There was women puking in the bushes. The Doctor couldn't remember her name. She was pale and shaking. He crossed over to her and gently put a hand on her shoulder. Ever so slightly, she leaned into him, obviously grateful for the comfort. "Are you alright?" the Doctor asked softly.
"I will be," she replied, doing her best to keep her voice from shaking. "Thank you."
The women heaved again, but nothing came out. Her stomach had been emptied. The Doctor said nothing as he rubbed circles soothingly on her back, waiting for her to calm down. "I'm sorry," she finally managed to say.
Tires crunched on the pavement. A door opened and closed. Sherlock and John had arrived. The Doctor continued to rub her back as he watched them approach. "In my line of work, I've seen many horrors that prevent me from sleeping at night. This case is up there among the worst of them. You're very brave for being here. What's your name?"
"Sally Donavan, sir," she replied.
"It's nice to meet you, Sally. I'm the Doctor."
Clara had been watching the scene with interest. A faint smirk rested on her lips. She knew that he had so much compassion, even though he tried to hide it, and he suspected that she understood that too. Because after two thousand years of his dangerous lifestyle, he had suffered more heartbreaks than he cared to remember.
When John and Sherlock had joined him, the group of investigators made their way into the house. The sight that greeted them was even worse than the previous murder. The corpse of a man lay on the floor. There was so much blood. The stench was overpowering. His chest had been viciously sliced. His head had been cut open more carefully, leaving his open, empty skull exposed. His eyes were also missing. Blood pooled around his sockets.
Something was gripping the Doctor's elbow tightly, pulling him out of his shock. He turned to see Clara, pale-faced and wide-eyed. Though Clara was generally not very squeamish, it was easy to see how the sight of the corpse was affecting her. He placed his hand over hers and squeezed.
John Watson had also gone pale, and he was doing his best to avoid looking at the body. Sherlock, however, was kneeling beside the victim, eyes soaking in all the information. "She bled out from the slash in her chest," he said. He stood up and swept the room with his eyes. "Yes, this is our killer."
Having regained some composure, John began to examine the body with gloved hands. "It doesn't appear that anything is missing besides his brain and eyes."
The grip on the Doctor's arm let up. He released Clara's hand and began scanning the room with his sonic screwdriver. All the readings pointed to the same alien. He looked up at Clara, who was examining the doorway with a mixture of awe and horror.
"Something's different," Sherlock announced. "This time, the creature was hungrier. She enjoys this."
"How can you tell?" John prompted.
"The scratch marks are deeper, plus the man didn't make it very far into the house before she attacked."
The Doctor turned his eyes back to the body. The whole room seemed be red with blood. He looked down at his hands uncomfortably. The whole situation was reminding him of the blood that covered them. There was so much, just like the corpse. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, trying to suppress the memories inside.
A warm hand touched his shoulder. He knew it was Clara without having to look up. He couldn't look up. He couldn't meet her eyes. When she pulled him into a hug, he didn't have the strength to complain.
When she withdrew, he was finally ready to look at her. Her eyes were warm and understanding. "Alright?" she asked quietly.
The Doctor nodded. "So, two questions," he began, stepping into the center of the room. "First- why? Why is she doing this?"
"She's studying us," Clara supplied.
"She also enjoys it," Sherlock pipped up.
The Doctor nodded his approval. "Second question- is she working alone?"
This time, it was John who answered. "Yes, otherwise we would have run into her friends when we searched her hideout. There would also probably be evidence of more than one alien at the crime scene."
Sherlock's eyes lit up with pride. Suddenly, the man reminded the Doctor a bit of himself. John was his Clara.
"Very good," the Doctor replied.
"But how does a creature that large run around London unnoticed?" Sherlock mused aloud.
"Perception filter, perhaps?" Clara asked.
"That's what I thought as well," the Doctor replied, smiling slightly.
"We need a plan of attack," John stated.
"Well, we know where she lives. Why not just go and shoot her?" Sherlock asked.
"No," the Doctor responded vehemently. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his violent reaction. His eyes were doing that thing again- that thing where he was picked apart and mentally dissected. "We take her back to her own planet where she can be tried for her crimes."
"Or we could just kill her ourselves. It would be much simpler," Sherlock pressed.
The two men stared each other down for a minute before the sound of Clara's phone drew the Doctor's eyes away. "Is that P.E.?" he groaned.
"He's not a P.E. teacher," Clara hissed before stalking away to answer.
The Doctor returned his gaze to Sherlock. He was no longer glaring. Instead, his eyes held a certain understanding. It unnerved the Doctor that this stranger could tell so much about him just by looking at him. "Alright," Sherlock agreed. "Your plan."
He blinked in surprise. "Er, yes. Of course. I should have everything we need in the TARDIS."
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
To say that Sherlock was surprised would be an understatement.
When he turned the corner and saw the blue Police Box, his eyes widened in surprise. "That's yours, I'm assuming," he said, addressing the Doctor. "Not exactly inconspicuous."
"I like it," the Doctor replied, his voice full of pride.
It was amazing how much regular people saw without observing. There was an old-fashioned police box on the street corner, and nobody had questioned it. Incredible. Sherlock wondered if that was how the Doctor's paper worked.
The Doctor put a hand on the box. The gesture was almost loving. So, the box served as some sort of transport, then. Something he had owned for a long time. The Doctor pushed open the door. "Come on in," he invited.
Even Sherlock could not have deduced what was about to happen.
He stepped inside and blinked, sure that he could not trust his eyes. A large control room spread out before him with hallways leading into the vast expanse that was the TARDIS. The great genius was at a loss for words. All he could do was stare as the Doctor danced around the console, grinning madly.
"Bloody hell," John said from somewhere behind him. "It's bigger on the inside."
The Doctor's smile grew even wider. "You know, two thousand years, and I'm still not tired of hearing that response."
Since he was chasing a murderous alien lizard around London, Sherlock supposed that he could trust his senses on this. It was incredible. "What are you?" Sherlock asked.
"I'm a Time Lord. The very last of my kind," he replied.
"And the others all died in the war you fought in?"
A dark shadow crossed the Doctor's face. "They were trapped in another dimension," he said softly.
Sherlock nodded, his eyes flying around the TARDIS, taking it all in. There was the screen with numbers labeled as time coordinates, a great number of nobs and levers, and a mess of cords strewn about underneath the console. He began to get a vague idea of how to fly it. "So you're a time traveler then," he stated. "Never thought I would be saying that sentence."
John let out an unbelieving laugh. "You're serious?" he asked.
"Of course, John, do keep up. He's a two thousand year old Time Lord with a monitor measuring time coordinates in possession of technology well above our standards."
Clara cleared her throat. "Enough showing off, Doctor. I assume you have a plan?"
With a clap of his hands, the Doctor spun around and bounded up a flight of stairs, taking the steps two at a time. It was funny, Sherlock thought, that a man so old could have that much energy. "Electricity!" he shouted, as he bounced about, in search of something. He finally came to a stop as he opened a cabinet. "And vinegar," he added, pulling out a bottle.
Beside him, Clara sighed irritably. "Yeah, any time you want to fill us in would be great."
For a moment, Sherlock stared at the bottle in the Doctor's hand, his mind racing. "Oh of course! They're allergic to vinegar. Calcium based."
The Doctor bounded over to the other side of the TARDIS and picked up something that looked like a copper probe. "I can hook this up to the TARDIS and send a jolt through our alien friend to knock her out. The vinegar can be used in an emergency," he explained quickly. He leapt over the railing and nearly dove under the console. He wrapped a copper wire around the probe and hooked it into what appeared to be an outlet. Sherlock hoped that the Doctor wasn't about to blow up the TARDIS.
As a finishing touch, the Doctor dug a copper hook out of his pocket and attached it to the probe. "Like going fishing," he commented. "We're going to park the TARDIS right outside the building. Clara, when I tell you to push the button-" he pointed at a small, red switch- "you push it. Sherlock, John, you'll be holding the vinegar, and I'll hook the probe onto her. Should be easy."