The Shadowmen

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

The Doctor stepped outside the TARDIS, snapping his fingers and shutting the doors.

"Alright then," he acknowledged Sherlock although he was facing the opposite direction, "we should probably make our way into the apartment through a back door or window. I've got my sonic-"

Sherlock cut him off, "No need. The creature obviously knows we're coming, sneaking in will only waste time."

"You're suggesting that we just walk through the front door?" The Doctor scoffed, "If it knows we're coming, we should divert its attention. A distraction could-"

"Doctor, believe me, I know what I'm doing. If I were in need of your comments, I would have asked you for them in the first place."

The Doctor opened his mouth as if to say something, but dismissed the thought.

"You know, you should stop interrupting me. It's really quite rude."

Sherlock chuckled, "You sound like John."

"I'll take that as a compliment." the Doctor replied.

The two men entered the apartment through the front door, much to the Doctor's annoyance.

"A bit too chilly, don't you think?" the Doctor could see his breath, it was so cold.

Sherlock nodded, though he obviously hadn't heard the Doctor at all. His eyes were everywhere, taking in everything around them.

"For a building of this structure," he knocked on the wall, "the cold shouldn't be able to get in. Yet the temperature inside the building seems to be lower than that of the outside. Which means that the cold originates from something, or someone, here, or somewhere else in this apartment. But what is its source?"

He continued to search the apartment lobby, occasionally lifting an object from its resting place.

"No," he said, eyes widening, "that's impossible." His hands had reached the thermostat, which seemed to have been broken long ago.

"But, if the thermostat is broken... How-"

"How is there cold air being regularly distributed into this room, and specifically this room?" Sherlock finished the Doctor's sentence for him.

The Doctor nodded, too overwhelmed to care that Sherlock had cut him off again.

"Which means," Sherlock continued, "that the source is either in this room, or at least near it."

"Which also means that it is most likely an animate creature, an alien for that matter, and is probably holding a grudge against me. Wonderful." the Doctor cleared his throat, before gesturing to the open air around him.

"Hello, then! I'm the Doctor, this is Sherlock. Have we met?"

At that, a loud, deep voice filled the room.

"Sherlock, Sherlock. Have you come to meet your master at last? Or are you still figuring out where you came from?"

Sherlock glanced around the room.

"'Came from'? And what does that mean, exactly?"

"Has my favourite detective forgotten how to deduct? Pitiful. I imagined you so much smarter."

Sherlock's voice was unstable now. "I don't understand."

"Have you really forgotten? We were so close, you and me."

"Then tell me who you are."

"There's no need for that."

"Then what am I? And why am I here?"

"You really don't know, do you?" the voice chuckled. "You are a work of fiction, Sherlock, you have always been. You were forged out of memory. Your existence is accidental, and you have no one to thank but me for granting you life."

The Doctor had been standing silently until then, but now he spoke.

"It was you, wasn't it?" he talked slowly, but his voice was strong. He knew what he was saying. "You're the reason why the books don't exist."

"Clever, this one." the voice said. "Go on."

"'Forged out of memory.' But how did you do it? To change history, to bring the Sherlock Holmes stories to life... That would take energy, and a lot of it. What could you possibly be?"

A woman appeared before them.

Her long, red hair would had set her apart no matter where she was. She looked exactly as she did the day she died, her circular glasses still sitting on her nose.

The Doctor's breath hitched.

Amy.