A/N: This chapter was partly based on the opera that J.M. Barrie and Conan Doyle worked together on, and The Adventure of the Two Collaborators by J.M. Barrie, which everyone should read because it's really short and really awesome. Also, many thanks to Merlin Lover, thefireplanet, Sandyangel, Idoloni, 145796213, DetectiveConanFan13, HotaruNoHaku, Kuroi In A Black Hole, Pinkemotwilightlover, Starryskies2night, the laughing hermit, and thomaseliot for the reviews, favorites, and alerts :)

Mr. Barrie Is Not Available OR The Invention of a Sleuth

After the incident with the tin of beans, everything went back to normal in the TARDIS. The Doctor and Amy were the very best of friends and they were almost never cross, impatient, or oblivious. Except for this instance.

"Doctor, you're doing it again."

"Doing what?" he asked, although he was more concerned with scraping a rather sinister blue slime off his coat.

"Forgetting something."

"Oh, yes," he said, finally paying attention to her. Melancholy stole over him.

"I'm always forgetting something…."

He shook his head and grinned broadly.

"That's alright, because I'm always remembering something too. Sometimes five things!"

He had not noticed that the blue slime had slowly crept up and around his shoulders

"I was more thinking of one thing in particular that you might remember. Doctor?"

He looked blankly at her.

"Oh! You're like Peter Pan!"

"Peter Pan? No! Space Gandalf maybe, but not some flighty-wighty juvenal runaway in green spandex!"

"No. You sir, are Peter Pan. I was always thinking about what it would be like to run away to Neverland when I was a kid—"

"Hey!" the Doctor said, looking offended.

"Oh, that was before I knew about the TARDIS. But it doesn't matter, does it? Because you're exactly the same as Peter Pan! Take people on great adventures—"

The Doctor smiled proudly and straightened his bowtie.

"—but you don't care a whit if the food is real or imaginary!"

The smile dropped from his face.

"And lately… it's all been imaginary!" Amy finished angrily.

"Amy, did you take something off my coat?" the Doctor asked suddenly, looking frightened.

"Of course not—"

"You're absolutely sure? You didn't brush up against it or something?"

"No. And stop trying to sidetrack me. I might be the Girl Who Waited, but I'm not waiting another ten seconds for food. See," she said, closing her eyes and leaning against the console. "I'm going to count down—"

"Where is it!"

"—And when I get to zero, we'd better be landed in the middle of a deli. Ten. Nine."

"Got it!"

Amy smirked triumphantly, not knowing the Doctor was referring to the long blue blob he was grasping by one end (the other end was wrapped around his throat).

"Amy, just one moment, if you wouldn't mind, could you—"

"Six. Five. No. Nothing until we land."

"Erm, Amy, I promise—"

"Bit hard to land the TARDIS while your shouting at me, isn't it?"

"Amy, I gloughdklsjfkld—"

"Three."

There was a great scuffling, a squiiiiiish, and finally a THU-WUMP that made Amy open her eyes before the countdown was finished.

"Doctor?"

He held up a finger for her to wait while he waved his screwdriver at a copper box on the floor. A lot of intricate, interlocking metal parts came together before her eyes.

"Amelia. I'm starting to think that very bad things happen when you don't get your tea in time," he said, massaging his neck.

"Yeah..." Amy said without any conviction. She was eying the box, which had started to rattle, and the floor all around, which was slippery with something like blue grease.

"Not to worry. That one was my fault. I should have remembered they're attracted to elbow patches, honestly. But no! I've gone and smashed my Jammy Dodgers!" he cried, pouring sticky crumbs out of his pocket.

"You," said Amy. "You had Jammy Dodgers in your pocket and you didn't think to mention it?"

"Er, yes. But they're for emergencies…and, and I forgot. But we're going to land now! Somewhere with food, yes!" He edged over to the console, avoiding her accusing eyes. He had just pulled a few levers when the TARDIS made the familiar groaning sound that accompanied landing. Amy threw the doors open and—

"Not yet, Pond. Not unless you fancy ice fishing…"

Amy slammed the doors just as an enormous black nose on the end of an equally enormous white snout came into view.

"Got to find someplace safe to drop that off," said the Doctor, pointing to the box.

The TARDIS halted again and the doors opened onto a futuristic looking lobby. The Doctor handed the shuddering box to one of the many beings walking around in silver suits and helmets (who didn't look at all surprised to see him), jumped back into the TARDIS, and started prodding madly at the console again.

"Right. You like Peter Pan? How about a visit with J.M. Barrie himself, then?"

Amy narrowed her eyes and said nothing.

"And he serves up a mean Scotch pie."

"So we're just going to knock on the front door and he'll let us in?"

"Well it'd be a bit weird to go knocking in the back door, wouldn't it? Besides, he's an old friend. I helped him remove a very nasty Durrillian masquerading as a crocodile in his duck pond."

"You—wait, a crocodile! You are Peter Pan!"

"Don't be ridiculous," The Doctor said as he wrapped on the door three times. It was immediately yanked open and they were faced with an imposingly large man. He had a moustache.

"Mr. Barrie?" Amy started, but the Doctor clapped a hand over her mouth.

"This isn't James Barrie."

"No. Mr. Barrie is not available."

"Oh?" protested the Doctor. He checked his watch. "Ah, I suppose that could be right. Then that makes you…"

"I'm Arthur Doyle."

Amy batted the Doctor's hand away.

"The Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? As in Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't know about Sir. And as for Mr. Holmes, I expect I'll be doing away with him very shortly."

"Doing away with him? What? No!"

"Oh, that's what everyone says! They'll never let me get on with anything serious! Well if they want ridiculous, I'll give it to them…"

The Doctor slid his foot in the door just in time.

"Ouch! Excuse my friend Mr. Doyle, but I really would like to see Mr. Barrie, however long he might be."

"Oh? Why? Who are you?"

"I'm the Doctor."

"You don't look like any doctor I've seen," Doyle grumbled, taking in the colourful bowtie and braces and the glowing splashes of blue on the Doctor's boots. Perhaps he saw in the Doctor's expression that he wouldn't leave, or perhaps he just didn't want the neighbors to see such an outlandish visitor standing on the doorstep. At any rate, he let them in.

"Very well. The coatrack's there. The Simpertons decided not to come for supper after all, so you may as well have their places."

"Oh, thank you," said Amy with bright eyes. "It's been ages since we've had a proper meal!"

Doyle stared oddly at her for a moment before turning.

"Now, you two may wait in the sitting room until supper. I have work to be getting on with."

"Are you working on a new mystery?"

"No," he said with a frown. "And if all you've come to do is pester me about that blasted imaginary sleuth called Holmes, I'm afraid I must see you straight out the door again."

"Again, my apologies Mr. Doyle, for my enthusiastic friend. But we really must stay. When will Mr. Barrie be available?"

"He won't. He's ill."

"Ill!" cried the Doctor. "Is he all right?"

"Why are you asking me? You're the doctor. Go up there and see for yourself. As it is, I don't care. I have work to do, because he's left me half a blasted opera to finish for him while he has a lie-in! Do you hear that, old boy?" He shouted suddenly. He seized the coatrack and rapped the ceiling with it. "I don't care! I hope you're bloody well miserable!"

Even the Doctor jumped at this surprising change of tone. Before he or Amy could do anything, their eyes were drawn to a flash of movement at the top of the stairs. A moment later they realized they were seeing a tiny man (no more than five feet) holding a gigantic harpoon (no less than seven feet) and waving it about from his spot several steps above them. He was wearing nothing but a green dressing gown, and his skin was white and damp with fever, but he was the most fearsome thing Amy had seen in all her travels in the TARDIS.

"—told me it would be good to have a friend stay while I recuperate, but evidently good means 'like being driven towards an idiotic and maddening death!' Everyone tells me not to worry, just rest, but if I don't stop you, you'll have a hole straight through my ceiling to my bloody cerebral cortex! You're the most poxy, po-faced, grotty, gormless wazzack in all of Angus, and if I—"

"What did you call me, you dozy knave?"

"I said that you, Arthur Doyle, are the biggest wazzack in all of Scotland, and if you ever approach my ceiling with that coatrack again, I will personally—"

Doyle flushed a dark purple-red as soon as he heard the word 'wazzack,' and charged towards Barrie with massive outstretched hands. The Doctor moved to stop the conflict, but pulled back just as Barrie hoisted up his harpoon and drove it home. Amy screamed involuntarily and the Doctor eyed the shaft of the harpoon sticking out centimeters away from his forehead. It had lodged deeply into the wall, trapping Doyle's top hat against the floral wallpaper.

The Doctor moved again to break up the fight, as Doyle had Barrie in a headlock, but both men were roaring with laughter.

"You're a terror to my health, you prat!" giggled Barrie.

"That was my best hat!" complained Doyle, who was actually laughing so hard he was crying.

"And what are you doing wearing the ridiculous thing at this time of day and in my house?"

"Well, someone has to be in the opera mood since you are not well enough to write it!"

"Ahem."

"Doctor!" Barrie staggered backward and clapped a hand to his heart. "Is that you?

"As a matter of fact, it is, but I've a new face, new hair, new bowtie."

"But you're the Doctor. You couldn't be anyone else," said Barrie firmly.

"You artist types," said the Doctor, shaking his head. "You're always able to see things you shouldn't."

"That may be, Doctor, but my friend Arthur is an especially pigheaded artist. I've been trying to convince him that the most amazing wonders are the ones you can see and touch, not some Spiritualist nonsense."

Doyle puffed his chest out importantly. "I've no idea what you're talking about James."

"No, you don't," said Barrie wickedly. "Doctor, couldn't we show him that blue box of yours? It would set him straight, and I'd quite like another look at it myself."

"Well—" said the Doctor.

That was precisely when the maid entered the room.

"Mr. Barrie, sir, and Mr. Doyle," she said. "Supper is…supper is…"

She had caught sight of the harpooned hat. She looked down at her shoes, squeaked "Supper is read," very quickly, and then made for the door as if her life depended on it.

"Just a moment, Margaret. We're going to be awhile, we have something to attend to. Now, Doctor, I insist, we must see your TAURUS."

And that was that.

Amy tapped her foot against the glass floors of the TARDIS. She was surprised her growling stomach hadn't interrupted the Doctor and Barrie, but then, they had been in animated conversation for the last twenty minutes with no sign of stopping. Doyle had tired of their conversation too, and was wandering around the console room, letting his hands hover just above the strange knobs and buttons. He looked up at Amy as if just remembering that she was there.

"This… TAURUS thing, it's bigger on the inside."

"Yep. Mmhmm. That's pretty much it," she said. She could think of eight things that were more incredible than the TARDIS at that moment, and they all involved salt, pepper, and liberal amounts of butter.

"But you're Scottish, like me," said Doyle. "How did you end up here?"

"I waited. Turns out you have to wait for a lot of things when you're with the Doctor." Like breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

"And the TAURUS, what does it do? I presume it's a vehicle of some sort, because it certainly wasn't here before…"

"TARDIS," Amy corrected. It had suddenly dawned on her that she was talking to Arthur Conan Doyle, who would one day be Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and she might as well stop sulking about her lunch.

"It's said TARDIS, with a 'D.' And, yeah, it's a vehicle. It can go anywhere, and anytime."

"No, no, you're going too quickly," said Doyle. "I feel as though I should believe, now that I have all this in front of me, but I can't quite."

Amy laughed a little at that.

"How about you pretend I'm telling you a story, and after it all sinks in you can decide for yourself how much you want to believe. Sound fair?"

"Very. So, your story. If you say this is a vehicle that can go anywhere, anytime, then I might have to deduce (especially given your odd attire) that you are from some other period of time than this one."

"You said deduce!"

Doyle quirked an eyebrow.

"Don't you get started again," he warned, although he was half teasing her.

"I come from 2011."

"Oh? Not a thousand years in the future? Just a mere few decades?"

"Haven't you gotten disillusioned all of a sudden?" said Amy. "Now, I've started telling you my story, can I ask about yours? Nothing too annoying, I promise."

"Go on."

"What does Sherlock look like?"

"Sherlock? It sounds as if you know him well already."

"Not like you."

"Hardly matters. It's more a matter for the illustrator to decide."

"Yeah, but what do you think he looks like?"

"I don't care. He could be four feet tall with an enormous nose and ginger hair. No disrespect, of course," he backtracked quickly with his eyes on the bright red of Amy's hair. Amy didn't seem to mind.

"No, no. He's got to have dark hair, doesn't he? And he'd be tall. Blue eyes, or maybe grey."

Doyle looked bemusedly at her.

"Oh come on, a girl can dream."

"Er. Isn't it my turn to ask a question?" asked Doyle.

"Shoot."

"What does 2011 look like?"

"Boring. I mean, I love microwaves as much as the next person. And texting. And it's nice to just get in a car sometimes, and not slog around through some bog on Neptune on foot, but…"

"What's texting?"

It went on like that for some time, and they didn't notice that Barrie and the Doctor had gone further into the depths of the TARDIS, leaving them behind. Amy told Doyle about computers and automobiles, modern forensics and alien spaceships before her mind turned back to Doyle's fictional character.

"But seriously, what did you mean by 'getting rid of Holmes?'"

"Exactly what I said Miss Pond. He's driving me mad, and he's far too popular to just stop writing him. So I'll have to kill him off. Should shut them up."

"Oh. How are you planning to do it?" she asked, crestfallen.

"I'd tell you off for asking me to give up the story before it's published. I would, but I'm not going to, because I have no idea. Maybe I'll have him disappear into a blue box…"

Amy laughed at that, though she didn't really find it funny. She felt almost offended at his callousness, almost as though Sherlock Holmes was a real person and Doyle was some kind of callous murdering—

"Cheer up, Pond," called the Doctor. "You never read The Adventure of the Empty House, did you? Absolutely excellent. No need to worry about grumpy Mr. Doyle."

"I beg your pardon?" said Doyle.

"Nothing. What I mean to say is—"

"That we have waited far too long to go in to supper," supplied Barrie. "I've just been informed that Miss Pond hasn't eaten for an ungodly number of hours."

"Here's to that!" said Amy, but Doyle looked as if something wonderful had just been snatched away from him.

"But I'd only just begun to look around—"

"But—" said the Doctor. Doyle cut him off.

"And you have a tin of beans right here."