Ah, since it's been asked, yes, this will be 10Rose/Johnlock by the end of this fic. There are also several other couples that will play out. However, to get to my OTPs (and yours) I'm taking the long road and a lot of chaos is going to ensue before hand.

2.

The circuit of Rose's new life with the Doctor was immortal. She wouldn't know what to do with herself without him. Such a significant part of her life, the Doctor led her through the dark and brought her to the other side of logic, allowing her to dance in her dreams and run until the ground could no longer sustain her weight.

She called herself a traveller, but stepping over the line of what should be and what was plausible, her imagination told her she was strapped to a feather on the wind, letting the current take her where nature intended. The possibilities were vast and, merely a day after meeting the Doctor, Rose Tyler became a believer in all things.

That's what made this all so humorous in her eyes. She harboured a man of science in her TARDIS and it was quite clear to her he didn't know how to wrap his mind around what was right in front of him.

If the Doctor was blind, he would be Sherlock Holmes.

That was their prime discrepancy. The Doctor was open and whimsical and the only known fan of the human race. Whereas Sherlock had barriers, bolted and chained, and he was always so unrelenting in his opinion that no one in existence could match himself in worth.

Rose's time away from the Doctor in the parallel world put a perspective on things. He certainly loved her, that much was clear, and in his goodbye at Bad Wolf Bay he was going to tell her. But telling her, now she returned, was too much of a gamble. They would actually be together. They would be so much more. And he didn't want to burden her with the responsibility of his name or make her feel obligated to stay with him forever.

Eventually she would want to leave.

Of course none of that was true, but it was what the Doctor believed and he knew holding onto Rose was wrong. It was robbing her of a real, human life. Something so spectacular it couldn't be matched and the Doctor ached every day knowing he couldn't give it to her.

In returning from Pete's world, however, she was giving up the chance to be with her family all for him. Her parents were reunited, even in the shadow of her father's death, and they had a child together, rekindling their love. It was everything Rose ever wanted for her mother.

But this was her universe and she belonged here.

After a few trips out of the Earth's orbit to get back on her feet, Rose decided she wanted to visit her home planet once more. The Doctor couldn't agree more. Though they were keyed in to land in London, the TARDIS rerouted itself and planted them in Germany.

Neither of them thought much of it. Why change course again when there was time to explore here?

Only ten minutes into their expedition did they discover a wounded and unconscious man with a mop of dark drown hair. He was curled in on himself, accepting of death, on the verge. He lost a lot of blood.

Rose remembered the Doctor telling her a story of a young boy who didn't believe in him. A small child who was so incredibly intelligent, he could pass as a Time Lord if he wasn't so stubbornly ignorant.

She never would've guessed that same boy was the man she read about in passing when she was searching about online. She'd been away from London so long, but the story captured her interest. It was just that, though. A story.

Now, here she was, looking after that very man—that small, myopic child the Doctor met only months before Rose's return and the death of the human version of himself and the loss of his best friend.

"'Doctor' isn't a name. It's a title," Sherlock told her when she brought him into the second kitchen of the TARDIS and had the ship prep a quick meal for him. He didn't watch. He was fiddling with his phone.

"Sure i's a name," she countered. "I's the Doctor's name."

Feeling much better than he did when he first awoke, Sherlock began to resort back to childish antics—something he hadn't openly done in just over two years. It showed he was comfortable with a person and that he could respect them enough to take their words into consideration, even if he didn't like it. He rolled his eyes and "hmph"ed softly, going back to reading his text messages.

[February 3rd, 6:23PM]
[From +44 151 692 3822] What did you do?

[February 3rd, 8:21PM]
[From +44 20 8102 3331] The new code for the account is 2A783.

[February 5th, 1:37PM]
[From +44 151 692 3822] I bought myself a little present. I'll show you next time you come around.

[February 5th, 3:10PM]
[From +44 151 692 3822] Are you ignoring me, Mr. Holmes?

[Missed call from +44 151 692 3822]
[Voicemail from +44 151 692 3822]

[February 6th, 9:01AM]
[From +44 151 692 3822] What happened to you? I need to tell you something. It's important.

[Missed call from +44 151 692 3822]

[February 6th, 12:53PM]
[From +44 151 692 3822] Okay, something's obviously wrong. I'm going to see if Paul knows anything and if he doesn't, well, I guess you better be dead. Because I'm going to start the biggest search party you've ever seen.

[February 6th, 5:42PM]
[From +44 20 4554 5422] Did someone finally sniff you out?

Pursing his lips in thought, the detective considered calling Irene. He would much prefer to text, but she was clearly shaken by his absence, or in the least, annoyed by the possible problem at hand. People were so utterly sentimental.

Rose began to absently braid a section of her hair as she waited for the buzz of the food replicator. It didn't take too long before the noise was heard and the blonde popped open the door to the machine before pulling out a steaming meal on a plate.

"Is somethin' the matter?" she inquired softly, pushing the plate in front of him over the table. She was sure the man was still moping over their petty debate, but his eyes were alight as they rose to meet her own. Confliction contorted his face, but it was subtle enough to be missed if one wasn't looking for it. "What is it?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Personal problem," he deigned, picking up the fork on the napkin beside his plate.

"D'ya wanna talk 'bout it?" Rose pulled a chair from it's tucked position under the table and sat herself, then scooted forward to get closer to him.

"What good will that do?"

"Ya won't know 'til you try."

Her smile was genuine. All of her smiles were. It was such a contrast from the sly smile of Irene or the conniving smile worn by Mycroft.

Sherlock tilted his head and pierced a sweet potato with the prongs of his fork. "A friend is worried about me." After a pause, he brought it to his mouth and took a bite. He didn't eat often—even more rarely while he was in pursuit of Moriarty's men. John would've been nagging at him daily if he knew how long the man went between meals. But, in this moment, he felt ravenous.

"Which friend?" pressed the woman, her voice tinted with curiosity.

Sherlock would've responded, but he broke the conversation to take several bites. And another. And another.

Rose's right foot began to bounce softly as she watched him eat. "You were hungry," she said after some time, though she'd looked away, again to give him his space.

Clearing his throat, the scientist then licked his lips and narrowed his eyes at her. "No, I wasn't. I was being polite."

"That doesn't sound like you."

He pushed his plate away and towards her, to where she picked up the plate and pushed back in her chair to clean up. He didn't reply, but merely plucked his phone from the table.

[February 7th, 10:39AM]
[To +44 151 692 3822] I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.

After Rose left the plate in the sink, the water she left running for a moment pooling in the centre of the biodegradable material. She then returned to the table.

"I read 'bout ya, once. Online."

"Ah, so that's how you know me."

The blonde shook her head. "No. No, I was just mentioning it."

His phone dinged gaily.

[February 7th, 10:41AM]
[From +44 151 692 3822] Strictly speaking, Mr. Holmes?

"That seems pointless."

[February 7th, 10:41AM]
[To +44 151 692 3822] Strictly satirical, Miss Adler.

There was an echoing silence following his sent message and he looked up from his phone, to where the foreign woman was assessing him with a slightly furrowed brow. This expression melted gradually, but Sherlock didn't speak up. Another ding came from his mobile, but he didn't react.

Rose clicked her tongue. "I want ya to… sum me up. Like it says ya do in the news. It said ya would research people and pretend like ya knew them. But I know it was real."

"You want me to deduce you?" She nodded ever so slowly. It was definitely a terrible idea. The most prominent lesson he learned from John was that people were sensitive and his words often upset them, even if he didn't realise it. Rose was… tolerable, in the least. But, before he could think further on this, he already began. "You're insecure because you're afraid I don't really see you. You've learned of my persona from an inaccurate source and now you need proof, despite what you wish to believe, which makes you wonder if you're even interesting enough for me to feel the urge to surmise your backstory. You're probably right. You're average. Used to someone else—this Doctor—being the voice and it makes you uncomfortable being in the spotlight like this. Being the only one here with me, now I'm awake." Sherlock looked away, folding his hands atop the table. "You feel alone. You've been alone. And you know the comfort of company—this company you left everything for—will eventually leave you, regardless of the sacrifices you've made."

Falling completely silent, Rose released a weak breath. Her eyes were slightly larger than usual, and she slouched in her chair, hands clasped in her lap. No matter what she expected, she wasn't planning to feel so exposed. She assumed no one who met Sherlock ever did.

"…Yeah," was her only audible response, but she gave a brief nod and swallowed. After a moment, she smiled, trying to encourage him and make sure he knew it was okay. "Tha's… real impressive."

Just as Sherlock startled her, she startled him.

This wasn't the usual response he received. He couldn't help but think of the first time he met John and how, instead of getting angry, she was astonished but the manner in which he extracted information and put it into words. Just one look was all it took for most and, though he could go deeper—talk about the necklace she wore and how it was clearly from her mother, and inquire about the one she had tucked under her shirt, but now was not the time to delve into sentiment.

He still had to deal with Irene.

This thought made him remember her text and he allowed the smallest of smirks when he further analysed Rose's response to his deduction as he opened the new message.

[February 7th, 10:45AM]
[From +44 151 692 3822] Where are you?

[February 7th, 10:46AM]
[To +44 151 692 3822] I'm fine.

"Where are my clothes?" Sherlock asked Rose, proceeding to stand, phone in his curled fist.

"Ah, they're… well…" She followed suit, circling the table to get nearer to the man. "I tossed ya shirt and trousers, but we have some ya can have."

He nodded and she led him out of the kitchen.

[February 7th, 10:47AM]
[From +44 151 692 3822] That's not what I asked.

[February 7th, 10:47AM]
[To +44 151 692 3822] I know. I found it easier to answer with my current state as I do not know where I am.

"What is this place?" Sherlock asked, peering down the long hallways at peculiar architecture.

With a sideways glance, Rose sighed. "Ya wouldn't believe me if I told ya."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

[February 7th, 10:48AM]
[From +44 151 692 3822] Don't do anything too reckless.

[February 7th, 10:48AM]
[To +44 151 692 3822] I killed Fischer.

"The windows are fake. In the bedroom and in the kitchen. You use a microwave to cook a pre-cooked meal and there's no stove or fridge in your kitchen, so obviously you're getting your nutrients from something shipped daily. Perhaps to keep the proportions you have on hand low." Rose led him into a room, brow knitted in the centre of her forehead as her eyes read the features of a man with wheels that never stopped turning. "Is this some sort of institution?"

Unable to help herself, Rose laughed. The wardrobe change room was bright with a white-orange light and it brought the mirth in her entertainment out tenfold. The room was medium in size and it had spin-racks with clothes on hangers and signs designating what was located where like a thrift store where everything was free.

"I's nothin' like that." Approaching a rack labeled 'jeans', the blonde began to sort, pushing a pair to the right if it wasn't the perfect colour for him or obviously too small. "Wha's your size?"

"Can I leave after this? Or are you going to restrain me? Or do you have someone to do that for you?"

Rose smiled again and turned to him. He followed her up to the rack, but was trying to read her further, to fully understand what was going on. To his bewilderment, the woman took both his hands in her own. He instinctively made a move to pull away, but she shook her head at him and proceeded.

"Sherlock. Relax. Ya can leave wheneva ya like. I just wanted t'get a meal in ya. You've been asleep for halfa week.

"This place? It's wha' I travel in. It's a ship. A space ship to be exact." She gave both his hands a squeeze, then released him altogether.

Sherlock began to laugh. He laughed because he wasn't dead and because he missed John and because she reminded him of John. He laughed because before today, he hadn't laughed in so long—he'd forgotten what it felt like to have someone to talk to who didn't know about what he'd done in the past two years and all the people he'd hurt and all the effort he made to stay hidden. He laughed because she was funny; she was genuinely trying to make him laugh, now, and the simple fact that it worked only made it funnier.

Rose laughed with him. She knew he wouldn't believe her words to be true, but she would prove it to him eventually. Open up those eyes of his. And this was okay. The two of them standing here, strangers from the same home town, who were both so far from home and for such different reasons.

"Thirty-four or thirty-six," Sherlock told her after a few moments and she gave him an odd look before realising what that was in reference to. "But, I don't really like jeans. Too restricting."

Complying, the blonde moved to another rack and sorted through those, instead.

The scientist spoke up again. "I lied before. About John."

[February 7th, 10:53AM]
[From +44 151 692 3822] I said not to do anything TOO reckless. Like getting yourself killed. Did you get my voicemail?

"Oh?"

[February 7th, 10:54AM]
[To +44 151 692 3822] Yes, but I haven't listened to it.

"He's not my brother." He watched as Rose found a decent pair and looked at them for a moment before folding them over her arm. "He's my friend."

"I see. Why'd ya lie?" Finding a shirt was much easier for her and she handed the outfit over, searching Sherlock's pale blue eyes with interest.

"The same reason I lied about my name."

This time the understanding was instant. "Ya want to protect him."

Sherlock didn't reply. He looked at the clothes in his grasp and then back up, again. Was he supposed to say something? She didn't really offer and she didn't seem like she was going out of her way. But, John would tell him to be gracious and Rose deserved just that, he supposed.

"…Thank-you," he replied, and the words were somewhat out of place. He didn't want to talk about John. All Sherlock could do was think about him and it was driving him crazy. Rose wasn't helping.

"Ya welcome. If there's anythin' else ya need, I'd be glad to help. Changin' rooms in the back. I'll wait f'ya."

He gave her a curt nod, paused for a moment, then head in that direction. Sherlock didn't bother with the lock. He felt locks senseless, but only because he found them so easy to break and assumed everyone could do the same.

Sherlock set the clothes down on the bench in the room, right under the mirror. He unlocked his phone and dialed his voicemail.

"Enter your password and then press pound.

"You have one new voice message. First voice message:"

The animated speaker left him and the sultry sound of Irene filled his head.

"Where the hell are you? Disappearing is fine—I don't care if I don't know where you are—but you can't just—You can't stop checking in. I'm trying to help you. Sherlock, I'm worried. I hate saying that, but I am. I know you hate hearing it, too, but I am.

"I just got news about John. You have to be alright because you have to know this. You have to stop it. He's engaged to some woman and they're getting married. Don't be dead. Because this isn't going to work for me and if you don't stop it, I will.

"No one forgets you, Mr. Holmes."