Before Falling yet After Drowning

Chapter Three

Sherlock felt John tense beside him, and saw color flush into his cheeks. He knew that most people would be embarrassed in this type of situation, but Sherlock was more curious.

He watched the Doctor walk over and pluck the device from his hand. Immediately, the light turned off and the sound subsided. He held the object with surprising ease, as Sherlock had predicted. Now all he had to do was get him to explain what it was.

Had it really unlocked and opened a door from across the room? Or had the Doctor just walked in at the right moment? Either way, Sherlock was sure he'd had John lock the door.

However, from past experience, Sherlock knew that the Doctor was most likely angry that they'd violated his privacy. And unwilling to explain just what he was now holding so protectively.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, allowing for an awkward silence to fill the air. The Doctor unconsciously rubbed his thumb across the metal he held in his hand. Finally, John broke the silence. "Listen," he began. "We're really sorry we touched your stuff, and-"

But he was interrupted. Surprisingly, it was not by Sherlock, who was about to interject that he wasn't really sorry, more fascinated. It was the Doctor who spoke. "No, no, it's fine." He flipped the device in his hand. "I'll just be getting back to bed now, nothing like a good night's sleep on a stranger's sofa. Well, actually, yes there are, but let's not go there."

He then ducked out of the room, heading back for the couch. A moment later, his head popped back through the doorway. "By the way, you do know that your flat reeks of Chinese food, right? Mm. You know, nobody makes Chinese food like the great Emperor of China himself! Now that was authentic...and a couple centuries ago. Never mind."

He left the room again, retreating into the darkness. John mumbled that he was going to bed, too, convinced that the Doctor's last comment was just a symptom of his mental instability. When they had both left, Sherlock dimmed the lights in his room so that it looked like he too was going to sleep.

But his mind was still abuzz. The Doctor was hiding something, he was sure of it. Yet it didn't seem like something a normal person would hide. He would know. He quietly stepped over to the doorway so that he could see the Doctor. But the Doctor couldn't see him.

Framed in darkness, Sherlock watched as the Doctor lay on the couch. Even without being able to see his eyes Sherlock knew that he wasn't asleep. Cuts of moonlight illuminated the man's hands, which still clutched the object. What was it, and why was he so protective of it?

Sherlock stood there for awhile, the Doctor still fiddling with the device. He was about to turn away when the Doctor suddenly sat upright, staring at the window. His face looked confused. Conflicted. Sad. Then it hardened into determination. He scooped up his jacket from the couch and put it on, slipping the object into his pocket. Strange, because the pocket seemed too small to fit it.

Sherlock continued to watch as the Doctor, coat on, stole one last glance out the window, and then, straightening his bow tie, snuck out the door. Immediately Sherlock grabbed his own jacket of the hook where it hung and hurriedly put it on. He also snatched his scarf, which he knotted about his neck as he strode out of the flat after the Doctor.

But before he left, he too looked out the window to see what had startled the Doctor so. And what he saw made no sense. Spray-painted in blood red on the windows above the cafe across the street were two words. Two words nearly as mysterious as the Doctor that seemed to have no business being on the windows of a building. 'Hello sweetie.'

***

He kept a safe distance as he walked, so that the Doctor would not suspect that he was being followed. Sherlock's excitement heightened as his pace picked up, yearning to know just where this homeless Doctor was going. He turned off of Baker Street, and made a few more turns down some alleys. Sherlock knew them all by name, though he had the entire city of London mapped out in his head.

When the Doctor finally came to a stop, Sherlock hung back around the corner. He needed to see what was going on, so he heaved himself up a series of fire-escape ladders until he was perched high enough so that he could see.

The Doctor was still alone in the alley. That disproved Sherlock's possible theory that he was meeting someone. Maybe a dealer. Instead, the Doctor stood next to a strange blue box. No, not a blue box. The blue box. The one that Sherlock had seen him step out of earlier. But what was it doing over here?

The Doctor seemed to be searching his pockets for something. He eventually seemed to give up, and took to pounding on the blue doors. The lit-up words spelling Police Box flickered. He could hear the Doctor sigh, then saw him slide down the length of the door until he was sitting on the ground. He put his elbows on his knees and ran his fingers worriedly through his long hair.

Sherlock crept back down from his position on the fire-escape until he was at the bottom of the last rusty ladder. He dropped to the ground, and the sound of his shoes on the pavement echoed.

The Doctor glanced up, pulling himself to his feet. Sherlock stepped around the corner and into his sight. The Doctor relaxed a little, but not entirely. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead, he walked up to him and produced the key from the pocket of his long cloak. "I think this might be what you're looking for."

The Doctor looked at him suspiciously, then plucked the key out of his hand. He turned back to the Police Box, and inserted the key into the lock. Twisted it. He then pushed his shoulder forward into the door and it swung open. Sherlock had only gotten a brief glimpse at what was inside when the Doctor stepped in and closed the door behind him.

Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently. He was never one to wait. Besides, what could someone be doing in a wooden box? Presently, the Doctor poked his head out of the door. "Question. When you had the key it didn't...feel weird or anything...did it?"

The Doctor seemed trustworthy to Sherlock. Besides, he had stolen his things. "Well," Sherlock replied. "It did feel a bit, erm, warm."

The Doctor exhaled sharply. "Goddammit, River!" He then dissapeared behind the blue door again. When he didn't return, Sherlock eventually decided to knock. The door swung open underneath his fist. That was strange. First off, the sign on the door said to pull to open, not to push. Secondly, with a room this small, the door shouldn't have been able to open without smashing into the Doctor.

Yet all these thoughts fled his mind the moment he saw the inside of the Police Box. It was huge. Bigger than his flat, and he saw doors leading off to other rooms as well. In the middle of the room, there was a glass cylinder that ran the height of the room. It sat atop a panel of blinking buttons and switchs. Something was wrong. The Doctor must've drugged him. This was insane. He stepped inside, and the door swung shut behind him.

He spotted the Doctor up on the next level. "What the hell have you done to me?" he shouted.

"I haven't done anything. But apparently, my wife has." He nodded toward the door that Sherlock had just come through. In the same paint as on the windows, there were three words.

"Don't blink, sweetie," Sherlock read aloud. "But what does that mean? And where am I?"

The Doctor gave a bitter smile. "You're on the TARDIS. My spaceship. That writing means that my wife has been here, and that she's left a message. And when River takes the time to pop by, it's never a good thing."