A/N: Apologies again for the wait for this chapter, it took me a while longer than expected. Re-introducing Doyle, the cat, and awkward moments with Sherlock and Harry. Enjoy!
The thin cat had returned to the dark alleyway, and was huddled once again in a crack in the wall, eyes half-closed but still alert. It heard a familiar squeaking noise, and opened one eye to see what was happening.
Dust and dirt had collected around the base of the TARDIS, sitting in the grimy alleyway. The door opened and light spilled out, illuminating the dark, cracked brick walls. This time the cat did not run away in fright, but lazily watched as three people stepped out of the TARDIS and walked purposefully towards the road. As they walked, one of them held up a small stick, which lit up and buzzed. The TARDIS door squeaked closed behind them as they emerged onto the darkened street.
The familiar roads were deathly quiet, and dark, much darker than Sherlock was used to. Thin mist swirled around them, diluting what pitiful light emanated from the street-lamps.
As they passed one house, a curtain was thrown open and a large shaft of light spilled out onto Sherlock's face, making him blink. The light disappeared, and a few moments later the front door of the house slammed open. A familiar figure stood in the doorway. "Mr Holmes? Is that you?"
Sherlock's eyes took longer to adjust to the sudden light from the doorway than that of the Time Lords, who recognised the man right away. "Doctor Doyle," John greeted him. "Pleasure to see you again."
Sure enough, Arthur Conan Doyle hurried out onto the street. "The pleasure is all mine, my dear fellow," he assured John. "But whatever can you be doing out so late? And with your sister?"
Harry bristled. "What do you mean, 'with his sister'?" she demanded. John placed a warning hand on her arm, but she shook him off, staring at Doyle.
His eyes widened. "I meant no offence, I assure you madam. I merely meant to say that it is not safe around these parts at night. Heaven knows what scoundrels you may meet on your journey."
Harry opened her mouth to respond, but then she saw Sherlock standing behind Doyle, silently shaking his head. She closed her mouth with a snap.
John smiled easily for Doyle's benefit. "We were not going anywhere important," he told him. Then, on an impulse, he elaborated, "We merely sought to visit the address you gave us, the residence of Doctor Dalek."
Doyle's calm expression flickered for a moment, then his face smoothed into a polite smile. "I was under the impression you intended to visit the address after we spoke earlier," he stated.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but did not mention the change in Doyle's expression.
"Ah," John said. "We did intend to go earlier, but were unfortunately waylaid by, er, circumstances beyond our control."
Harry rolled her eyes, realising that her brother was still no better at lying under pressure than she remembered. "But you must not let us keep you out here in the chilly night," she implored Doyle. "If you do not mind, we will be on our way."
"You say the air is chilly, madam, and yet you are not wearing so much as a coat to keep off the chill," Doyle replied. "Surely it is I who should be concerned for your health?" He pursed his lips. "I have a coat which I would be happy to lend you."
Harry smiled reassuringly. "It does not matter. The cold never bothered me."
"I feel I must insist, as a member of the medical profession," Doyle told her. "If you will wait here for one moment, I will fetch you something to wear." Before she could protest, he darted back inside.
Harry sighed and rolled her eyes. John shifted his weight impatiently. Sherlock, for his part, stood still and tried not to shiver from cold.
A few moments later, Doyle returned with a thick garment and an apologetic expression. "I am afraid this is all I could find. It is not the most feminine of garments," he explained reluctantly.
Harry took the heavy cape from him and placed it upon her shoulders. It was far too large for her, and her arms barely stuck out through the arm-holes.
She forced her features into a smile. "I must thank you, my good man," she said awkwardly. "This is most generous of you."
If Doyle noticed Harry's awkwardness, he did not comment upon it. "It is no trouble at all, my dear lady," he assured her. "However, I am afraid I must ask a favour of you in return."
Behind Doyle, John's eyes narrowed. Harry carefully kept her face neutral. "Might I inquire as to the nature of the favour?" she asked pleasantly.
"The truth," Doyle stated simply. Then he elaborated, "I know you have deceived me this very evening, for you told me that you did not go to 221B Baker Street."
"We didn't go there," Sherlock assured him.
"Ah," Doyle said, "but you did. I happen to have various contacts within this city, one of whom goes by the name Alfred Wiggins." John coughed, and Doyle turned to him. "You see now, how I know?"
"Wiggins told you that we met him on Baker Street," Sherlock supplied. "And that we paid him for telling us that the address was unoccupied."
Doyle turned to him. "That is true. A whole guinea's prize, and yet you gentlemen do not look to be particularly rich. But you, sir, you possess a remarkable brain." He stepped closer to Sherlock, eyes narrowing slightly as he stared up at him.
"You have no idea," Sherlock told him.
John coughed to get Doyle's attention. "It seems, good sir, that you have caught us out in a lie. It is true, we visited the address this afternoon. It was empty, as you doubtless know by now."
"So why go back now, under cover of darkness?" Doyle inquired.
"We merely sought to investigate the building further."
"You sought to break in?" Doyle asked loudly.
John glanced behind him, but no one else was on the street. "I beg of you, sir, keep your voice down," he implored Doyle quietly. "Yes, we plan to break in," he admitted. "But we will do so in such a way that nobody will be harmed."
Doyle shook his head. "As a God-fearing citizen, I am afraid that I cannot allow that," he said sadly. "I must inform the proper authorities, now that you have told me of your plans to break the law."
Damn, John thought. He had hoped they would not need to hurt anybody. He decided to give Doyle one last chance. "I beg you, sir-"
Doyle cut him off. "And yet, sir, you speak with borrowed words."
John faltered. "Your statement, sir, is…enigmatical."
Doyle's voice seemed to gain confidence as he spoke. "The way you speak, and hold yourself, it is not natural. You are putting on a show; but for whom? Who are you?"
John stared, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Sherlock took the opportunity to jump in. "It's true," he explained, "we are not as we seem. As Harriet told you earlier, we are travellers, from somewhere far away."
"Just where are you from?" Doyle inquired. "You seem English, you even have the accent. And yet you act as if you are from a foreign country."
A quote popped unbidden into Sherlock's mind. The past is another country. They do things differently there. He never thought he would agree so wholeheartedly with the statement, as he did at that moment.
It was Harry's turn to jump into the conversation, telling Doyle, "If we told you, you would never believe us."
"How do you know that?"
"Okay," she began. "Fine. John and I are the children of a man called the Doctor."
"Doctor who?"
A smile played around Harry's lips for a mere moment. "Just the Doctor." She grew serious. "The Doctor is not of this world, and neither are we. We hail from more than one hundred years in the future, and we came here with our friend," she indicated Sherlock, "to work out if there is a connection between you and him. We think your letter from Doctor Theta Dalek is a code from our father, and are therefore visiting the address in the hopes of finding him. Have I missed anything out, John?"
"No, I think that's everything," John said, staring intently at Doyle's face.
Doyle stared at Harry, then at John, then at Sherlock. Each face told the same story. "You are all mad," the proclaimed. "Absolutely insane!"
"We did warn you," John said. "Well if that's all, we'd best be off then. Cheerio!" And with that he strode off, out of the light from Doyle's house and down the street.
"Thanks for the cape," Harry said with a smile, and touched Doyle's arm lightly before following her brother down the street, the too-large cape flapping almost comically behind her.
Sherlock turned to follow them, but Doyle stopped him with a hand to his arm. "Mr Holmes," he said, looking imploringly up at Sherlock. "Will nobody explain what is happening?"
Sherlock sighed. "I'm sorry," he told Doyle, "but they already have." And then he was gone, hurrying to catch up with the retreating figures of the Watsons.
Doyle watched them go, eyes narrowed as they faded into the distant darkness. Then he squared his shoulders and went back inside, closing the front door and leaning against it, shoulders slumped. He ran a hand over his face with a sigh. The day had made him unsure about many things, but of one thing he was certain – he would never again see his cape.
-o0o-
Sherlock caught up with John and Harry half a block down the road. He slowed down to a walk, trying to regain his breath. "That went well," he commented.
Harry glanced sideways up at him, and gave a small smile of amusement. John kept staring straight ahead. "Why did you tell him everything, Harry?" he asked calmly, ignoring Sherlock.
"He didn't believe any of it," she said, immediately defensive. "It didn't matter."
"Didn't matter?" John's walking pace increased slightly, as did the pitch of his voice. "What if Mr Conan Doyle decides to tell someone about the crazy people walking around London in the dark? What if he calls the police on us for theft? It won't be too hard to find three people with funny clothes and a ridiculous stolen cape!" He paused. "Why did you steal the ridiculous cape, anyway?"
Harry smirked to herself. "Well, brother, I don't know if you've noticed this, but Sherlock is human."
Sherlock, who had been tuning out their bickering, jumped slightly at the sound of his name.
John frowned. "So?"
"And we're not."
"I noticed that." John was becoming irritable.
"And as unobservant as you are, you haven't realised that while we are perfectly warm, your poor friend is shivering like a leaf." Harry turned to Sherlock and took off the cape, reaching up to drape it over his shoulders.
He blinked at her in surprise. "Thank you," he said awkwardly, pulling the cape tighter around himself. It was warming up with his body heat. "You didn't have to do that."
"It's perfectly all right," she smiled.
"Now all you need is a deerstalker," John told him, "and you'll look just like the Sherlock Holmes from the books."
Harry looked at Sherlock again, and laughed. "I didn't realise that it was an Inverness cape," she apologised. "But it's true, if you had a hat and a pipe you would look just like Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock's mildly amused expression turned abruptly serious. "I am Sherlock Holmes," he told her for the umpteenth time.
"You knew what I meant," Harry said, raising an eyebrow at him; but the moment of happiness was gone.
Sherlock turned on his heel and walked quickly in the direction of Baker Street. John raised his eyebrows at Harry to say you've done it now, and went after his friend. Harry sighed and followed both of them, mentally cursing herself in all the languages she could think of.
-o0o-
Soon after, the time-travelling trio stood in front of 221B Baker Street. The gas street-lamp closest to the front door had gone out, making the tall row of terraced houses seem even more dark and foreboding. The empty, dead windows seemed to silently stare out into the street. Looking up at them, Sherlock felt a shiver run down his spine, despite the warm cape Harry had given him.
After glancing around to make sure nobody was watching, John walked up to the door and leaned his shoulder against it. He pulled out the sonic screwdriver and held it a few inches from the lock, pressing the button to make the tip light up and emit a buzzing sound.
Nothing happened. John frowned and pressed it several times in quick succession, with the pitch of the buzzing going up each time. After a few moments there was a crack and sparks flew out of the lock, and the door swung open.
John looked disapprovingly at the screwdriver. "Must be a problem with the thermocoupling synthesizer," he muttered, tucking the screwdriver back into his jacket. Glancing up and down the street once more, he went into the almost pitch-black hallway. Sherlock followed him in, and Harry brought up the rear, pulling the door to behind her.
With the door closed, it was impossible to see anything inside the narrow hallway, even with the Time Lords' superior vision. They stood in silence for a few moments, trying to get their bearings with no light to speak of.
John's voice interrupted the darkness. "Anyone got a torch?"
"Were we supposed to bring one?" That was Harry. "I thought that was your job, bringing things."
"I brought the screwdriver!" John replied indignantly.
"Will the screwdriver emit enough light to see anything?" Sherlock, the voice of reason.
A pause, then John sighed. "Might as well try it," he grumbled.
There was a shuffling sound, then the now-familiar buzzing sound could be heard, accompanied by a tiny red light that was barely visible in the pitch black. It did nothing to illuminate its surroundings; if anything, it amplified the crushing darkness that surrounded them completely.
"Maybe not." Sherlock sounded defeated.
"It was worth a try." Harry, trying to console him. There was a faint rustling sound. "All I've got in my pockets is a small kettle, some string, and…what's that…oh! Some celery."
"I would ask why you carry a vegetable around with you," John said, "but I'm afraid of what the answer might be."
"I was more concerned about the kettle," Sherlock remarked dryly.
Harry giggled, a sound soon swallowed up by the enveloping blackness. "What about you, John?"
"All I have is the screwdriver, a TARDIS key, and several candles from the time Sherlock and I had to raid a church."
"It wasn't a real church," Sherlock hastened to point out.
Harry sighed. "So what are we supposedly looking for?"
"Anything that might tell us where Dad is." John paused. "Maybe there will be more light in another room?"
"Could work." Harry was hopeful. "You lead the way."
"Oka-oof!" There was a dull thud, then John's voice floated through the darkness, significantly higher than usual. "Watch out for the bannister."
"Which bannister?" There was another thud, this time accompanied by the sound of a consulting detective hitting the floor.
"Sherlock? Are you all right?" Harry sounded concerned.
"I'm good. Mostly."
"You sure?"
A couple of footsteps could be heard, then Harry let out a small shriek. There was a softer thud, the sound of fabric hitting fabric. Then came a few seconds of silence, before Sherlock's matter-of-fact voice rang out. "Harriet, as comfortable as this position may be, I cannot move unless you get off me."
A choked cough came from John's direction. "What did you say?!" His voice (now back to normal pitch) was a mixture of concern and amusement.
"Sorry!" Harry's panicked, apologetic voice. "Zark. I am so sorry, Sherlock." There was a shuffling sound as she got up and righted herself on the hardwood floor.
"It's perfectly all right." The amusement in Sherlock's voice was audible. "But I'm not sure I want to guess what 'zark' means."
"You shouldn't be teaching him words like that, Harry. Or falling on him."
"Like I said, John, it's all right. While your sister was busy knocking me to the ground, I remembered that this cape has pockets." There was a rustling of thick fabric. "And fortunately, it seems our friend Mr Doyle is quite the resourceful man."
A moment of fumbling in the darkness, then came the unmistakeable sound of a match being struck. A tiny flame sputtered to life, slowly growing in size until dim figures could be made out in the blackness.
"Brilliant," John breathed.
"Good old Doyle," Harry murmured in agreement. "Now, if you use those candles from that church, John, we should be able to see."
"It wasn't a real church," John mumbled, reaching into his pockets and bringing out three long objects. Between them, he and Sherlock managed to light the candles, and they were distributed amongst the time-travelling trio within seconds.
There were several moments of silence as they took in their surroundings as best they could from the dim, flickering light of the candles. The stairs loomed above them on one side, and on the other stood a door which would later lead to Mrs Hudson's flat. Apart from that, the hallway was an empty shell, with no furniture or furnishings to speak of.
John swallowed audibly. "Okay," he said carefully. "I'll take this floor. Sherlock, you take the middle floor, and Harry take the top. Got it?"
Sherlock and Harry nodded in understanding. John turned around slowly, making sure not to blow out the candle, and carefully opened the door to the downstairs flat, disappearing into the darkness. Sherlock glanced apprehensively up the stairs and began to make his way up, Harry close behind.
They paused at the top of the flight of stairs. "What's up there, then?" Harry asked, squinting into the absolute darkness further above them.
"In my time, there's a bedroom that John uses," Sherlock told her. "I'm not sure what it is now."
She nodded bravely. "Right then," she said. "Wish me luck."
"Good luck," he told her.
Harry rolled her eyes. "It's an expression," she muttered, making her way up the stairs.
Sherlock watched from below as the light from her candle was swallowed up by the darkness. Then he turned and silently opened the door, slipping through into the room beyond without making a sound.