The Doctor and the Detective [WHOLOCK]

Chapter One

A/N: Nothing more to say than: enjoy!

The room was silent. No one was allowed to talk, or even think when he was working. He sat at his desk staring out of the window; his hands placed under his chin in a way that looked like he was praying. But he wasn't praying: he was contemplating.

"All these sightings don't make sense, John," he said without moving his position in the slightest. "The box has been noticed at every sighting, along with a man. And the man has been identified as the same person each time."

"So why is that so unusual, then?" John replied, walking into the room with two fresh cups of tea. "The guy obviously owns the box."

"But it's not the same man, John. Just come and look!"

John slowly walked over to Sherlock. His leg still hurt him a bit, and without his stick he sometimes found it hard to walk. But when he was on a case the adrenaline rush made all the pain disappear. He leaned over Sherlock's shoulder, looking at the pages and pages of research they had both spent hours doing. The paper was plastered with photographs. Each picture contained a mysterious, blue box and a man standing next to it.

"Sorry, which one's the owner of the box?" John asked, perplexed.

"Him," Sherlock answered, once again not even moving a finger.

"Yeah," John replied in a tone which made Sherlock sound like an idiot. Then rolling his eyes he asked: "Which him?"

"All of them," Sherlock shouted suddenly springing to his feet and then going on to pace around the room. His hands were still pressed together and tucked nicely under his chin. This is how you could tell that something was troubling Sherlock. This is how you could tell that the greatest mind on Earth was curious.

"Apparently all of those men are the same person. Every single one of them. I've considered all of the options, John. All of them. Surgery just isn't possible, because no-one can change their face that much. Then I thought about masks. But there is no join line visible on any of the photos. Then finally I pondered on the idea of Photoshop. I've had people check that out, too, and that's just not it. I'm stumped John. Sherlock Homes is stumped!" Sherlock said, flopping on the sofa.

"Have you tried nicotine patches?" John asked.

"What? Oh, yes. I've currently got about five on each arm."

"Sherlock, that's harmful!"

"Yes, whatever then. But this is far more important." Sherlock said, hesitating. It was time for Plan B. "What are your theories, John?"

"My theories?"

"Yes, come on. You must have ideas about this case. They're probably all wrong, but it's always a laugh to hear them. Plus I haven't had any entertainment in days. Mrs Hudson stole my chemistry set." Sherlock said, a frown sloping on his face.

John was used to this rudeness from Sherlock. He knew that he wasn't being mean to anyone intentionally. It was just the way Sherlock was. Arrogant.

"Well, you may like to know I actually do have a theory." John said proudly. "But there's no point me telling you because you won't believe me."

"Go on, John."

"Well, I've done a bit of research. I've looked into witness accounts and Government documents and I've come to a conclusion."

"And that is..."

"He's not human."

Sherlock sat still for a moment. This idea was completely new to him. Something he'd never considered before. Admittedly, he didn't know a lot about the Solar System and Space, but he didn't believe in aliens.

"John, that's ridiculous! I know you like your sci-fi, but it's all just fantasy, especially Star Trek." Sherlock laughed, revealing his rare smile!

"No, Sherlock, I'm serious," John stated. "There's groups; associations and things like that. People that have proof that he is an alien. And it all adds up Sherlock. It makes sense."

Suddenly the air grew cold. Wind darted through the windows, lifting Sherlock's curly, raven hair up making it dance. The bookshelves started to shake, as bottles and flasks fell off the worktops and smashed, creating a crystal sea on the floor. John stumbled off to the kitchen to rescue what he could. But Sherlock just stood there, looking out of the window. A rectangular silhouette started to materialize opposite the detective's house. A flashing, blue light flooded the street. Finally, a wheezing, buzzing noise darted out of the box, which had now fully settled on the ground.

"I'm...err...I'm just going for some fresh air, John." Sherlock muttered, proceeding to the door to grab his famous coat and scarf.

"I head you say that once before, Sherlock, and you almost died."

But Sherlock had already gone off galloping down the stairs. It was happening. It was finally happening. Months and years of research had led up to this moment. Sherlock was now going to find out who this man is. Who he really is.