A stranger in the park

Disclaimer: And finally, after all those years of waiting...they're still not mine. And series three isn't out, either. There you go, Amelia. Waiting sucks.
(Although they gave us a teaser trailer to get me from "How can Matt be leaving?!" to "OMG Sherlock is coming back! *complete freak out*)

*A/N* I'm afraid I won't be able to update this regularly. I will try my best to keep new chapters coming, though, so check on it every now and then. I hope you enjoy it.

All that happened about two months ago. I haven't found a single other person who remembers him, not even someone who believes me.

I'm at my wits end, obviously.

I'm kind of scared they'll lock me up in some sort of lunatic asylum, but I'm still trying to spread the word.

He was my best friend, he was the only friend I had after the war, and I will not, cannot be silent about this.

~O~O~O~

I sit on a park bench, clutching a coffee, and stare at the children playing opposite. After a while, I notice one of the mothers looking at me in a funny way, and realize that I probably shouldn't be staring at children so intently. They're going to think I was some creeper.

I remember the last time I sat on this bench. Mike Stamford, an old pal from university, had recognized me and we had had a chat about my current situation. That was when he told me I was the second of his friends looking for a flat share. That was how I came to meet Sherlock Holmes.
Which, according to the rest of the world, of course never happened.

Suddenly it dawns on me that someone is sitting next to me. I look around, startled, wondering whether I should worry more about the fact that the man is sitting there or about the fact that it took me so long to notice him.

He doesn't look very frightening on first sight. In fact, he looks really weird, like he had fallen out of an old photograph. He's wearing a brown waistcoat, a frock coat of the same colour, matching trousers and old-fashioned leather boots. A bow tie with an impressively hideous pattern and the golden chain of a pocket watch complete his questionable outfit.

"Erm...hello," I say as he does not make a sound.

He turns around, smiling broadly at me as if he had only just noticed I was there. "Hello! Did you call for me?"

"Excuse me?" is the wittiest reply I can muster.

"I got a message, you see…" he mutters, rummaging around in his pockets, "on my psychic paper… hang on, it has to be… ah, there you are!" He pulls out something that looks like a passport triumphantly and holds it out to me.

It was the crack, I've seen it. Please believe me.

I stare at the words, completely nonplussed, because I know them.

"I wrote that, yes," I explain reluctantly. "but in an e-mail, and I know who I send it to. And I typed it."

The writing on the paper is not mine, but it is clearly a man's handwriting.

"Yeah, that's the paper…" he answers happily and packs it away again. "Now, tell me about - no, hang on. What's your name?"

"John Watson," I hear myself say and it sounds like a question.

The man opposite seizes my left hand (the right one is still holding the coffee, which must be cold by now) and shakes it. "Nice to meet you, John. I'm the Doctor."

Finally, my brain starts to work a little again and I'm starting to get wary. "What sort of doctor, exactly?"

He beams up at me with boyish glee. "Of everything, if you like. And it's a name, everybody needs a name, don't they, John?"

I'm starting to wonder how old this guy is. From his behaviour, I'd say he's either twelve or ninety, from his face, I'd say twelve was a good guess.

"Well then," he says suddenly, "tell me about this crack." All of sudden, his face has gone very serious and just a little sad. I'm not so sure about twelve any more, because there is something ancient sitting in his eyes.

And the next moment, I find myself telling this stranger everything.

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