So, ah, my first attempt at a Sherlock/DW crossover. For Sherlock, it takes place after RF and before the reveal. For Doctor Who, it takes place somewhere after Journey's End but before The Next Doctor. This fic will be slightly AU, for both shows.

I do not own Sherlock or Doctor Who. Yet.

-Surrounded by Idiots

In an old, formerly abandoned house, several loud gunshots echoed through the almost-empty rooms. A few bullet holes sprouted from the already mildly abused wall covered in dull, chipped paint. The shooter was no other than the great Sherlock Holmes. Or at least, the once great Sherlock Holmes. The usually thin man was now even thinner, only hardly ever eating the food his older brother sent once a week. Sherlock was extremely pale for having avoided leaving the old establishment for almost a year now. The once-famed detective lowered the gun and dropped it on a table.

He really wouldn't be able to take this much longer; his life was worthless without any mystery to solve, or at least without people to analyze. Now, the only people he ever saw were Molly twice a month, and Mycroft once a month, and even then, it was just Skype. He was very desperate for entertainment to use the gun, for he only had a limited amount of bullets left, for Mycroft refused to send him any, so when he was out, he was out. The thin, pathetic-looking man started to pace the room. That kept him occupied for about a minute. After that, he had an in-depth discussion with the wall. Since the wall couldn't really talk, that conversation lasted for about a minute.

The ragged-looking man grasped at his curly hair and pulled sharply. This constant isolation was driving him insane, completely and totally insane. He needed something to keep him occupied, or else he was worried he might go to drastic measures. Sherlock, on some days, worried that this constant boredom would make him like Moriarty. And that just couldn't happen.

He considered for a moment to use three nicotine patches, like the man once did for difficult problems. He quickly decided against it, because the patches simply helped him to think, and he really had ran out of things to think about ages ago.

So, like he had done for many-a-time now, went to bed early, it being only 9:00 in the morning.

At about noon, Sherlock shot up in bed. He could of sworn he had heard an unusual, sort of a whooshing noise, and judging by how it echoed and how little the sound was muffled, it had came from inside of the house. Sherlock considered going out unarmed, but decided against it. He might of been able to beat almost anyone in a fistfight before his confinement, but since he's been out of the practice for a while, he doubted his abilities. So, Sherlock picked up the gun laying on the bedside table and cocked it, slowly sneaking down the stairs to confront whatever had made that unusual sound.

He paused to listen about halfway down the stairs. He could clearly hear someone's voice, talking to what seemed like no one.

"Hm. This place looks much too deserted to be the source of that distress signal. Did you take us off course again? Wait just a second... Looks like this place really isn't deserted. Someone's taken great pains to make it look deserted, though. But those bullet holes look too recent, and everything's just not dusty enough. Someone is in here... But where, exactly?"

Sherlock took that as a cue. He called out fairly loudly, "That someone would be standing right over here." He stepped where he could see the man, with the gun raised. When he looked over the room, he was fairly surprised. The man was dressed in a trench coat, similar to the one he was wearing, and a pinstripe suit. Not only that, but smack dab in the middle of the room was a London police box. "How did you manage to fit that box in the door? It's much to big to have been able to fit."

Without answering the question, he raised his hands in surrender. "What is with," he muttered, "you humans and your guns?"

Sherlock had ignored this comment, because it had finally clicked. This was a person. An actual, living person. And people means a chance to analyze. He lowered the gun, and grinned, something the man hadn't done since the Fall.

"Judging from the state of your clothes, I'd say you travel a lot. They're ragged and torn, and look more like they've been chosen more for functionality than for style. Perhaps sentiment comes into the equation as well. You look about thirty, but your eyes look much older. Haunted, almost. I'd say you'd been in a war, possibly more than one, and have seen and lost more than you'd of liked. Considering your non-panicked yet immediate response to a gun pointed to your face, you have had many encounters like this before, and been able to slide out of every one of them unharmed. Considering that you were talking to yourself, or perhaps to an inanimate object, I'd say you are lonely, and had only recently lost a person or people you cared about. Am I wrong." He poured that all out in almost only one breath, ending with a statement instead of a question.

The strange man blinked and said simply, "And you are?"

Sherlock let out an uncharacteristic, animal-like growl and snapped, "Answer me first. Am. I. Wrong."

With a sigh, the other man lowered his hands and muttered, "No. Not really." He suddenly got an abnormally cheery expression and said, "Now will you answer my question?"

With a scowl, Sherlock replied with, "I am no one of your concern. Now, if you would be so kind as to take that box of yours and leave me be."

The odd man's grin faded, replaced with a concerned frown. He stepped forwards, and Sherlock stepped back. The man's frown deepened as he said, "You look like you've been in here for a while. For, I dunno, a year, maybe? And this place doesn't look very, you know, homely. No offense, but... It's not somewhere I would stay in for more than you have to. So, why haven't you left here?"

Sherlock snorted. "Why would I tell you, a complete stranger, about my life. Who are you, to barge in and question me?"

The man's cheery grin returned when he said, "I, my good man, am the Doctor!"

A shadow of a grin appeared on Sherlock's face. "You say that like I should be impressed."

The 'Doctor' crossed his arms and said, "Well, you still haven't told me who you are."

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"You say that like I should be impressed."

Sherlock frowned again. "You don't know me? So you don't know about..."

"About what?"

"Oh, nothing of your concern."

The Doctor's grin widened. He said, "Well, you seem like a very intelligent man, Sherlock! I'd say that a man like you gets bored once and a while. I'm sure I do."

Sherlock tilted his head and said, "I'm listening."

"If you're looking for an adventure, I'd say you should follow me."

The Doctor turned around and threw open the doors of the Police box, immediately walking into it. Sherlock expected the footsteps to stop, but they continued. Judging by the echo, there was a room of large size, and the floor was made of some kind of grating, and not completely attached to a solid ground. Sherlock expected an illusion, because the box was much too small for either the large room or grating floors.

He slowly walked into the box, shocked by what he saw. The floors were indeed made of grating, and the room was about as large as 221B Baker street's living room. In the center was controls of some sort that looked fairly random, but sort of with an air of having a purpose. The Doctor was leaning against the high-tech looking center pillar, with a smug look on his face.

Almost instantly, Sherlock had four different theories, and decided to test them. The first one was simple; he walked around the perimeter of the room, running one hand on the wall. That proved that the room was, in fact, not an illusion. It also revealed that the walls were made up from something that looked a bit like wood, but felt slightly... off. He almost instantly eliminated the next theory. He wasn't feeling terrified, angry, paranoid, or any other side effects of Project HOUND. That left only two. Either he had gone crazy from the extreme lack of stimuli, or this was actually happening. And since his mind seemed to be working just as smoothly as normal, that left the last theory, no matter how unlikely it seems.

Sherlock muttered to himself, "When the impossible is eliminated, whatever is left, no matter how improbable, it must be the truth..."

The Doctor's smug face turned in to one of slight confusion, for he had overheard.. He said, "Well, that's a new one."

Hope you liked it!