Author's Note: Fair warning, my updating schedules are a little bit erratic. A new chapter might show up an hour or a week after the previous one. I am kept very busy drinking tea and doodling on my homework.

A big thank you to everyone who reviewed, you guys are the best.

I do not own Sherlock or Doctor Who.

For the first few minutes, I just stared, dumbfounded, at the large azure rectangular prism standing in front of me. A testament to my own ignorance. Not that my mind needed any more blowing today, but I had the slightest feeling that this thing was legit. Random bits of improbable trivia floated through my head, refusing to sink in.

I had learned:

My flatmate is an alien who's real consciousness lives in a watch

My flatmate is an evil alien hell bent on world domination

My flatmate's older brother is an alien

My flatmate's older brother isn't really my flatmate's older brother

My flatmate's older brother travels through time in a wooden blue box

My flatmate does not any of the previous facts

Mycroft put his key back into the pocket of his waistcoat.

It was also impossibly large, on the inside. Just looking at it, it seemed like some sort of retro DIY projects, but as soon as you take a look at it's interior- massive and alien and strange and beautiful.

And it hummed. The TARDIS hummed. It hummed when Mycroft touched the controls, it almost purred, as if it was alive.

It later transpired that the spaceship was indeed alive.

The elder Holmes had dashed around the center console, displaying a level of agility I had not known he possessed, flipping and pushing a seemingly random combination of doohickeys. The cavernous room shifted suddenly and Mycroft held fast to the console, not bothering to remind me to do the same.

After picking myself up off the floor, the alleged Timelord waved his hand at the door. Pulling it open, I had had the greatest shock of my life, and it was myself. I had been standing there just like I was five minutes ago.

"What the-" I muttered, my eyes roving every facet of the room, searching for inconsistencies or evidence of fraud. Finding none, I resigned myself to the reality of the situation. Mycroft did indeed own a time machine. But I wasn't completely sold on the whole alien thing.

"If you're a 'Timelord', then how come you look human?" I tested. He only rolled his eyes and sighed.

"God, it's Amelia all over again…"

"What? Who's Amelia?" Mycroft waved away my question.

"You look Timelord, we were there first," he hovered in front of a strange monitor displaying an assortment of statistics in a different language.

"Okaay, so do you still travel around through time and space?" I asked, leaning against the cool metal railing.

"Egad, no. This regeneration has a very pronounced distaste for legwork. My universe saving days are over."

"Regeneration?" If my eyebrows went any higher they would come off my face.

"When a Timelord becomes injured, or old, or sick, we regenerate into a new body," he said, much as one who was simply assessing the weather.

"I'm sorry, but I'm just not buying it."

"Come here John," he beckoned me over, "Show me you wrist, the one you sprained on a case three days ago."

"Why?"

"Just do it," he grasped my forearm and placed his hand over my wrist, "Keep still, it won't hurt."

Mycroft's hand started to, well, glow. Gold light sprouted from his palm and surrounded my hand. After a few seconds the light receded.

"Take of the wrapping," I nodded and pulled the gauzy fabric and flexed my wrist.

"I-it isn't sprained anymore!" I felt around the area, the swelling and redness was gone as well as the pain, "You can just do that at will?"

"Yes, but I prefer not to, it wastes regenerative energy, though I guess I won't be needing it since I was grounded," he sighed.

"I had best be getting home, it's late," I glanced down at my watch.

"Yes, Sherlock will worry."

"I bet he doesn't even know I'm gone."

"Oh he does…" Mycroft murmured opening the door to the TARDIS and letting me out. Frowning, I left the Diogenes Club and hailed a cab, anxious to return home.

-oO0Oo-

The moment I stepped into the foyer of the new flat, I knew something was wrong. It was too quiet the be the home of a Holmes.

There was no violin music, no explosions, no quiet mutterings or gunshots. Nothing. With growing anxiety I stepped quietly into the 'living room'. Sherlock was there, in front of the window curled into the fetal position.

"Sherlock are you okay?" I question, kneeling down in front of him. He lifted his head and stared at me with ever widening eyes.

"John," he breathed, uncurling his long, gangly form.

"Is something wrong?" I put my hand on his shoulder. He looked over at the wall and let loose a cough sounding strangely like 'Not anymore'.

"Did you have a good time with Mycroft?" he intoned, trapping me in his silver eyed gaze.

"Er, yeah, I guess it was interesting," I choked out dropping my hand and standing up.

"He does tend to have that effect on people," Sherlock snarled, snatching my hand and pulling back down to the floor.

"What?"

"Give me your wrist." I gulped, but extended my arm in his direction, "This was sprained when you left, but now there are now traces of swelling, bruising, or discoloration. Quite a premature recovery if I do say so myself." He traced skeletal fingers across my skin, leaving trails of gooseflesh in their wake.

"It, er, got better…" I answered lamely, pulling my arm from his grasp.

"In three hours?" he admonished.

"Leave it alone Sherlock."

To my evident surprise, he did, shutting his mouth and leaning back against the wall.

"I assume you were talking with Mycroft about me then?"

"To a certain degree," I said cautiously, reminded of his previous self.

"He does constantly worry, god it's awful, what was it this time? My health?" Sherlock scoffed, scooting closer to me so that our knees touched.

"Your, er, well, um, your people skills," I finished, proud of my fibbing skills. (not really)

"My people skills are fine! I have you John, why would I need anyone else?" he spat, crossing his arms like a five year old. I grinned at him.

"Aww, Sherlock I think you're going soft!" I teased, trying ever so hard to mask the blush rising to my cheeks.

"I am not! I was just saying that my personal needs are fulfilled merely by your presence- wait-"

"That is the sweetest thing you have ever said to me!" I flashed a wicked grin, "Mycroft will be so pleased!"

"Oh god John, you know what I mean, now cease your driveling and make us some tea, I'm horribly thirsty."

"Anything for you," I quipped, gathering myself up from the floor and heading into the kitchen, thinking about my friend's real identity.

Oh Sherlock is sooooo cute isn't he? Critiques welcome!