Sherlock's Doctors - a Wholock Crossover

1 - The Impossible Case

Hello! Before I start this story, I would just like to say that I love every single one of you. This is my first Wholock-or Sherlock, for that matter-fanfiction. If you enjoy the story, or think it needs some pointers, leave feedback! If you do enjoy it, please vote for this story :). Thank you again for choosing to read "Sherlock's Doctors - a Wholock Crossover".

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"BORED!" yelled a baritone voice from within the flat 221b. A man with sand-colored hair slammed his laptop shut and raced from his bedroom to the main room where the owner of the baritone voice was laying face-up on the couch. The man who was now getting a head rush from standing up too quickly breathed a sigh of relief to see that the man with sharp cheekbones laying on the couch did not have a pistol in his hand, as they were both placed in a praying position underneath his chin. His dark curls were fanned out on his face and he had his eyes closed.

"Then go find a case, Sherlock! You've been laying in that exact spot for three days straight now-"

"I have been staring at this peculiar crack in the ceiling. Also, Lestrade has no cases for us to do, so unless he has emailed you, John, there is nothing to do," answered Sherlock in a bored voice. He kept his eyes closed the whole time as he was speaking to John.

"Lestrade is on vacation right now. He told us that four days ago. He told us we would have to find our own cases to keep us satisfied," responded John in an annoyed voice.

"If there was a case to do, some bloke would have showed at the door by now," stated Sherlock. John was getting extremely annoyed by this point.

"Fine! I'll look in the papers for something since you obviously are too lethargic at the moment to do anything for yourself." With that, John went down to the front door of their flat to get the daily newspaper. Sherlock opened his blue-green eyes to an empty flat. He got up suddenly, stood on the sofa, and inspected the crack in the ceiling. The crack seemed perfect; almost too perfect. It wasn't a straight line that looked like an Etch-a-Sketch, it bended at crooked angles. It had no side cracks branching off, it was a solid line. It couldn't have been from water, nor infrastructural damage. His mind could not deduce the reason for the crack appearing.

Sherlock almost fell off the couch when he heard the front door. He was so mesmerized by the perfect crack, he forgot about John's travel downstairs to get the papers.

"Sherlock, I looked through the paper on my way up. On the second page, there are reports of people missing without a trace," reported John. He was excited that there was actually a case that might be interesting enough for Sherlock to do. Sherlock turned around within an instant to stare his blogger in the eyes.

"How many victims? What age, gender, race?" inquired Sherlock.

"4 known victims, one female, three males," he read. "The woman is 27, one male is 30, one is 20, and the other is 23. The 23 year old man is African American, the rest are white. Only the 30 year old and the woman have families they are missing from." Sherlock snatched the paper from John. Sherlock read on to see that they all had different job occupations and no family or friend relations. However, they were all going to the same place when they were noticed missing by their friends and families; the cemetery down the road a bit from the flat. The disappearances occurred over the past week. Sherlock was perplexed; a cemetery kidnapper? However, he wouldn't know until the impossible had been ruled out; whatever remained must be true.

"So, Sherlock? Is it a case worth our time?" John asked, hope lining his voice. He could not stand to see Sherlock laying on the couch, not doing anything except staring at the crack in the ceiling.

"I will need contact information for each of the four people who reported each disappearance," Sherlock requested of John. John immediately got to work searching the police site for names. He couldn't be any happier, and Sherlock couldn't be any more confused by the crack in the ceiling.

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Sherlock and John were now inside of the woman's house, talking with her husband.

"She left around 3:00 p.m. on Sunday, and... and she told me she would text me on her way back and when she got there. She texted me when she got there at... at about 3:20, i-it's a fair walk from here, but s-she never texted me when she was on her way home," the 29-year-old man said through his tears and sobs.

"Who was she going to see?" John asked quietly. He didn't want to upset the poor man any more than he already was.

"She was going to see her... grandfather. He passed away 5 years ago on t-the day," the man trembled. "Oh please! Please, I beg of you, please find my wife! She is everything to me! We were discussing... we were discussing having our first child before she left and I just love her so much, I can't imagine where she is, just please find her!" he pleaded miserably.

"Okay sir, thank you for your time," John said after a moment. He stood up and followed the already-standing Sherlock out the door. He did not say a word the whole time, just taking in all of the information being thrown at him.

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After the visiting the other three victims' family and friends, they were no closer to where they were in the beginning of the case. Sherlock did all of the research he could on possible kidnappers, but none made sense for them to take the four people in the same spot.

"John, why would someone just kidnap 4 cemetery visitors? They didn't come for the same person, they don't know each other, and no one at all was in the cemetery besides the victims themselves at their respective times!"

"Sherlock, you must not be thinking straight. You always know what happens in cases like this! You always have an answer! I think you've been drugged again-" John started, but was cut off by Sherlock.

"Well, what if I don't know?! What if I am perplexed for once?!" Sherlock screamed at John, causing him to cower back a step. Sherlock saw this, felt a pang of guilt, and recomposed himself. His emotions were coming back; he couldn't let that happen on a case like this.

"What do you think the answer will do, just appear in a tangible form?" John asked the other man in the room. Sherlock then heard the strangest sound a moment later; it was the sound of an engine, but it was like no cab nor motorcycle he had heard. He peered out the window to see a blue police box on the sidewalk of Baker Street.

"John?" Sherlock whispered. John rushed over to the window, hearing the concern in the detective's voice. He too saw the box, and his eyes went huge. After a minute of awe and speculation, Sherlock spoke again in a slow voice.

"This might be our tangible answer."