Elementary
Disclaimer: I own neither Doctor Who (I only wish I was that cool) Sherlock Holmes or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Honestly, I'm not sure what I would do with him if I did own him. Keep his skeleton in my closet, maybe?
AN: I wish my fondest happy birthday to my Computer Nazi, who has been requesting this story for quite some time. And for anyone who has never tried to read anything more than a hundred years old, the language might be a bit difficult at first. I assure you, it will get better in time.
I record in these very pages an account of the past several weeks—an account that, had I not witnessed the events with my own eyes, I would have immediately dismissed as the absurd ravings of a madman. Even now I fear for my sanity; yet, unless my senses have utterly failed me, I swear by all that I hold sacred that what is contained herein is absolute truth.
It is for that very reason that I cannot allow any living soul to read these pages.
—A. C. Doyle
My account begins on a rather benign Sunday afternoon; I had retired to my study, indulging one of my guiltier pleasures. It has been brought to my attention on numerous occasions that one of my education should find higher entertainments, yet I have remained resolute in my fancies, and in fact the displeasure of my peers only served to pique my interest in the grisly murders and unsolved mysteries that occasionally appeared in the local newspaper. I must explain, I have no love for anything cruel or brutal, but I have since childhood been fascinated by mysteries—by explaining the unexplained and creating order out of chaos. I was held in thrall by the very thought of enigma.
Which is why, when I heard the sound, I could not stop myself from rushing to the window—not the door, I had still more dignity than that—to investigate its source. The sound was utterly unique; I could neither name its origin, nor anything that sound even remotely like it, and so I was compelled to draw the blinds with more urgency than was necessarily proper.
What I saw filled me with a singular blend of elation and disappointment. The former because I saw, standing against a wall where nothing had been an hour before, a large blue box, taller than a man and easily twice as wide, with small windows and a narrow door on the side facing myself. The latter because it was, for all its oddity, somehow not enough. It was too small, too plain, too ordinary for the fantastic sound I had heard just moments before. Such a singular sound deserved unparalleled grandeur and, in my mind, this little box fell short.
For this reason I did not react with the appropriate enthusiasm when a tall, thin man stepped out from inside the box. He was dressed well, if a bit oddly, and his hair seemed unfortunately unruly, but otherwise he looked rather unremarkable.
How very wrong I was.
For this was the man that I would learn to revere above all others. This was the man who would so quickly fill my finite brain with terror and inspiration.
This was the man whom I would call Doctor.