"Mrs. Hudson, we've got company!"
"Wonderful, dear, I'll make you all some tea."
The Doctor looked closely at a skull. Human. It looked interesting. He was about to pick it up, but he was stopped.
"Do not touch the skull."
The Doctor turned around to face Sherlock and raised his hands. "Not touching it."
Sherlock glared at him.
"You don't have any fish fingers, do you?" The Doctor asked, walking towards the fridge.
"I really wouldn't go in there if I were yo-" John tried to say, but it was too late. The Doctor's head was in the fridge, and he was poking about in all of Sherlock's perfectly conditioned experiments. Literally poking- his finger was in a tray of eyeballs.
"Get out of there. Now."
"This really is fascinating."
"Don't make me drag you out."
"Oh, you can try. I don't suppose you would get very far, though. After all, you were nearly drowned in a hook-a-duck pool."
Sherlock lunged at The Doctor, dragging him out of the fridge by his elbow and holding a gun to his head.
"Sherlock, please..." pleaded John.
"My experiments are contaminated, ruined by you. I swear I will blow your head off unless you apologize in the next ten seconds."
"No."
"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, thr-"
"Okay, fine, sorry!"
Sherlock pulled the gun away.
"Really though, Sherlock, you should have some fish fingers. Custard, too. No custard? And you call yourself a genius." The Doctor tutted in mock disapproval.
"I don't call myself a genius, I call myself a high-functioning sociopath."
The Doctor shrugged.
"What are you, anyway? Alien? Mutant?"
"Well, currently I'm a human. Before you took one of my hearts, I was a time lord. The last. From the planet Gallifrey, although it was destroyed years ago."
Sherlock nodded. Did that make him a time lord?
There was a knock on the door. The Doctor ran to answer it, annoying Sherlock.
"Hello, dear. Are you Sherlock's friend?"
"Yes. You're Mrs. Hudson?"
"Yes, dear. I've got some tea for you. Not your housekeeper, just this once."
"Of course. Thank you." The Doctor said, as he took the tray and closed the door.
"Why did you answer the door? You don't actually live here." said Sherlock.
"I wanted to meet your landlady. I'm going to ask for the flat upstairs. I'll rent it until this heart thing's sorted."
Sherlock's neck snapped round. "You will not be living here."
"Oh, I think I will. It's your fault, anyway. You stole my heart."
"For the last time, I did not steal your heart!" Sherlock shouted into The Doctor's face. The Doctor poked his sonic screwdriver into Sherlock's eye.
"What was that for?" Sherlock asked, clutching his sore, watering eye.
"For lying. How else could this have happened?"
"You asked for that."
"What?"
"This."
The last thing The Doctor saw was Sherlock's fist. He blacked out. He hated being human. This kind of thing happened a lot easier.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" Shouted John.
"He had it coming to him."
"How?"
"The obnoxious, quiffed, bowtied idiot strangled me, tried to drown me in a hook-a-duck pool, examined the skull, messed around with my experiments, called me a thief and a liar and poked me in the eye with his thing!"
"You didn't need to knock him out! He could be concussed!"
"I don't care, John! It doesn't matter whether he's concussed, brain damaged, dead. The man's worse than Anderson!"
John pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring Sherlock's rant. He checked that The Doctor was alright, apart from very bruised, and lay him down on the sofa. Sherlock immediately dragged him to a chair by his legs.
"What? Why, Sherlock?"
"That's my spot! My spot, John. He of all people isn't going to sit in it."
John sighed. Why was it always him?
