"In youth have I known one with whom the Earth
In secret communing held – as he with it,
In day light, and in beauty, from his birth:
Whose fervid, flick'ring torch of life was lit
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
A passionate light – such for his spirit was fit –
And yet that spirit knew – not in the hour
Of its own fervor – what had o'er it power."
- 'Stanzas I'
Edgar Allan Poe
X X X
The TARDIS.
Big and little at the same time, brand new and ancient and the bluest blue ever, and the Doctor couldn't help but smile at it every time he turned to close the door behind him. He loved the TARDIS, inside and out, for it had become more than his home; it had become sort of the icon of his very existence.
And right now he had no idea what it was doing.
"Oh, okay." The Doctor emerged from the TARDIS and took a look around, "This looks more like London on a Tuesday in 2012. And didn't I meet that boy here just a few minutes ago? It'd be years for him, though. Twenty three years to the day if I'm correct." He paused, glancing around the street a moment again, "His name was Sherlock Holmes, wasn't it? Maybe he's still living around here."
"Sherlock Holmes?" A young woman who'd been passing him by paused, her eyes wide with hope, "Did you say Sherlock Holmes?"
The Doctor smiled, "Yes, I did. Do you know him?"
"Oh no, but I've heard of him!" She exclaimed, blushing lightly as she did, "I haven't gotten a chance to see him anywhere but in the papers. A friend of mine saw him walking down the street once, though. She said he's so much more handsome in real life, too. Is he a friend of yours? Do you know him? Perhaps you could introduce me?"
The Doctor blinked at her a few times before replying, "Sorry, um, we only met once, and it was a long time ago. I was just wondering if he still lived in this area."
"Oh," she seemed disappointed, "Well, yes. He does live around here still; 221b Baker Street. I wouldn't try to see him, though, unless you have a very interesting case. He doesn't like boring cases."
"A case?" The Doctor chewed on his lip, "What kind of cases does he like, then? I have a few really nice computer cases that I got from Venice a few years ago. Oh, I even have some from Japan! Those older ones, you know kind of like the business cases, only not made of leather. Do you think he'd like those?"
The girl stared at him, "Where have you been for the past year? Sherlock Holmes is a consulting detective, the only one in the world, so obviously I meant a case like a mystery for him to solve."
The Doctor smiled sheepishly, "Oh, well that's entirely different from what I thought you were talking about, then. It's too bad, though. I really do have too many cases that I've picked up here and there. It would've been nice to get rid of a few of them. I'm sort of running out of room."
At this point, though, the girl had walked off, annoyed by his constant rambling. But the Doctor didn't really mind. He'd heard all he needed to know, anyway.
Originally, the Doctor had been heading to that particular date to visit this beautiful church he'd seen back in the thirteenth century, because he'd heard that it was still standing in 2012, and he just had to see for himself. But the prospect of meeting Sherlock Holmes again now that he was a grown man – especially after it had been twenty seven years for Sherlock and only minutes for the Doctor – was a much more exciting prospect.
221b Baker Street, hm?
It was easy enough to find, so the Doctor ascended the steps and knocked on the door of said address, waiting patiently for someone to answer. When an old woman opened the door, however, the Doctor blinked in confusion, had he gotten the location wrong?
"I'm sorry; I must have the wrong place," he said, a bit confused. The girl had told him 221b Baker Street, hadn't she?
"Who are you looking for, dear?" The woman asked.
"Ah, a Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I was told he lived here."
The woman nodded, "Oh, he does. But he's out right now. Would you like to stay and wait until he gets back?"
"Oh no, that's alright." The Doctor smiled, "Instead do you think you could just give Mr. Holmes a message from me?"
"Of course," she smiled.
"Okay, then . . . well, tell him the Doctor came to see him, and he brought his impossible box." The Doctor grinned, amused by the strange look she gave him, and offered her a little bow before turning and flouncing off to go waste time.
After all, as he'd said before, Sherlock Holmes wasn't the original reason he was there. So he could go look at the church he'd been planning on seeing at first, and then he could just go and explore. He'd never really been to London in that year, after all. It'd be interesting to see how much it had changed.
I'll come back tomorrow, Mr. Holmes. He thought, grinning back at the door of 221b Baker Street even as he made his way down the sidewalk, hands stuffed in his pockets as he smiled up at the sky without a care in the world.
He had high hopes for the next few days.
X X X
Sherlock took off his coat and scarf with a flourish, hardly bothering to look where he tossed them as he collapsed onto the couch. He needed to think.
"Would you like some tea?" John wondered, entering their flat right behind him.
"Yes," Sherlock replied absently, not really listening to him. He was lost in his thoughts, going back over all the data he'd gathered at the crime scene and trying to piece together any other ideas and possible suspects from what he knew. But alas, besides what he'd told Lestrade before, nothing seemed to fit.
Damn it . . .
"Sherlock?"
The consulting detective opened his eyes and glanced at John, noticing how the shorter man had paused and was staring at him strangely.
"Yes?" Sherlock replied.
"I wanted to thank you for what you did earlier . . . at the crime scene."
"Ah . . ." Sherlock understood. John was talking about how he'd told him to go wait at the cab, saving him from having to continue looking upon the gruesome scene. "You're welcome, I suppose."
John allowed himself a small smile as he handed Sherlock his tea.
"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson called, knocking on their open door, "Did you two just get back?"
"Yes, we did. Hello, Mrs. Hudson," John said.
"Hello, dear. And ah, Sherlock, before I forget – someone left you a message."
Sherlock's eyes had fluttered shut, a sign he wasn't that interested, but still he said, "Yes?"
"It was from a very strange man who came around no more than half an hour ago – he called himself the Doctor."
"Doctor who?" John asked.
Mrs. Hudson shrugged. "He didn't say."
"I didn't ask for a doctor," Sherlock murmured, "I already have one." He motioned at John, who looked a bit embarrassed.
Mrs. Hudson frowned, "Either way, he asked me to give you the message."
Sherlock sighed, "What is it, then?"
"All he said was to tell you that the Doctor came to see you . . . oh, and he brought his impossible box."
Sherlock suddenly bolted to his feet, making both John and Mrs. Hudson jump, and stared at the older woman intensely, his eyes now a light gray-green that startled her enough to actually make her back away from him.
"What did you say?"
"Sherlock –"
"Shut up, John," Sherlock snapped, grabbing Mrs. Hudson by the shoulders, "Say that again, Mrs. Hudson, what you said just now – the exact words."
"A-ah yes, he said that the Doctor came to see you, and he brought his impossible box."
Sherlock paled a bit and stepped back, releasing her. "It can't be . . ." He gasped.
"Sherlock, what's going on?" John demanded.
But Sherlock was no longer listening. He dashed back to his room, grabbing the box of journals from where he'd left it earlier that day and rummaging through it, ignoring the journals that he knocked aside. John entered the room moments later, looking unsure.
"Aha!" Sherlock cried as he found his journal from 1989. He flipped through to the entry he'd seen before, skimming over it until he found what he wanted. "Listen to this, John," he said, unable to keep his excitement in check, "He was a very strange man who called himself 'the Doctor' and with him he had this little blue box; an impossible box that appeared and disappeared and actually flew."
"What?" John strode forward, "What is that, Sherlock?"
"This is my journal from 1989 – I was twelve, then. And it was on the twenty-third of May that I saw him. He appeared in my room that night in an impossible blue box, and he called himself 'the Doctor.' "
"Then, the man who left that message –"
"- Was the same man." Sherlock couldn't believe it.
"But, wait. I don't understand. Sherlock, you're not making any sense. You said he appeared in your room with this impossible box of his that appeared and disappeared and could fly? That's insane. Not to mention, that was twenty three years ago. Why would he come leave you a message now?"
Sherlock's eyes hardened and he closed the journal, spinning to face John. "I have never told anyone this before, John, because I knew they wouldn't believe me. But I'm not mad; the proof of its appearance there was irrefutable."
"Fine, fine," John sighed, "I'll believe you. But why would this Doctor wait to come back twenty three years later?"
". . . Time machine."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"The box, John. The impossible blue box; he said it was a time machine."
"Oh, of course it is." John said sarcastically.
"It's only a theory, John. I don't know what to believe yet." Sherlock put the journal back in the box, his eyes that intense gray-green again. "But I do know that something strange is going on, and I also know – I'm not exactly sure how, yet – that this is connected to my latest case."
John shook his head, "You mean the murder of that poor, mutilated woman Lestrade called us to see earlier? How could this be connected to that?"
"Like I said, I'm not sure yet. All I know is that something isn't right, and I'm going to find out what."