A dark alleyway sat quietly in the depths of Central London, ignored by the world as it went by. The only occupant was a thin cat, huddled in a crack in the wall.
Suddenly, there was a disturbance in the air. A wind started, seemingly out of nowhere, and a vworp, vworp sound could be heard. A glowing blue box appeared slowly, and the cat ran out of the alley in fright. The TARDIS faded in and out of existence, and came to settle in the middle of the alleyway.
The door squeaked open. John strode out, Harry and Sherlock following close behind.
"Does your father fly that on his own?" Sherlock asked incredulously, glancing back at the blue box. Between the three of them, they had only barely managed to get it to settle on Earth.
"Normally, yeah," Harry said. "He is linked to the TARDIS symbiotically, though."
"Got his imprint on the biomechaniser," John elaborated, in response to Sherlock's confused look. It still didn't make sense, but Sherlock left the topic alone.
"Where are we?" Harry enquired.
"Central London, near Tower Bridge, at the turn of the 19th century. Not too far from St Bart's, actually."
Sherlock opened his mouth. "No, we can't go there," John said before he had a chance to speak. He closed his mouth again, pursing his lips.
"Now, tell me," Harry said. "How much do you know about Arthur Conan Doyle?"
Sherlock considered the question. "Not much," he reluctantly admitted. "I think I studied one or two of his stories in university, but I deleted them. He write the Marie Celeste, and the Professor Challenger series, I believe. He's not exactly a household name."
"Hmm," Harry said. "He should be. Anyway, you're about to meet him." She grinned at him and strode off into the city. John followed her, after clapping Sherlock on the back.
Sherlock frowned and hurried after them, screwing up his nose slightly at the smell. He'd never before considered what Victorian London would smell like, or else he had deleted it. It turned out that it smelled of rotten food and drains, mixed in with the stink of sewerage to create an altogether unpleasant smell that would have no place in anywhere that was owned by Mrs Hudson.
The day was cloudy, and the streets were dirty. London seemed overbearingly grey, especially compared to what he was used to. People hurried along the streets, going about their business, not so much as glancing at the time-travelling trio. Sherlock idly wondered why the locals did not notice, or at least did not comment on, their strange attire, but put it down to some unexplained alien technology. Surely nobody could be that unobservant. Could they?
When Sherlock caught up with John and Harry, he glanced back towards the alley where the TARDIS was. "If it just…vanishes, wouldn't it create a vacuum?"
John nodded. "It should, but it takes air from the space where it is materialising to, and places it instead where it is leaving from. A rather good system, on the whole; unless of course it is going to a place with a different atmosphere, when it needs to reciprocate the gases…basically, it's magic."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So where are we going? Exactly?"
"So many questions!" Harry laughed. "Okay. We're heading to number 2 Devonshire Place, an address where Conan Doyle is known to have set up a practice as an ophthalmologist. We may be his first clients."
Eventually, they arrived at a row of bricked, terraced houses in central London, similar to the style found in the 21st century. Harry went up and knocked at the door of number 2, standing back to look up at the row of windows above.
A young man answered the door, peering out. "Hello," John said with a smile. "We're here to see Dr Doyle."
"Do you have an appointment for all three of you?" the man asked suspiciously.
"Er, yes," Harry said. "Tell Dr Doyle that there's a Sherlock Holmes here to see him, would you, my good man?"
The man looked them over once more, then disappeared back inside the building. The door opened a minute later, and they were ushered through into a dark hallway. "Right this way, sirs."
They were led through to an office with a large wooden desk. A pile of crumpled morning papers sat upon the left side of the desk, and a pipe-rack sat on the right, within the reach of someone sitting at the desk. In front of the desk were three wooden chairs, evidently placed there by the assistant upon their arrival; much the worse for wear, and damaged in several places. Upon one wall stood a small fireplace, with a crackling fire inside.
"Dr Doyle will be right with you, gentlemen," the assistant said, and left silently.
Harry and John looked at each other, satisfied, but Sherlock frowned. "Did he not notice that you were female?" he asked Harry.
"Perception filter," she muttered quickly.
The door flew open, and in walked a tallish man with dark hair and an impressive moustache. He surveyed the three of them with keen eyes, travelling first over John, then Harry, and coming to rest upon Sherlock. The dark eyes stared into the blue-green ones for a few moments, before the man looked back at John. "My apologies for the wait, sir," he said by way of greeting. "My assistant informed me I had three male clients, although it seems to me that one is female." He looked at Harry.
She frowned in his direction. "Very, uh, perceptive of you, sir. Most people would not notice."
He gave a thin-lipped smile. "Ah, my dear lady, but I am not most people." He closed the door and strode to the desk, seating himself in the cracked leather armchair and warming his hands before the fire. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He started to speak, slipping easily into the local syntax. "Mr Doyle, I am afraid that we interrupt you not to seek your medical services, but instead to ask you some questions. We are of the police force, you see."
"I see," Doyle said. "Then I am sure you would not mind if I were to inquire as to your credentials?"
"Not at all," John said, and passed over a piece of paper with a smile. Doyle glanced over it, and nodded, handing it back. Sherlock caught a glimpse of the paper as he did so. It appeared to be blank.
Doyle steepled his fingers, resting his elbows upon the vast wooden desk. "Ask what you will," he said, his eyes flicking again towards Sherlock, before swivelling back to face John.
John cleared his throat nervously. "Well," he began, "to begin, I am Detective Inspector Watson, and this is my…wife, Harriet. And this is my colleague, Sherlock Holmes." He stressed Sherlock's name, and all three watched Doyle closely for any reaction. There was none.
John seemed to be lost for words, so Sherlock smoothly took up the lead. "I wonder, sir, might I take a look at that cane?" He gestured towards a cane that stoop upon the hearth-rug, leaning against the fireplace.
"By all means," Doyle said without looking at it. Sherlock retrieved the cane quickly. He looked it over for barely a minute, before placing it back on the hearth-rug. "Well, Mr Holmes, what do you make of it?" Doyle enquired once Sherlock had settled back into his chair.
"Not much, I fear," Sherlock said. Talking like this was tiresome, but he kept talking regardless. "The cane is not yours, but that of a somewhat careless friend of yours? This seems unlikely though, as it appears to be the walking-stick of a country practitioner. He received the stick from a hospital recently, in return for his services."
Doyle was staring at Sherlock with a strange look upon his face. "Interesting," he mused. "You are observant indeed, my good man. Although I must confess, I had already deduced that from the stick some time ago."
"Ah, but I am not finished," Sherlock said. John gave Harry a nudge that seemed to say, this'll be good.
"The man is young, certainly less than thirty years old. He recently moved from Charing Cross Hospital to a country practice, judging from the inscription and the state of the stick. He is a patient of yours, rather absent-minded I must say, leaving his stick rather than his calling-card. He has a dog, larger than a terrier, smaller than a mastiff. At a guess, I'd say a spaniel, going by the teeth-marks the dog leaves in the stick when he takes it for a walk. So, we have Doctor James Mortimer, a young country practitioner in the habit of taking his dog for long walks. He makes his own cigarettes as well, if that is of any interest to you."
Doyle was staring at Sherlock, his expression between amusement and bemusement. "But surely this is impossible," he breathed. "A man who can read another man's life and history, from only his cane? I have dreamt of such a man, but never met someone who possesses the deductive skills to be capable of doing that."
Sherlock smiled modestly. "Hardly. I fear some of the details may be incorrect."
"For the most part, it is entirely true," Doyle assured him. "I am sure you are a great asset to the police force, my dear chap. Although I am not certain you are of the police," he added, glancing back towards Harry. "I admit I am not well acquainted with the ways of the police force; however, I would assume common practice would not be taking one's wife along on an investigation." He looked very deliberately towards John.
"I must confess, I have not been entirely truthful," John admitted. ""Harriet is not my wife, but my sister; and we are not from the police."
"Then who are you?" Doyle enquired.
"We are…travellers," Harry said. "From a place far, far away. Further than you can imagine. We are, er, making some inquiries on behalf of the proper authorities."
An amused smile played upon Doyle's face. "So, travellers. How might I help you in your enquiries?"
"You have said that you dreamed of a man similar to my colleague," John said. "Could you tell me more about him?"
Doyle frowned. "I cannot imagine why; but nonetheless, I will tell you. I dreamed of a man with an unusual name, who was able to look at a person and read them, from their clothing and possessions to their stance and haircut. Someone who could identify an engineer by his tie, or a newspaper editor from his left thumb. He was remarkably similar to your friend, in both appearance and voice."
John leaned forward in his chair, resting his arms on the somewhat battered desk. "This man. Did he say anything to you? Anything out of the ordinary?"
"I don't believe so. But what use would you have with the stuff of dreams? The man does not exist, surely."
John cast a sidelong glance at Sherlock. "I'm sure he doesn't." He raised himself to his feet, Sherlock and Harry following suit. "Thank you very much, Mr Doyle. You have been a great help to our investigation."
Doyle stood up also. "Must you leave? I have hardly helped you at all."
"On the contrary, you have helped a great deal." John shook Doyle's perplexed hand, and began to head for the door. "Thank you for your time, good sir. I hope we did not distract you from any task of urgency."
"It was no trouble, my dear chap." Doyle told him. "I was not engaged in anything important. I was merely composing a letter to a member of the House of Dalek."
The three travellers froze as one, turning slowly to face Doyle. "What did you say?" Harry managed to say first, all thoughts of speaking with the times forgotten.
"I said that it was no trouble."
"No, after that." John was staring intently at the man.
Doyle frowned yet again. "I said that I was composing a letter to a member of the House of Dalek. Is that of any significance?"
They returned to their seats. "Tell us about the House of Dalek," John suggested casually.
Doyle's keen eyes flicked from face to face. "Do you not know of them? Why, surely everybody in Britain knows of the Royal House of Dalek. They have done great service to our gracious Queen many times, more than I would venture to count. I received a letter from a minor member, who wished to thank me for a small service I performed to the crown earlier this year. I was replying to his kind message."
"And what might the name of this minor member be?" Harry inquired.
"Why, he is a doctor," Doyle said, looking from one to the other. "Doctor Theta Dalek."
-o0o-
"Theta was Dad's nickname at the Academy," John explained. "Theta Sigma, Thete for short."
He, Sherlock, and Harry were walking briskly through the somewhat chilly London streets.
"So you think he's sending you a message?" Sherlock asked, feeling especially cold without his coat. John and Harry did not seem to notice the low temperature, as they strode swiftly on.
"He must be," Harry said excitedly. "I knew it! I knew they were connected somehow!" She punched the air in triumph.
"Keep your voice down," John hissed, glancing around them. Harry's raised voice had attracted a few raised eyebrows, but the people around them soon averted their eyes and went about their day silently.
"Told you so," Harry said in a stage whisper.
"What was the address he gave you?" Sherlock asked.
John opened his hand and took out the piece of foolscap paper, unfolding it as he walked. Then he stopped dead in the middle of the cobbled street, causing Harry to bump into him from behind. "Watch it!" she said indignantly.
John ignored her, staring blankly at the address. Then he cleared his throat and looked up. "The address," he said slowly, "is 221B Baker Street."