Dear Diary

I know I stopped writing here years ago, but something happened and my life is no longer the humdrum story of Amy Pond in Leadworth. I'm Amelia Pond again, I'm a girl from a fairy tale and my Raggedy Man came back for me.

I don't know how long it's been, but the Doctor assures be that he can get me back for "five minutes ago", which is what I'm counting on. I... I think I need this time. I'm telling myself it's so I chose the right man, but, deep down, I know that no matter how long I wait it out, it's always going to be him. Hasn't the past proven that?

She heard doors creak and quickly looked up to see the Doctor, grinning. "Come on, lazy bones, I've got a surprise for you!"

"Because those words aren't words to strike fear into my heart, no, not at all!" She joked, throwing the journal down and covering it with the blanket before running from the room and towards their next adventure.

Sherlock Holmes frowned at the empty space in front of him now. He was put off by the sudden disappearance of the Blue Box, but he wasn't able to focus on deducing it's method, nor it's destination. For the first time in his life he was completely distracted. Distracted by what she had said, what his reaction was. And instead of doing what any sane man would do right after the woman he loved ran away with another man on the eve of her wedding to yet another man, instead of going home and endeavouring to put the wild Scottish attitude and fiery hair behind him, he turned on his heel and walked straight up the garden path towards the front door.

Ignoring Sharon's protests, he strode past her, straight to the stairs and up them, before flinging the door to Amelia's room open and throwing himself on the bed. He would wait. "The girl who waited"? Well then, Mister, I've got a blue box and a bow tie, I will become the man who waited.

But sitting still wasn't one of Sherlock's strong points, and nor was letting his mind wander aimlessly among seemingly trivial ideas. It took a full 2 minutes and 7 seconds before he rose from the bed, shrugged him coat off, settling on the bedpost, and started rummaging. It wasn't intrusive, not really: all of the things around her room were exactly as they had been those years ago; the dolls of her and the Raggedy Man; the drawings. The decor had changed slightly. But despite the differences being minimal, there was one huge discrepancy, screaming at him as he looked around: the wedding dress hung over the wardrobe door.

He stepped towards the wardrobe, opening the door precariously so as not to knock the white silk and muslin to the floor. Left side of the wardrobe contained outfits he'd never seen her wear, her "work clothes", but the right hand side had all the clothes he recognised, striped yellow and black sweater, mini-skirts after mini-skirts, and different coloured converses lined up on the floor, and he chuckled. Most women, if lining their shoes up, would put them by colour scale, too, but not Amelia Pond. Haphazard orders, not even couple in matching pairs, they varied from yellow to black to green to blue and back again, with patterned styles thrown in at random intervals. She'd done it to entertain herself, to create a sort of artwork with it, but all Sherlock saw was the girl's eccentricities, those things that kept him, the only Consulting Detective, on his toes. He'd always work her out, but these small things would keep him guessing just a little longer, entertain him that fraction of a day longer. It was one of the things he loved about her and about being in her company.

Sighing, he frowned at the dress as he closed the wardrobe doors, eyes flicking over the navy blue of the walls before settling on the window. No artificial light shining in like in London, nothing but the view onto the garden and the moonlight. As he crossed the room to lean against the window frame, the moonlight decided to dance in his eyes as he gazed over the expanse of flowers, many of the blooms full and beautiful, as expected at the end of June.

Vworp. Vworp-vwoooooorp, vworp.

The noise from what must have been only 5 minutes previous, even if it felt like an eternity for Sherlock Holmes. His head whipped around, ready to talk to Amy, to appeal to her. But there was a wooden blue box in his way. Frowning, almost pouting to himself, he stood and opened his mouth the speak, but for the second time that night was silenced by a conversation between two people who didn't even know he could hear them.

"Weeeell."
"yeah."
"Blimey."
"I know. This is the same night we left, yeah?"
"We've been gone five minutes."
"I'm getting married in the morning."
"Why did you leave it here?"
"Why did I leave my engagement ring off when I ran away with another man on the night before my wedding?"
"Yeahh.."
"You really are an alien, aren't you?"
"Who's the lucky fella?"
"You met him."
"Oh, the good-looking one? Or the other one.."
"The other one." There was the sound of Amy hitting the man.
"Well, he was good too."
"Thanks.." She chuckled a little abashed, which wasn't like Amy, Sherlock observed, but was distracted by what she said next. "So! Do you comfort a lot of people on the night before their wedding?"
"Why would you need comforting?"
"I nearly died! I was alone, in the dark, and I nearly died! And it made me think."
"Well yes, natural, I think sometimes, well, lots of the time."
"About what I want. About who I want. you know what I mean?"
"Yeah! No."
"About WHO I want." The phrase was repeated and Sherlock couldn't help but suspect that while earlier that night, she'd been talking about him, she was now referring to the man in front of her, the man that Sherlock couldn't see.
"Oh right, yeah. ... no still not getting it."
"Doctor, in a word, in one, very simple word even you can understand..." It went quite, for just a moment, before the man interjected.
"No! You're getting married in the morning!"
"Well, the morning's a long time away." Her voice was deep, her Scottish accent more seductive than normal; she was putting an effort in, Sherlock knew it.
"Amy listen to me I am 907 years old, do you understand what that means?" What?! Sherlock's mind was whirring at an incredible pace: there were references there that couldn't have been from a mere five minutes in each other's company, and anything from before, Sherlock would have known: Amy would have told him.
"It's been a while?"
"Y- No, no no NO! I'm 907 and look at me I don't get older, I just change. You get older, I don't, this can't ever work." And more. Sherlock was almost lost in the sudden lack of knowledge of his world, and even more lost in the fact that he was listening to the girl he loved try and sleep with a man, who wasn't her fiancé, on the night before her wedding.
"A-ach, oh you are sweet, Doctor, but I wasn't suggesting anything quite so long term." The Green-Eyed Monster finally came to play and roared from Sherlock's chest, relentless and almost violent as he heard her suggestion. It was only a few moments before he registered it as jealousy, though, the sound of her lips on this stranger's. It ate at him, calming down only slightly to here the protestations.
"But you're human, you're Amy, you're getting married in the morning! In.. the... Morning..."
"Doctor..."
"It's you: it's all about you, everything... It's about you.."
"Hold that thought." In the silence, Sherlock thought. Nothing made sense anymore, his firm grasp on logic eluding him. Why would Amelia's being human be an issue?
"Amy pond, mad impossible Amy pond. I don't know why, I've no idea, but quite possibly the single most important thing in the history of the universe is that I get you sorted out right now." Compliment after compliment, the monster roared again, never tiring from it's hiding place behind his heart, just as Sherlock was hiding behind the blue box.
"That's what I've been trying to tell you!"
"Come on!" This man changes his mind too much, Sherlock grumbled, deciding in that instant that he didn't like him. He listened to Amy's delighted squeals, frowning, not ever trying to suppress his jealousy and his anger, listened to the seductive tone of her voice as she called the man "Doctor" again.

And before he could register it, he was alone in her room again, not even hearing the mechanical whirring of the box this time. It was in that split second that he decided to go back to London, to give up on Amy Pond, to put it behind him. He obviously didn't mean enough to her.

Sulking out of the house, he once again ignored Sharon, and was on the next train out of Leadworth.