decide to retaliate against them. The Master coughed dryly, glaring coldly at The Doctor. "Well, Doctor. Here we are again." He said in softly, the voice of a young man. He had regenerated since The Doctor had seen him last. Long black hair, skinny, average height, green eyes. The Master had locked eyes with The Doctor, and was watching him unblinkingly. The Doctor looked sadly back at him, still ready to use the sonic if need be. "You're coming with us." He told the man, who obviously wasn't going to come peacefully. "And what would you intend to do with me?" He asked. "Take me prisoner? Make me answer for my crimes?" He wheezed. "I'm dying, what point would there be?" He laughed bitterly, considering his options, waiting for the perfect moment to attack.

Sherlock grabbed his shirt. "What point?" He asked, his voice thick with growing anger. "The point is that you can bring the woman you killed back to life. That's what the bloody point is." He spat, suddenly feeling rather angry. As he looked at The Master, he could envision the girl in the photograph suffering, dying. He could imagine his own flesh and blood, his child, perishing at The Master's hands. And that was enough to bring out the very worst in him. Sherlock Holmes was a very dangerous person to have as an enemy. If someone were to cause harm to befall anyone he actually cared about, that person would have put themselves at terrible risk. As it has already been said, Sherlock was a fiercely protective man. He was not one to lose his temper easily, even when provoked. Understandably, The Master had caused Sherlock to do just that.

The Doctor's face was stony. "Sherlock." He said gently, but firmly. "We need to take him with us to the TARDIS." He watched Sherlock carefully, concerned that the situation was about to take a nasty turn. Sherlock stared coldly into The Master's eyes. For one brief second, Sherlock detected a small flicker of remorse, despite the sneer on his face. The Doctor took a step towards them. "Now." He said unwaveringly, prepared to step in if need be. Sherlock gave The Master a rough shove towards the hall leading out of the cavern, causing him to nearly fall to his feet. In that instant, The Master decided that he would make certain to take his time torturing this one. Sherlock walked ahead, while John and Clara walked on either side of him. The Doctor brought up the rear, keeping a watchful eye on the fugitive. Little did they know what The Master had planned.

Once they had reached the TARDIS, and were inside, The Master was taken to a sort of holding cell by The Doctor. John, Clara and Sherlock stood in the console room. Sherlock closed his eyes, taking slow, measured breaths to calm himself. He loathed losing control, as he had with The Master. There was a concise reason that he'd had gone for so many years divorced from his feelings. One's thoughts became altered when emotions were involved, compromising decisions and complicating things altogether. It could become very difficult to think clearly, let alone at all, when one's feelings high jacked the mind. Naturally, Sherlock detested this.

John had never seen Sherlock like this before, and it greatly worried him. "Sherlock?" He asked in concern, as Clara looked on. Sherlock let out a particularly long breath. "Oh, I'll be just fine, John." He answered, opening his eyes a little to look at his friend, knowing exactly what John was thinking. "Like I've said before, you worry too much. It's bad for your health." He tried to give a reassuring smile. "Now that we've caught our fugitive, things can be returned to how they were meant to be." John nodded. "You're right, as usual." He said gently, as Sherlock closed his eyes again, resuming his measured breathing. Clara looked at Sherlock, admiring him. The light played across his face beautifully as he calmed himself further. She couldn't help but notice his striking cheekbones being highlighted with the light from above. He looked almost angelic. Not only was Sherlock Holmes a clever boy, he was a rather pretty one as well. John looked over to Clara, realising at once how she was looking at Sherlock. She quickly felt John's eyes on her, and she averted her eyes in embarrassment. John smiled, and nodded knowingly. He leaned in close to her. "It's okay; I can't tell you how many women, along with some men, that I've caught looking at him in the very same way." He said quietly, almost whispering. Clara looked at the floor. "He's just so… Beautiful." She whispered. "It's almost criminal." John nodded. He agreed completely, remembering how he had found himself staring at Sherlock when he thought he could do so unnoticed. Sherlock opened one eye slightly. "You do realise that I can hear every word that you're saying?" He asked, feeling moderately flattered.

The Doctor returned from the holding cell where The Master was biding his time, and went to the console, flicking an orange switch. A monitor lit up, and live footage of their prisoner was available for viewing. He set coordinates to what would have been two weeks previously in London, the afternoon that Hamish Amelia Holmes-Watson had been found dead in her flat. The Doctor turned to John and Sherlock. "Right." He said, "Sherlock, I'm going to need you to help me with The Master." He said solemnly. In order to give Hamish back her life, The Master would need to give his own. The Doctor didn't believe in killing unless it was absolutely necessary, which wasn't often. However, The Master was already dying, and it was detrimental to the future of Earth that Hamish live. She was to do some rather magnificently important things in her life, and without her, the future of humankind would cease to exist. He knew that this time, someone would have to die.

The Doctor unlocked the cell, and explained to The Master what was about to happen. Sherlock had expected the man to protest loudly. However, The Master merely hung his head tiredly, and spoke to The Doctor. "We both know that I don't have long left." His face was blank and his voice flat as he went on. "… I loved her dearly. I would do anything to have her live again." He looked up into The Doctor's eyes, disregarding Sherlock's presence entirely. "Except for this." He told said in a deadly whisper, and with that, he bored his eyes into The Doctor's. He was dying, yes, but he still had a decent amount of strength within. The Doctor was fending him off as much as he could, but The Master had already been able to prevent him from using the sonic. The Doctor began to succumb to The Master's hypnotic gaze. The Master knew if he died now, that this time there would be no resurrections. This time, he wouldn't be come back. He wasn't about to let that happen.

Sherlock began to speak. "Tell me, how did you kill her?" He asked, his voice booming off of the metal walls. The Master's gaze flicked to him for an instant, before returning to The Doctor, who was beginning to grow weak. The Master was sapping as much of his strength as quickly as he could. If Sherlock couldn't stop him, then The Doctor would die, and be unable to regenerate. "I asked you a question!" Sherlock said loudly. "How did you kill her?" The Master snarled. "What does it matter to you, anyway?" He asked with a chuckle, unaware that Sherlock was Hamish's father. "It has nothing to do with you." The right corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "Oh, it has everything to do with me, Time Lord." He growled deeply, his muscles tensing. The Master, satisfied that The Doctor was unable to defend himself, turned his attention to Sherlock.

"Even if that's true, it doesn't matter. Nor do I care." He stated matter-of-factly. "Because, you see, it will all be over soon. You, The Doctor, and the two pathetic creatures you brought along with you are all going to die shortly. I promise you." The Master laughed, his strength returning. Soon enough, he would have the power to regenerate again. Sherlock stayed his distance. "You have yet to answer my question." He reminded, cocking a thick eyebrow. Sherlock face was set in a determined expression, waiting for the chance to take this man down. The Master's face turned sour. "Shut up." He told Sherlock in a dangerous tone, reminding him just who was in charge. "Do you think that I had wanted her to die?" He asked loudly as he stalked closer. "I loved her!" He yelled, throwing his hands in the air. Sherlock hadn't heard this part of the story, and could see in The Master's face that he had spoken the truth. "Is that so?" He asked cautiously, not relenting. He needed to keep The Master talking, keep him as distracted as he could. The Doctor was slumped on the floor. He wasn't going to be much use. Sherlock would have to find a way out of this on his own. The Master stood there, merely watching him. The pain of Hamish's loss had begun to take over his being, threatening to overthrow him. "Not that it matters, but it was an accident." He said quietly, swallowing back tears. "I was dying, and she was willing to lend me some of her life to sustain me. But, I took too much." The Master could see it happening as he told Sherlock what had took place. "By the time I stopped the process, it was too late." He sighed. Sherlock tried to signal to The Doctor to roll the sonic screwdriver to him. But, The Doctor's eyes had closed. He was growing weaker.

"She meant so much to you, yet you won't give back what is rightfully hers." Sherlock sneered in disgust. "I had heard that Time Lords were an honorable race. Apparently, I was misinformed." The Master laughed at this, throwing his head back. "Are you actually trying to guilt me?" He asked, scoffing. "You pathetic, calamitous human." He squinted. "You know who I am, and The Doctor has more than likely educated you in the sorts of things that I've done. Do you honestly think that I'm going to lay down my life to save some earth girl's life?" He shook his head. "I may have loved her, may be mourning her. But, those things will fade and I will persevere as I have always done."

Sherlock was beginning to doubt that he'd find a way out of this one. "Yes, but you did love her." He pointed out, wanting to distract him as much as possible from The Doctor. "And, as I understand it, that's something new for you. Not something to take lightly, now is it?" He asked, seeing The Master's mind begin to work away on what he'd said. "Enough." The Master told him throatily. Sherlock decided to play along. "Yes, all right. I'll be quiet now." He agreed as he put his hands up, deciding on a course of action. Obviously, words were only going to get him so far. At least he'd kept The Doctor alive for now.

The Master looked a little stunned. "I think that I'll gag you, just to make certain." He said thoughtfully. The Master had always taken an almost sexual delight in gagging and binding his captives. He removed The Doctor's treasured bow tie, and closed the distance between Sherlock and himself. "Try anything, and I'll kill you here and now." The Master threatened emptily. Sherlock could see right through that lie, acting as though fear had begun to set in. For a member of such an advanced race, The Master really could be bone dead stupid. The Master slipped the undone bow tie around Sherlock's head, and was reaching into his pocket for something to shove into his mouth to keep him quieter, when Sherlock's knee came up swiftly. His knee connected sharply with The Master's groin, causing him to bend over double in pain. Sherlock took this opportunity to deal a heavy blow to the back of his head. The Master went down, his body landing hard on the floor.

That was easier than he'd expected. He hadn't been certain if his plan would work, not knowing that Time Lords were more or less susceptible to a beating, just as humans would be. Sherlock hadn't expected that, and was pleasantly surprised to find his idea had worked so well. He quickly used the intercom outside the cell, and requested that a good length of rope be brought to him.

Clara had brought the requested item down to Sherlock, as John hadn't a clue where either the rope or the holding cell were located. She had been horrified to see The Doctor in such a sorry state. Sherlock explained what happened, as he secured The Master's unconscious form to the metal bed. The Doctor opened his eyes, taking in his surroundings. He had momentarily forgotten what had happened, but it quickly came back to him. He told Clara to return to the console room. He didn't want her to have to see what was about to happen. She left, worrying terribly about The Doctor. Once the door closed, he reached into his pocket and produced a small knob-like item from his pocket. He pressed a small button, and hundreds of tiny glowing metal spikes jutted out from the bottom. It gave off an eerie whirring hum, as Sherlock took it carefully in his hand. Removing The Master's life force would be incredibly excruciating even if he wasn't alert and it was unlikely that even if The Master did want to hold still, he wouldn't be able to control the spasms of pain that would course violently through his body. The Doctor looked at The Master's form tearfully. "I'm sorry." He said weakly, despite The Master not being able to hear him. "I am so, so sorry." He had truly meant those words. The Doctor had always planned to help The Master. They had grown up together as children, and until The Master had been forced to stare into the Vortex which had driven him mad, they had been dear friends. And now, it was too late to help him.

Sherlock slowly walked over to the bed. The Doctor had described to him what to do. With some hesitation, he plunged the spikes fully into The Master's chest, and the tool glowed white. Screams of pain echoed throughout the soundproof cell as The Master's eyes opened wide. After six horrifying minutes, it was over. The Doctor looked as though he would be ill, and Sherlock was shockingly pale as he stared at The Master's body. It hadn't been an easy task to complete. The Master's body had involuntarily wrenched itself powerfully about, thrashing and spasming. By the end, many of the ropes had been broken under the sheer force of The Master's movements. He took some deep breaths and closed his eyes. It was over.

Tears trailed silently down The Doctor's cheeks as he looked dully at The Master's body. He had always thought that he would be able to ease The Master's madness, rehabilitate him somehow. He had hoped for so long that The Master would someday be able to live a happy life. Instead, he had spent almost the entirety of his life listening to the same four insanity inducing beats of a drum which Rassilon had been responsible for. He'd spent most of his life being alone and terribly miserable. And, after he finally was able to care about someone for the first time in many hundreds of years, he had accidentally killed that person. He had spent his last days in pain, weak and alone as he mourned. And for it all to end like this…

The Doctor blamed himself to a point. If he had tried harder, he might've saved The Master. He'd been so very close once before, but complications arose, and it had been impossible. The Master had been fatally shot, and had positively refused to regenerate. The Doctor had planned to take him into custody, to keep an eye on him, do his very best to help. But, The Master had died without regenerating. And after he had been resurrected not so very long after his death, The Doctor hadn't had the chance to force The Master to come with him. As many terrible things as The Master had done, The Doctor knew that it wasn't completely his fault, and found himself able to forgive him. The Doctor had felt only pity for him, and mourned his loss.

Sherlock noticed The Doctor's tears, and embraced him. The Doctor was his oldest friend, and he had never seen The Doctor like this. It unsettled him, and all he wanted was for things to be all right once again. He wanted to see the carefree Doctor that he was used to. The Doctor hugged Sherlock back, and for a few moments, they just held one another. When The Doctor finally pulled away, he thanked Sherlock, who nodded. "I'm sorry." Sherlock said, truly meaning it. He helped The Doctor to his feet, and they left the cell. As much hatred as Sherlock had felt towards The Master, knowing what sorts of horrid crimes he had committed, how he had ended so many innocent lives in terrible ways, including his daughter's, he had somehow felt pity just as The Doctor had. Perhaps not as much, but he had felt it. The Doctor searched his eyes. "You really are sorry." He said sadly. "I wouldn't blame you if you weren't, you know. I would understand." The Doctor told him honestly. Sherlock swallowed. "We… Ought to get back to John and Clara. They'll be worrying about us." He said quietly, his voice low with emotion. The Doctor agreed, his heart heavy. Sherlock put an arm around The Doctor, who was still very weak, as they slowly made their way back to the console room.

As soon as Clara saw The Doctor, she rushed over to him in complete concern. "What can I do to help?" She asked shrilly, as she always did whenever she was very worried. Sherlock winced, her voice hurting his ears. Clara noticed his discomfort and quickly apologized before turning her attention back to The Doctor, who tried to put on a brave face. "Oh, don't worry so much." He told her. "You're going to get worry lines, if you're not careful." He teased her half-heartedly. "I'll be well again in a few days. I simply need to rest." The Doctor assured her with a weak smile.

John approached Sherlock. "And you," He started, his voice trembling slightly with worry. "You are coming with me." He said, noticing that Sherlock was not doing well. His skin was damp with sweat, and he looked ill as he stood propped against a wall. Sherlock didn't say anything, and John did his best to support Sherlock's tall frame as he took him to lie down. Everything that had happened since leaving Baker street had taken a toll on him, and his health was suffering. The Doctor watched as the pair of them left, with Clara looking after him.

John guided him to Sherlock's bedroom, and helped him to lie down. After he was satisfied that Sherlock was as comfortable as he could be, he carefully sat down on the bed beside him. He applied a bit of cream to the scrape on Sherlock's cheek, as he had planned on doing hours ago. Sherlock winced as the cream stung the deep scrape. "Sorry, love." John said without thinking about it, as he looked sweetly down at him. Sherlock gave him a bit of a funny look. John had never called him 'love' before. John raised an eyebrow. "What?" He asked, wondering what had triggered such a reaction. Sherlock's solemn expression softened a touch. "Oh, nothing… Love." He said quietly, feeling weaker than he would have admitted. John blushed furiously, the tips of his ears bright crimson. He cleared his throat. The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up ever so slightly. John shifted uncomfortably. "Sorry, should I have not said that?" He asked quietly, feeling worried that maybe Sherlock didn't like terms like that used on him. Sherlock didn't mind in the least. "You stress too much, John." He said with affection in his voice. "You can call me that any time you want, and I promise never to get upset with you." He vowed. John hadn't expected a response like that. "Oh, um, well… Good." He said. "That's good, then." John mumbled. Sherlock smiled fully now, thinking how adorable John was. Even with his face smudged with dirt and his hair a complete mess, sticking up all over the place, he was terribly cute. John blushed deeper, as Sherlock looked at him in almost a sultry fashion. "Do you know," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "With your hair mussed like that, you look a little like a hedgehog?" He chuckled softly, as John looked at him, taken aback. "A hedgehog?!" He said incredulously, thinking that he looked nothing like a hedgehog. Sherlock was still looking at him with that same attentive gaze. "Oh, John." He said gently, "Not just a hedgehog. A sexy little hedgehog." He added in amusement, actually making John laugh. Sherlock smiled. "Just lie down next to me. Please." Sherlock needed John to just stay with him, and John could sense that. He lay face to face near Sherlock, who pulled him gently against his firm body. He held John close, craving that closeness more than he ever had. John held Sherlock in return, comforting his as best he could, realising that Sherlock was not as tough as he liked to pretend. Until now, John hadn't understood just how much everything had worn on him.

Sherlock and John were both terribly exhausted, and they slept for the next eleven hours.

In that time, The Doctor had been able to reverse the most recent damage The Master had inflicted. Hamish Amelia Holmes-Watson was alive and well. The wrong had been righted, and it was officially over. Hamish would go on to fulfill her destiny, and the universe was forever safe from The Master's wrath.

The Doctor's lovely companion had assisted him in restoring Hamish's life back to her, and it was something that Clara would never forget. She had seen a great many wondrous things in her travels with the good Doctor, but this was something that she remembered fondly until her dying day. To see Hamish's life flood back into her body was one of the most indescribable experiences she would ever have, and one of the most beautiful.

Once Sherlock and John had awakened and come downstairs, The Doctor let them know that their flat was just beyond the TARDIS door. It was merely an hour later on the same day they had initially left to go with The Doctor. John and Sherlock did decide to return home, but invited The Doctor and Clara to stay for something to eat. They were all rather hungry, and so they breakfasted together.

And over that pleasant morning meal, Sherlock invited them both to stay for a while. The Doctor could use a rest, and what better place than Baker Street? After declining, not wanting to be a burden, it was John who had convinced him to stay for a vacation. The Doctor relented, a warm smile on his sweet face. "Well, I suppose if you insist." He said, feeling very happy to be able to be with his friends that much longer. Clara was wonderful company, but the more the merrier. Besides, he would miss Sherlock dearly. The Doctor only travelled with the best, and Sherlock was at the top of the very best. The Doctor had always been very fond of him.

Not long after breakfast, Mrs. Hudson knocked and entered 221 B without waiting to be let in. "Yoo hoo!" She called out. "Your brother's stopped by. The doorbell's on the fritz again, so I just let him in. He's just downstairs talking to Miss Hope for a minute, he won't be a tick." She told Sherlock, who was in the kitchen, putting the kettle on. Sherlock told her that was just fine, and knew that Mycroft must have been growing rather fond of their downstairs neighbor, Miss Hope. He supposed it was about time Mycroft had moved on from that dreadful ex-girlfriend of his, although the last thing he needed was his brother coming by more often than he already did. Mrs. Hudson eyed The Doctor almost flirtatiously. "Now, who's this, then?" She asked in a soft voice, fluffing her hair. John exchanged a quick knowing glance with Sherlock, as Mrs. Hudson smiled sweetly at The Doctor. He walked over, ready to shake her hand. "I'm The Doctor." He said pleasantly. Her smile grew wider. "Oooh, another doctor." She practically cooed. "Is this handsome young man a colleague of yours, John?" She asked, not taking her eyes off of The Doctor. John bit back an amused smile, as he watched Mrs. Hudson continue to unabashedly flirt. "Oh, well, no." He answered, "He's not, actually. He's a friend of ours." John said, before gesturing to The Doctor's companion. "And, this is our friend, Clara." He added. Mrs. Hudson finally tore her eyes away from him, and greeted Clara, before turning back to The Doctor with a disappointed look on her face as she remembered that she had to go meet someone important. "I really should get going. Perhaps we can have a chat sometime, over a drink." She said with a wink, putting a hand on his shoulder. He smiled kindly, and told her that he might just take her up on the offer. She left the flat beaming, as Mycroft entered.

"Good morning, Sherlock." He greeted his brother. "John." He nodded at Dr. Watson, who said hello. He glanced at Clara and The Doctor. "If you are in the middle of something, I can come back later when it's more convenient." He said, taking a step towards the door. Sherlock sighed. "What is it that you want, Mycroft?" He asked, walking over towards his brother, who almost seemed a little edgy. "I need your assistance on a matter of national importance; it could mean life and death." He said quietly, so as not to be overheard by Sherlock's guests. Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes. It seemed as though every other week Mycroft was coming to him with a dramatic 'matter of national importance'. It was getting rather boring. "Yes, I did receive your text." Sherlock pointed out. "As I am sure that you received mine in response." At this, Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line. "Sherlock, you will lend me your assistance." He said evenly. Why did his younger brother always have to be so difficult? Sherlock blinked. He wasn't sure how Mycroft expected that sort of line to work on him. It hadn't encouraged him to listen to his brother when he was a child, and it certainly didn't work now. "No." He answered simply. "I won't. Now, if you'll excuse me, as you can see, I have guests." He turned away from his brother, who huffed and left the flat.

"Now then," Sherlock said, clasping his hands, "How about some tea?" He asked as the kettle began to whistle shrilly. Everyone was certainly in the mood for a cup, and as they drank their tea, they spoke of many things. Later on, they all went for a walk, and The Doctor was greatly amused by the contents of a toy shoppe that he had insisted they visit. John had never seen a grown man so enthralled by children's toys before. It was certainly a sight. He caught himself smiling right along with The Doctor, the joy had been catching. Soon, they were all smiling and acting silly. Even Sherlock had found himself caught up in the moment. The Doctor has that sort of effect on a person.

The entire time that The Doctor and Clara stayed with them had been something really quite special. But, soon enough, they needed to be on their way. After all, The Doctor had made a promise to find Data for the TARDIS, which he did. As it turned out, Data did eventually fall in love with the TARDIS, and they are still together after fourty-two years.

After they had left, 221 B Baker Street felt emptier.

But, once John and Sherlock were finally alone together, they began to share wonderfully romantic moments. Soon, they were expressing their love to one another on a multitude of levels. Mrs. Hudson soon learned not to just walk into 221 B after a certain rude shock. She also made a mental note not to sit on the sofa, or use the counters and kitchen table.

It was plain to anyone who looked at them how in love they were. And, it really was beautiful. They were married six months later. The vows that they had written for one another were exquisite.

They spent their month long honeymoon in Japan, which was one of the few places that they could agree on. John didn't know a syllable of Japanese, although Sherlock was fluent in the language. Not that it mattered very much, because they scarcely left their room. Sherlock couldn't remember a time when he'd been happier, and John had actually teared up a little upon hearing this. Sherlock had gently wiped the tears from his soft cheeks, and kissed him. John's lipbalm tasted of raspberries. Sherlock easily scooped him up in his strong arms, and carried him to the Jacuzzi where they spent the next seven hours in a passionate lovemaking session that left them both nearly senseless.

By the end of their concupiscent honeymoon, they were both thoroughly exhausted.

Exactly a year and a half later, precisely as The Doctor had said, they did have a baby girl. And, when they held her for the very first time, even Sherlock was overcome with emotion. It was truly the happiest day of their life together. Of course, they decided on the name Hamish Amelia Holmes-Watson. Hamish had been John's suggestion, because it was his middle name. And, Amelia had been Sherlock's contribution, naming her for a companion of The Doctor's that had made quite the influence on him as a child. If she had still been alive, Amelia Pond and her husband Rory Williams would have been Hamish's honorary godparents. Sherlock felt a small lump in his throat, as he remembered that day when he was nine years old and The Doctor had told him that Amy and Rory were gone forever.

Hamish had been a wonderful baby. She didn't incessantly cry, wasn't overly fussy and was able to keep most of her food down. John boasted to anyone who would listen to him about their baby girl, keeping a photograph to show off. Nearly everyone thought that Hamish was about the most adorable baby that they'd ever seen. Sherlock, as John had expected, was overly protective of her. He was uneasy about letting other people hold his precious daughter, worried that they'd accidentally drop her. John was a little more confident.

Hamish's intellectual gifts became apparent when she was still a toddler, and Sherlock did everything he could to help her mind develop. He'd read to her since she was a matter of days old, and while he didn't push things on her, he did gently encourage her with educational toys and tools. John and Sherlock had argued over whether or not to allow Hamish to watch television. Sherlock argued that it would stunt her brain development and that she'd turn into a simple minded television addict. John felt that a little bit of telly here and there would be just fine. Eventually, they came to an agreement. When Hamish was school age, she would be allowed to watch one television show each day. Sherlock wasn't completely satisfied with this, but relented.

Hamish's first ten years had passed by so quickly, that her parents found themselves wondering where the time went. The Doctor visited every once in a while, checking in on his favourite little family. He often brought something special for Hamish, usually a healthy treat or a toy. Hamish adored The Doctor, and he adored her. They got along famously.

John and Sherlock had expected their young daughter to be rebellious in her teen years. However, that was something that just didn't happen. The entire time Hamish was a teenager, she was very mature and mainly concentrated on her studies. She wanted badly to attend Cambridge upon graduating high school. She had never begged for a car, demanded money for clothes or complained that she didn't have whatever latest technological gadget that the other teens had. Hamish had priorities, and made her parents very proud. Although, when it came to dating, Sherlock had scared off a few suitors that he felt were trouble. Hamish did finally find a boy that both John and Sherlock approved of. She dated that same boy right up until she left for higher education.

Before they knew it, she was going attending Cambridge University, just as she had worked so hard for. As John had predicted, Sherlock had indeed kindled a lasting passion for learning in her. She was one of the most brilliant minds the professors had ever seen, and had received a full scholarship. The Doctor had been there, along with both of her extremely proud fathers, at her graduation ceremony. She had graduated with multiple honors, and went on to do incredible things. Hamish soon became fluent in nineteen different languages, had three separate doctorates, and had a top position in the British government. Throughout her life, she made a real effort to keep learning useful information. Her father had taught her to fill her head with things that really mattered, and she kept this lesson with her. She did go on to save the entire world, with a little help from The Doctor.

But, that's a different story altogether.