Chapter 4

Sherlock and John stood staring at the man for a moment, not saying anything. Sherlock finally stepped forward, looking the man up and down. "The Doctor," he said, hardly believing it was really him.

"Oh! You're a doctor as well? You must lead a busy life with two jobs," Mrs. Hudson interjected cheerfully.

John finally found his voice as well. "You're—you're really him. My God. What do you mean, 1895? How did you find us?"

"I presume you know I was looking for you, then," Sherlock added.

Mrs. Hudson looked between the three of them, then turned to the doorway and popped out, saying, "I'll go down and fix you up some cakes."

The Doctor waved as she left. "Lovely woman, your landlady. Almost makes me wish I had a landlady." He turned to Sherlock, looking him up and down this time. "You said you were looking for me? Ooh, that's interesting…" He picked up a magnifying glass from the mantelpiece and looked through it, spinning around. "I've read all your stories—brilliant stuff! Best detective London will ever see." He stopped spinning and looked up at Sherlock, grinning. Sherlock frowned at him, unsure how to handle the man who was so confidently yammering away and touching his things without the slightest hint of explanation. "Sherlock Holmes," The Doctor said admiringly.

John, used to fading to the background when Sherlock was being praised was shocked when the Doctor turned to him. "And John Watson, the most human human, the bravest—" he grabbed John's hand and shook it as John stared at him, dumbfounded. "It's such an honor. From the bottom of my hearts."

"What stories?" Sherlock spat. He wasn't impressed with the man's ramblings or praise.

"Do you mean the blogs?" John asked.

"Blogs?" The Doctor looked like he'd just eaten something bitter. "See, this is absurd. You two aren't supposed to be...now. But I checked 1895 and you weren't there, you simply didn't exist. So I go to 2012 to the Sherlock Holmes museum at this address and it's not there, it's just...your flat." He poked Sherlock in the chest, and Sherlock took the opportunity to snatch back his magnifying glass. "And here you are, it's really you. But you don't...make sense."

"Don't touch my things. You're ruining the dust line." He placed it back on the mantle carefully. "I was warned that you would talk quickly, Doctor, but I didn't expect to hear you babble nonsense. Why would my flat be a museum? And what business would I have being in 1895?"

"He's right; we only just started believing time travel was possible a couple days ago," John pointed out.

The Doctor shook his head. "Your flat is a museum because it, and you, are famous. Everyone loves Sherlock Holmes!"

"Probably because they haven't met him," John said lightly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, then turned to back to the Doctor.. "You're mistaken. I'm not at all famous enough to warrant a museum. So, before I phone up my good client and wrap up this case, explain yourself."

"Are you really…an alien?" John asked the Doctor. "You look human to me. You sound human. You sound English."

"Yes, of course I'm alien. If you were in Italy I'd sound Italian. The TARDIS does a marvelous job translating," the Doctor said absently, pacing. "Why are you here? Why? Time can be rewritten, Mr. Holmes-can I call you Sherlock? Brilliant name, Sherlock. Time can be rewritten, but people don't just stop existing one century and start existing in another…"

Sherlock huffed impatiently. "I never existed in 1895, therefore cannot stop existing there. Your logic is ludicrous."

"Logic! If you're going to rely on logic for everything you'll miss so much. I've been to London in this era before. You can buy Sherlock Holmes books in any bookstore. There's a statue of you-in that hat—outside the Baker Street tube station." He points to the deerstalker sitting on John's chair. "221b Baker Street is an address everyone knows and flocks to. Except now all of that's gone, so either I'm in the wrong universe- again- or time is being extraordinarily naughty."

"Or, you're just a madman with a box."

The Doctor sternly approached him. "Let me make one thing clear. The one thing you must understand about me: I am definitely a mad man with a box. Doesn't make me less right, though."

"Good God, do you and Duncan both suffer from delusional memories? I was born here in London, 1981," Sherlock said.

"And I believe you, of course I do: here you are, living proof. But it's still wrong. It'd be like if Lord Nelson was living down the street. It's in the wrong order...but why?"

"You're implying that I'm some sort of historical figure or a…a character from a book," Sherlock laughed.

"How do I explain this? Picture a clothesline-no, it's nothing like that, forget the clothes line. In fact, forget the whole thing. You are a character from a book, but that doesn't mean you aren't real. But the stories about you got so famous that you became stuff of legend. Worthy of a museum, and so much more."

"You really shouldn't tell him this, his ego's already too big for this flat. I'd rather not upsize," John said.

Sherlock was too busy looking the Doctor over, fascinated despite the absurdity of it all. He finally got out his phone and began dialing Duncan. "Does the name Duncan Reynolds II ring a bell? The Blitz in London? He says you saved his life when he was a child."

"Will save. Probably. Why is he looking for me now?"

"He wants to thank you, I suppose, or at least confirm he isn't mad, since he just saw you a few weeks back."

"Did he? That does happen." The Doctor began circling Sherlock. "Where am I in your life? I know it all, from your first case with Dr. Watson to your Final Bow...have you done Reichenbach Falls yet? I really would love to have that explained to me: How does one survive a plummet over a waterfall?"

Sherlock had reached Duncan's ansaphone. "Duncan Reynolds, it's Sherlock Holmes. The Doctor is currently standing in my flat. Please phone back." He hung up and watched the Doctor circle him, annoyed at the Doctor's strange interest in him. "Would you be referring to the case in which I retrieved the Reichenbach painting?"

"Interesting. Your life doesn't completely follow the stories."

"Perhaps because the stories are wrong," Sherlock snapped impatiently.

"But there's a Mrs. Hudson, and your John Watson is right here! Is there a Professor Moriarty? An Inspector Lestrade?"

"Moriarty's not a professor," John interjected. "He's probably pretended to be, though. He took up the alias 'Rich Brook' and forced Sherlock to fake his own death."

"If there were allegedly famous stories of us, don't you find it odd that we haven't heard about them before?" Sherlock asked.

"No, because this is a whole different time stream. But the stories exist. Classic pieces of Victorian-era fiction." The Doctor thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. 'I've got a copy lying around the TARDIS. You won't be able to see the last ones—spoilers. Follow me, I'm parked down the road!"

Not knowing what else to do, John and Sherlock followed the strange man out into the street, stopping outside his phone box as he unlocked it. John was shocked to see it in reality; they'd spent so long searching for it, and here it was, astounding in how ordinary it looked. He touched it to make sure it was real.

"Well, come in, then!" The Doctor said, pushing the door open.

"We're all going to cram into your box while you find a book? I'll wait here, thanks," Sherlock sniffed.

The Doctor chuckled and grabbed Sherlock's hand, yanking him inside. "This is going to blow a hole in your logic frame…"

Sherlock's jaw dropped at the sight of the console room. He blinked a couple times, then raced back outside, running the circumference of the phone box, then back in again. "…It's bigger on the inside…" he murmured.

"That never gets old!" The Doctor said. He stepped up to John, who hadn't moved, his eyes wide as he stared up in awe. "How are you faring, Doctor Watson?"

John began to laugh, shaking his head.

Sherlock began muttering to himself at breakneck speed, touching everything he saw. "Kaluza-Klein Theory? String theory…? It must be a holograph, or a—a—black hole of thermodynamics—" He grabbed the Doctor. "What is this? How is this possible? We're inside a bloody paradox right now!

"It's in the name—relative dimension. Bit too complicated for humans. You never get the hang of this stuff, nor should you."

"This is amazing. Fantastic!" John said, staggering up to the console.

"It's absurd!" Sherlock said, irritated and frustrated. "It's not logical! It doesn't make sense."

The Doctor grinned, clapped him on the shoulder, then disappeared up the steps, calling, "I think I last saw the book in the squash courts, or possibly the reptile enclosure! Back in a mo'!" His voice faded deep into the TARDIS.

John walked around the console, keeping his hands away from the levers and buttons, but gawping at it all. "This is…really happening." He pinched his own arm and giggled nervously.

"We're in a-a time machine, Sherlock! A…spaceship!"

Sherlock burst into laughter himself, unable to contain all the confusion. They were both too overwhelmed to say anything coherent until the Doctor returned with a battered copy of The Adventures and Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. He tossed it to Sherlock.
"These are just some of the stories, and none of them are the final ones. I won't tell you about your future too much but…do you like beekeeping?"

Sherlock ran his fingers over his own name printed on the cover, frowning at the absurd illustration of a gaunt man with a pipe and a deerstalker hat. "Beekeeping?" he muttered distractedly, then began flipping through the pages. "'A Study in Scarlet'…this is just like—look, John, Irene Adler—" he passed the book to John. "How is this possible?"

John leafed through it. It was the strangest thing to skim through events so similar to his life, written by someone who sounded and thought like him, except from over a century earlier and written by a strange man. John finally put the book on the console.

"Who's Arthur Conan Doyle?"

"The author," The Doctor said. "Brilliant man, forever having adventures himself, when he wasn't writing them."

"I get married?!" John yelled at the page in the book.

The Doctor snatched the book out of his hands. "Perhaps you don't. The stories are hardly identical."

"Sherlock, the first time we met…that's all in here. Stamford's in here! And my phone is a pocket watch…and Harry isn't Harriet, it's a man. I…this version of me has a brother!" John ran his hands down his face. "This is too much."

Sherlock stood silently, fingers steepled and pressed against his lips. He took a deep breath and cast a steely look at the Doctor. "All right. This isn't…logical or probable, but here it is. So…so what?"

"So this is probably the biggest, strangest mystery you'll ever try to solve, Sherlock. That is, if you're willing to take it on."

Sherlock gave a hesitant, stiff nod. "Right." He looked over at John. "Are you in?"

"Definitely."

The Doctor looked up at central TARDIS column fondly, rubbing his hands together. "So, dear, what do you think? New passengers?" He ran around the console and began flipping switches. "Hang on to something! Next stop: 1895!"