Lost In Time (WhoLock, On Hold)

One

The walls of 221B Baker Street were covered in paper. Never-ending rows of paper. When you thought one wall was enough, you would turn to the right and see another wall, white and grey from the papers. By the table, where most of the papers that didn't fit on the wall laid, sat a man. His light eyes were glued to the screen as he pressed his long, pale fingers against his lips in a pose of thinking. His dark brows would knit together whenever an impossible thought crossed in mind, but nothing could possibly be more impossible than what he was investigating now.

The man by the table rose and buttoned his suit-jacket together as he approached one of the walls. Without caring, the man stepped on the small, black table that, to him, was too much in the way to be called furniture. He took one step and stopped on the sofa, his light eyes squinted as he looked at one of the pictures that helped covering the otherwise black-grey wall.

The picture was of a man. The picture was too old to see what the man would look like in colour, but the man could tell that this man had had dark hair and a very strange choice of clothing. The photograph was from the late 1940s, where he hoped people wouldn't go dressed in a bow-tie or a light tweed-jacket. The man in the photograph stood next to Winston Churchill, seemingly at ease with the fact that he stood next to the prime-minister of Britain. The man went on to the next photograph. This one showed a picture of a man, dressed in an ankle-long coat and a pin-striped suit. The man's hair was combed back in a ridiculous hairstyle, but strands of what he actually looked like without the combed-back hair, had escaped from the style of his hair. This photograph was in colour, but was slightly damaged due to the weather and the years it had spent in someone's basement. This picture was from the Queen's coronation.

The row of pictures went on like that. Different men appearing throughout history. And why these photos intrigued the Consulting Detective, no one except himself knew.

He wasn't intrigued because of the twelve men who appeared everywhere, from the time of the Aztecs, to the 21st century. The same man who'd visited Churchill, had later been seen in a photograph from the 1970s, seemingly un-aged with thirty years. What intrigued him the most, was the sighting of a blue box at the time everyone of the photos or sightings had been made. The Aztecs had carved "the tale of the immortal man" in one of their temples. Churchill had written in a journal of the times the un-aged man had visited him in the War Room during the London Blitz.

He kept inspecting the pictures, ignoring the ringing doorbell. The ringing continued but he kept ignoring it. He frowned as he continued to the next row of photographs, these pictures taken somewhere around 1892. One of the pictures held the image of a young governess. The name and date on the back said;

Clara Oswin Oswald, governess in the Latimer house. Deceased 24th December 1892.

The man let his eyes leap across a group of photos consisting the same woman. The only problem with the photos were that the they were taken 1893 as well as the 1980s. Something he kept telling himself, was that time travel was impossible in every aspect. The second thing he kept telling himself was that you couldn't possibly feel attracted by someone in a photograph. Though John Watson had kept making remarks on some of the women on EastEnders. That was before he got married of course. Now all he saw was Mary Elizabeth Watson.

He jumped off the couch and walked to the mantelpiece, where the he stopped, staring at his own pale face, deep bags due to lack of sleep under his eyes. For once, he felt exhausted.

"Sherlock?" A kind, warm voice said from the door. He turned his gaze from his tired face and it now fell upon the small, old woman by the door. "Didn't you hear the doorbell? There's someone to see you." She said. "It kept ringing, so I ignored it." Sherlock said, his tone saying it should have been obvious to everyone to ignore a ringing doorbell. The kind woman exited the room, rolling her eyes at his statement. "I'll send her up." She said and she went down the stairs. Her? Sherlock thought and walked over to the window. He caught nothing but a flapping, green coat and a mane of brown hair before his landlady let the woman inside.

"Just up the stairs, dearie." The woman said. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson." The client said, and, Sherlock could hear it clearly, smiled. He didn't bother to turn around as he listened to the light steps of the newcomer in the stairs. The steps stopped before the owner could reach the door. Sherlock listened as the owner took a deep breath and walked on unsteady legs up the last step and placed a light knock on his door. Sherlock turned and halted in the motion before it could be completed.

Standing by his door, was the woman who'd appeared in all the different places throughout history. The woman who probably did one of the things Sherlock imagined most times; time travel. The Impossible Girl.

"Hello, I'm Clara Oswald. Are you Sherlock Holmes?" The young woman asked and gave him a faint smile.

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A/N; the chapters won't be very long, and I probably will be very bad at updating!

//mathildaHilda