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"Don't blink," said the strange man on the TV who called himself The Doctor, "Don't even blink. Blink and you're dead."
“Sherlock?" John called out, running through the halls of the abandon house. He shouldn't have split up from Sherlock. Not after what John just heard from the man on the TV screen, “Sherlock. Where the hell are you?"
Silence.
He continued to run through the halls, in search of his friend. He couldn't have just left or even disappeared. Not at a time like this.
"Sherlock answer me. Where are you? I need to tell you something. It’s important to the case. I think I know how all those people disap-" John froze in front of a room where he saw an angel statue reaching out and the detectives scarf dangling off its hand. An angel statue. That must be what the Doctor referred to as a Weeping Angel.
They are fast. Faster than you can believe. Don't turn your back. Don't look away. And don't blink
"Sherlock!" The army doctor screamed.
Sherlock just seemed to be gone, like in all the cases they read about from people who entered that house. They never came out.
Before he ended up like them, John decided needed to get out of there. Fast.
He dashed through the halls, and burst through the front door, not looking back to see if the Angel was following him.
He continued running down the street until he ran into a girl about twenty with long black hair and clothes not quite fit for this century. "John? John Watson?" She asked.
John stopped to catch his breath, "Yeah. That's me," he breathed, "I'm going to guess Mycroft sent you to check on us, hearing about the case and all. Look, I don't need-"
The girl stopped him, "No. I was sent to give you a message. It was that you must go to St. Barts Hospital on this day, at this time, to room 112."
"What's your name? Who sent you?" John questioned. He just lost his best friend and needed to find him. Maybe even find this Doctor guy in the video to explain to him more of what's going on.
"My names Clara, the Doctor’s companion. That's all I can tell you for now. Just do as I say and go to Barts," and she took off running before John could ask more.
"Wait, come back!" John shouted, but the girl named Clara was already out of sight.
Go to St. Barts hospital, she had said. There wasn't much else he could do at the moment, plus she knew The Doctor. So, he quickly made his way to Barts.
The army doctor roamed the halls of the hospital, looking for the room Clara told him to go, eventually finding it at the end of a long hallway.
Freezing at the door of room 112, John couldn't believe what he saw. There lay Sherlock Holmes, but not the one he remembered. This one looked sickly and dying.
"Sherlock," John breathed, rushing to the detective’s bedside and taking his hand.
Sherlock groaned and rolled over to see his friends face. God, it had been way too long since he had seen that adorable face. And, it was just as he had remembered it. A weak smile crept across his elden face "John."
Thousands of questions ran through Johns mind. He had just seen his friend moments ago, healthy, younger. This was impossible
"I see you have questions," said the detective, gripping Johns hand tighter "I don't have much time"
"You weren't like this a half hour ago," was the first thing John heard come out of his mouth, "What's going on."
"Those things called the weeping angels," Sherlock breathed, getting ready to tell his friend his story.
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"Where am I? How...? how did I...?"
Darkness. He was surrounded by darkness, except for a dim light that shone from one of the far corners of a room.
His hands felt up and down the wall closest to him. The wall that was just broken and vandalized and... Certainly not this. This wall seemed freshly painted, for even in the dim light, the color appeared bright.
"What... John?"
He just heard John’s voice scream his name, yet he was nowhere to be found.
An indescribable, machine like whirring noise suddenly filled the room. Covering his ear, Sherlock ran over to the window but saw nothing that could be causing the noise. He saw a flashing light coming from room adjacent his. Running to the doorway, he stopped abruptly.
A man in a tweed jacket and bow tie stepped out from what appeared to be a 1950’s blue Police Box. His eyes met Sherlock's, and smiled.
"Hello."
Sherlock's eyes quickly flitted from the box to the man.
1950's Police Box. He was somehow in the 50's then. But how do you get a giant wooden box in a small little room in this time period. To his view, the room seemed younger and the man’s appearance seemed older.
"What's your name?"
"The Doctor."
"I did not ask for a profession, I simply asked for a name."
"Just, the Doctor."
Sherlock took a step closer to get a better look. This man was much older, in fact, impossibly older. There was a way he held himself, traces unearth-like debris under his fingernails and on his shoes, an outline of an unearthly like object in his jacket pocket, so not armed with a gun.
Sherlock could also catch a quick glimpse of a look in the man eyes. One that was ancient but playful, and screamed to be forgiven for something he did. His eyes also said there was blood on the man’s hands; an impossible amount.
Conclusion: Impossible, but alien.
"What is it you do, 'Doctor'?"
By Sherlock's surprise, the alien came straight out and told him, "Time traveler. Well, more through space and time," the Doctor paused and took a step away from his blue box, taking a step toward Sherlock. Sherlock stayed perfectly still, the only thing that moved was his observant eyes, and his hands were behind his back.
"And who are you?"
There was a moment of silence in the room. Surely this alien-like man couldn't be trusted. But there was something about him...
"Sherlock Holmes."
"Sherlock Holmes. The fake genius who committed suic-"
"I don't have time for this," Sherlock snapped. He certainly did not have time for this. What he needed right now was to get back to John.
The Doctors mind seemed to be racing as if trying to remember all he could about the detective standing in front of him.
"You don't belong here... How did you get here?"
"First, tell me if you can bring me back."
"I need to know first how you got here."
Fair enough, he thought.
Sherlock shook his head, and closed his eyes to go into his mind palace. He didn't have to go deep to remember the recent events of how he got here. He wasn't exactly sure himself how he got here. But there was something that kept popping up. The only thing that was consistent...
He's eyes snapped open.
"Angel. Statues."
The Doctors face immediately hardened and went cold. Lowering his gaze, he glared at Sherlock. Sherlock noticed but chose to ignore it. He simply thought the Doctor knew of these creatures, may have had a bad experience or two with them, but could certainly help the detective understand.
"Moving angel statues."
"... Find your own way back."
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"They sent me back into 1930. I met an impossible man called the Doctor, who travels through space and time in a blue box. I asked him if he could bring me back to you. He told me no, and left. I continued my years there as being the worlds only consulting detective. Until in the 80's when I grew ill. There was no one to tell me when I should eat or sleep. I managed to find the Doctor again and he brought me here to you.”
He paused, and then added silently, "He told me I don't have much longer to live."
A tear slide down John’s cheek, feeling himself lose the battle between him and his emotions. A moment of silence passed between them.
"I never thought you'd go this way." John choked out a laugh through the tears that began to flow freely, "I always thought you'd get shot doing something stupid, or even us growing old together. Never like this."
Too busy mourning, John didn't notice a man leaning against the door frame of the hospital room, looking in on them.
"John," he said man in a mellow-tone voice.
The army doctors head snapped up, "Who-Who are you?"
"Time to go," the man nodded down at Sherlock.
Looking back down, John saw the detectives eyes had slide shut and his breathing grown slower.
Tears falling down his cheek, he lowered his head to watch a tear fall down on Sherlock's own cheek.
"I suppose it it’s my last chance to say it, I'm going to do it right this time," he took a deep breath and continued.
"Sherlock Holmes, you are the bravest man I know. The most intelligent human being, and you've changed my life than I’ll even know.”
Sherlock doesn't respond.
John stood, reluctantly releasing his grip on Sherlock's hand. The man still stood in the door way of the room, but John had no desire to talk to him. His best friend had just died again in front of his own eyes, but there was no way of him returning.. Not this time.
"Excuse me, he tried pushing himself through the doorway, "I need to..."
"Ah, John Watson," the man put a hand on Johns right shoulder to stop him, "I need to have a word with you"
Stopping to look up at him with sad eyes, John mumbled, "Sorry but I have to go find someone. Get some questions answered."
"Look no further," said the man with a smile, "I'm sure your friend here has already told you about me"
"Who are...?"
"I'm the Doctor," said the man, almost as if he was proud to be saying his own name. Proud to be who he was, and to have everyone else know.
"You mean the guy who called himself the Doctor in those videos about the Angels? You don't look-"
"I've... Had a few changes. Anyway, that's not why I'm here. Well, for my appearances anyway. But about the Angels, yes."
"You're mad." mumbled John.
The Doctor ignored him and continued. "I'm here because I got to talking with Sherlock. He told me that when he's gone, he'd like you to become my companion. Travel around with me, and my other companion Clara, in space and time."
John shrugged the Doctors hand off his shoulder and began backing away, "I'm sorry, but-"
"I know you're an army doctor. I look at you and know you stayed with Sherlock Holmes because you not only wanted to, but needed to. You felt the same thrill with him as you felt in the army. He thought this would be best for you when he was gone. Fulfilling his legacy where he never could. In all of space and t-"
"I just watched my best friend die. Again," interrupted John. The doctor just nodded, relating greatly to Johns situation, but decided to let him finish, "Unless you can bring me back to save him, or where he was sent in 1930. Other than that, no."
"I'm sorry John. I cant."
"Then I'm sorry, but no." John back out from the hospital room, and ran down the hallway to get out of there as fast as he could, as more tears began to flow.
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"He is not going to accept your offer."
"He's going to watch you die in that bed, Sherlock!"
"He has watched me die before! Watching someone yet again die before his eyes.... He's not going to. Can't you take him back to me?"
"There's a chance I would cross paths with my own time stream. It'd be impossible too..."
"Then he is not going to accept."
"John Watson. A man who lives and thrives for the thrill of adventure? Surely he'd-"
"I would imagine he would be stupid enough as to go back to the house where the angel lives."
"I can't let that happen. I'll do whatever I can..."
"Promise me you will not let anything happen to him."
"Oh look, we've arrived. Just exit through...."
"I am not leaving until I know John will be safe, Doctor"
"Life with me is far from safe. But you know this will be best for him?"
"Yes."
"Then I will try my best to provide for his need. Now, exit through the TARDIS doors. Your death bed awaits."
----------
"You're right. He's gone." the Doctor walked over to the window next to Sherlock's beside.
"You have... To stop him," Sherlock breathed, his eyes flickering open. He wasn't going to lose his fight with death. Not until he knew John was safe, "You... promised."
"He's doing what I wish I could... What I would have done? Running back to the ones you love," The doctor admitted.
"He's being... Idiotic."
From the window, The Doctor saw John outside, hurrying through the crowd of people, back in the direction of the old, abandon house. He also saw clouds forming in the sky; clouds threatening of rain.
"He needs you," stated the Time Lord, "I see it in his eyes. I've seen it in your eyes too. I know the look. I’ve seen it plenty of times."
"Stop him... For me..." Sherlock cried weakly, "Please."
The Doctor looked up at the sky and frowned, "You have until the rain starts," then walked out of the room without another word.
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"Excuse me," John shoved his way through the people on the street who were also trying to get to a certain destination. Eventually he made it past and began running by himself to the house of weeping angels.
"John?" he heard name being called, but didn't stop to look who it was.
"John, where are you going?" he recognized the voice as the girl Clara he met earlier, "You're supposed to be with the Doctor!"
"Change of plans," John shouted back and continued running. With the house of Angels in view, he decided he was really going to do this.
In the house, he ran up and down the halls in search of the Weeping Angel. It wasn't in the room it took Sherlock. In fact, it didn't seem to be in the house at all.
He ran back outside, droplets of rain instantly hitting his face, "Where are you, you stupid Angels?!" he shouted as the droplets turned into a light drizzle.
"Come and get me!" John stood arms open wide. He closed his eyes, letting the rain water mix in with his own tears.
He wasn't sure how long he was standing outside, arms stretched out, eye closed, getting soaking wet by the rain that continued to poor down hard.
When he opened his eyes, he lowered his arms. This was pointless. Completely pointless. He was never going to see Sherlock again. And now the Doctor was probably gone too. He had nothing.
A rapid wind ripped through, chilling John through his rain soaked clothing. He quickly made his way back into the house, deciding he could wait there until the rain stopped, then go back home to explain to Mycroft where his brother had gone.
Sitting against one of the houses walls, the army doctor pulled his knees close to his chest, burying his face
"Sherlock…" he cried out.
"John?" said a rough, but soothing voice: Sherlock.
John snapped his head up, no longer surrounded by deteriorating walls, broken windows, and ripped curtains. But instead was surrounded by polished floors with walls dimly lit. Standing in the middle of the room was the detective he had known for years.
"John. Where are we? How did we- Why are you soaking wet?"
A man in a tweed coat and a silly, blue bow tie walked in from a different room on John’s left. The army doctor instantly recognized him as The Doctor.
"Oh hello," he said kindly, "I wasn't expecting anyone else to be here, so this is certainly a surprise isn't it. Surprises! Surprises are good."
"How did I get here?" Sherlock asked forcefully, not caring to listen to the rambling of the odd man, "I was standing in a broken down house in London. There was some angel statue. It started following me, and I end up here!"
"Angel statue," the Doctor perked up, interested, "Describe this...Angel statue to me."
John still sat against the wall, listening to the two men. The things that recently happened to him didn't seem to matter. He was here with Sherlock, and that's all that mattered to him. And, as long as his self was here, he could convince the Doctor to bring them both back to their own time line.
But for now, he listened to Sherlock describe the Weeping Angels.
"I saw a statue of an angel outside the window. I looked away, turned back and it was gone. I saw it again in a room, so I approached it to study it. I turned my back when I heard John yell, and I ended up here. So tell me, alien: how did I end up here?"
John looked up at the Doctor. So, he was an alien. That explains the traveling in space and time he tried to convince John of earlier. But, he didn't bother to ask his friend how he figured it out so quickly.
As The Doctor began explaining the Weeping Angels, John spaced out. He spaced back in when he heard the Time Lord ask who they were.
"Sherlock Holmes," the detective responded.
"Sherlock Holmes. The 'Fake Genius' that committed suicide."
"So you've heard of me."
"Heard of you? Yes. Do you know what you've done to your flatmate since you jumped?!" said the Doctor in a slight yell. John completely froze, Sherlock suddenly became very interested, and the alien continued, "I've seen him! He's distant, alone, barely surviving on his own. Of course now that I think about it, it may not even have happened to you yet. But, oh are you going to do some horrible things to your friend!"
John quickly scrambled to his feet. He hadn't exactly told Sherlock all of what had happened to him while his friend was away. The detective only knew what he read in the papers, and John confirmed that was all there was to know.
The Doctor quickly smiled, suddenly noticing John’s presence, and instantly recognized him, "Hello. You're Sherlock flatmate, aren't you? Well, this is a bit awkward isn't it. I'm-"
"The Doctor, I know."
"Oh, so you've heard of me."
"We've met before."
"Oh! Wonderful. Looking forward to it."
"Doctor..." John paused, getting onto why he was here, "Can you bring us back?"
"Why should I?"
"Please!" the army Doctor pleaded.
Sherlock quickly butted in, unable to hold his question in," Let me ask you this. Why were you following him after I... died?"
The Doctor just grinned, "I was fascinated to know how you lived. Then I saw your friend here, and-" he glanced down at his watch, and nearly jumped, "I'm sorry, but I must be going. I promised Clara we'd go see... other worlds." He spoke like a five year old, excited about something, but unable to tell other about it because it’s his secret.
"Until we meet again, Watson, Holmes." The alien dashed from the room before either had a chance to respond.
"Wai-" John ran into the room the Doctor disappeared into, but no one was in there. It was almost like he vanished.
John walked back to Sherlock, and grumbled, "Looks like we're stuck here."
A wicked smile flashed across the detectives face, "How much do you want to bet that I can find him again?"
"No, Sherlock. We need to..." John paused as the thought crossed his mind, and smirked," You're on."