Returning the cassette player, the song left them with befuddled looks on their faces. The song was rather odd; the accent was distinct, regional. None of them ever heard of anything like it. Then again John rather liked his talk shows. As for Sherlock… well… he never cared for the telly. Or the radio unless it served his needs, whatever those needs were.

John looked at the cassette tape in his hand and shook his head. "I don't see much of a connection, do you?" he glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock shrugged, "I'd say this case just got interesting."

"How could it be interesting, you were investigating a man's death? Suddenly you're now interested in some man in a plague doctor costume and a flock of ravens?" John questioned. Sherlock rolled his eyes, "John have we met?"

"Unfortunately," John sighed. Sherlock nodded, "Then you know what I'm about to say."

"Which would be?" John blinked. Sherlock shook his head, "I'm going to look into this man and his aide. You continue with the investigation on the tall man and the ravens."

"What, are you joking?" John balked. "Why do I have to do this?"

"You're the best," Sherlock said with a smile. John scoffed, "Unbelievable! You expect me to do this?"

"Yes," Sherlock said rather indifferent, without hesitation. His light blue eyes didn't even have a hint of contradictions in them. It ensured that Sherlock wanted John to actually continue asking around like a madman.

John sighed, "Why can't I investigate the man and his aide. You can investigate the tall man and the bloody ravens."

"Well, you said you had a nasty case of writer's block," Sherlock eyed him. "You said you wanted some new material."

John blinked, oh, he did mention that. John chewed on his lips, "How am I supposed to make a story out of this?"

"You're a writer, it'll come to you," Sherlock said with a shrug. John sighed, "Right then, what do you want me to look for?"

"Anything of interest," Sherlock replied. He then got up from the table, "Now, I'll be heading off and investigating the man and his aide. I trust that you will find out our answers."

"Wait, Sherlock, you hadn't paid yet," John pointed out as a waitress handed them the check. Sherlock shrugged, "I plum forgot my wallet."

"Oh, no, don't you do this to me," John scorned. "You got here somehow!"

"I had spare change," he heard Sherlock say as he paid the modest check. John muttered under his breathe, "Bloody hell."

Sherlock stepped out of the café and looked around. He stopped when he spotted a raven perched on a lamppost. He stepped near it and stared into its amber eyes, "You're watching me aren't you?"

The raven chirped, responding. Sherlock watched its eyes following his movement. "Who is your master?" he asked it, though it chirped. "Is your master near here, or is it masters?" he continued, again it chirped. Sherlock chewed on his lips, he glanced around. He expected to see someone watching from afar, but no one out of place came to mind. He glimpsed back at the raven, "Why are you so interested in us?"

The raven flew off and disappeared over the bakery. Sherlock gritted his teeth, "I'll find out sooner or later."

He marched off; he decided to ask around for the man and his aide. It would be against his morale if he didn't question every person available before he made his deduction. After all, he was the great detective of London. He pondered about the man and his aide, where they gone in the town. John mentioned he was an older gentleman, so he decided to ask the bookkeeper. Upon entering, Sherlock met with a smell fitting for a book store that sold timeless books. The dim lighting gave it a sepia look as Sherlock stepped toward the mahogany counter. A man with a bushy mustache stepped behind and gave Sherlock a look, "May I help you, sir?"

"Yes, I was wondering if an older man and his aide came in at any point," Sherlock asked. The man shrugged, "Can you be more specific, sir?"

"He might've been raving mad, talking about the tall man? His aide was a woman?" Sherlock said, pacifying his annoyance to having to explain things in finer detail. The man's eyes lit up, with interest it looked. He nodded his head, "Yeah, with the suit!"

"May I ask about him?" Sherlock looked. The man nodded, "Aye, he came in with his aide, nice lass, and was getting books left and right. He asked about the tall man, if we'd seen him. Told him I hadn't. 'Cause I'm out like a light after nine, medications. He was weird though, told me I shouldn't be anywhere near the tall man if I see him. I asked him why and he said he was dangerous. I think he's not all there, you ken?"

"I ken," Sherlock nods. He stopped, "What did he look like?"

"Ah, as tall as you, white hair, fine wrinkles, piercing eyes. He wore a blue suit when he came in," the man described. Sherlock chewed on his lips before responding, "Did he say where he might be heading to after here?"

"Well, that part I don't know, he was talking about heading back to the junkyard. As I said before, I think he wasn't all there," the man shrugged. Sherlock nodded, "Thank you for your time."

"Any time," the man nodded in return.

Sherlock left and hailed a cab. He asked for the Junkyard outside Sherwood. It wasn't big, considering the town's small population. But to Sherlock it held his answers. Stepping out of the cabby, Sherlock headed through the wide entrance. Piles of trash stacked and separated, plastic with plastic, metals with metal. He walked around, muttering under his breathe, why would a man be in a junkyard. It was so kept that it vexed Sherlock that he couldn't find his answers. He stopped and looked at a line of old police boxes. They must've been there for decades. Sherlock stepped near one and looked at the red paint that turned coppery in the later years. He sighed and gritted his teeth, muttering under his breath as he passed the police boxes. He stopped and looked behind. There was one police box that stood out from the rest, it was blue, but like the rest worn with age. Sherlock shook his head, "What was he doing here?"

He cocked his head when he heard something fall in the distant. He headed toward the direction of the sound, when he found the source it was nothing more than a fallen heap. Sherlock, in a fit of frustration, kicked the heap and turned. He thought he heard a noise, something akin to something scrapping against metal. Sherlock ran through the junkyard, hoping to catch whoever might've been. When he came back to the line of police boxes, he saw something he wasn't familiar with. All the red police boxes accounted for, but the blue police box was missing. Sherlock ran to where it was and looked around. Thoughts ran through his mind, no one could've taken it. The size alone would be enough to need at least two people to carry and he would've heard their footsteps. Sherlock chewed on his lips and looked around, it left him vexed and he wasn't bound to give up. It crossed his mind many times that perhaps he imagined it and that it was never there to begin with. Though his mind disposed such notion and theorized it was there and somehow it disappeared. And it made him agitated.

Blue, the word crossed his mind. Blue police box; he was trying to piece a theory about why it disappeared without him knowing. He was sure he was alone, as he saw nothing that hinted someone was in the junkyard with him. He stomped around the junkyard, trying to figure things out in his own way. He kicked a heap and it fell over, he was furious, at himself for missing the chance to catch a culprit red handed. He was about to leave when he heard the sound of a truck pulling up to the entrance of the junkyard. Sherlock ran as fast as his legs could bother to carry him to meet with an older gentleman stepping out of the truck. He was out of breath as he asked the man, "The blue police box, what happened to it?"

The man was staring at him; Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. He shouted this time around, "The blue police box, the one next to the red police boxes lined?"

The man blinked and something clicked and he pointed, "Oh, you mean that one? How much do you want?"

"Want?" Sherlock stopped, confused. He shook his head, "No, it's gone!"

"Calm down, lad, what's got your curls in a twist?" the man said, raising his hands. Sherlock began to talk about him working on a case and he was curious when he heard about a man and his aide. He stopped for a minute and the man seemed to have a look on his face. "Oh, right, him," he said, rather disinterested. He shrugged, "Must've come back for it."

Sherlock eyed him. He noticed and threw up his hands, "He kept some police box here. He said he had no other place to put it and I told him he could keep it here."

"Was he an older gentleman?" Sherlock stepped near him. The man nodded, "Younger than me, but that's the gist of it."

"Did he have an aide at his side?" Sherlock continued. The man nodded again. Sherlock waved his hand, "Do you know anything about him?"

"Not really, no, he showed up and asked if I could keep an eye on his police box," the man shrugged. Sherlock gritted his teeth, "Did he say where he may have gone, or anything of the sort?"

"He did ask me if I had any knowledge of the tall man, that's about it," the man sighed. Sherlock stopped, "Did he say anything about the tall man?"

"Said to his aide that he must've came here, 'cause he took off with her trying to catch up," the man remembered. Sherlock then asked, "Did he give you his name, or his aide's?"

"Actually, he did," the man rubbed his stubble. "Well, I caught the aide's, I didn't catch his. His aide's name is Clara and she was about to say his name but I guess running after him made it moot point. She called him, Doctor."

"Doctor," Sherlock echoed. The man nodded. Sherlock looked into the yonder, "Did you recognize him?"

"No sir, I didn't, he's a strange one, him," the man replied. Sherlock nods, "Thank you for your time."

"Any time, but um, do call me if you're looking for anything," the man watched him run out of the junkyard.

Sherlock texted John, John replied back that he at least found the origin behind the song. The name came from migrant workers, from Scotland. They were coming down for work and majority were looking to work in London, hence the London part. The Crow part came from the fact they "flocked" to the village as it was close to the border. And their faces blackened from the coals they would shovel as means to scrap together quick funds. There were many versions of the song; the original was in a mixture of Gaelic and Old English. The version they listened to was the "official" translation of the original. There was another version, one that was more recent, late forties-early fifties. This one was more popular than the original. It was popular enough to appear time to time on the radio on the radio stations that played the classics. John said he only learned the fact from talking to a woman whose name was Clara, he met her at the town's park.

Sherlock was quick to tell him that Clara was their only hope of tracking down the man.

Before he left, Sherlock glanced over to see a raven perched on the fencing. Its amber eyes followed him as he walked toward it, stopping so he didn't get too close and cause it to flee. Sherlock eyed the raven as it eyed back. For whatever reason known only to Sherlock, he held his arm outreached. The raven stared at it for more than a minute and flew off the fencing and landing on it. Its weight was twice that of the average weight of a raven. It wasn't the mating season, so it wasn't with eggs, nor was it female at all. Sherlock looked at the raven as it looked back. He petted its head gently, it head butted his finger, in affection. To a man like Sherlock, even he couldn't help but pet the raven. It was affectionate, which meant either it had plenty of human contact or raised one. Either of which indicated that someone did in fact raise a flock of ravens. Why, as echoed endlessly, who's to know?