I apologize for the time it took to publish this. It's more of a transitional chapter, centered around Sherlock, John, and the Doctor. I've also been surprisingly busy this summer, as I took an unplanned two months off school this year and have been making up late service hours. Thank you very much for your patience, and the next chapter will be more Winchester-centered.
Ch.7: Bark at the Moon
-Cardiff, Wales-
After Sherlock and John's strange introduction to the alien in Sherlock's bedroom, it was decided that they had to return to Cardiff the next morning. This may seem like an incredibly simple decision to make, but it haunted Sherlock through the night. He had been wrong. Aliens, angels, they really existed. He stared up at John's ceiling, unblinking. Refusing to sleep in his own room because of the TARDIS currently occupying much of the floor space, John had been gracious enough to take the couch while Sherlock took John's room. Well, I say "gracious"...
Castiel and the Doctor's appearances had completely shattered any logic that Sherlock possessed. They should not have existed. They were impossible creatures that had shown up in one place at one time. That's how Sherlock knew he needed the Winchester's help, much as he despised admitting it. And he wouldn't, you know. He wouldn't admit he needed help. He wouldn't let the words escape his lips.
And so he spent the night studying the room around him. He was rarely ever in John's room because he had no need to be. John was his friend, one of an elite group that Sherlock chose to ally himself closely with. Sherlock knew John without having to poke around his room. Besides, the ex-army doctor was a private man and Sherlock respected that enough to not prod too much. He'd occasionally rummage through John's room for his laptop when necessary, and it wasn't below him to hack John's password to use the laptop when he pleased, but he didn't deliberately poke around in an attempt to learn more about John. His powers of deduction told him all he needed to know.
In the morning, Sherlock woke up in a strange bed. He moved his hand over the sheets and felt around for his nightstand, which was two inches too far to the right. So it was that Castiel and the Doctor were real and Sherlock had spent the night in an unfamiliar room. Accepting this fact with irritated resignation, Sherlock sighed harshly before dragging himself out of bed and grabbing his dressing gown that he had hung on the back of John's door. He tugged it on and moved toward the kitchen, where John was making coffee.
He looked rumpled and Sherlock could tell he'd awoken about ten minutes prior. If the barely noticeable crumbs in the sheets and the few sticking to the corner of John's mouth were any indication, sleeping near the kitchen had given excuse for a midnight snack as well. The tension in John's shoulders said he hadn't been overly comfortable and the slightly stiff movement of the neck said that his neck was sore, possibly from craning it to watch telly as he dozed off. His laptop was on the cluttered desk in between the windows, and the sheet of paper resting atop it said that the laptop hadn't moved last night. John hadn't been online. That made three days straight that John hadn't updated his blog on the goings-on of Holmes and Watson.
"Sleep well?" John asked politely as Sherlock sat heavily in a chair at the kitchen table. Sherlock gave John a pointed look, and when John turned around to see it with a mug of coffee in each hand, he didn't look surprised. He set a mug in front of Sherlock and took the seat across the table. "Yeah, me either," he mumbled across the microscopes and files strewn haphazardly on the tabletop. He didn't have the heart or patience to try to organize Sherlock's mess, so it was left as was and accepted as one of Sherlock's quirks.
Sherlock wrapped his hands around the mug of hot coffee and glanced around at his old files on the table. Among his analyses of tobacco ash and perfume, he had done studies on different soils, shoes, minerals, plant origins, and even typical baking needs. His eyes skimmed over old psychology papers he had written and forensics research, along with dog breed fur identifications and a report on a sample of bacteria he had left in the freezer. That had been an interesting day when John was looking for something to thaw for dinner. What he had found was a severed finger wrapped in formaldehyde-soaked gauze and suspended by twine. Sherlock had been curled up in a ball watching crap telly intently when John had approached him, pinching the bridge of his nose and asking Sherlock to please keep his experiments on the left side of the freezer so that formaldehyde didn't drip on the frozen food.
The memory made Sherlock smirk into his coffee and John shot him a puzzled look. "What's so funny?" he asked.
Sherlock looked up at him quietly for a moment, but didn't get the chance to speak. The Doctor strode in quickly, stretching his arms above his head and yawning, though he was fully dressed and ready to tackle the day. Both John and Sherlock's faces fell as he practically bounced around the kitchen, reading papers every so often. Sherlock scowled at the too-chipper Doctor.
"Good morning!" the Doctor greeted. "You wouldn't happen to have any Jammy Dodgers, would you?" he asked, looking through different cabinets. "I love the things. Breakfast foods are overrated anyway." He opened up the pantry looking hopeful, but his face fell and he quickly slammed the pantry closed and turned to press his back against the door as if something would escape. Horror decorated his face as he gulped, "On second thought, perhaps I'll just have tea..."
Not in the mood to laugh at the Doctor's shock, John just glanced at the Doctor, looking grumpy. "For a thousand year old alien, you'd think you'd have seen it all," he grumbled.
"'Course not!" the Doctor cried. "That's the fun of it! Always more to see, more to do, you never get bored," he rattled on. "Important people to meet, like you two!"
"Like us two? What do you mean?" John implored.
"You two! The greatest detectives Scotland Yard has ever seen! Holmes and Watson, the Reichenbach heroes!" the Doctor announced proudly. "And that crime database, by the way, lovely, though they could have named something for John." The Doctor's proud exclamation was met with blank stares from the two greatest detectives Scotland Yard had ever seen. His face fell to be replaced with pure concern. "Oh, I see, hasn't happened yet," he mumbled, wringing his hands. "Tenses are hard," he said dejectedly.
Sherlock and John were at a loss for words. The Doctor continued moving hurriedly around the kitchen looking for Jammy Dodgers before finally giving up and leaning a hand on the kitchen table. There was an awkward silence between the three of them that lasted almost a full minute before John cleared his throat and stood. "Well," he announced, "I believe we should be getting on with the day. Big plans. Better ready for Cardiff." He put a tone in his voice that told the Doctor that it would be better to leave them in peace to proceed with their morning routines.
"Ah! Yes," the Doctor agreed. "I shall away to my TARDIS! See you on the other side." With that, he bounced back to Sherlock's room. A few moments later, the sound of the TARDIS' engine filled the flat and dissipated just as quickly.
Sherlock raised his steaming mug of coffee to his lips slowly and smiled at John in his own way. "Not what you'd expect," he murmured.
Sherlock and John took the tube back to Cardiff and hopped in a taxi to the Luna Motel. They didn't see the Doctor, but they weren't very surprised. Based on the way he dropped into 221b, Sherlock deduced that the Doctor frequently misjudged target areas and had a skewed sense of time as a result of the prolonged travel in the fourth dimension. He didn't suppose they'd see the Doctor again for a while, and until Sherlock had the time and desire to explore the mechanics of a machine like the TARDIS, the Doctor's appearances would be unpredictable.
But as the duo pulled up to the motel, Sherlock stepped out to view the TARDIS parked outside a ground level motel room. John paid the cabbie, thanked him, and stepped out behind his partner. "Really?" he asked, looking at the large blue box. "Very inconspicuous, he is."
Sherlock approached the TARDIS like he was inspecting a fine racehorse. His gaze flitted across the simple wood. The TARDIS was neither grandiose nor plain. It was neither a telephone box nor one that obeyed the laws of physics as defined on earth by humans. It was neither ordinary nor extraordinary. The TARDIS was a paradox in and of itself.
The Doctor flung the doors open wide and saw John and Sherlock milling about. Or rather, John was milling about while Sherlock inspected. "Ah! There you are!" he greeted. He gestured for Sherlock and John to follow him in, to which they obliged. The Doctor hopped over to the console monitor while John followed at his own pace. Sherlock walked stiffly with his hands clasped behind his back, scouring every inch of the TARDIS interior with his analytical gaze.
The Doctor swung the monitor over to face him and John. "See, I did a sweep for alien tech in the area last night. I had to find out why the TARDIS brought me here. Why now? Why you? Why bring me to this place in time?"
"Wait, didn't you get any sleep last night?" John asked. It was a simple-minded question, but just the type of question that would pique John's curiosity. You couldn't take the doctor out of the man.
"Of course," the Doctor replied. "I meant the second last night."
"Beg your pardon?" John questioned.
"The last night that happened when I left your flat and wound up in the correct place, but...last night at about the time I dropped into your flat. It's all very confusing, but long story short, I had time. I did a sweep for alien tech to see what's happened in the area and I found that six people have gone missing, six people on the verge of changing the world. Now, the question is, where are they going? Answer: they are being taken by something not from this world."
"And what do you suppose is taking them?" John asked.
The Doctor looked at John with concern. "I don't know. It's not a Slitheen, and it's not a Sontaran. I haven't figured it out yet, but the residual energy from the crime scenes is definitely not human."
John gave a curt nod. So the Doctor had debriefed himself on the situation at hand. Sherlock seemingly materialized by John's side to look at the screen. "So it translates alien languages in your head, some sort of telepathic link to the hard drive of the machine," Sherlock murmured.
"Excuse you," the Doctor cried, aghast. "This 'machine' has a soul! The TARDIS is alive, and you'd better mind your words or she won't like you very much."
Sherlock smirked knowingly. "Doctor, I assure you, if the TARDIS' soul is at all like ordinary women, she would thoroughly enjoy my fascination with her."
"She is anything but ordinary," the Doctor reminded Sherlock before turning back to his monitor. "But she does love attention…now then! Off to the crime scene, correct? Why did you ask me to land here? I'm not reading any energy here. Nothing important. Just a normal, non-alien-invaded motel."
John cleared his throat. "We, um...we have some friends here who can help."
"Hardly friends," Sherlock mumbled. John elbowed him in the ribs. Sherlock didn't amend his statement.
The Doctor clapped and grinned. "Good! Let's meet these hardly friends, then!" he said, taking off for the TARDIS doors. He flung them open and looked around outside. John and Sherlock followed calmly. "Where are they?" the Doctor asked, twirling around so his jacket flared.
John nodded towards the motel. "They're staying here. We can get the room number from the main lobby-"
"This one," Sherlock said and strode towards the closest door. The number 112 was nailed to the plain door. He looked down at John, who stood to his right. The Doctor took the spot between John and Sherlock, standing about a pace behind them. John took a breath before raising his fist to knock on the Winchesters' door.
One conversation and a taxi ride later, Sherlock, John, and the Doctor were back at Dr. Burns' home. Police tape still littered the area, keeping out nosy tourists and unauthorized personnel. Sherlock lifted the police tape and let it fall gracefully back in place behind him. Scotland Yard's finest were still swarming the man's home and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Too many people would taint the scene, but no one wanted to miss out on helping with the crime of the century.
Lestrade was standing near the door looking exasperated, as usual. He was rubbing his face and his eyes were wide with bags, an indication of sleep deprivation. It was likely that he had spent days, possibly even weeks with no more than five hours a night. Lestrade held a paper cup of coffee in his hand and sighed a lot as he instructed his officers. Sherlock and John approached him carefully, the Doctor trailing behind them.
"Sherlock," Lestrade greeted, sipping his coffee. "Back for more evidence? I thought you had a look yesterday."
"It would appear that things have...complicated a bit," Sherlock said, tone void of much emotion.
Lestrade furrowed his brow, but John interjected before he could ask. "We'd just like another look. Agents Plant and...and..."
"Page," Sherlock offered.
"Right, Agents Plant and Page should be here soon."
Lestrade only furrowed his brow again. "Plant and Page? The Americans I had escorted out yesterday?"
"There was a misunderstanding," Sherlock explained. "We've worked it out."
"Ah. And who is this?" Lestrade questioned.
The Doctor reached into a pocket inside his jacket and began rummaging about as John answered, "This is our friend, er..."
"Deputy assistant commissioner," the Doctor said, pulling out a wallet and flipping it open to reveal an ID card. Sure enough, the ID labeled the Doctor as a deputy assistant commissioner for Scotland Yard. "Just got promoted. They call me the Doctor."
"The Doctor," Lestrade repeated, taking a closer look at the ID card. "Seriously?"
"Oi, that's no way to talk to your superior," the Doctor replied.
"My apologies," Lestrade said, straightening. "No disrespect, sir."
"That's better," the Doctor said, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
John coughed, eager to get the conversation back on track. "Yes, well, Lestrade, do you mind clearing out some of your men for a bit so we can have another look?"
Lestrade shrugged, looking curious with a touch of suspicion. "I can clear out some of the area. Though I do wonder how you two were able to assemble a rag tag team of high ranking officers from two different countries."
"And there hasn't been a ransom call yet?" Sherlock asked, changing the subject.
Lestrade shook his head. "Not one. For any of the victims."
"Well, then this shall be interesting, won't it?" Sherlock smirked.
