Before Falling yet After Drowning

Chapter Four

The Doctor was in a panic. You couldn't tell from the outside, but then again, nobody ever could. A millennia was more than enough time to become an expert at hiding one's emotions. How could River have been here and not told him? And furthermore, how had he not noticed?

Yet this was not what worried him most. That would be her message. Weeping Angels. Here. How was that possible? He had just seen them not even a week ago, when they'd stolen Amy and Rory from him. He didn't think he was ready to face them just yet. He wanted to kill them, to hurt them, but there was no satisfaction in attacking a statue.

And this Sherlock character? He'd followed him so easily. And now he was in the TARDIS, eyes wide and mumbling about how the Doctor must've drugged him because this couldn't be real. The Doctor was nervous, because who knew what Sherlock would do with this information. He knew too much.

But on the outside, the Doctor looked very calm and collected. Because what else could he do but wait for the Angels to attack? He had nothing to go on, and Sherlock seemed like he was about to go into shock. The Doctor wished River was here to help him, but all the scanners on the TARDIS pointed to the fact that she had left. But why move the TARDIS? Unless...were there Angels on Baker Street? In that case...

The Doctor sprinted down the stairs to where Sherlock was standing. "We need to go- now! John's in trouble."

He pulled open the door and ran out, Sherlock following close behind. The other man's face seemed much more relaxed now that they were out of the TARDIS. Evidently, Sherlock was used to rushing about London, as he quickly ran in front of the Doctor and led the way back to Baker Street.

When they arrived, the street looked as it normally did. Still, that didn't mean anything. They hurried through the green door that proclaimed 221b, rushing up the stairs and into the flat. It was silent.

"John?" Sherlock called out.

"Yeah?" Came a groggy voice from the other room.

Sherlock gave the Doctor a disapproving look, as though he'd made up the entire story. John came into the room, clothes bed-rumpled. He yawned, and flicked on the desk lamp next to him. He looked Sherlock and the Doctor up and down, seeing how they were fully dressed and slightly out of breath. "So where've you two been, then?"

The Doctor glanced and Sherlock, wondering what story he was going to give. Or if he was actually going to tell the truth. "Well, we, ah, just went out for some fresh air."

John shook his head and gave a small chuckle. "You're Sherlock Holmes. You don't just 'go out for some fresh air'. No, see, the last time you did that, you almost got murdered by a cabbie. So, seriously, where were you?"

Sherlock seemed impressed with John's reasoning. He was about to give another excuse when the light above them suddenly flickered. The Doctor struggled to remain calm. It was just a flickering light, that was all. They weren't here. They couldn't be. Right?

But then the light above them went out. The room was covered in shadows, and the Doctor could see through the dim glow of the lamp John and Sherlock arguing about who had changed the bulb last.

Yes, that was all it was. Just a burnt out light bulb. But then the lamp too began to dim and flicker on and off. The Doctor's eyes were immediately drawn to it reflexively. And then he saw what was on the desk underneath it.

Missing files. Dozens of them. Names and faces, all having disappeared...right near Baker Street. On the top, the most recent, an old man named Greg. He grabbed the stack of them, holding them out in front of his face. "What're these?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well, obviously they're-"

"I know they're missing files," the Doctor interrupted. "What I don't know is why all these people are suddenly missing. Also, why you have all these files. I'd start a formal interrogation, but I doubt we have the time..."

The Doctor trailed off as the lamp flickered into darkness. The only sound was the ragged exhaling of Sherlock and John. The Doctor didn't dare breathe for fear of not hearing something. Such as the door to the flat, which at that moment swung open.

Sherlock began to question if anybody had opened the door, but the pieces clicked into place in the Doctor's head faster. "Move back!" he shouted.

He whipped his sonic screwdriver out of his pocket, its green glow illuminating the horror in front of them. A Weeping Angel, inches from Sherlock's face. "Don't blink," the Doctor cautioned forcefully. "If you value your life, then do. Not. Blink."

Sherlock and John might've argued under normal circumstances, but with an angel statue that seconds ago hadn't been there standing in their flat, they obliged. "Now, Sherlock, I want you to step away from the Angel," the Doctor said slowly.

Sherlock stepped back, then grinned. "Ah, so this is what she meant by 'don't blink', eh?"

"Yes," the Doctor replied, his eyes not even close to drying out yet from being held open due to how often he had to do this. "But what I want to know is, why here? Wait no, that's rubbish, because of me of course. Then why wouldn't she have told me? Unless...I wish I knew when she was coming from. Then I could've-"

John coughed. "Sorry to interrupt your rant, but what are we supposed to do about these, erm, statue things?"

"No, no, John, have you learned nothing?" Sherlock interrupted. "You've missed all the important details."

"Important?" John smiled wryly. "More important than the fact that there are insane angel statues in the flat?"

"Yes. For instance, why do you say 'when' she was coming from?" Sherlock turned to the Doctor.

"Well, you see, my wife has a Vortex Manipulator. Nasty way to travel, if you ask me. Not that you did. Nothing like a TARDIS, that's for sure."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You keep saying that word. TARDIS. What's it mean? And don't give me that story from before. I know you messed with my head...somehow."

John spun and joined the conversation. "What the hell are you two talking about?"

Sherlock pulled the Doctor toward him by his collar. "You listen to me. You're going to tell me who you are and what you want right now, or I swear."

The Doctor bit his lip. Sherlock's black eyes stared into his brown ones, fishing out secrets from within.

"Hey," John broke the silence. "Where'd that statue thing go?"

The Doctor spun wildly around, sliding out of Sherlock's grasp. "Stupid, stupid, Doctor. How could you do that? How could you let it out of your sight?"

He spun on his heel, looking for John and Sherlock for help. But the flat was empty. The only face was the yellow one spray-painted on the wall, adorned with bullet holes. Where had they gone? He was about to go search when the room vanished from his view, his back tingling with the touch of a stone finger.