A/N: Moar Wholock. Had this idea while writing the other one, but I think this is all I've got.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Measuring the collection of dew in different parks was turning out to be frightfully close to dull. The experiment was meant to show if different types of grass were able to hold different amounts of water on top of their blades and to see if different parks yielded vastly different amounts of dew overnight. Sherlock did not doubt the experiments usefulness, but sitting in a park watching dew form was like sitting watching paint dry. Watching paint dry in a very, very cold room. Or a butcher's freezer.
Sherlock pulled his thin coat closer around him. His experiment was nearing its end; he figured it would only take six more nights at the most. The problem was he could only do one park a night, and had to do each park multiple times to get a solid data pool. He had already been at it for a week and a half, and the nights were only getting colder.
He figured that he had about an hour before someone in the house was alerted of his absence. The last time that had happened, Mummy had threatened him with having Mycroft track him. With his new position he could do that and more. Really, Sherlock didn't see what the fuss was about. He was now 11 years old and could fully well take care of himself in the middle of the night.
A sound that he could safely say he had never heard in London before interrupted his thoughts. At first he could see no source. Then, a blue box seemed to materialize out of thin air…Right on top of his collection sample. Fantastic. The box said "POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX" around the top, but to his knowledge, those types of phone boxes hadn't been used in quite some time. And they definitely didn't pop up in the middle of parks whenever they felt like it.
The doors were pulled open, and Sherlock was met with a bit of a site. A tall, gangly man wearing a brown pinstriped suit, the longest coat he had ever seen, and- were those converse? Who on Earth would wear converse with a suit? Even with his limited fashion sense, Sherlock knew there was something wrong with that.
"Ah well, what's this then?" The man spun around on the spot and that ridiculous coat billowed around him. He bent down, ran his fingers over the grass, and sniffed the water that came away. "England! Jolly old England again. I would say it's been too long, but it probably hasn't been long enough." He twirled again and his eyes landed on Sherlock. "Hello there. When am I, exactly? TARDIS reader has gone a bit funny."
Sherlock regarded the stranger coolly. "It's currently 1:03 in the morning, if that is what you're asking, but somehow I don't think it is. You're in London, to give your location a bit more specificity."
"1:03 in the morning? And what is someone like you doing here at this time?" Sherlock quirked his brow, but did not reply, so the stranger continued, "Shouldn't you be at home and bed, Mr….?"
"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, and that's a bit of a funny question coming from someone who's just stepped out of a box that appears to have been made in the 1960's, but no box from the 1960's could do that, now, could it?" He didn't break eye contact with the stranger. He found that it was one of the better ways to read a person. A grin cracked onto the tall mans face.
"Quicker than most. Well if we're doing introductions, I'm The Doctor. Nothing else, just The Doctor, and yes, I guess from your point of view that is a bit of a strange question coming from me, isn't it? You'll have to forgive me, Sherlock. I just normally don't come across 10 year old boys in parks in the middle of the night. What were you doing, exactly?"
"11 and a half, and I was measuring the collection of dew on this grass before your box crushed my equipment. While it is rather troublesome, I have more equipment at the house. I'll just have to extend the experiment another night." He shivered under his jacket just thinking about it.
"An 11 and a half year old conducting experiments on the collection of dew, yes that's quite normal, isn't it? And, ahh, sorry about crushing your equipment. She doesn't always look before she lands." He patted the box lovingly, as if to assure it that everything was still all right.
"Again, Doctor, coming from you? You appear in the middle of the night in a materializing box, wear tennis shoes with your suits, wear that ridiculous coat, and you are questioning someone else on the merits of being normal? I'm starting to infer that you are not from this world." A small smirk was starting at the corner of his mouth, like they tended to do when he knew he was on the right track.
"What is wrong with my shoes? And there is nothing wrong with my coat!"
"No, no, no, nothing wrong with the way it twirls and billows around you. All I'm saying is the way you dress? Those shoes, with that suit, and that coat? You have a taste for theatrics, Doctor." The smirk spread at the look of acceptance that crossed The Doctors face.
"Well..." he gave a small smirk, "Coming from you, Sherlock? Sneaking out of your home to conduct experiments in the middle of the night? The way you talk? I'd dare say that you have a taste for theatrics as well, my friend."
The corners of Sherlock's mouth tugged down into a slight frown and the use of that word.
"I feel I must inform you that I don't have any friends."
"No, I would say not. Not yet, anyway." The look he gave Sherlock then seemed too old for his young face. "But, I'll tell you what. You were right, earlier. Not about my coat, of course, but about me. Not from this world, never have been. I just stop in for visits now and again."
"I knew it." The Doctor raised his eyebrow. "Well, I was getting there rather quickly. At first I just thought you were a time traveler, but now I know you're a time traveling alien. There's always something I miss."
"Isn't there just? Now, Sherlock, I'd offer to take you with me, but I'd say you're still a bit to young and frightfully underdressed. A great man needs a great coat, and Sherlock, I think you could just very well be a great man. After you get through being a great boy, of course. " He gave him a hearty wink before striding back to the open blue door.
"I must be off now, seems I've arrived for something just a bit too early. Well, about 50 years early, but I've been off by more before." He gave Sherlock one last smile. "I daresay that I'll see you again, Mr. Holmes, if you keep your eye out. And between you and me, this coat looks damn good when you're running. And I do an awful lot of running." With that, the blue doors shut. The box was gone within a minute, revealing his smashed materials. Sherlock gathered them slowly into his arms and made his way back to his house.
The next time Sherlock came in close contact with Mycroft, he tripped over the end of a rug, put out a hand onto Mycroft's ample belly to catch himself, and came away with his credit card. A great man needs a great coat, indeed.