A/N: This chapter is for everyone who's read the previous chapter. And especially to AnimeGirl03, the first reviewer of this tale.
Two weeks later
He found himself sitting on a bench on the bank of the River Thames, quietly contemplating the dark expanse which stretched out before him. Reflections of neon swirled in the depths, providing some essence of vivacity to his weary reflection.
Sherlock hated it when he couldn't sleep.
And yet since he had been lost for words when he discovered the symbols etched in black ink across the London Bridge he hadn't slept. He had forced himself to stay awake, trawling through the archive he had in the study of 221b Baker Street. Surely someone in history had recorded markings like this before!
And yet it wasn't in any language comprehendible to humans. He'd checked the language of the Mayans, the hieroglyphs of Ancient Egypt and the Tibetian tongues forgotten to the world. Nothing resembled the squiggles on the bridge.
Nobody had seen what had caused it. But that was how mysteries went. When London trembles, everyone looks to the earth. Nobody looks to the sky.
London had moved on in those two weeks. Nobody worried about the man who had been found in the Tower of London. The message was diligently scrubbed away in case it ruined the atmosphere of the Olympic Games. It was as if the world had forgotten everything.
Against the smog which thickened the night sky and smothered the fog, Sherlock watched as a shooting star burst through the barrier and across the sky. Judging by the colour and trajectory, he knew it was most likely an ordinary star travelling at the speed of light as it crossed the universe.
The shooting star, meanwhile, had other ideas.
In the TARDIS
"Best hang on to something Ponds, we're going in for a crash landing!" the Doctor yelled as he clung onto the TARDIS console.
"Why are we crashing? Can't you give us a soft landing for once? Maybe onto a nice patch of grass. Or a bouncy castle?" Rory complained, grabbing his wife's hand as they fell out of the sky.
"Sorry Rory. No grass here. Not in London anyway!" the Doctor barked, his free hand desperately attempting to control the Time Rotor. "There's a castle though. Just not bouncy!"
"So why are we falling again?" Amy screeched, shielding her eyes as a shower of sparks erupted from the failing console.
"A temporal vibration. Kind of an earthquake in the Time Vortex. I followed it back and found a message from River. Whatever caused it, it disabled the TARDIS systems meaning we couldn't escape,"
On the monitor, the Doctor watched as the River Thames blossomed into view. In the thick of night was always a good time to crash land, he thought to himself. He adopted the brace position, and then abandoned all hope as they plummeted.
"Hold your breath guys, we're going in!"
The next morning, 221b Baker Street
Morning was one of John Watson's least favourite times of the day. It meant leaving the warmth of his bed: of leaving Sarah and the security the covers offered him. It meant having to overcome the grogginess of the night before, when he had waited up for his best friend to return from his promenade.
"John, that was quite an impressive performance last night," Sarah mumbled into his ear, reaching a slender arm across his torso in an attempt to detain him from leaving her.
"You weren't too bad yourself Mrs. Watson," John whispered back shyly, swinging a foot reluctantly from the duvet to the floorboards. And then a voice truly woke him up.
"Good morning John. Fancy breakfast in bed?" Sherlock smiled, standing before the curtains in John's room. Sarah instantly went to draw the covers tighter against her chin, but Sherlock diverted his eyes.
"Um… are you offering to cook us breakfast?" Watson asked cautiously, frustrated that his best friend had waltzed into his bedroom. Is this what Sherlock did when nothing else happened? Popped up in the most awkward of places at the worst possible moment?
"Not at all. Mrs Hudson has some commitments. Bingo is most popular on Tuesday afternoons apparently, I didn't realise she had hobbies. Will you make me some? Two eggs, sunny side up. And hash browns too please. Oh, and tea!" Sherlock said happily, bouncing down to sit on the end of their bed.
"Why are you so excited? Shouldn't you be dying of insomnia or something?" Watson moaned, reaching for his dressing gown.
"Nonsense. I drank five pots of coffee. Not teapots: flowerpots. I feel fresh as a daisy. Besides, I want to tell you about something I saw last night!"
Twenty minutes later John found himself sat opposite Sherlock, eating a slice of toast and regarding mournfully the skull: who had materialised in Sarah's chair at the table in place of the woman herself.
"So. A shooting star falls into the River Thames last night at 1:23 a.m. Is there a connection with the events of the Tower of London?" John repeats, curious as to what his friend had just told him between slurps of a strong cup of tea.
"Yes. I'm telling you John. One moment it was in the skies, and the next it crashed. Barely noticeable, but there we go. It fell about five miles from where I was sat, so I couldn't discern any details. All I know is that it was up the river, where there was a strange amount of fog,"
"It's probably just a shooting star. No need to panic. Anyway, you need a break. That's why I'm taking you to the National History Museum. I figured it will do you some good," Watson announced. At that moment, the doorbell rang: signalling an end to their meal.
"I guess that's them now,"
The two detectives stalked their way across the National History Museum: John Watson happily browsing the antiquities they had on offer whilst Sherlock prowled for matching symbols to the ones from the Bridge.
"I hear they have a new exhibition in the Museum. Apparently an Oliver Stone discovered a statue down in Dover about two weeks ago. They claim it's of a person from the distant past: the first ever Oracle to mankind,"
They examined the gallery: which was surprisingly deserted for a Tuesday morning. The only company they had on this floor was a man with medium length brown hair and a tweed jacket. Watson had noticed this style creeping into London and shook his head: why people couldn't just wear something practical rather than outdated baffled the doctor.
The man in the tweed jacket walked past them, raising his head briefly to nod at the pair. To Watson's irritation, the man was wearing a red bow tie. How curious, he thought. Surely scarves are more comfortable!
They continued down the exhibition, then gained access to the storage areas by an elderly porter who Sherlock had helped five years ago. Cobwebs seemed to bloom like flowers across the exhibitions.
"Don't you feel like we're tiptoeing through a labyrinth?" Sherlock whispered, not wishing to disturb the hush that blanketed them.
"I suppose," John replied, urging his friend to continue. Overhead, the ceiling lights flickered and a low whirring sound could be heard: like a mechanical bird cooing at them from some distant shelf.
"The exhibition is right in the middle. Let's see what it is," Sherlock grinned, hurrying his steps towards the epicentre of the storage room.
It was a woman. Or rather a statue of a woman. Her hair, which curled like miniature serpents, fell down to her shoulders. She looked trapped: a terrible look of realisation frozen on her face. Whoever had etched this woman, they had etched her well.
"What do you think then?" Watson asked his friend, hardly surprised to notice that he was already taking notes of the statue.
"You mentioned it was the first Oracle to humankind. I can believe that. But her clothes don't look anything like what a pre-civilisation Oracle would wear. On the contrary, it barely looks like anything we've seen. The rendering on the watch she wears is incredible too: there are symbols in a language I can't read. And look, no imperfections. This isn't a statue John. This is too perfect to be a statue. Which leaves the question of who this woman is,"
"I think I can help you there," announced a voice behind them. "That woman is River Song,"