Lestrade took a bite of his ham sandwich and tapped his fingers on the menu. He was sitting with Molly on his left and John on his right, with Sherlock across the table.

"So..." Greg tried to start up a conservation after Molly's outburst. "...why are we here again?" He looked at Sherlock's ponderous expression. "You don't usually stop a case for a bite to eat."

Sherlock lifted the corners of his mouth into a small smile. "Not usually no." That was all he said, and nothing was explained. That was the problem with Sherlock, Greg thought, most of the time you had no idea what was going on.

John took a huge swallow of his drink and seemed unphased by what was going on. Lestrade elbowed him under the table. John spit out his drink onto his lap. He looked up annoyed.

"What was that for?" He mouthed, and reached for a napkin to mop up the mess.

Lestrade shrugged as if it was obvious. Sherlock was acting more strange than normal, and he seemed to be the only one who wasn't surprised. Come to think of it, John was acting a little jumpy today too. What was different about this case?

Sherlock snorted across the table. He knew what Greg was getting at, and he was wasn't going to say a thing.

Lestrade sighed and set down his fork. He looked over at Molly who had silently been twirling her pasta this whole time. She had a look of defiance on her face, and Lestrade knew she wasn't going to talk anymore. "I'm going to the bathroom." He muttered and screeched his chair back, leaving the awkward company back at the table.

He stomped around the corner, hands in his pockets. Lestrade was extremely uncomfortable back in the resturant, and neither Sherlock nor John seemed in the mood for talking about the case. Really there was no reason for Lestrade being there except for friend support, and really, it didn't seem like Sherlock really thought of him as a friend sometimes. Lestrade always came when he called, but when did Sherlock ever care for someone else? Or even get his name right?

"That's just the way he is," Lestrade told himself, but something inside kept nagging him that maybe he should not help out on this case. It seemed more dangerous than any other, but Greg couldn't see how. Nothing was out of the ordinary.

Greg pulled on his tie and pondered whether he should just go back to Scotland Yard without telling his friends; he wasn't much use now anyway.

But a hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks.

Lestrade immediately went into defense mode, his shoulders tensed.

"Relax, it's just me." It was Sherlock behind him, sounded quite annoyed and anxious.

"Oh, Sherlock." Greg breathed and turned around to greet his companion.

Sherlock was dressed for the winter weather and already had his scarf and coat on. "Going somewhere?" Greg asked, biting the inside of his lip.

Sherlock ignored him. "Lestrade, listen very carefully to what I'm going to say. It's very important that you answer this truthfully."

Lestrade frowned. Sherlock was acting like he was stupid. "Okay?" He said it more of a question than an answer.

Sherlock placed his hands on Lestrade's shoulders. "Listen to this word and tell me if you've heard it before."

Greg waited and Sherlock spoke slowly. "Tardis." The tension in the hallway intesified. "T.A.R.D.I.S." He spelt it out this time.

Lestrade didn't answer at first. He'd done a lot of crazy and illegal things for Sherlock, but this was one thing he couldn't do.

"No." He looked away from Sherlock's searching eyes.

"You're lying." He answered back almost immediately. "You have heard of it."

This time Lestrade shook off Sherlock's arms. "I'm sorry Sherlock. This is one time I can't help you." Greg felt his heartbeat quicken. He was nervous. How did Sherlock even know about The Tardis? As far as he knew, it was part of U.N.I.T's division, and they were always very secretive about their information. But there were a few files and stories Lestrade had collected over the years...

"The Box." Sherlock spoke through gritted teeth, desperate for information. "The Blue Police Box." Sherlock's tone and eyes softened. "Please, Lestrade. It has to do with the case."

Lestrade snorted. "Please! Sherlock, I know what this case is about and no 'Tardis' was involved." Lestrade started toward the door at the end of the hall. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock stared at him. "Wait!" He called and ran to catch up.

Lestrade groaned. "All right! I can tell you one thing and that's it." He looked around to see if anyone was listening, but the only soul was the resturant cat that slinked by the windowsill. "If you want information on a Tardis, you'll have to go to U.N.I.T." Sherlock nodded. "And I'm sorry but that's all I can tell you."

"G'night Sherlock." Lestrade turned away again and pushed open the door, walking away into the cool night air.

Back at the resturant after Sherlock had left, John was ready to leave. He had already been through a lot of emotional turmoil today, and the awkwardness at the table wasn't really helping.

"John?" Molly looked up at him. "I think I'm going to head out out." John looked down at her untouched plate. "Do you have any change for my cab?"

"Oh, sure." John startled, and reached into his pocket for some money. As he was counting the right number, he bit his lip. "I'm sorry about earlier." He looked down. "Sherlock's been a bit strange today and I don't know why."

"Yeah," Molly said and took the coins from John's outstretched hand. "It's alright." She was strangely quiet.

"See you around, John." She smiled, picked up her bag, and walked into out the door into the rain.

John sat all alone at the table. He was almost certainly sure Sherlock wasn't coming back, and Lestrade seemed to be have left also, since it had been almost a half and hour.

John stared down at his empty plate, feeling awfully lonely. He was the only other one in the resturant besides the staff. He sighed and left the check on the table.

He walked outside and up the stairs to 221B. John stood on the threshold and pulled out his phone. He texted Mary a quick message, asking her if he could stay at Baker Street that night. She soon texted back, saying it was perfectly alright. John needed some "man-bonding" as she put it.

John pushed open the door and hung up his jacket on the coat hanger. "Sherlock?" He yelled, seeing if he was home.

Sherlock didn't answer, but John could see that he was laying on the couch, his hands pressed under his chin.

"When did you get here?" John asked, sitting down on his chair. "I'm staying the night by the way."

"Oh," Sherlock muttered. "Good."

They sat in silence for a while, not saying anything. Then John spoke. "Why did you leave?"

It took a while for Sherlock to answer. "I had to ask Lestrade a question."

"Oh alright." John bit his lip. "Where's my laptop?"

"Over on the counter." Sherlock answered.

John stood and walked over the the kitchen. He frowned and sighed. "Next to the bag of thumbs I see."

"Experiments, John." Sherlock smiled absentmindedly.

John sat down again, but then stood back up. He had left his USB drive in his old room, and John went to go get it. He walked down the hallway, but stopped short when he almost stepped on a seemingly new pair of glasses. He frowned and picked them up.

"Sherlock?" He called, and showed them to him back in the living room. "Glasses?"

Sherlock shot up and snatched them from John's hand. "No, they're not mine."

John laughed. "Yes they are! Try them on!" He took the glasses back and stuck them on Sherlock's face. "Why don't you like them?" He smiled.

"Because," Sherlock flopped down on the couch. "Mrs. Hudson said they were..." He made a face. "'Cute.'"

John laughed and opened his computer. "So that's why you made Molly come today!" He logged into his blog. "That's kind of rude, I can make deductions too, you know."

Sherlock didn't say anything but crossed and uncrossed his legs. John didn't know that there was more than one reason he had invited Molly to the Crawley House.

John sat down at the small desk by the window. He looked out across the street and watched people go on with their lives. A mom dragged her kids across the street, both of them screaming and crying. A group of teenage girls strode across the road with a dozen shopping bags in their hands.

John wondered how people could have such ordinary lives when his was so ridiculous. When he was a kid, John wanted a normal life; a wife and kids, 9 to 5 job, no excitement. But here he was, living this crazy life with the world's only consulting detective and an assassin as a wife.

John turned his head to look at the bank across the street. The stone pillars had alcoves inside where stone statues sat. Once, John and Sherlock had solved a bank robbery there. John stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. His paycheck from his work was inside.

"Oh," John exclaimed. "Sherlock, I'm going to go cash this is in at the bank."

"Hmmm." Sherlock hummed and picked up his newspaper.

John stood up and looked out the window again at the bank. He thought of telling Sherlock about his incident with the statues earlier, but thought better of it. Sherlock might think he was insane.

John picked up his coat and walked out of the living room. He checked the mailbox. "Sherlock!" John called, pulling out a deep blue envelope. "There's a letter for you." He tossed it onto Sherlock's lap.

A tiny smile crossed his lips. "Thanks."

Sherlock stood up and opened the envelope. There was a letter with all caps hand writing and strange circular shapes. Sherlock dropped it on the ground and pulled out a photograph of a blue box.

"That's a Police Box." John said, confused. "Like from the 1950's."

Sherlock didn't answer, but studied the picture and smiled. He stuck a pin in the top and pushed it into the wall behind the couch.

"The game begins." Sherlock whispered, and stood with his hands behind his back.

John shook his head and left Baker Street, walking toward the bank. He looked both ways and crossed the street.

His heart almost stopped as he took a closer look at the statues on the alcoves of the bank.

They were the exact same as the angels he saw at the Crawley House.