Inspired by the drawing by mlysza on Tumblr. To see it, type in mlysza(.)tumblr(.)com/post/13716117176 without the parenthesis (the site is eating URLs, sorry)

Also, I apologize for getting the characters wonked up. First time I've tried a Wholock (that didn't have Cabin Pressure involved) and I haven't seen Fourth in quite some time.

Sherlock Holmes looked up from the mass of circuitry.

"You have no idea what you're doing," he observed.

"Nonsense, I know exactly what I'm doing," the taller man said, just as a portion of the console burst with an explosive pff! "Well, nearly," he added.

Sherlock sighed. In some ways, this man could very well have been more of a brother than Mycroft. Tall, eccentric, with dark hair, light eyes, and a fondness for scarves. Though the robot dog was a bit overkill.

Sherlock flashed back to the day they first met. It was his birthday, as cliché as that was, and Sherlock had just turned twenty-seven. The tall man had introduced himself as the Doctor, and before Sherlock had realized what was going on, he was chasing after a murderer (much to his delight), albeit an alien one. Once he'd realized that aliens were, in fact, nonfictional, it didn't take much of a leap to figure out that the Doctor belonged to this category. After they'd caught and disciplined the strange creature, Sherlock had sighed, knowing the most interesting chapter of his life was over.

"Clever boy like you, you must get bored," the Doctor said.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied.

"Would you like to come with me?"

So now Sherlock sat in the TARDIS control room, watching the Doctor reassemble the console after he'd taken it apart for no good reason. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The blue one," he said.

"You sure about that?"

"Yes. I made sure to memorize it just in case you failed to anticipate your own ineptitude."

"My inepti—I was flying the old girl centuries before you were born!"

"Yes, and I pay more attention than you seem to."

"Master Sherlock is correct," K-9 piped in.

"Oh, alright, if you think you're so clever, why don't you fix it?" The Doctor wiped his brow with his scarf as Sherlock came over. Within ten minutes, the human had put the console back together.

"I think that will be sufficient."

"We'll see," the Doctor pouted. He flipped a switch and the rotor began to move. "HA! Oh." Sherlock gave the Doctor a look that said only one word: exactly. "Well, fine, doesn't matter to me, long as the old girl is fixed. Where shall we go? The Ice-moons of Karavas? The Pleasure Palaces of Girellia V? New Iceland? No! Just the place!" He vigorously flipped some switches, and after a few seconds, a pleasant ding sound chimed. "The Garden Shores of Lentilla Seven!" he said.

For once, the Doctor landed them precisely where they were meant to, and they stepped out onto a world of subtropical paradise. Sherlock had left his coat and scarf in the TARDIS, and unfortunately the ground was too uneven for K-9 to follow. Sherlock, despite himself, gasped. He was in awe at the beauty that surrounded him—the trees and plants were not green but a vivid cobalt blue. The yellow sunlight poured through the leaves, and it was warm and very unlike Earth.

The Doctor stood, grinning at him. "Don't just stand there, Sherlock," he said. "Plenty to see. Just over this corner should be the main city where we can—aah!"

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the beauty of the landscape and looked down into the pit the Doctor had found himself in. "I would tell you to pay more attention, Doctor, but I think my pleas would fall on deaf ears."

"Stop gloating and catch the end of my scarf," the Time Lord replied, tossing one end of his scarf up to Sherlock. He grabbed it and began to wonder how a rather scrawny young man was meant to pull up a much larger one when the physics of what he was thinking about kicked in. Suddenly Sherlock was in freefall for long enough to register that he was no longer on the edge of the pit but was rather on top of the Doctor.

"Physics," he growled, sitting up and taking the scarf off of him.

"Ah, yes, well," the Doctor coughed. "Nobody's perfect," he grinned. Sherlock returned his grin with a glare. Sherlock looked around the pit for any roots or rocks that might function as handholds or steps. Finding none, he went with the obvious plan B.

"Can somebody hear us?" he shouted. "Anyone?"

The Doctor joined in. "Helloooo!"

After about ten minutes of shouting, the face of a small child with purple hair and gently orange skin poked over the edge. "What are you doing down there?"

"Hello!" said the Doctor. "My friend and I—this is Sherlock, by the way—we were walking through the forest when we—"

"When he—"

"—fell in, and we appear to have gotten stuck." The Doctor smiled his most charming smile. Sherlock didn't. He was covered in dirt and very miserable for it. The girl giggled. "I'll go get father," she said before vanishing.

"How does she speak English?" Sherlock asked while they waited. "How can she speak English? Unless it's an extremely bizarre coincidence."

"The TARDIS…er, well, when the Time Lords…jelly baby?"

"You have absolutely no idea."

It was at this point that a man's face peered over the edge. He was wearing primitive clothing—a step beyond basic skins, but still less advanced than the villagers of the Roman Empire. He sighed and lowered down a strong rope. Sherlock went first, ascending the rope and helping the other man pull the Doctor up.

"Thank you," said the Doctor.

"It was our pleasure to help," replied the stranger. "I am Zaron, chief of the village. Won't you dine with us this evening?"

Sherlock had his trepidations as to the contents of an alien tribal feast, but before he could say anything, the Doctor had accepted his offer.

They arrived at the pavilion to find a happy community. Sherlock studied each and every one and could find no hint of strife or discontentment. It struck him as odd that such a backwards world could be so blissful when his own was constantly shooting at one another or blowing each other up. But yet here they were, happy, utopian. It almost hurt. Everyone but themselves had contributed something to the meal (make that everyone but Sherlock, as the Doctor tossed his jelly babies into the mix), even the chieftain and his family.

"Ah," said Zaron as a young woman arrived. "This is Arianda, my eldest daughter." She wore a star-shaped flower in her hair, Sherlock noted. Only younger women and the one with no husband but three children did that. Unmarried. She was strong, well-built, but easygoing. Her nails were short and painted. The princess of a utopian tribe. Intriguing.

"Nice to meet you," she said. Her voice was soft, melodious.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, extending a hand before realizing her culture may not know about handshakes.

"And I'm the Doctor!" He waved childishly.

"Shall we eat?"

Throughout dinner, Sherlock found himself wondering more and more about the tribe—what their customs were, how their family units functioned, and how they never got bored of where they were. And, he realized, staring at Arianda. She was a very intelligent woman, possibly about his age. Yet, of course, Sherlock being who he was, he had such emotional detachment that even her elegant hair and deep turquoise eyes failed to reach his marble heart.

Sherlock wasn't paying attention to the (rather boring) conversation around him. The Doctor and Zaron were talking about strange lights in the night sky that weren't the stars or moons, Arianda pitching in from time to time about what she'd seen. It had only just begun to properly sink in that Sherlock Holmes now sat on a world entirely not his own—probably not even in his own galaxy (statistically speaking). And that he was happy. He hadn't been so happy since the first time he'd gotten high. Now he was somewhere that he didn't need the cocaine to make him feel like he truly belonged somewhere. It was almost magical. Then there was the food. In London, the quality of his meal would have been worth hundreds of pounds, but here it was everyday fare. Sherlock had a hard time keeping the joy from his face when the Doctor announced that they would be staying for a while.

For the next few weeks, the Doctor was constantly busy talking about the strange lights and observing how they grew more and more frequent. Sherlock rarely saw him. He was too busy exploring nature, too busy learning about the tribe from Arianda. Today she was teaching him how they fished. They wrapped a rock with spider's web and tied it to a leaf. On the end of this leaf was a small thorn that was used as the hook. Having observed her create the fishing line in this way, he decided to try it. He wasn't doing so well, so she took his hands and helped. Sherlock realized something strange. He didn't feel right. When she'd grabbed his hands, he felt sort of woozy, like the tranquilizers the hospital had given him during rehab so he wouldn't be in too much pain.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"It's alright," she said.

Sherlock was distracted, wondering about the peculiar reaction he'd had. Perhaps these aliens secreted some sort of neurotoxin into their skins that acted as a sedative. Nevertheless, he managed to finish his line, and for the first time since they'd been there, he had something to contribute to the dinner feast, albeit not much of something. But it was delicious, knowing he'd caught the fish himself.

Every morning, the first thing in his head was wondering what Arianda was going to teach him that day. From Snargik (a sort of horse/cheetah) riding to fishing, to the names of even the plants and flowers, he wanted to spend time with her. The days on which she couldn't do so because she was spending time with her mother or her younger sister were painful, almost like mini-withdrawals. One morning, he checked his symptoms and the results in his head were simple. He tested positive for love.

Love! How was that even possible for Sherlock, who'd never loved anyone (well, perhaps Mycroft a bit, though he'd never show it)? Yet all the signs were clear. Here he was on an alien planet, completely away from anything and everything he'd ever known, had travelled there in a strange blue box that was somehow larger on the inside with an alien who looked human, and now he was in love. It was so much better than injecting himself with poisons every night as he had before rehab five years ago. Her mere presence was enough to get him high.

He'd heard that it would hurt. He'd thought that it would be a sudden reaction. He'd thought that love implied he would want to shag her, but he didn't. It was a pure intellectual love. A love of mind to mind, not of body to body. He didn't know how he felt about loving someone romantically. He had always understood it to be a thing he would never be subject to. And yet here he was, desperate to tell her, now that he'd only just learned it himself. He took a few deep breaths before leaving his hut to find Arianda, only to find several large metallic objects hovering over the deeper forest.

"What's going on?" He stood somewhat perplexed. In an instant the bliss of realizing that he was in love vanished in the panic that whoever was in the spaceships (not a difficult leap of logic) was burning the beautiful blue forests. (They're just plants, he told himself, just foliage that will grow back as it always has and always will. Sapphire plants. Amazing, gorgeous sapphire plants.)

"Get back to the TARDIS," came a voice from behind him.

"Why?"

"Don't ask questions, just do it!" Sherlock hadn't known the Doctor long, but he realized how furious the alien was. The Doctor must have previously fought these aliens or something and now they were destroying this planet. Sherlock ran into the forest, not toward the TARDIS, but to look for Arianda. She had to be here somewhere. The corpses of so many animals were strewn about the forest floor, the smell of burning wood and fur and flesh assaulting Sherlock. But he was focused. Only one thing was on his mind—maybe she had avoided the laser-guns. He could still save her. He had to still save her.

He found her at the TARDIS door. Why was she there? Was she looking for safety? Had she come for the Doctor?

"Arianda, good, there you are," he said as the laser-scorching grew nearer. She said nothing. "Arianda?" He reached out to her as she huddled by the TARDIS, but something was wrong. When he touched her, he felt none of the thrill, none of the high. He pulled her away. There was a bright orange gash across her chest. She was dead.

His heart literally skipped a beat. He fell to his knees, oblivious to anything but her staring eyes. He stroked her face to say goodbye, tears (!) coming in streams down his face. The forest was burning all around him but the only thing that mattered was that the one person he'd ever loved and probably ever would love was dead in front of him. He was being pulled away, but gripped her tightly, not caring that her blood was all over him. Why was he being pulled?

"I said get into the TARDIS!"

"Arianda!"

The Doctor had to literally drag the distraught young human into the TARDIS, shutting the door behind him. Sherlock didn't claw at the doors to be let out; instead he just stood, staring the four-hundred-year-old Time Lord down, his pose shouting barely contained aggression.

"You let her die," he said.

The Doctor wasn't listening. He was babbling to himself about warning buoys and the Shadow Proclamation and wildlife refuges.

"You let Arianda die," he said, murderously cold fury in his voice. "This is a time machine. We're going back for her."

"I told them it was a protected planet, but they had to go and ignore—"

"You're not listening. Take. The TARDIS. Back." He was shaking, fighting off the urge to just knock the Doctor aside and fiddle with the controls to do just what he wanted—after all, he'd seen the Doctor fly the TARDIS, and it couldn't be that difficult.

"I can't," the Doctor said.

"Oh, finally acknowledging me? It's a shame you didn't care more about the people on that planet. Maybe then they could have all lived."

The Doctor looked hurt. "It's a question of crossing your own timeline. You can't do it."

"I thought you liked impossibilities." Sherlock had forced himself to remain perfectly still. He was still crying, but in a vastly restrained way.

"Well, I do, but I've tried, and the TARDIS threw a fit." The way the Doctor was so calm, so impassive, like he saw this sort of thing every day, really upset Sherlock even worse. "Isn't that right, K-9?"

"Affirmative."

"I loved her. For once in my life I fell in love and I never told her. Now she's dead and you're sitting there making jokes." He swallowed. "Take me home. If travelling with you is going to be like this, just take me home right now."

"Are you sure? I mean, it's not always running from people who want to kill you."

"Negative, master."

"Shut up, K-9."

"Home. Now." Even the Doctor was slightly alarmed by the absolute fire in Sherlock, and even more so by his restraint.

"Fine, if that's your decision, who am I to argue?" The Doctor put some numbers into the console.

"Those aren't Earth's coordinates," Sherlock said, furious that the Doctor would try to make him stay against his wishes. "I saw what they were when I came aboard, so don't insult me by pretending it's a malfunction."

The Doctor had to comply, and the two travellers didn't say a word to one another the entire trip home. After the TARDIS had completely vanished, Sherlock burst into the only sobbing fit of his life, vowing to forget all about the TARDIS and the world beyond the atmosphere, and that love was not worth the pain of loss. He threw his things around the flat, too distraught to care if he was breaking precious items or destroying century-old books. He threw anything and everything he could find before collapsing on the floor. As he lay there, he noticed a dusty box hidden in the corner. He remembered what it was, and, opening it, he took out the needle and syringe…