==Chapter 2==

Neither Kith Nor Kin

'I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as air...'

– John Watson, A Study in Scarlet

Journal of John H. Watson, M.D.

Friday 10th August, 2007

This is the strangest journal entry I have ever had to cause to write. While investigating a 'temporal disturbance' – according to the Doctor – it seems I have become temporarily separated from both my companions and our vessel. I made a thorough search of the warehouse and surrounding grounds, but found no clue as to where or when any of them may be, and waiting for the last two hours at the spot where the TARDIS vanished from has been equally fruitless. I cannot be certain of the exact hour, my watch not being set to the correct time when we landed, but it is some time in the early afternoon. So much for the balloon festival.

The logical conclusion would seem to be that this temporal disturbance has sent my companions either into the past or the future, and they are at present unable to make their way back to this time and place. I have no doubt that they will attempt to do so; however, I cannot remain in this warehouse indefinitely. If my companions are in the future, I can at this time do little more than continue to keep a record of my movements, so they may know where and when to find me at their convenience. If they are in the past, it seems reasonable to assume that they will do the same, leaving signs or messages that will last for however long it may take to reach me. I pray it may be mere hours that separate us, rather than years or centuries; I doubt masquerading as a teacher at the end of this century has sufficiently prepared me for living at the beginning of it. Needs must, however, and I shall begin as I mean to go on – or, I should say, I shall go on as I began: in London.

Watson put down his notebook and pencil, then made a thorough search of his pockets. Having been left alone in the middle of nowhere, it behoved him to know exactly what his available resources were. The results were hardly encouraging: his old pocket watch, reset to what he hoped was approximately the right time; a handkerchief with his embroidered initials, a Christmas present from Mrs. Hudson; oh, and his spare TARDIS key. A lot of good that was going to do him at the moment... wait... what if the TARDIS herself was the marker? She would be invisible to most, except possibly Torchwood – and no one else could get in without a key, anyhow. If the Doctor and Holmes were prepared to put themselves in stasis... Watson frowned. No. Holmes would rather die than allow such a thing again. He sighed, all this second guessing was starting to make his head hurt. He'd just have to do the best he could and hope like hell it was enough.

He repocketed everything but his pencil, then wrote on the wall next to where the TARDIS had been, in large black letters:

LONDON

10/08/07

JHW

He stood back, listening hard for any unusual sounds, and one in particular... but still there was nothing but the echoing silence of the deserted warehouse. Oh, well. He'd best be following his own directions and get to London. He had no money, and nothing of value that he'd even consider pawning, so going to Newbury to find public transport would be pointless – he'd simply have to walk...

Watson had been plugging away doggedly along the edge of the motorway for over an hour, doing his best to ignore both the constant rush and roar of passing cars and the steadily growing ache in his leg, but he was starting to despair of reaching even the outskirts of London before morning at this pace. Thank God for the warm weather, at least – this hike would have been much more difficult any later in the year...

His thoughts were interrupted by the unexpected sight of a battered white van slowing down ahead of him and pulling up next to the grass verge. As Watson drew closer, the driver leaned over and opened his passenger door: a well-built man in his early thirties, wearing some kind of blue, paint-spattered jumpsuit over a white T-shirt, with the sleeves tied around his waist. "Going far, mate?"

Watson shrugged, trying not to look overly eager – although the odds seemed fairly good that the driver meant him no harm. "To London."

The younger man jerked his head invitingly. "Going to Shepherd's Bush myself, hop in."

Watson hesitated a moment longer. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble..."

The driver grinned. "Course not, don't be daft! Hitch hiked myself a time or two, I know how it is."

Watson smiled back and climbed into the passenger seat, wincing as his leg gave another twinge. "Thanks very much."

The driver's grin turned sympathetic, restarting the engine. "Been in the wars, have we?"

Watson was too busy buckling his seatbelt to think before responding: "Afghanistan, yes." And he could have kicked himself the next instant for being so careless with Time-sensitive information.

Mercifully, the younger man only shook his head in disgust. "Bloody Blair..." He smiled at Watson in even greater sympathy, holding out a hand. "Mike Bishop. Glad to see someone made it home." (1)

Watson shook hands in immense relief, making a mental note to research the events of the last decade at the earliest opportunity. "John Walker. And likewise."

Mike pulled back out into the flow of traffic. "Good to meet you, John. Like the costume, by the way – great idea." (2)

Watson frowned in bemusement. "Ah, thanks..." He decided not to pursue the subject and broached another line of inquiry, making a conscious effort to speak the way he had while in 2093. "This may sound like a stupid question, but is there any such thing as free accommodation in town?"

Mike raised his eyebrows. "Blimey. Umm... not that I can think of –" He grinned suddenly: "Unless you want to try the homeless shelter!" chuckling at his own wit.

Watson didn't even crack a smile this time, he was too grateful to have such an option. "Would you take me there?"

Mike stared. "Mate, are you serious?"

His passenger smiled wearily, nodding. "I've had a bit of rough luck lately." To put it mildly...

"Well, haven't you got any friends in town? I'm happy to drive you anywhere you want, the wife's not expecting me back till tomorrow anyway..."

Watson shook his head. "'Neither kith nor kin'…" he murmured. "I'll be all right – I just need to get my feet back under me."

"Okay, if you're sure..." Mike shook his own head, clearly concerned. "Sorry, it's just... well, you seem like a decent bloke, is all, I'd hate to leave you stranded."

Watson smiled gratefully, touched. "You're very kind. In all honesty, though, it's either the shelter or the streets."

Mike closed his mouth at that, driving in awkward silence for several more minutes, before clearing his throat hesitantly. "Look, John... I know it's none of my business, I'm just your ride... but if you're in some kind of trouble..."

"No more than a simple matter of being unemployed and my money running out." Watson was glad his profession had given him plenty of practice at sounding reassuring. "Mike, I'll be all right, really."

His host still looked unconvinced, opening his mouth to say something else, then thinking better of it. "Okay, it's your call."

"Thank you." Watson leaned back, trying to take in the passing scenery, but quickly discovered that his eyelids had other ideas. It had been a very long day... but no, it probably wouldn't do to fall asleep in here, what would his... host think...?

Mike tsked kindly as Watson's head bobbed yet again. "Mate, you're knackered. It's another thirty miles to London – grab some kip."

Watson grinned sheepishly. "I might do that, thanks."

"Mind if I put the radio on? Don't worry, I'll keep it down."

"Not at all." Unable to work out how to make the seat tip back any further, Watson settled for resting his head on the seat belt, while Mike fiddled with a dial on the van's dashboard. Having had his eardrums blasted by numerous human and alien musicians since departing Baker Street, Watson was pleasantly surprised by the soothing music that drifted out of the speakers. The male singer's voice was rich and melodic, although Watson couldn't make out any of the lyrics until the chorus:

And it's no sacrifice

Just a simple word

It's two hearts living

In two separate worlds...

Watson smiled, a little sadly, and closed his eyes.

Saturday 11th August

9:10 am

I arrived in Greater London yesterday in the late afternoon, thanks to the kindness of a passing motorist, Michael Bishop. His compassion went even further than I first thought, as after we parted ways, I was amazed and touched to discover a £10 note in my coat pocket, and a card bearing his address and telephone number. I am reluctant to burden anyone here with my troubles unless strictly necessary, but I confess I find great comfort in knowing that I have one friend to call upon, if only as a last resort.

I succeeded in obtaining a meal and bed at the shelter, and spent the night with one eye open. At present, I am riding a bus to Baker Street, as I cannot think of a better place to continue my search for my companions. Surely they would leave a message there, if at all possible – or if they have not, I shall find a way to do so myself.

Watson stood gaping at the long line of sightseers outside the closed front door of what had once been his home. He'd been prepared to find 221B renovated, derelict, even non-existent – but a museum... Then he realised that his Victorian clothes, which had already earned him plenty of curious looks, were starting to draw attention from the queue, and gave the crowd as friendly a smile as he could manage before retreating. Regent's Park was mercifully still there, too, and he made for it, desperate for a cool, quiet place to sit and gather his thoughts. He was relieved to find the park largely unaltered from how he remembered it, even his favourite bench beside the lake was still there. He sank gratefully onto it, closing his eyes, drawing deep, calming breaths; if not for the constant noise of traffic, he could almost imagine himself back in 1895...

Once he felt a little more composed, he could see the funny side of the situation – and Holmes... good Lord, if his friend knew about this, he probably wouldn't know whether to be proud or furious. Watson didn't think he was overly vain about his writing, but he wasn't so modest that he couldn't work out that it was the Sherlock Holmes of his stories to whom the museum was largely devoted. And this being the future, there was no doubt a good number of adventures published that he hadn't even written yet... which meant that visiting the museum was out of the question. Even if he could afford the entry fee, it seemed certain that his companions wouldn't be foolish enough to leave a clue in a place where there were too many paradoxes waiting to happen. But what was he to do now?

His stomach chose that moment to remind him that he hadn't eaten breakfast. Sighing, he fished in his pocket for his remaining change from the bus fare, then stiffened as something sharp dug into his back through the slats of the bench. "Keep goin', mate, nice 'n slow," a voice growled in his ear. "Show me what you got."

Watson sighed, this day was just getting better and better. "Well, since you asked so nicely..." He let go of all but a couple of coins, taking them out of his pocket with exaggerated care, then before the mugger could react, tossed them into the air to his right. The thief's head automatically whipped around to follow the movement... only to have Watson's elbow jab viciously into his left temple.

Watson turned as he struck, rising swiftly to his feet, ready to follow up with another blow... but saw to his relief and disgust that it was unnecessary. His would-be assailant had crumpled to the ground behind the seat, out cold, broken sunglasses half hanging off his face. Watson glanced around, doubly relieved to find that the thief had at least chosen his moment well – there was no one else about just now, although that wouldn't last long. Feeling no compunction about robbing a thief, Watson rifled through the unconscious mugger's pockets, finding not one wallet, but two. He pocketed both, and after a moment's thought, threw the mugger's knife into the middle of the lake before making a beeline for the nearest exit.

He made his way to a nearby shopping centre, and sought privacy in the men's restroom. Once safely locked in a cubicle, he went over his well-gotten gains carefully. The first wallet, unsurprisingly, belonged to the mugger: Gary Morton, according to the young man's driver's license. To Watson's delight, the wallet also contained £35 in notes, and a decent amount of spare change. Of course, most of that probably belonged to the owner of the second wallet, who didn't seem to have a driver's license, but fortunately the name and address were written clearly on the inside: David Riley, Flat 10, Bucknall House, Powell Estate, Peckham. He must have been robbed quite recently, too, as the mugger didn't seem to have taken anything but cash, Watson being careful to check the names on the plastic cards in both wallets.

Pocketing the money and Riley's wallet, Watson meticulously wiped any fingerprints off Morton's cards before replacing them – he knew far better than to try using any! – then dropped the mugger's wallet into the toilet bowl and closed the lid. It would be found soon enough.

Watson knocked firmly on the door of Flat 10; the Powell Estate had only been a Tube ride away, and he could well imagine this David Riley's distress at losing his wallet, especially under such humiliating circumstances. Besides, handing it over to the police could lead to awkward questions, although he doubted that Mr. Gary Morton would be lodging a complaint with them over his being robbed.

His thoughts were interrupted by the flat door opening a crack. "Yeah?"

"Sorry to disturb you," Watson smiled, "but I'm looking for David Riley. Do you know him?"

"Might do." The door didn't waver. "What you want with 'im?" Watson noted vaguely that the male speaker's accent was from Manchester, although he couldn't deduce anything else at the moment.

"I believe he lost something recently..." Watson took the stolen wallet out of his coat pocket, a brief second before the door flew open and a thin young man in a T-shirt and torn jeans stood staring at Watson, or more specifically, at what he was holding. Watson, on the other hand, was frowning in concern at the bag of frozen vegetables that the young man was pressing to the back of his head. "He did that to you?"

David's defensive scowl was eloquent, cheeks turning scarlet.

Watson could have kicked himself yet again. "Sorry." He held out the wallet with a pained smile. "John Walker. The bastard got my wallet, too – dropped yours when he took off."

David's eyes widened as he took his property back. "No way! Aw, mate, I'm sorry. You told the police?"

Watson shrugged. "Not much point." A faint smirk. "He got some loose change and a library card, that was about it." He was about to take his leave again, but his gaze fell once more on David's makeshift icepack, and hesitated. "Mind if I take a look at that?"

Sunday 12th August

11:45 pm

What a weekend this has been – to call it educational would be a gross understatement. My insides still have not recovered completely from the Chinese takeaway which David's friends ordered last night to celebrate, and I have also discovered that these so-called 'energy drinks' have the very opposite effect upon me that they do on everyone else. David gleefully informed me that I fell fast asleep on the sofa in the middle of the Xbox marathon, and couldn't be roused until late this afternoon.

To my surprise, David and his friends have asked me almost no questions regarding my identity – although from my offer to see to David's head wound, he guessed that I was a 'St. John volunteer'. I can only surmise that St. John is some kind of medical organisation. There is still a great deal about this time which I must learn, but that will require a trip to the local library when it reopens tomorrow. I dare not arouse David's suspicions by using his computer to conduct research on subjects which I should, as a 21st century citizen, know all about. I have also had to wait until my young host retired for the night before making this entry. Were he or anyone but my companions to read what is set down in these pages, I shudder to think of the consequences.

My most pressing concern, however, is how I am to live in this century long term. Money is fast becoming a problem once more, as is clothing – my ordinary attire was taking on a life of its own before David lent me a T-shirt and sweatpants so that I could do some laundry. He has been very kind, but I cannot rely on this sort of charity for much longer, and David has no need or desire for a permanent flatmate. Besides, his absent-minded habit of collecting empty fast food boxes seems even more of a health hazard than Holmes's chemistry set. Even if I were to lodge here, however temporarily, I should still need a source of income. Add to the to-do list for tomorrow: seek out gainful employment.

Tuesday 14th August

12:15 am

Imagine my astonishment when, less than 24 hours later, I found what I was looking for, or rather, it found me. While David was out at work – he restocks the shelves at a local supermarket – I attempted to repay my host by making the flat a tad more liveable before heading to the library. Carting a load of pizza boxes to an outside dumpster, I met a man who was hauling rubbish bags to the same. I had time to spare, so assisted him with the rest – and the man turned out to be the estate's landlord. He is well acquainted with David's hoarding habits, although the young man apparently redeems himself by being one of the few tenants who pays his rent on time. I hastened to assure the landlord that I was looking for a more permanent living situation, and we parted ways amicably.

The rest of the day was spent in much more pleasant surroundings, making copious notes. I shall have to purchase a new notebook soon. I returned to David's flat this evening to learn that the landlord is prepared to offer me the position of groundsman, albeit temporarily, until he can officially hire someone else. Thankfully, my duties will not be overly taxing, merely tedious – beggars cannot be choosers, however, and I am most grateful to have paid work of any sort. I have also been informed that there is an unoccupied flat on the top floor, which I may move into once it has been fumigated. Thank God for the elevator, the prospect of climbing four flights of stairs repeatedly makes 221B seem like an easy stroll.

Wednesday 29th August

It seems incredible that I have been almost three weeks in 2007 – and I seem to have spent most of that time either at the estate or the library, where they now know me by sight. It took me a while to work out what questions to ask, but my research is slowly yielding results. David turned out to be an avid conspiracy theorist and, once I had expressed an interest, was more than happy to introduce me to his friends on the internet. As I suspected, the Doctor's activities throughout human history have not gone unobserved by those who, like Holmes, have trained themselves to notice what others might dismiss or overlook.

The main obstacle seems to be, ironically enough, the Doctor himself. Almost every time I discover an indication of where or when he has turned up, it is impossible to determine where he was in his own timeline, or to find any description of his companions at the time – almost.

It may or may not be mere coincidence – although I prefer to think of it as a hopeful sign – but there have been several sightings of the Doctor and the TARDIS on this very estate over the last two years. Unfortunately, going by the little the residents of Bucknall House have been able to tell me, they have all too clearly been incidents from the Doctor's past, as his companion at the time was Rose Tyler. She and her mother, Jacqueline, were officially listed among the dead after the battle of Canary Wharf, the details of said event I will not describe here. I can only speculate as to what really happened that terrible day, but the sadness in the Doctor's eyes whenever he has mentioned Miss Tyler's name now makes more sense than ever.

On a happier note, I may soon be able to broaden my horizons. I dropped in to see David this evening and encountered one of his college friends again, who works part time at the college newspaper, the Courier. According to Andy, there is an opening for an experienced journalist...

Author's note from Ria: Wow, we actually have footnotes for this chapter. Poor Watson, he's really been thrown in the deep end this time!

1: In 2001, Prime Minister Tony Blair agreed to send British troops to assist the US occupation of Afghanistan – Watson's lucky it's such a war-torn area.

2: Hitch hikers quickly find out that the main challenge of getting a ride is piquing the drivers' interests enough that they bother to stop. Mike thinks Watson has deliberately set out to get around this problem by wearing Victorian 'costume'.

Author's note from Sky: I just want to say that this entire chapter was written by Ria. There was no roleplaying between the two of us to script it out; it was all her. She wanted to show Watson surviving and adapting on his own, and she's done so brilliantly! Give her a round of applause, folks!