'How did you come across the means to travel in time, Amy?'

Amy stared at the pavement and bit her lip. 'I met a man. Well, I say man.'

'Please elaborate.' Sherlock had slowed down and was looking at her intently and impatiently.

Amy appeared to think for a few seconds, before resolving to tell him. 'When I was a little girl, a blue box crashed in my garden and a man climbed out of it. There was a crack in my wall. There were... voices in the crack, and he said he'd come back but he didn't for twelve years. There were many more complications but eventually I went away with him. He travelled in a TARDIS, and he told me it could travel through time and space. And that's all I can tell you for now.'

'You can't tell me why you're here? Or any of the other numerous and very important queries I have?' He sounded disappointed, and stopped walking. Amy dragged her eyes up and made herself look him in the eye. Her mouth tugged downwards with something indefinable and complex.

'I'm sorry. You have to work it out for yourself.'

Sherlock gritted his teeth. 'If it has to be that way, then fine. What was the name of this man?'

'He called himself the Doctor.'

'Could you give me some key words to aid me on my journey?'

'Hmm... okay, I suppose. Cracks. Watch. Layers. Time. Bond. I really hope I haven't said too much.' She hurried on ahead, wrapping her coat tighter around herself.

'Amy!' She turned halfway around to look at him, tears now spilling down her cheeks. 'Did someone send you to me?'

Amy shook her head slowly. 'No. I made a choice.' And she broke into a half-jog, and disappeared around a corner.

Sherlock closed his eyes and thought about every significant instance in his memory that those five words had been used. Time and watch, yes, or perhaps she meant he should be more careful? Bond, James Bond, bonding metal, friendship, connection... There was a theory that time existed in layers rather than lines. He'd always envisioned time as a vast vortex always hurtling and sucking towards something unfathomable yet obvious, painting it in purples and reds and oranges to make up for his brain's lack of ability to imagine new colours. For now, he'd stick to cracks. They were the first thing Amy mentioned, and her voice quavered as she mentioned them. Sherlock ran his hand along the brick wall lightly. There were cracks in the mortar, and the only voice he could hear was an MC spitting words at someone's club night. They hadn't walked very far. He had no chance of a cigarette. Idly he considered approaching the hooded youth on the bridge and scoring, but John was such a harridan and he needed absolute silence in order to think. Bringing home any bags of white powder, walking in with contracted pupils and a skittering drum of a heart, they'd all shriek and fuss. He gritted his teeth again. London was so noisy.

Amy only made it to a bus shelter near a council estate before she burst into spluttering, messy sobs. She buried her face in her scarf and didn't hear the shiny black car pulling up next to her. But she felt the presence of a glamorous woman with a professional blow-dry and skirt suit behind her, and she choked out, 'Yeah?' without looking around.

'There's someone who would like to speak to you,' said the woman, in a crisp, fresh-out-of-Oxbridge accent.

Amy turned around, dragging the back of her hand across her cheeks, black smears of mascara. 'Who wants to know?'

'A worried onlooker. Please, get into the car.'

And perhaps it was because Amy was tired, or emotionally worn, or stupid or mad, that she slid into the back seat without protesting.

Very sorry for the delay. And apologies for how short this chapter is, but it won't be so tense/angsty later on!