Amazingly, I managed to get this up in time.

I hope you enjoy!

The Doctor had no luck discovering what it was he was supposed to be doing there for a couple of horrible, agonizingly slow days.

He spent a lot of his time in the TARDIS, doing repair work and trying to coax her into taking them both back to their own universe, but she completely ignored him whenever he brought it up, and sent out an air of distress that told him that she couldn't.

Another place of refuge was the library, where he liked to drape himself over the different armchairs and tables and read the seemingly endless amount of books available to him. He found himself in stranger and stranger positions as time passed, and he became more restless.

He broke into these reading or repair sessions to pop out of the ship and buy a newspaper, always hoping to find something interesting going on. It wasn't until well into the second day, nearly nightfall, when he finally discovered something interesting.

WOMAN MYSTERIOUSLY DIES OF UNKNOWN CAUSES, the front page blared, the obnoxiously large letters probably visible from the other side of the road. However, the Doctor's interest was peaked now, and he found a seat at a nearby cafe to flip through the paper more throroughly.

It appeared that, at last, something that required his attention was happening. He noted where the woman's body was being stored, and also the time of her funeral; in two days. He would have to investigate her death further before then, in order to gather all of the required information.

And even if this wasn't one of his usual adventures, what with its lack of spaceships, malicious villains that needed stopping, and, unfortunately, companions, it was something to occupy himself with for the moment, at least. He would probably be better able to come up with a way to get back to his universe by keeping his mind off of the issue for a bit, anyway. And who knew, maybe this would turn out like a typical day in the life of the Doctor. You never could tell, in a new universe.

When night fell a few hours later, the Doctor slipped once again out of the TARDIS and made his way to St. Bart's Hospital, which was now the home of the woman who had been killed, at least until she was moved to the ground.

He wandered toward it, doing his best to appear like he was uninterested, maybe only there for business. He made sure his psychic paper was handy. There would probably be someone that would try to stop him.

To his surprise, no one did. There were very few people around at this time of night, and the ones that did pass him didn't question him. They all looked tired and stressed. He supposed they didn't want to bother with a visitor at the moment. Maybe they hadn't even noticed him; he'd been trying to keep to the shadows somewhat.

That thought was banished when a nurse spotted him at last, seeming more awake than her co-workers, and strode over to him. "Hello, sir," she said in a brisk London accent. "What are you doing here?"

He smoothly pulled out the psychic paper and showed it to her. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm just here to have a look around," the Doctor told her, smiling patiently. "I'm sure everything's in order, but I've got to, you see. Just taking a peek around here, you understand."

"You're an inspector," she said flatly. She didn't look like she believed him, so he concentrated harder on the paper.

"Yes," he replied, still grinning. He tried to keep it a bit less mad than his usual smile, but he was afraid, when she stared, that he'd failed. "I'm almost done with this hall, actually, so if you could just let me by, I can finish up and be on my way. I've seen nearly everything else in the building, so I'll be done in just a moment. Then I'll be out of your hair." He tucked the small wallet back into his pocket, struggling not to fidget too much.

She squinted at him, still obviously suspicious, but slowly nodded. "Fine."

He beamed. "Wonderful! Don't worry, I'll be gone soon enough!" And before she could say another word, he rushed away, doing his best to look inspector-like as he headed to the mortuary area.

The door to the morgue was locked, but with a buzz of the sonic screwdriver, that little problem was fixed, and the Doctor stepped inside, closing the door behind him and leaving it unlocked for a faster exit, if need be.

So far, things had been going well. However, now was the tricky bit. He had to find where the woman's body was at, somewhere in one of the many racks of cold corpses. Making a face, he pulled open the first slot and unzipped the bag slightly. His nose wrinkled, and he had to hold back a gag at the potent smell of death as he rezipped it and slid the rack back into place. He'd had far too much experience with that smell, but that made it no less disgusting, and he was far from thrilled to dig through the plentiful selection of bodies.

"Oh, there you are," he whispered when he finally found the woman. Her dead face was still and clammy, her eyes closed almost like she was sleeping. He recognized her from her picture in the paper; even now, she was beautiful. Maybe not the prettiest of women, but certainly one men would turn to look at. She had dark skin, appeared to be of a mixed-race family, and her black hair looked to have once been lush and full. Her pale lips were slightly parted in death, her face slack and peaceful. The Doctor felt a stab of pain for the loss of life, but pushed it back for the moment to pull her body out.

"Sorry," he muttered when the body bag was fully open. He treated the corpse with the upmost respect as he gathered the tools he would need, and nodded with a hint of sorrow at the dead woman as he prepared to cut into her.

He'd never been one for autopsies - it was a gruesome and disgusting thing to do, in his opinion, although in finding murderers and avenging dead humans, it could be useful. Which was what his purpose here was, he reminded himself as he readied the scalpal. To find out what had been responsible for this woman's death, whether it be an alien or simply a cruel human being, and punish the creature accordingly. He suspected it would be the former kind of killer, seeing as he was involved.

The Doctor snapped on a pair of latex gloves and straightened his bowtie, then picked up the scalpal again and held it close to the woman's skin.

He cleared his throat and breathed through his mouth as best he could as the scalpal cut into the flesh of her torso and drew a clean line. He swallowed hard as he set the tool aside. Now would be the really disgusting bit. Oh, God help him.

He was just reaching in to pry open the incision when the door banged open and police officers flooded into the room. He was very conscious of his fingers nearly inside the cut on the body, and of all the eyes and guns trained on him.

"You're under arrest," someone snapped.

Slowly, the Doctor lifted his hands off of the corpse and removed the gloves, placing them on the tray beside him. He then raised his hands in surrender, and the officers rushed over and slapped cuffs on him far too quickly. He hardly even had time to struggle against them, which was his first instinct.

I hate being a prisoner, he thought in faint dismay as he was roughly pushed into the police car and read his rights. It always ends badly. Hopefully this won't last too long.

The car door slammed in his face.

A phone rang, loud and startling in the otherwise mostly silent flat, as John pecked away on his laptop and Sherlock quietly recorded the data from his previous experiment. However, they both looked up, and Sherlock pulled the ringing mobile from his jacket pocket.

"Yes, hello Lestrade." Then his tone turned curious and excited. "What? Well, that is interesting. I suppose you want us to come in and talk to him. Obviously. We'll be there immediately." He hung up and tucked the phone away again, standing and grabbing his scarf. "John, we're going."

The army doctor watched as his friend pulled his coat on, retrieving his own at a much slower pace. "What did Lestrade want?"

"A man broke into the mortuary last night," the consulting detective announced, and then waved his arms in vague frustration. "Hurry up."

John sighed, but picked up the pace all the same, and was soon being dragged out the door by his flatmate. "Sherlock-"

"I need to think," the man interrupted, his eyes full of a familiar concentration. John stifled another sigh, and resigned himself to not speaking as Sherlock hailed a taxi and they climbed inside.

"Scotland Yard," Sherlock instructed the cabbie, and they were off.

The ride was silent, as it usually was when Sherlock was "thinking." The cabbie must have sensed the tension, because he didn't speak throughout the journey, only opening his mouth to ask for money when John was clambering out of the cab. Sherlock had already headed toward the front doors, so John sighed for the third time and paid before following his detective friend in.

Lestrade was waiting for them in his office, his hands folded and his brow furrowed. He motioned for them to sit before he spoke. "I've already told Sherlock this," he began, mostly looking at John, "but a man broke into St. Bart's morgue last night. He was found with the body of the woman who's murder we're still investigating."

John frowned. "That's strange. Do you think he somehow killed her? I mean, it was an internal injury, but all the same..."

Lestrade shrugged helplessly. "We haven't done the autopsy yet, but we're getting on it now. We'll have results then. For now, I want you two to go in and talk to him. We've done some basic interrogation, but I'd like Sherlock to have a go." He nodded to the consulting detective, who straightened slightly in his chair with hidden excitement.

"Of course," Sherlock said breezily. "Take us to where he is and we'll begin immediately."

The DI nodded and got to his feet, starting out the door and down the hall.

The door opened for the third time, while the Doctor had his back turned to it, staring at the wall to occupy himself. There wasn't much to look at; just cement, a slightly uneven gray paint job, and dirt, but it was something to do.

He spun around in his chair, however, when the footsteps sounded - two sets, he noticed.

To his surprise, he came face-to-face with the man he'd bumped into on the street when he'd first arrived. He was accompanied by a shorter man who, judging from the way he walked and held himself, was a military man. Interesting.

"Hello!" the Doctor exclaimed. "Fancy seeing you here. It's a small world, I suppose." The man was watching him carefully. His partner looked confused. "Sherlock Holmes, wasn't it?"

"Wait, where have you seen each other before?" the military man demanded.

"He crashed into me on my way back from the crime scene," Mr. Holmes drawled, eyeing the Doctor intently.

"Oi," the Time Lord protested, "I crashed into you? You were just as responsible for it as me. If you were paying any more attention than I was, you would have moved!"

"Let's move on," the man said briskly, striding over to stand just in front of the Doctor, casting what was probably supposed to be an intimidating shadow over him. But the alien remained unfazed. "Why did you break into the morgue and try to cut open a body?"

The Doctor shrugged. Obviously he couldn't tell the truth. The man was clearly smart, and if he was very intent he could probably figure it out, but the Doctor didn't intend to give anything away readily. "Sometimes I do that sort of thing," he said dismissively. "You know, break into places, cut into things. Sometimes I happen to cut into bodies." He made a face. "Don't usually do that, though, it's a bit morbid."

Sherlock Holmes inspected him, but he was appropriately discreet about it. The Doctor was impressed, especially when he declared, "You're not entirely lying. Care to tell me anything else? If you don't, I'll be forced to make deductions myself." He seemed incredibly amused by this, although none of it showed on his face, which remained passive and only vaguely excited.

"It was interesting, that's all," the Doctor allowed. "I seem to be attracted to things like mysterious deaths. Don't often attempt autopsies, though - it's not really my expertise."

"Then what kind of Doctor are you?" Holmes asked promptly. His partner nodded slightly at this question, clearly wondering the same thing.

"Oh, I dabble. Cheese-making, physics, archeology - actually no, sorry, that's someone else." He smiled vaguely at the thought of River. "Not medicine, though, certainly not." He grinned.

"And are you going to give me a name besides just 'the Doctor'? Bit vague, don't you think?" Now he was making fun of him. The Doctor fought back his grin.

"Not at all," he breezed. "Just the Doctor, really. I'm assuming my record hasn't come up on any of your computers. Ran a search yet? Might be interesting." Now he couldn't help but smile.

"Really?" Holmes drawled. "I suppose we'll check into that. But no matter. I don't need you to tell me anything to solve the case. Well, hardly anything, anyway."

Now the Doctor was curious. "Are you a mind reader? That would be spectacular, to be honest. I might have to take you along with me, if you were a mind reader."

"I don't go anywhere without my blogger," Holmes said, dipping his head toward the military man, who frowned in annoyance.

"He's welcome to come," the Doctor beamed. Not that he really intended to bring the man travelling with him, although he was aching for company quite often now.

"And no," Sherlock continued, ignoring the last comment, "I'm not a mind reader, nothing so ridiculous. I'm simply an observer, if you will."

The Doctor grinned. "Well, you're a detective, aren't you? It's in your job description."

"I don't work for the police," the man said briskly, actually seeming somewhat offended. "I do the jobs I want, and this case, and you, have interested me. So, tell me what you were doing in the morgue, or I'll simply tell you myself."

The Time Lord spread his hands, deciding that he much preferred being handcuffed to the table, compared to being just handcuffed to himself. Sure, turning in his seat had been a bit painful with the cuff attatched to the table, but at least he could gesture better this way. "Go ahead." It was too bad the table legs were bolted to the floor - the only escape option, really would be to lift up the table and slip the cuffs off. Of course it couldn't be that easy. Humans they might be, but they weren't stupid.

Holmes straightened, his eyes bright with interest and a bit of malice, and then he bent over to get eye-to-eye with the Doctor. "You're used to getting into where you want whenever you want," the detective began rattling off, "without question, as evidenced by the woman who tried to stop you. She said you seemed surprised that she'd put up any resistance at all, so that's obvious. You often have a partner by your side, also, judging by the way you occasionally look over like you're going to speak to someone before catching yourself, and despite what you say and how you act you're incredibly smart, allowing people to underestimate you. You don't like death, but you don't fear it, either, meaning that you're used to the people around you dying, so clearly you have a dangerous job, if you have one at all, which I doubt from the lack of money found in your pockets. Anyone with a steady, well-paying job has some sort of currency on him at all times. So you bring these deaths upon yourself, or you spend your time with the dying, even though it is clearly distasteful to you. The first assumption would be that you're homeless, but your clothes are far too clean. Not eliminating the possibility, of course." He clearly wasn't done, but the Doctor wasn't about to let him get any further.

"You're brilliant," he started, but Sherlock plowed onward, ignoring his words.

"You're used to moving around as well, and with all the trinkets we've found in your pockets from different parts of the world, you're clearly a traveler, probably travelled most of your life, correct? You also call yourself 'Doctor,' although you claim not to be a medical man, and spend time with the dead, dying, or possibly sick, like a medical doctor would do." Then, he abruptly stopped. "You've experienced a great loss recently," he said slowly, after a moment. "Your partner, correct?"

The Doctor didn't answer. No, the man wasn't correct - the Ponds weren't dead, and neither was River - it pained him to add the small yet at the end of that thought - but they might as well have been.

"I'm right, then," Sherlock said, his lips curving into a pleased smile. "Of course I am. So tell me - who are you, really?"

"Couldn't figure it out for yourself?" the Doctor asked, a bit of bitterness tinging his voice. "Some detective you are, then." He forced a cheeky smile.

The man's partner, who still hadn't been introduced, now looked confused as well. "Yeah, usually you have them all figured out by now."

Holmes raised his eyes to the ceiling in faint exasperation. "John," he said, irritated, "I wasn't done yet."

"Sounded like you were," the other man muttered, but said no more.

Sherlock straightened up and looked the Doctor over carefully, pacing around him where he sat, chained to the table, helpless. The Time Lord felt like a zoo animal as he watched the man's progress.

"You're an investigator," the consulting detective said briskly, with no small amount of satisfaction. "Not official, though," he added, "no, you've not been approved. Perhaps you were kicked out of school. Perhaps you didn't want to go to the effort to actually get a real job. You most likely make your money by taking on cases nobody else will take, or solving cases nobody else has solved. Rather like myself, although you are by no extent as good at crime-solving as I am. You probably keep any money you might have hidden away, because you live on the streets, unable to afford a house but with enough money to keep yourself clean. So why did you break into the morgue to see the body? The case is taken, obviously. So - curiousity, then. Wanted to see if you could assist. Probably because you wanted to help the world, as sentimental as you obviously are." The man sneered in contempt. "Any of this sounding familiar, Doctor?"

The Doctor had nothing much to say. Holmes wasn't entirely right, of course, on several key points, but he was very close. He could, if he wanted to, take his pulse and figure out what was going on in a matter of seconds. However, despite his intelligence, the man was only human, and had probably never even considered the potential for life outside of Earth. He wouldn't be looking for signs of aliens anywhere.

"I thought I would be able to, you know, lend a hand," the Doctor said aloud, grinning a bit wryly. "This seemed to be right up my alley - strange deaths and all. I'm quite good at those. Like you, I suppose. I'll be on my way, though, if you don't mind. Promise I won't intrude anymore." Well, not in sight of any of the humans, anyway. This was still obviously something he had to take care of. Next time he broke in to do the autopsy - and he would - he wouldn't be caught. Even if he had to somehow get up to the window leading into the room and climb in. Maybe he could pilot the TARDIS into the room. That would work well, as long as nobody overheard and came to investigate.

"Not yet," Holmes said, smirking faintly and striding up to the table. "I still want to ask you something. What do you think killed the woman? If you know so much about this type of case." His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

The Doctor shrugged, deciding to play along. "I'm not a professional, what do I know? But if you really want my opinion - I believe she was murdered by something inside her body. Not just internal bleeding, because the paper I saw covering the case would have mentioned it, but it rather sounded like something had killed her from the inside."

The man who Sherlock had addressed as John took a step forward and spoke up again. "What, like a parasite?"

The last of the Time Lords pointed at him, nodding in approval. "Yes! Exactly. What was your name, again?"

"Dr. John Watson."

"Great! Good job, then, Dr. Watson. Any guesses from you?" Beaming, the Doctor crossed his legs and attempted to fold his hands in his lap. As best as he could with handcuffs on, anyway. He was reminded of when he, the Ponds, and River had been in 1969 working to defeat the Silence, especially when he'd been imprisoned by the spaceship, and grinned wider.

The man considered, frowning. In a seemingly rare moment of generosity, Sherlock let him have at it. The Doctor figured it might have had to do with his lack of knowledge on the subject, however, not so much that he actually was being friendly. "Parasites don't kill their hosts, though," he protested thoughtfully. "That would defeat the purpose of being there. They keep hosts to stay alive, not to kill them, and therefore themselves."

The Doctor nodded. "Quite right, Johny-boy. But that's the question, isn't it? What creature would kill the larger animal it was dependant on?" He grinned. "That's a secret, though." He put a finger to his lips. "Very hush-hush."

Sherlock spoke now, finished with being silent. "What is that supposed to mean? You clearly don't work for the government, not even undercover."

"Of course not, don't be ridiculous. I would be absolute rubbish in the government. Keep guessing."

Holmes opened his mouth at the same time that the man with the gray-tinged hair burst into the room. "Sherlock, I need you out," he ordered. The Doctor was almost disappointed. So close. It wasn't necessarily that he wanted them to find him out, but it would add a bit of excitement to it all, not to mention make his investigation go easier. Then they might be able to come up with an excuse for him, and he wouldn't have to sneak around so much. But he could manage without their help, of course.

The consulting detective frowned. "What for?"

"I have to leave to investigate another case - I'm not supposed to leave you alone in here," the man explained. "Out you go. You can continue this tomorrow, if you like."

He was clearly extremely annoyed, but the detective left the room with a quiet huff and a swish of his long, dark coat. John followed behind him with an awkward wave to the Doctor, before the door closed.

Immediately, the Doctor reached into his jacket. The police had taken everything from the surfaces of his multiple pockets - no one ever seemed to actually reach all the way in and meet the huge pile of things in the bottoms of each - which were the most useful tools he had, but he had multiple resources available to his use anyway. He located a bobby pin and pulled it out, fitting it into the lock and jiggling it until the handcuffs snapped open and he was free to move again. He stood, stretched, and opened the door, which had remained unlocked because of his apparent imprisonment to the table. He slipped out and carefully avoided all of the staff on his way to the evidence locker.

He hurriedly grabbed his sonic, psychic paper, TARDIS key, and all the other items they'd stolen from him, and raced out of the building, the alarms going off to signal his escape even as he rushed out the front door and into freedom.

Back on the case.

This chapter was kind of a rushed job, because I want to get this story finished this month and to do so I had to post today, but I think it turned out okay. However, I'd love you to tell me what you think.

Thank you for all the follows, favorites, and the two reviews I've gotten, I really appreciate it. Despite that, though, I'd love some more feedback. Reviews help me know what I'm doing right and wrong, so for the next chapter to be better than this one, I need some concrit, or maybe just some encouragement, even.

In any case, please give me your opinions and stay tuned for the next chapter, to be posted on Saturday, if all goes according to plan.

Also, I got my learner's permit yesterday, so I can drive with a parent/guardian any time that's not 12-6AM. XD

Oh, and one more thing: a simple question you can answer if you decide to do us all a big favor and review - What would you like to see happen in the story? I have a good idea of what I want to do, but who knows, you could give me a much better idea to help this story flow into the next, or even just help the plot out a bit. :)