Chapter two - The Chemist
"Sherlock?"
"Actually, my given title was 'The Chemist'" The man who was almost Sherlock, but not quite, said. Something was off, John could tell. With Sherlock, the only way to tell his mood was by his eyes. But this man, The Chemist. His eyes were blocked, cold and empty. John didn't know what to make of it. Except that he felt Sherlock was no longer there. "Although I've been going by Sherlock Holmes for so long I may as well just keep the name."
The Doctor was watching the exchange with something close to sadness. When he'd seen the watch he knew what it meant. For Sherlock, and more importantly, for John. Because The Chemist and Sherlock were not the same person. Especially now, when John had only begun bringing out the more human, more feeling side of Holmes. Though the Doctor was unfamiliar with the Chemist, he knew that the man had little more humanity than Koschei. As most time lords did. Kindness was a learned behavior among time lords, and not a common one at that.
"You really should fix the chameleon circuit you know," The Chemist, or, Sherlock, or, both. Was walking around the console of the TARDIS, examining it as if under a microscope. "The fact that it's jammed is causing all the other problems, as is the fact that type 40 was discontinued."
"Yes, thank you, I know, and I like the blue box. People know it's me that way."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows "Yes, well, I've obviously been out of touch for a long time. Is the war over with yet?" His voice, which had been toneless, gained a sliver of hope when he thought about home.
"Ah, well, the war-"
"Yes, the time war, you were there, must have been, you're much older than-" Sherlock stopped abruptly. "No..." Images flickered through his mind. Provided by the Doctor, the horror and destruction layed out in front of him. Thousands of Dalek ships, the Could've been king and his army of never-were's, the nightmare child with its pitch black mouth gaping. And Gallifrey in flames, the citadel of the time lords crumbling to nothing. And watching it all, a man in ragged clothing, hundreds of miles away, with a look of such sorrow that it would make even the strongest crumble. And even he was dying, as he watched his home, and his race turn to ash. Because it had to end.
"A time lock?" The Chemist asked, standing very still, not really able to look at the Doctor. Or anything but the center of the console, he had no home to go back to. It had burned, his home, his family, everything. And this, was the last TARDIS in existence.
"Yes, well, John, should I just, let you off, here?"
"Alone?" John asked
"Yes Dr. Watson, alone." The Chemist replied, meeting John's confused gaze "I have some more to discuss with the Doctor, and I'm afraid your human mind will not be able to keep up."
John was used to being called an idiot by Sherlock. But then again, Sherlock called everyone idiots. Now Sherlock was gone, replaced by this...Thing. He wasn't even sure what to call the Chemist. Many times, he'd referred to Sherlock as a machine, but never had it been this accurate. He didn't know what the Doctor had shown the man in his friend's body. But he knew it was bad, to do with war, and the Doctor's home planet. But that was it, and although he could see the pain in the Doctor's expression, the Chemist's was still a perfect mask.
"Well, then, I'll leave you to it."