They'd gotten it under control eventually, and Sherlock had slapped John in the face to help with the shock. He was very helpful. More people needed to appreciate this.

Sherlock was a very good friend. Aside from the 'dying' thing.

River and John had walked a few metres in the general direction of the shopping centre before she'd elbowed him so violently in the ribs he'd collapsed, and then raced back to tackle – yes, tackle - Lestrade. She was surprisingly strong, and took to physical violence in a manner and with a dedication not unlike a crazed psychopath. She seemed to relish head-butting Sherlock too much, if that were even possible.

Amy had shouted "Get in there!" and Rory had just muttered "Oh god, oh god why?" whilst shaking his head at the sky.

John liked Rory, he decided. If he had to compensate anyone for Sherlock's ridiculous actions (the potential list growing almost daily), he'd be first. He just looked a bit tired, bless him, clearly this had not been the day he had wanted.

Mark had got River to the ground before she could go for anyone else, though, escaping from the handcuffs worryingly quickly. He had then proceeded to sit on her, offer his wrists up for arrest, and apologize profusely to each person separately.

And with that, they were marched back to the building, leaving Lestrade and a few men to try and open the Police Box, by Sherlock's request. Sherlock wanted to question them. In the food court, there and then. He would try and talk him out of that when they got there, John decided.

Not fucking likely, Sherlock observed.

It was obvious from the moment that they stepped out of the Police Box that Rory and Amy were happily and recently married, celebrating an anniversary. Four years at the most. Obvious. Sherlock had told everyone so, as they marched them.

"Because of the wedding rings?" Anderson had commented, still trying to stem the blood flowing freely from his broken nose.

Well, he actually said "Befoz off veh weddingf ings?" but that was what he'd meant. He still managed to make it sound snarky. He did put in effort to loathe him.

"Anderson, shut up. No one cares for your input. And no, not the wedding rings. The new wedding rings, the shiny wedding rings, the modern wedding rings. The way he subconsciously reached out to support her when they were pushed outside, the way she kept glancing at him to make sure he was ok. Romantic involvement, clearly. Plus their ages, their general comfort with each other, her red and white plaid top, his haircut-"

"What's wrong with my haircut?"

"…the way they tilted towards each other as they walked…"

"Oi! We aren't an exhibit," Amy snapped, lunging slightly in a way that reminded Sherlock of Bastard.

"We have you apprehended, watch your tone or it could get worse for you," Anderson snarled at her. Or he would have, but the blood made him choke, so he just sounded a little bit ill.

He decided to focus his efforts on an exchange he stood a chance of winning, Sherlock noted. Specifically a skinny, handcuffed female being physically restrained by John.

"Agh!" Anderson screeched, actually screeched, "She bit me!"

"Anderson, shut up!"

"Sorry! I slipped!" John called, holding Amy just a fraction more loosely now with the hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Sherlock was marching Mark, who kept looking at him like he was in love with him and mouthing "Brilliant! You are brilliant!", asking him inane questions about all the 'amazing adventures' he'd been on and turning his head to look at Amy with an ecstatic grin plastered on his face.

"Have you done the 'Hound' yet? Oh you have, you wonderful cheeky sod, haven't you? Oh this is fantastic! You're fantastic! He's brilliant!"

Although a welcome compliment – nonsensical despite the man showing no outward signs of drug use, but sincere - it was very annoying.

River was silent. Tired from her efforts, possibly.

Rory was silent for the most part too.

He only said something once.

"Should've gone to Mars."

Sherlock disregarded that statement, for the time being. But he added that to the list of questions. It was steadily growing.

The inside of that box….

Lestrade was still trying to open the Police Box by the time they had gotten back to the staff room. Handcuffed to chairs and at a separate table – at the insistence of Anderson, who it appeared had an irrational fear of being bitten by a savage married woman – it seemed like the situation had finally calmed down somewhat.

Sherlock debated how best to approach his questions, after getting John to agree to it. He had to, he had to find out what he'd seen… It was like nothing he could ever have possibly imagined, a colossal room. Impossible, tricks of the eye – a repeat of the Hound. An object which is bigger on the inside is impossible. Sherlock had never seen anything impossible, he saw through logic and logic alone. There was – and could not be – anything else. Yet still human emotions betrayed him, and these rationalisations did little to calm him.

The first step was questioning. He'd won him over – and caused the four to become exceedingly compliant - eventually by threatening to charge them right there and then with assaulting several police officers. And Anderson.

Then Lestrade phoned.

"I've tried drilling it, hitting it with a hammer – the glass doesn't even scratch, for God's sake! Someone found an axe, the wood won't chip. We tried picking the lock, the wires melted! I even shot it-"

"You shot it?" Sherlock asked

"He shot my Tardis?" Mark bellowed, bending his head back to glare accusingly at Sherlock.

'Tardis'? Sherlock mentally added that to the list of questions.

"Only because I kicked it and have possibly broken my toe, anyway it started sparking for fuck's sake…"

"It started sparking?"

"Of course she did! He shot her!" Mark retorted.

Calls box 'her'. Add to questions.

"Lestrade, get inside the box. What? Anything! I don't know, a bigger hammer! Sort it out," Sherlock hung up, flung the phone back into his pocket and marched up to River, "Ok, you first."

"Oh gladly!" River breathed, leaning forward ever so slightly, "Give it your best shot!"

She looked far too enthusiastic about this, noted Watson.

Sherlock just stared stonily, eyes calculating.

"You have a distant relationship with your parents, probably removed as a young child. Probably negligence due to your erratic behaviour. Probably spent your life in care. As such, you adopted these," gestures to Amy and Rory, "as surrogate parents. Bit weird for a middle aged woman but let's move on – you flirt excessively but not sincerely, means loyal and probably married. Ah yes, married to 'Mark', of course. It's all a bit incestuous. You've sorted yourself out. There's nothing to gain from you. Now, next."

River raised her eyebrows in mock offense, turned to Amy and said quite unabashed "All circumstances considered that was a pretty good go! You did a very good job!"

Amy nodded in agreement, unfazed.

Sherlock ignored this, Sherlock moved on.

"Obviously married couple. You lost a child shortly after birth, hence became surrogate parents to a woman you who has a good number of years on you but have known for a long time so this probably developed gradually. Again, weird, but not the weirdest. Very protective of each other, you would argue that you would risk your lives for each other. I doubt it, personally-"

Rory snorted in a way that sounded suspiciously like the word "loads".

"You live a stable existence, probably enjoy travelling. But what do you do for a living, the husband is obviously a nurse-"

"Model."

Sherlock turned to face Watson, an eyebrow raised.

"She's a model," Watson looked around awkwardly, "Seen her on… the billboards…"

"Right. Anyway, you two are no use. But you…"

Sherlock stared at Mark, dead in the eyes.

"You betray nothing. 'Mark'. You get questioned."