I'd never envisioned writing a second chapter, and I never had a clue where this was going, but I decided it might be fun. Still have no clue where this is going, so do tell me what your ideas are re what comes next!
Sherlock drummed his fingers lightly on the table. The townhouse opposite was quiet, and Londoners hustled by, indifferent behind their upturned coat collars. Gray fog meandered by the window and dulled the detective's view.
The waiter approached his table, saw the untouched coffee cup, and retreated. Sherlock had barely registered the delivery of the drink, let alone the administrations of the waiter. The café was a convenient stakeout position, the coffee a payment for his stay; food served no purpose while he was on a case.
And a complicated case it was. One to be handled delicately. Sherlock had been more than discreet since he had feigned his death, but it appeared his measures were insufficient. He had been closing Moriarty's loose ends one by one, but their disappearance had aroused suspicion among the dwindling handful, and the desperate criminals remaining were banding together as they felt the noose tighten.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, just a hair, as a perfectly bridled wave of anger rolled through him. Three different men had entered the building over the course of the last hour. They were there, the detective knew, to set a trap for one John Watson, on the assumption that if Sherlock were alive, his friend would know. A poor assumption, obviously: a convincing alibi would never have been successfully maintained if John were privy to it.
No one ever thought of Molly.
Even if John had had information to provide, there was no way the impending appointment was going to end well for him, leaving the detective no choice but to intervene. Besides, while it would come at the expense of revealing himself, Sherlock would catch the deadliest four remaining disciples of his arch rival. Mr. Durham, Mr. Green, and Ms. Frasier had all arrived. The detective awaited the appearance of the final player, Mr. McIlroy. The most infamous of them all.
But the tall individual strolling up the street was not Mr. McIlroy. The stranger was long, all elbows, with a bouncy stride, and he paused at the door to the townhouse. Sherlock leaned forward ever so slightly. What on earth was that coat made out of?
And then it hit him.
Tweed.
The detective leapt out of his chair. He snatched up his coat and dashed out onto the street, just as the man slipped inside the townhouse. Sherlock didn't waste a second. He darted across the road, cracked open the door and examined the staircase inside. Dimly lit and rarely used, the wooden steps creaked under the worn black shoes of the stranger.
"Doctor." Sherlock gently pushed the door open all the way.
The figure whirled on the stair. "Hush, I'm – Oh!" Luscious brown hair bounced as he looked about. "What did you say?" he stage-whispered.
Sherlock gestured for the stranger to return. After a moment's hesitation, he obeyed, hopping down the stairs two at a time.
"The last thing I have yet to discern is where you fit in this puzzle, 'Doctor,'" Sherlock said once the pair were safely outside.
"Puzzles!" The Doctor lit up with child-like delight. "I do love a good puzzle, but I must go at the moment." He smiled distractedly. "There was a thing, and an explosion, and then something wibbly-wobbly…"
"Doctor." The detective was impatient. "I know about the meeting, and one member is still missing. There is nowhere for any one of us to be just yet."
The Doctor frowned. "Meeting?"
Sherlock cut to the chase. "Why are you here?"
"It's a long story," the Doctor mused, "with many wibbly bits in, but I've lost two things of great importance." His expression darkened, and Sherlock was struck by his sudden intensity. "I intend to have them back." The moment was fleeting, and the Doctor's cordial façade was instantly back. "I don't believe I got your name."
"Smith, John Smith," Sherlock said offhandedly. "We met when you fell through the roof."
The Doctor seemed inwardly amused. "John Smith, is it? Good name, John Smith…" A sudden look of confusion took over. "Hold on, fell through what roof?"
The detective was visibly frustrated. "The roof, the house in Crickhowell, Wales; you broke through the roof in pursuit of some Gonsurvian herd."
"Through a roof! Blimey, Did it hurt? I can only recall one time when I fell through a roof…but I wasn't in Crickhowell. That day didn't end all that well."
"You are Doctor...what exactly?"
"Just the Doctor. You see, my life is sort of… out of order, and…" The Doctor looked tentatively at Sherlock, who was clearly not amused. "Again, long story. Pleasure to meet you Mr. Smith, but I really must be off."
The Doctor leaned in to give a pair of cheek kisses to the rigid detective.
Right then, right over the tweed clad shoulder, Sherlock locked eyes with Mr. McIlroy.