This story is a collaborative thing between AltoOwl and I. We have the whole plot and everything planned out, and it's going to be pretty epic.
Disclaimer: We do not own WhoLock, as much as we wish we did... If we did, we would own David Tennant and Benedict Cumberbatch! :)
This takes place after Robots of Sherwood and sometime between seasons 1 and 2 of Sherlock.
Clara was ready to change out of her itchy, Renaissance outfit. Don't get her wrong, she absolutely loved it. It was gorgeous, the sleeves were flowy and cute, and the circlet that went with it made her look stunning, if she did say so herself. But it was awfully stuffy and it scratched her in all the wrong spots. Needless to say, her first order of business after their expedition with Robin Hood was to change her clothes. Maybe a skirt and stylish top, or an adorable dress. Anything had to be better than this. Period dressing was just painful. She didn't completely understand why she was the one who had to dress, when the Doctor just wore his same clothes everywhere he went. Not that she was complaining; she didn't exactly want to picture him in the same tights that Robin Hood and his men had worn.
Shaking disturbing images out of her mind, Clara stepped back into the TARDIS control room, wearing her modern, cozy clothing. The Doctor was twirling his sonic screwdriver idly, leaning against the consol. "Finally, what is it with women and changing?" he grouched, though Clara knew now that it was his natural tendency to act that way. "I swear, you all have fifty blouses, yet claim to have nothing to wear!"
"Oh, be quiet, you." Clara smiled sweetly. "So, where to next? You don't look in a hurry to go save the universe or anything."
"I was going to be polite and ask you, but I think I'm starting to change my mind after your last choice to see Robin Hood," the Doctor spat out distastefully. "I was thinking we could go to Clom, they've built a Disneyland there, you know. Far better than the ones you find on this planet. I've never actually been, but I've heard it's—"
"Well, actually, if I could make a suggestion," Clara interrupted before he could go into a full description of this interstellar Disneyland, "I'd like to visit Sherlock Holmes. You know, the great detective? I was thinking, after Robin Hood, it would be amazing to see another historical crush I've had." She blushed after revealing this, though it was true. She'd read all of the books and short stories and had always dreamed of being brilliant like Mr. Holmes was.
"Another historical fantasy crush," interjected the Doctor. He looked at Clara through his fierce owl-eyes. "Sherlock Holmes is not real, just a book character. I know, I've met Sir Arthur Conan Doyle myself. On more than one occasion, actually."
Clara rolled her eyes. "But you were wrong about Robin Hood. He's real."
"Yes, but Sherlock Holmes isn't!" The Doctor spun something on the TARDIS's controls. "Here, I'll prove it to you. Edinburgh, January 1st, 1888. Doyle's 'A Study in Scarlet' has just been published in the local papers."
"So?" Clara crossed her arms. She saw him flick a few switches, before the date he'd just said appeared on a tiny screen.
"So, you can fangirl over the creator of your fictional idol, but I'm telling you Sherlock is not real!"
Clara pursed her lips. "Okay, fine."
He pulled a lever, and the whole TARDIS jerked. Clara almost fell flat on her face at the sudden change in motion. She heard the usual sound the ship made, but also a deep rumbling that didn't exactly sound good. She shot a quick glance at the Doctor, who was fiddling with the whatever-doohickey on the TARDIS in what looked like a frantic attempt to do something. She didn't know if she should try to help out, though she doubted there was anything she would be able to do if something was wrong.
Then the rumbling stopped, and the TARDIS stilled. Clara let out a sigh of relief.
"Hmm... That's odd," Clara heard the Doctor mumbling to himself.
"What's odd?" she asked. She knew the Doctor wouldn't tell her, but it was worth a shot to ask.
The Doctor shook his head, as was expected. "Nothing we need to worry about at this point, I think. Come on, let's go see Sir Arthur Conan Doyle." He waved her towards the door, and she followed.
Once they stepped out of the TARDIS, Clara's first thought was that nineteenth century Scotland looked pretty impressive and advanced for its time. The buildings were high and durable, and there were even paved roads leading down the street. Then she saw a taxi cab pass by. Not a horse-drawn cab, but an actual motorized taxi cab. "Uh, Doctor? We aren't in nineteenth century Edinburgh, are we?" she said, eyeing him suspiciously.
"No, I'd say twenty-first century London by the looks of it." The Doctor's eyebrows were furrowed. "But this doesn't make sense! It's like the TARDIS detoured us here for some reason. I know I put the correct date into the TARDIS."
"Doctor, I live in twenty-first century London," Clara said. She looked around. She'd lived virtually everywhere in the great city, and she didn't recognize this place. "I can see the London Eye from here, but this place isn't familiar to me at all."
The Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver and pointed it at the nearest streetlamp. Clara sighed. Why did he insist on sonicing everything? "I'm getting odd readings," he reported, looking at the screwdriver. "Readings I wouldn't normally get from your London."
"So what?" Clara asked. "Doppelgänger planet? Parallel world?"
"I'm not sure." The Doctor frowned. "But I'm going to find out."
"It was her manicurist," Sherlock said, oblivious to the man's ever-growing bemusement. "Ever wonder why she gets her nails done so often? And she always asks for Sandra? There you have it."
The client shook his head wildly. "Now wait a minute, are you saying my wife is-"
"Yes." Sherlock smiled thinly. "And a good day to you too."
The man's face was growing even more flushed by the minute as he exited the flat. Sherlock sighed. "Oh, these boring people with their boring lives. John, has the Yard called with anything interesting yet?"
"Boring lives?" John chuckled slightly, pointing out the door after their client. "His wife just cheated on him with a nail lady. You call that boring?"
"It happens all the time."
"Sometimes I can't believe you." John sat down in front of his laptop with his cuppa. He was just scrolling down his blog, checking for any comments, when he heard the downstairs door open and slam closed. "Mrs. Hudson?" he called, figuring she was the only person who would be coming into the flat at this time.
Sherlock put down his pent fingers. "No, Lestrade." The grey-haired detective that Sherlock had just spoken about suddenly appeared at the top of the stairwell, looking winded. "What is it, George?" Sherlock asked.
Lestrade shook his head. "It's Greg, you prat. Anyway, there's another one." He looked imploringly at Sherlock. He sighed exasperatedly and said, "Come on, you have to check it out this time. We're all stumped, and we-"
"Need me, yes, I know. When is there a time you don't?" Sherlock grabbed his billowing cloak and favorite scarf. "Let's go."
"Wait!" John followed Sherlock as he hurridly ran down the stair. "What's going on? What's Greg getting you to check out?"
"Serial disappearances down at the Dayton Mart. Lestrade asked me to investigate when the first woman vanished three days ago, but I was occupied at the time. Now, it seems, another person is gone from the same exact place."
John nodded his head. "Okay then. You think you can solve it?"
The great detective merely snorted as he hailed them a cab. "Of course I can."
So there was chapter one! Please leave your reviews! I love to hear any questions, comments, concerns, praise, hate, flames, or death threats you may have.