A Study In Blink (A Wholock Crossover)

Chapter fourteen

"SHERLOCK!"

But there was nothing. Nothing except the grey grass and the tombstones dotting the gloomy landscape, nothing left of Sherlock Holmes. 

Nothing. It whispered out to him, laughing and jeering. Moriaty's voice rang in his head, He's dead, Sherlock Holmes is dead. Dead. 

DEAD!

John refused to believe it, overcome by a stubborness he knew he had. Waved the voice away with a single sweep of his hand and tried to concentrate.

There was an area of grass which seemed to be slightly more crumpled than the other patches. This, John supposed, was the place they took him. 

His body numb, his mind swimming, John slowly lowered himself until he was crouching right before the little patch of grass. His fingers gripped the blades and slowly slipped through them, as easily as it was slipping through water. John closed his eyes, concealing all the pain and fear that he knew all too well would show eventually. This case was worse than any other they had had to crack, worse than serial killer cab driver, worse than the red-eyed murderous hound, worse even than that psycho maniac Moriaty.

His phone was ringing, and after about a minute, fingers trembling John finally picked it up. 

"I've been walking for 30 minutes straight and there's none of 'em bastards, how's your end?"

It took John even more time to answer, his voice souded dead to his own ears. "He's gone."

"What-who's gone? You don't mean Sherlock? Did he ran off again?"

"The angels, they took him. He's gone now."

Silence fell between the two, the doctor, and the detective, both dumbfounded at their current predicament.

Lestrade broke the silence, "what do we do now?"

John thought about it for a moment, gathering his thoughts and collecting his nerves. "Well, we can't keep looking for the angels, for I didn't know why Sherlock wanted to find them, only that he did. There'd be no use now that he's gone and-" John stopped abruptly, his train of thought had taken a completely different track and now, and now...

"What time is it?" 

"What?"

"It's half past two, this morning, at your house, the phone box, she said, five hours!"

Lestrade now sounded completely bewildered, "what are you talking about?"

"We have to get to your house, and quick. Meet me at the place where we started."

*******

Half an hour later, Lestrade and John were sitting at the kitchen table, staring intensely at the phone box.

"She said five hours later she'll call again," John recited, checking his phone every few seconds. Excitement now ebbed at his every cell, despite the previous events.

"Can't believe that was this morning. So much had happened."

"Yeah, I was there." 

There was a moment of silence between the two, and Lestrade, obviously uncomfortable, voiced the question.

"Are you...alright, John?" 

John didn't reply, he focused his gaze upon the little numbers on the screen.

15:01

"I know this is tough, for us both, but what exactly happened to Sherlock? What did he say before, you know."

John was spared an answer when the phone suddenly rang out loud. He jumped up from his seat and picked up the phone, giving Lestrade a meaningful look.

"Hello?"

"Hi, yes. So you're still here. Have you found out anything?" The girl, the same girl who'd phoned this morning.

"The angels took one of us."

Silence.

"The person from this morning?"

"Is gone."

John sucked in a deep breath, he was not about to get emotional, especially not in front of a stranger.

"I'm sorry, but have you found anything? Anything unusual at all?"

"Except for those bloody aliens who are disguised as stone statues and can zap people back in the past you mean?"

"Look, I know you've lost someone to the angels and you're in pain, I understand, I've lost some people close to me too, but sarcasm is not going to help us, so please tell me everything, every single bit of the angels activities and what they've done. Anything to do with the Doctor, anything at all."

And so he did, John recounted every bit of the five hours that had passed since the last phone call. When he'd finished, his eyes slipped to the sticky note on the phone box, Come help me Sherlock. 1934. 

"I should tell you, there's a note on the phone box, the police public call box you're phoning, in neat hand writing which probably belongs to this Doctor. It says, 'come help me Sherlock. 1934.'" John pressed his fingers to the note, and his index finger rested on the number. 

"1934, is that the year? The year the Doctor was sent to? But then how can he have written this note? And what's this phone box?"

"I see you're going to keep asking questions," the girl said, sounding a bit exasperated but nevertheless, she still seemed kind. "This is going to sound weird, but I think you can cope with that now. The Doctor is a time traveler, like he literally travels through time and space, and the police box, it's his time machine, it's called a TARDIS, T-A-R-D-I-S, I don't know what it stands for though, he never told me.

"And the first time I met the Doctor was through the angels, he sent me this DVD so we could communicate, the thing is, he's a time traveler, his past met my future and his future met my past, so I knew what was going to happen to him because he has already told me. Are you getting this?"

Sherlock had often called John and everyone else simple minded goldfish but in a emergency, John was quite quick to grasp the essentials. 

"Yeah, I think so."

"So I think the TARDIS and the note was sent to you as a clue, the Doctor had already gotten out of whatever he is in and sent you this because all of it had already happened, sort of like repeating whatever was done. What's your name by the way?"

"John Watson," said John.

"Okay John, we can't keep talking on the phone, we need to arrange a meeting so we could talk about these happenings and I need to see the TARDIS for myself. Where are you now?"

John told her the address of Lestrade's home.

"Alright, I'm coming over, and I'm brining Lawrence. But before I go, John, I'd been thinking about what you said, and your friend, they seemed to be aiming for your friend in particular. What's he like?"

"Well, he's an intelligent arse who solves crimes."

"How intelligent?"

"He could deduce anything just by looking at you."

"Wow that is some mind, so they've got the two great minds, now what?" She paused to think, then resumed, "stay put, I'm coming over. Something's definitely wrong with this picture."

Then she was gone. John turned around to face Lestrade, "did you get all that?"

Lestrade looked grim and the edges of his eyes were drooping dangerously, but he nodded.

"Alright then," John strolled over to the chair and sat down, "now we wait."