2.
By the time Sherlock sees what he now knows is a police box (commonly used in the sixties, mostly phased out since), he's eight years older but not much else has changed. Mycroft is still rude and still eats too many sweets, although he's started to wear a suit like his father. He still lives in the house with the massive back yard where the box appeared those years ago, but now there's a guest house built on the exact spot where it materialized. He still hasn't seen many people who wear bow ties as part of their common clothing.
Most importantly, eight years after Sherlock saw a young man in odd clothing poke his head out of a box that had no business being in his backyard, Sherlock is still completely alone or, as his brother succulently puts it, he has no friends.
It's not that people haven't tried to be his friends, however; indeed, over the years, there have been quite a few persons who have tried to strike up conversations with him. But they've all been so futile; none of them have had anything interesting to say. It's always the same tedious things, about the weather and their pets and sometimes their kids and it's all just so useless. None of them have anything important to say. 'Friends' would be a massive waste of his time, time that is better spent conducting experiments that tell him far more about the universe than the kids at school could ever hope to tell him.
Interestingly enough, it's the fact that he's alone that leads him to see the box for the second time. He's skipping school for the fifth time in two weeks, sitting on the grass in the village park, doing what he supposes is called 'people-watching.' Frankly, he hates the term; it sounds creepy, almost stalkerish. Really, all he's doing is observing. The more he watches, the more he learns and the more he learns, the more it's confirmed that most people are boring and predictable and really, rather useless in his own life.
The wind picks up, just for a second, and it carries a noise on it, something like he's never heard before, all electronic and metallic at the same time. He sits up straight, head gazing around, just knowing, feeling somewhere in his mind that something new, something important is about to happen.
It's across the park. It's blurry for a second, like a picture out of focus but then it solidifies and the door creaks open and sure enough, that young face and the bowtie poke out cautiously, just like he'd seen in his backyard. This time, however, the man strides out and Sherlock, despite the distance, can see that he hasn't aged one bit.
How was that possible?
For the first time in ages, he actually feels challenged, feels almost confused about something. It's been eight years; not that long a stretch of time but enough for subtle signs of aging to show up. He needs to get closer, needs to see and so he stands up and starts running, leaving his things on the grass behind him.
He's nearly there, close enough to see the pattern on the bow tie (maroon stripes) but suddenly, the man does a round-about and steps back through the open door. Before he slams it shut, Sherlock catches the beginning of one sentence, cut off by the blue door closing with a loud bang.
"Wrong time-"
Before he has time to ponder what it means, the wind picks up again and before his eyes, the police box begins to fade in and out, pulsing. That sound is ringing in his ears, the sound that doesn't sound like it belongs on Earth and then, with one final whoosh, the box is gone. Disappeared. Completely vanished, right before his own very eyes. He stares at the spot where it had been for a few more moments before bringing one hand up and viciously pinching himself, convinced that this is one of his particularly realistic looking dreams.
Instead, he just ends up with a sore arm.
He knows now that people who imagine things that aren't really there are generally schizophrenic. He knows that people with schizophrenia often speak in borderline gibberish, spitting out phrases that don't make much sense or going on and on about delusions of grandeur. He knows that most schizophrenics suffer from auditory hallucinations but that visual and even olfactory ones are common as well.
He also knows that he, Sherlock Holmes, is not schizophrenic. He knows that what he saw was real and the impression of a square the exact size of a police box in the soft ground backs him up.
Unlike the first time, however, he doesn't tell anyone. He doesn't have anyone to tell.
Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who reviewed or subscribed from the first chapter. It means a lot to me, it really does. xo.