Has anyone who's written the eleventh doctor noticed just how difficult it is to describe his mannerisms? I've kind of given up and am leaving it to the reader to picture the quite distinct way he moves. With any luck, you're all as whovian as I am, and can manage conjuring up Matt Smith just fine. ;)
The cacophonous whirl ended as quickly as it had begun. Sherlock blinked in bewilderment.
The creaking townhouse had vanished. The trio was standing in darkness, but for a slice of pale blue light seeping through a doorway. The floor was grated iron, black and cold. Matching shelving stuffed with boxes lined the walls. Strange letters, blocky and foreign, neatly marked the containers. The space was cramped, and the cool air carried a slightly metallic scent. Sherlock registered every detail in an instant.
Clearly, they had moved. The Doctor, and the 'Sontaran,' had used some kind of device to transport them on the spot. How it worked, although certainly fascinating, was of no relevance at this juncture. Considering the physical environment, their new location was likely belonging to the Sontaran, and given the creature's demonstrated stance towards the detective, it was safe to assume this was hostile territory. A storage cupboard in hostile territory.
John's tiny groan snapped Sherlock from his reverie, and the injured man's knees buckled.
"John!" Sherlock caught his friend before he could fall, and lowered him gently to the floor. With careful precision, the detective turned John's head and examined the cut and bruise.
"You're alive," John whispered.
"Obviously."
The Doctor flapped a hand at them, indicating quiet, while he peered around the edge of the door.
"You…" John closed his eyes tiredly. "…Bastard."
A smile flickered beneath high cheekbones. Long fingers lightly parted John's hair, following the line of the bloody cut. "Hold still."
"You're alive."
"Yes, John. Hold still."
"All…all this time." John swallowed.
The detective ignored this. A pause stretched between them while he worked. Sherlock noted that the floor was humming, almost imperceptibly.
"Why didn't you tell me?" John's eyes opened wearily and searched the detective's icy ones.
Sherlock gave John a flat look. "Seriously? Have you noticed today's events at all? Or have you been taking stupid lessons since I've last seen you?"
The Doctor looked over sharply.
John's mouth twisted in a bitter frown and he looked away.
Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. It was as much of an apology as John was going to get. "I couldn't," the detective said, drumming up some patience. "It would have given the game away."
"What game?"
"My death. Moriarty's plan. My suicide sealed Moriarty's illusion, my public downfall."
"But you could've just –"
"I couldn't. Moriarty's men were set to kill Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and you, if I didn't die. Moriarty shot himself before I could use him to call them off." The detective sat back on his heels. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"
John blinked a few times, looking up at Sherlock. "You…faked your own death to protect us."
"Yes. Are you hurt anywhere else?" His wintry eyes whisked impassively up and down John's tattered clothes.
John swallowed an unexpected lump in his throat before answering. "No, I'm – I'm alright."
The detective stared hard at his friend. The smallest of creases between his dark brows betrayed his distress.
"I'm alright, Sherlock," John repeated softly.
"Okay, you two," the Doctor stage-whispered, "I've got a plan. Well, I say plan. I mean idea. Tentative. In progress." He looked through the crack again for a half second before turning back to the two Londoners. "We've teleported to the –"
"To a storage cupboard on the Sontaran ship, yes," Sherlock drawled.
"– the Sontaran's sh…how did you know that?" The Doctor looked thoughtfully at the detective for a moment. "Have you met Sontarans before?"
Sherlock looked exasperated. "No. I observe and draw conclusions from the obvious."
"Oh, I see. A genius. You haven't heard of Rattigan's Academy, have you, Mr. Smith?"
"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and no I haven't. Is it relevant?"
"Sherlock it is. No, no it isn't particularly relevant. Simple matter of what could have been a most curious connection, but there we are. I suppose it remains to be seen. History repeats itself, or something, that's another phrase I've never gotten…"
"Your plan," John prompted. With a hand from Sherlock he sat up.
"Ah!" The Doctor rubbed his hands together. "Yes. Well, you see, just outside that door is the teleportation deck. I initiated the teleport back on Earth, but I managed to distort the quantum particle relay field into momentary lateral diffusion upon arrival, so we materialized in this closet instead of out there." He peered through the crack again. "The Sontaran and the four humans from the house on Earth have followed us here. In order to get by them all –"
"This way," Sherlock said curtly.
"What?"
The detective was holding open a little metal hatch, not unlike an oven door, in the far wall. "Escape route. Garbage chute."
"How do you know –" John began.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sticky residue about the edges, putrid smell, scuffed interior, waist high on a Sontaran. Garbage chute. Now get in."
A blaring klaxon erupted into existence. Red light flooded the little room. The Doctor's gaze darted about anxiously beneath his thick chestnut hair. Bellowing Sontaran voices could barely be heard above the clamor.
"Okay. Okay, in!" the Doctor agreed.
With a whirl of his dark coat, the detective slid fluidly into the chute. The Doctor leant John a hand up into the little space, and locked the closet door with his sonic device just before following suit.