The fierce wind picked up the sand, throwing it everywhere. John shielded his eyes. He couldn't see anything but sand. In the distance, he heard shouting. He walked towards it, putting all his energy into keeping upright.

Throughout the panic, John was able to make out the word "ambush" being shouted. Swearing to himself, he drew his gun and frantically searched for the enemy. The wind started to die down, and John could see the forms of his men looking equally frantic as gunshots rang out.

Then, instead of sand covering his vision, it was blood. He covered in the stuff- both his own and his comrades. He tried to run to help his fallen friends, but the sand held his feet fast. John stared helplessly as he sank into the unforgiving desert hell bent on swallowing him whole. He gathered all his strength and pulled against the quicksand.

John hit the floor with a loud thud. He sat up quickly. His eyes darted around the room, taking in his surroundings. He was in Victorian London, in Vastra's guest bedroom. Not Afghanistan. As relief coursed through him, he pulled himself up onto the bed.

The door creaked lightly. John turned to face Clara, standing in the doorway. "Are you alright?" she asked softly.

John motioned for her to come in. "Yeah. What are you doing up?"

Slowly, she shut the door behind her and sat next to John on the edge of the bed. "I couldn't sleep. I was just walking past when I heard you."

He took in her red, puffy eyes and the way she hunched over herself slightly. It didn't take a detective to see that she was upset. John wrapped his arm over her shoulders, and she leaned into him. "Nightmare?" she asked.

"Yeah," John replied. "Happens every now and then."

"Tell me about it," Clara gently prompted.

John sighed. "Before I lived with Sherlock, I was an army doctor in Afghanistan. I saw a lot of action; a lot of terrible things. I used to get them much more often, but ever since I started taking cases with Sherlock, everything's been much better."

Clara found his hand and squeezed it gently. "I'm glad you have him," she said.

The warmth of her hand was strangely comforting. John held on, letting himself enjoy her presence for a moment in silence. She sighed in contentment. In the dark, John could see a small smile on her lips. Tiredly, she blinked her red eyes. "So, what happened?" John asked.

She bit her lip gently before answering. "Danny called. He made me recount everything I've done on this investigation, including being poisoned by a homicidal alien and hunted down by assassins. He was so mad at the Doctor at first, but then he started yelling at me, saying that I had to leave the Doctor now. I tried to explain to him that I can't because I'm addicted to this lifestyle. He m-made me choose, and of course I had to choose the Doctor, I had to-" she said, her voice breaking at the end. She squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to block out the tears.

John pulled her closer to him. She brought her feet up onto the bed and curled into him. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. He brought his fingers up to wipe away a stray tear. "He shouldn't have done that to you."

"Do you think I chose right?" Clara asked.

"Are you happy with your choice?" Clara only nodded. "Then yes, I do."

"Thank you," she whispered.

"My first girlfriend after I moved in with Sherlock broke up with me after we were kidnapped and nearly killed because of our association with Sherlock," John said. Clara giggled. A genuine smile broke over her features. "Sherlock even showed up on our first date because he was trying to hunt down a Chinese gang of criminals."

"That does sound pretty bad," Clara replied with a yawn.

John continued to recount the entire case. Her eyes grew heavier with each passing minute. Finally, as he was telling her about their last return to the bank, she fell asleep. He checked the time. It was about four in the morning. He gently laid her down on his bed. It wasn't as if he was going to sleep anymore. Trying to sleep after a nightmare was useless.

In sleep, Clara's face had relaxed, making her look years younger. John planted a chaste kiss on her forehead and brought the blankets up over her shoulders. As quietly as he could, he left the room.

John walked down the long hall to Sherlock's room. The light was on. John knocked softly on the door. "Come in," came Sherlock's muffled reply. He entered to see Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the bed with his hands clasped under his chin. His coat and scarf were strewn about on the mattress. John shut the door and moved to sit beside him.

"This changes everything," Sherlock began without preamble. "The assassins. It's going to be harder to catch Dadre now."

"What if we tried to find them first?" John suggested.

Sherlock nodded his approval. "It may be difficult, but the Doctor should be able to track them down using the energy left behind by the vortex manipulators. With any luck, he'll be able to pinpoint their exact location in time, and we find them still unconscious. He's working on it now, actually, in the TARDIS, but I can imagine it's a little difficult without power. He has a tracking device though, which is decent enough."

"Does he ever sleep?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head. "Did you sleep any?"

"No. I've had more important things to do. Like trying to figure out how to catch a murderer and two assassins. Would you like some tea?"

John blinked in confusion at the abrupt change of subject. "Tea? Now?"

"Doesn't it help with your nightmares?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh," John responded lamely. "No. I wouldn't want to wake our hosts. But thank you."

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

After studying the maps, Sherlock thought he had an idea of where the assassins could have been hiding out. Though it was unlikely they would be there, chances were high that whatever they used to stop the TARDIS would.

John had fallen back asleep on Sherlock's bed. It was normally impossible for him to sleep after a nightmare, but the past few days had taken their tole. Sherlock let him rest undisturbed.

When he heard the front door open, he left his room to greet the Doctor. His face held frustration. Unable to locate them then, Sherlock thought to himself. "I know where they were hiding," Sherlock said.

The Doctor glanced at him in surprise. "How could you know that."

Sherlock pulled the map from his pocket and pointed. "The weapon that brought down the TARDIS would have to be big, and two giant lizards running around London would raise questions. It would also be somewhere pretty close."

The Time Lord nodded in agreement. "You think they were on the library roof. The tallest building close by. Plus, they have a nice attic. It makes sense."

Sherlock shoved the map back into his pocket and grabbed his coat from the coatrack. "Shall we?" he asked as he slid it on and exited the house.

This was normally where Lestrade would tell him to slow down, or where John would complain about him rushing into things. The Doctor, however, followed close behind him without a word. It was a different feeling, having somebody who was so like him around. Clara was right about us, Sherlock mused.

The sun was rising over the Victorian city. Fresh, spring leaves covered the tree branches, reaching out towards the street. A few birds chirped back and forth, breaking the morning silence. The quiet made Sherlock uneasy. Something felt wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He looked back over his shoulder, but there was nobody else out. The Doctor looked equally disturbed. It was too easy, Sherlock realized.

He quickened his pace as he turned the street corner. There was a women tending to her yard. She exchanged pleasant greetings with the two geniuses. Sherlock eyed her warily. Her husband's cheating on her, he deduced silently to himself. It was obvious, really. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and she kept glancing down at her ring, which was starting to rust.

They turned another corner. A teenage girl was sneaking into her house through the second story window. It wasn't the first time either, judging by the ease in which she perched herself on the tree branch (no easy feat in her gown) and pried the window open with one hand. It didn't take a genius to know that she had been with a boy.

Sherlock and the Doctor took a right turn and found themselves staring at the library. Anything could be on the roof, and they wouldn't be able to see it from here. Sherlock approached the door and pushed it open. The musty smell of old books hit his nose. He smiled slightly to himself as he took in the sight of rows of bookshelves.

"This way," the Doctor said, taking the lead. Sherlock followed him to the counter. He pulled out the blank paper he had used at the crime scene and showed it to the woman behind. "Doctor John Smith and Sherlock Holmes: building inspectors," he introduced. Sherlock watched curiously as the women only nodded. "Do you mind if we have a look in your attic?"

"Not at all," she replied. "Top floor, east corner. You'll find the latter there."

The Doctor thanked her and made his way to the stairs. "How does that work?" Sherlock asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

"Psychic paper. It shows people whatever I want them to see," the Doctor answered, climbing.

"Then why don't I see anything?" Sherlock asked.

The Doctor shrugged. "Perhaps because you're a genius."

Sherlock considered the Doctor's answer as he followed behind him. Just as the women had said, the pair found the hatch leading up to the attic in the east corner of the top floor. He pulled it open, and the latter slid down. Without hesitating, Sherlock climbed.

Dust hung in the air, making it harder to see in the dim space. He pulled himself completely inside, and the Doctor followed. "They were here," Sherlock said. "Look at the dust in this corner of the room."

Sherlock crossed the attic to take a closer look. As he expected, he found a hatch that led up the roof. "This wasn't originally here," he explained, opening it. "The assassins made it for their own purposes."

The Doctor quietly followed behind him as he climbed onto the roof. Sitting undisturbed in the middle was a satellite-like object. "Time Lord technology. How did they get that?" the Doctor wondered aloud.

He knelt down beside the object and examined it. Sherlock watched with growing interest as he scanned it. "Very old. Once owned by Daleks," he commented.

Had it been anybody beside the two geniuses on the roof, they might have missed the faint sound of scraping claws. However, both Sherlock and the Doctor heard it instantly. The Doctor leapt up and aimed his screwdriver while Sherlock clenched his fist and prepared to move quickly.

One of the assassins stood at the edge pointing a gun. Their arm shook slightly, and they're large, black eyes held tears. Dried blood decorated their face and arms, and a bloodstained cloak was draped around their trembling shoulders. "You're just a kid," Sherlock voiced his realization.

"You will help me," the assassin demanded. Her voice was rough, but it was defiantly a girl's voice.

"Not with that pointed at me," the Doctor replied gently.

She lowered the gun. "Please, will you help me and my brother?" she begged, her voice shaking.

Sherlock fought the urge to correct her grammar as the Doctor replied. "What do you need?"

"To escape," the assassin answered.

With his hand still up, Sherlock slowly approached the alien. He took her arms and examined the marks. "Dadre did this to you," he said. "And you want to escape her."

She nodded. "Take me to Raxacoricofallapatorius. I have more Raxacoricofallapatorian in me than anything else. Please."