One cold, thunder-storming evening in London – 221B Baker Street

"Sherlock?"

"Ah, John. I told you to pass me a pen."

"… I'm sorry, when was this?"

"Mmm… About ten minutes ago."

John is still fascinated at how Sherlock gets anything done at all without moving. Then again, he had that extraordinary mind of his to do all the work. Lazy.

"Do you mind?"

"Hmm?"

"The pen."

"…Right."

John plucked a pen from the fireplace and aimed it at Sherlock's head.

"Please don't throw that at me."

"What?"

"Don't throw that at me."

"What was I throwing?"

"The pen."

"Ah… that."

Of course, John threw the pen. Unfortunately, Sherlock got the hint that he was going to throw it anyway, and caught the pen with surprising accuracy, clicking it while guiding it towards the paper. He furiously wrote on the notepad, ripped out the piece of paper, stared at it, placed it on the wall, then stared at it some more. All the evidence was lined up right before his eyes, yet he couldn't make sense of it.

"Tell me again, what are we working on?" John didn't understand this case at all. Sherlock had come back to the flat one day and just started working frantically on something about time and space and whatnot.

"Well, obviously you're not working on it, seeing as you can think of nothing but to throw pens at me."

"…Did you ever think that, I don't know… maybe, possibly, I was in a bloody THUNDERSTORM and had to walk in the pouring rain without an umbrella with lightning flashing all over the damn sky with not one BLOODY CAB in sight!?"

"No, why would I think–" Sherlock looked up and saw John's clothes. They were, of course, soaked to the last fiber.

"…You were saying?" At this point, John could only silently fume. Not at Sherlock. Well, not directly. At himself. For ever renting a flat with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock looked back at his notes. "It's a case on time and space, like I said before. All these strange sightings of a blue box. A lot of people claimed it made a noise, then disappeared."

John moved from the fireplace to the window and stared outside, still fuming.

"…John? …John." Sherlock was starting to worry about John's health. No, he thought to himself, you know that he's angry.

Of course, utter temptation engulfed John Watson, pulling him into The Case of the Blue Box. That's the name for it on the blog, he thought. ...Was that too premature?

"…So…What's the connection between time and space and a blue box?" Honestly, John had no idea.

"Hmm? Oh. Well, the fact that it disappears is one," Sherlock said with a smirk. Then he remembered that John was probably still slightly angry at him, so he wiped the grin off and quickly continued.

"Then there's all the sighting times – one in Cardiff at 6:04 in the morning, then immediately another sighting in London at 6:04 in the morning on that very same day, of the very same object, only 20 seconds apart. That, logically speaking, cannot happen."

"But a time machine is not logical, is it?"

"Exactly! That's why it must be some kind of teleportation machine. But it's not."

"…Teleportation, I get, but time and space don't seem to fit the image here, and that's all you've been doing for the past week, at least."

Sherlock didn't answer John. Instead, he looked at all his notes and snatched a picture from the wall. It was a drawing of a blue box. Sketchy, colored in messily. It had the words Police Public Call Box etched on the top. It looked like one of those old telephone booths they had a while back.

"What are you looking at? Come on, don't keep it to yourself." John walked to the wall and looked at the picture Sherlock was holding. "Is that what they saw when they said blue box? You could've just asked me."

Sherlock's attention snapped right back to John. "You saw it?"

"Well, you kept saying it was a blue box–"

"I didn't say that, it was those witnesses with such lack of intelligence."

"… If they lack so much intelligence, why listen to them at all?"

"Because they're my only lead. Now hurry up and tell me where you saw it."

"Not until you tell me what it has to do with time and space."

"I can tell you later, this is important."

"Well, it's not so important to me, so I can wait."

"It's important to the case!"

"But you just said I could do nothing better than to throw pens at you." John was now dry enough to sit in his chair, and so he did.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and started pacing around the room. "I can't possibly explain it to you without wasting valuable time. Judging from your face, you probably saw it on your way back from… Where? The bank? Yes, the bank. Why did you go to the bank? Probably to give Harry some money. Anyways, where did you see it? Tell me before it's too late!"

"Tell me before it's too late."

"UUUGGGHH." Sherlock moaned. Why did he have to find such an annoying partner? "…Fine, I'll tell you. It's…intuition."

"…Intuition? But you always said that what was impossible must not be true, therefore you are left with the answer."

"…I never said that."

"No?"

"No."

"Oh. Are you sure?"

"Definitely."

"…It was something like that. Anyway, intuition is not usually how you solve your cases."

"Well, this isn't a usual case, is it?"

"Unless you're lying."

"JOHN, will you PLEASE just TELL me where it was!?"

"No."

"UUGHHHH. I cancelled all other probabilities."

"What about teleportation?"

"It was either this or that and this was more appealing. Besides, teleportation is not an interesting topic. Now can you please spit it out already!?"

"So… the part about intuition is true?"

"YES! Hurry up and tell me!"

"Oh. It was just outside the window."

"What!?"

Sherlock ran to the window. He saw a telephone booth almost identical to the one drawn. He ran past John, grabbed his coat and scarf, and practically fell down the stairs of the flat.

"Wait! You'll be needing an–" BAM. The door downstairs slammed behind Sherlock, corresponding to the faint sound of thunder. "–umbrella."

John stared at the open doorway. "Well. Tell me if it's a time machine… But you probably won't be here to tell me… So… Just in case you get whisked away, I'm not letting you leave without me." And with that, John put on his jacket and followed Sherlock out the flat.