Hello Fanficcers. I know, I haven't been around in a while, but I was in jazz band today, and I was looking at the double bass player (who is a major doctor who fan, btw) and had this amazing idea for a story, so I incorporated a few bits and pieces, like what I'm doing in my schoolwork in music class, and parts of my personality, with Doctor Who.

It's Matt Smith's Doctor, also. He's a lot like me, which is why this was so fun to write earlier tonight.

Please, please, read and review. This is my first non-Harry Potter Fanfic, and my first sci-fi fic, and feedback would be greatly appreciated.

~gabielle xx

Acatha James looked at the notes before her on the page, and willed herself to be able to play them. She now reflected on something her first ever clarinet teacher had told her: it is not enough to wish something could happen; you must also work for it. She had realised before, and now realised again, that she had been right. You didn't become one of the best clarinet players in London by just wishing you could play.

The conductor had approached her earlier that evening and asked her if she would be interested in playing a concerto, featuring her as the soloist. Then he had placed the piece in front of her, and she had groaned. She hated that composer with every fibre of her being. And yet everybody else loved him. But still, she would have to play the concerto. She had already said yes.

And now, here she was, staring at the first page of the concerto. If it had been written by any other composer, perhaps she would be willing to give it a go. But right now, she had no motivation. She played through the first passage and automatically, almost reflexively, picked up on her mistakes straight away and went back. As she went back and played it properly, she thought about how wonderful a clarinet sounded in that register, and in an empty concert hall. It was a haunting, but beautiful sort of sound.

She managed to make it through most of the first movement without bothering to go back and make mistakes, and she thought it sounded pretty good. So did the man in the front row.

"Who are you?" she asked, suddenly worried. She hadn't seen this man before, and she was certain all the men that worked here would be at their stations, not listening to a twenty-two year old sight reading a piece of music.

The man seemed to think about his name for a while. "John," he finally replied. "John Smith."

"Sure," Acatha said sceptically. "If your name is actually John Smith, then I'm Emma Johnson."

"Who?"

The nerve of some people, Acatha thought. How can he not know who Emma Johnson is? "Only the greatest clarinet player in the world," she replied.

"Oh, is that what you're playing? Well, it's changed a lot since I last saw one… must have been about… ooo, early December, 1791."

"Are you high?" she asked. "That was two centuries ago. Around the death of Mozart!"

"Really, was it that long ago? Mhm. Well, you play beautifully. The clarinet is a wonderful instrument."

"You didn't even know what it was two seconds ago."

"What's your name?"

"What's yours?"

"… Touche," he said.

"What are you doing here?" Acatha asked. "The open rehearsal for the orchestra finished an hour ago."

"I like how instruments sound in an empty concert hall," he said innocently. "It's haunting, but a beautiful kind of haunting."

Acatha paused. That was what she'd thought, wasn't it?

Something in the man's pocket beeped, and he jumped. "Oh, I'd better go. Brilliant playing."

"Thank you?" she asked.

After the man had hurried off, she decided to pack up. She'd had enough of the piece for one night. As she cleaned and polished her instrument, she suddenly realised what the man had been wearing. She was certain it had been dark brown pants, unremarkable in itself, but mixed with a light brown jacket, a red and white check shirt, and a bowtie. That couldn't be right, surely. But she was certain it was.

A phone rang, David Bowie's Starman blared from the speaker, and should the mysterious man still be here, she'd be embarrassed about her taste in music. She groaned when she realised it was her mother.

"Hello," she said.

"Acatha, darling, when are you going to be home for dinner?"

"I'm just leaving the concert hall now, mother," she replied. "I should be home in about half an hour."

"Okay," her mother said. "I'll see you soon then."

"Bye mum."

As soon as she hung up, the phone rang again. "Hello?" she said. She hadn't bothered with checking the caller I.D.

"Ack, where are you?" her brother Cameron asked.

"I'm at the concert hall," she said. "What's up?"

"Look up at the sky," he said. "Something weird's going on. Something alien."

"There's no such thing as aliens, Cam," Acatha sighed. "Besides, you're at Oxford. That's a good hour away, at least."

"I'm pretty sure you'll be able to see this. And, well, the coordinates I've got here put it right above London… Has mum called you yet?"

"Yeah, just then. She wanted to know when I'd be home for dinner."

"How can she not have seen it?"

"You know mum doesn't like going outside," Acatha told him as she waved farewell to the door man. As she walked outside, she nearly dropped the phone. "Cameron, what the hell is that?"

"We're working on it. Just get home. I'll call you later."

"Bye," she said, and hung up. Fearing the image in the sky, she quickly hurried over to her car.

"Won't work," somebody told her. "Well, I mean the car will work, but you won't be able to get anywhere. All the major roads around here are blocked because stupid, stupid human beings looked up at the sky and caused crashes. That's the thing I don't get about you lot. You can be so very careless sometimes."

Acatha spun around and noticed the man from before hiding under the covers.

"You lot?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" he asked, shaking his head.

"Well, you said 'you lot' referring to humans. What the hell are you then?"

He stuttered for a while. "Human."

"And I'm Michael Buble," Acatha answered sarcastically.

"I thought you were Emma Johnson," he replied, confused.

"That was when you were John Smith," she told him.

"I am John Smith," he said to her.

"You're lying."

"How do you know?"

"Instinct," she shrugged. "So, tell me John Smith, is it just coincidence that when you show up in my life, so does some scary hologram in the sky? Or is there a reason for it?"

"It's just a coincidence," he said.

"How am I going to get home? My mother's cooking dinner, and if I'm not home by the time it's ready, I'm going to be slaughtered."

"Mothers," the man shivered. "I've had a bad experience with mothers. But, I suppose, they turned out all right in the end."

"Ex-girlfriend's parents?" she asked knowingly.

"Yeah… not exactly. To answer your question, I have no idea how you're going to get home. Why don't you walk?"

She stared at him. "There's a serial killer loose. Or perhaps you haven't heard?"

"Serial killer? How were they killed?"

"The serial killers weren't killed."

"The victims. Honestly, you're stupid as well as careless."

"What makes you think I'm careless?" she asked, offended.

"I didn't say you were care – oh, sorry, I'm digging a hole there… the victims, how were they killed?"

"Repeated stab wounds to the chest, I think. My sister could tell you… she's a homicide detective."

"On that case?"

"Yuh-huh."

"Where does she work?"

She stared at him again. "The police station?"

He nodded, accepting this answer. "Will she still be there now?"

"Probably."

"Come with me."