"It's quite a story," says the doctor. "I was headed to the Centurion Galaxy. Apparently they've got some robotically engineered killer gnomes wreaking havoc all over the place. But then the silly old TARDIS went and picked up a distress signal in Trafalgar Square about some rogue Weeping Angels so I thought why not look up Sherlock Holmes when you're in the area? So that's the short story."
He beams.
"That's…" begins Mrs. Hudson. "Something."
Holmes impatiently withdraws his pipe from his dressing gown pocket and bites down on the stem to prevent himself from uttering an overly sarcastic remark to this obviously mad stranger.
"I am a busy man, in case you were not aware, Mr…?"
"The doctor. Just the doctor. Is Watson lurking about?" The peculiar grey-green eyes roam over the room.
"Unless you have a coherent narrative to present to me, I will not have my time wasted."
"Well," says the doctor. "Angels. In the Square. Transporting people back in time. Considering doctor Watson might now have slipped away into I don't know…18th century France, you might be intrigued?"
"Mrs. Hudson! Kindly show our visitor the door."
Holmes flops moodily down in his armchair. The doctor pulls a pouch from his overcoat and pops something into his mouth.
"Jelly baby?"