Hello . . . ?

Hello, anybody? – please respond.

This is the Doctor. Calling all beings with psychic capabilities on planet Earth – yes, I know you're out there. This is a non-linear time distress beacon broadcasting from your past; an urgent message concerning a covert invasion localised to the Waterloo area of London, England, around the year 2004 – if I had to put an estimate on the time, it would be Halloween time.

If you can get there, then please – this is incredibly serious. I'm currently unable to . . . That is to say, I'm trapped. I'm stuck, in the past. I need your help.

All I ask is that you do not let anyone enter the premises, including yourself. When you get there, send me a sign. Anything you can. I'll receive it, as long as you respond.

But please, don't enter the theatre. Don't confront what's in there.

And if you see them, then above all else, don't blink.

Calling all beings with psychic capabilities.

Please respond.

Please respond.

Please respond.

Nightfall. Inky blackness, enveloping all; lying across London like a man anaesthetised on the operating table. If he would wake, he would drown in the thick, lukewarm ink of this impenetrable October night.

It suited Sherlock Holmes just fine to have the ink smeared across his face, hiding all but the lunar curves of his cheekbones, and shining pearls of his silver eyes. To combat the cold of the night, his father's golden-buttoned coat: double breasted, with a collar he could hide his face with, and fitting as if it had been tailored exactly to him. It had taken him a while to grow into the old man's cold, distant mannerisms, but like an unavoidable prophecy, he had become that which he hated.

The constant jibes; the mental abuse; the slights; the insults, the occasional blows . . . They had forced him into becoming as withdrawn as the man himself. He shifted uncomfortably, cold on the inside in a way that his father's coat could never extinguish.

You stupid boy.

Eventually, he was in: it hadn't been that difficult to duck silently and unnoticed under the police tape, and pick the lock on the stage door. A Monday night: it was empty. No productions, no rehearsals – especially not in light of the recent disappearances and police activity. Actors were suspicious types, and no one wanted to tread the boards in a cursed theatre. Sherlock smirked.
They were afraid of their own shadows.

He checked the area mentally: no one around that was worthy of note. There was the night watchman, out front, in the foyer; a few police constables at the front of the theatre who were supposed to stay outside. The watchman was reading a lad's magazine: one of those vulgar publications with more flesh than text. He wasn't intelligent, by the sounds of it: his predecessor had gone missing while working, and he wasn't exactly being vigilant to protect himself. It was clear he'd have no problems from him.

Please respond.

Please respond.

Please respond.

Sherlock's head flicked upwards, jolted by something into action: he examined the dizzy walkways and the scaffolding above his head . . . The narrow corridor he was in lead to the dressing rooms either side of the stage, and were set back behind it. It was completely dark, but he'd come prepared: he took out his anonymous black torch. He'd scratched off the serial number, and he was sure to wear his leather gloves.

Technically this was breaking and entering. Technically. But he was trying to help . . . Sort of.

He was a private investigator. Not affiliated with the police as such, but with clients who paid him in return for his sleuthing services. However, this case was not a paid one: it was to satiate his own curiosity; to fulfil his own desire for knowledge. He liked the strange ones: for example, this case. There was a peculiar bent about it: disappearances, all about this particular usually-popular Waterloo theatre. The victims were seemingly random, though many of them worked there; they had gone without a trace.

He had his suspicions that the only reason more actors and stagehands had disappeared than customers was because they spent more time here. The longer you were here . . . The more likely it was you'd be taken.

Someone was taking them. He didn't know who, or why. He just knew he could get to the bottom of it, with a little investigative prowess.

- yes, I know you're out there.

He froze.

"Who's there?" He murmured softly.

No response. And yet, he sure he had heard something from the darkness. It wasn't the first time. He shone his torch up and into the metal-pole scaffolds, casting straight-lined shadows onto brick walls, and creating an ethereal black spider webs all around himself. He was caught, and lost in amongst them. He turned the torch away, and turned around, having noted the precarious ladder and walkway above his head, and the many ropes; turned around and straight into some-

Props. So many props, just lying about! He wondered what production would ever need that as a prop. It looked like real stone, although logically they'd never get it on and off the stage if it were. He realised his heart was beating at a mile a minute; he buried his face in his collar for a moment, steadying himself.

- send me a sign. Anything you can. I'll receive it-

Yes: there was definitely someone there. He turned back to his original position, and walked slowly, treading carefully, down the darkened corridor. As he approached a dressing room, he saw that it was illuminated inside. Ghostly white light emanated from it: the light would have been classed as dull if not for the total darkness, accentuating its brightness. He paced along to it, looking back occasionally, swinging his torch back round to see if he was being followed, though he couldn't have been because he heard no thoughts aside from those of the dozy, far-off night watchman.

He could hear a low buzzing coming from the only room with illumination: it got progressively louder as he drew closer, frowning and tucking his spare hand into his coat pocket. It was deathly cold in the theatre: colder than the night outside.

He pushed the door with his foot, shining his light into the room: he was apprehensive as to what could possibly lie in there: what if he was discovered? He couldn't do with another night in the cells. Granted, he'd been caught for drug possession before, but he couldn't get caught breaking and entering with a gram of cocaine in his pocket to add to it.

Mycroft would probably take the opportunity to make him live with him as a punishment, feigning 'concern', though Sherlock had described his career at length to him, as well as his drug use, a thousand times before.

He shuddered, and it was nothing to do with the prospect of Mycroft's disappointed yet oddly smug face when he turned up at the police cells.

It was a television.

Catching his breath, he wondered what exactly was going on: there was no one here, the television was on (why was there even a television here?), there were props lying around for some unspecified, abandoned play. . . He shook himself.

You are becoming as bad as the bloody actors. Pull yourself together. You're Sherlock Holmes. This isn't scary. You aren't scared.

You're pathetic . . . You foolish boy. I wish you'd never been born.

The snow-screen that confronted him was oddly enticing, but he felt it necessary to look around the room. The television itself looked as if it had been thrown onto the table and plugged in swiftly, without care, to the nearest plug socket. Make up lay on the floor, pushed off the dressing table in the haste of the one who'd brought the television.

Or perhaps they'd been on the floor already? Signs of a struggle?
. . . No, the trajectory was certainly as if they'd been swept onto the floor and out of the way.
. . . Singular . . . More data required.

He realised, as soon as he attended to some papers that were also on the dressing table, that this was the dressing table of one of the actresses that had been taken: one of the ten people that were now missing.

Natalie Cross, 28, originally from Cardiff. Went missing exactly a week ago from her dressing room, when she'd been due to play Ophelia in the theatre's production of Hamlet.

He observed the television in its wider surroundings, reaching out to put a hand on it: deep in thought, he decided – though he didn't know why – that the actress had brought the television with her just before she'd disappeared. Perhaps she'd been threatened, or warned? . . . But then why a television? If you thought you were going to be abducted, then why would you bring a television, and not, say, a weapon or a mobile phone? It was strange, to say the least.
He smirked to himself. This just got better.

The screen flickered. His head jerked furtively, his full attention now upon it, and suddenly realised the configuration of the room. How had he not noticed it?
A single armchair, in front of the television, set up invitingly as if to encourage him to sit down. He obliged, checking the seat thoroughly first, just in case.
Obviously, it couldn't be here for him, but the victim had perhaps set it up before she'd been abducted? . . . For what purpose?

He sat in the armchair, which creaked at a level of what seemed like several thousand decibels in contrast with the still silence that surrounded him. There he sat for a moment, looking at the television.
What am I supposed to be looking at?

"Who's there? – Natalie?"
He jumped, as the television suddenly relayed an image: a man with a pale, handsome face (not as thin as his own, nor as pale); clean shaven; thick black glasses; brown eyes; brown pinstripe suit and burgundy tie. He appeared to be looking straight at Sherlock.

He felt a bit foolish, and wondered if he were having some sort of drug-induced hallucination, as he answered,
". . . How . . .?"
"Oh . . . Where's Natalie?" He demanded.
"She – sorry, who are you?" Sherlock stumbled over his words, in a state of disbelief that he was talking to a television.
"I asked first! – Please, this is deadly serious; you need to tell me all you can right away. Where's Natalie?" He persisted.
"She's been abducted. I'm trying to find out who she was taken by,"
The man's expression fell, and he rubbed his face with a weary hand, sighing and looking upset. "They got her . . ." He mumbled to himself, before pulling himself together: "Any other information?"
"I . . . I don't really know what you're hoping me to tell you," Sherlock answered coldly, yet truthfully. Yet again, the same thought graced his mind: he was talking . . . To a television.
"Well, start with your name,"
"Sherlock Holmes – private investigator," Sherlock said cautiously, his face blank, hiding the tumultuous mass of calculations and deductions going on in his brain. "Who're you? – and who was Natalie to you?"
"I already told you in my transmission, Sherlock Holmes – I'm the Doctor. I'm a Timelord, from the planet Gallifrey. I'm trapped in the past, speaking to you via a rudimentary system of strings and scrap carriage parts configured into a broadcasting radio device by myself and my sonic screwdriver. I summoned you here because you have psychic capabilities: if you didn't, you wouldn't have heard the message. That's how I summoned Natalie, too – it's a stroke of luck that there were two of you . . . I told her to set up a television in the theatre, so that I could guide her from it as to what to do next, but she must've . . . well, you already know,"
". . . I'm sorry," Sherlock muttered, although it seemed like the wrong time for platitudes.
"I need your help to get back, Sherlock," The man who called himself 'the Doctor' told him in a solemn voice, "and to stop anyone else from being killed. Where are you currently?"

Sherlock's mouth was open, and he was frowning. He looked vaguely amused, shaking his head as he turned his torch off and pocketed it to conserve its battery life.

"What? – Sherlock, this is serious, very serious, people have died-"
"You didn't summon me . . . I heard no such message! I'm a private investigator. I came here out of professional curiosity, I . . . I broke into the theatre to investigate the disappearances, when I find this . . . Television-"
"But you are psychic, though?"
"Well, that's rather aside from the point-"
"I'll be the judge of – Wait, you're in the theatre?" The other man's eyes widened. He looked genuinely scared.
"Yes, I'm in the theatre – I assume you set this up,"
"I told you, Natalie set it up, I'm – forget it – Sherlock, listen to me . . . You need to leave. Get out of there. Get to a safe distance, just anywhere where they can't get you – keep in the light. That way, they can't sneak up on you. We'll regroup later, we can discuss strategy. But until then, you need to leave,"
"Why?"
"Because they're fast, Sherlock – did you remember to shut the door?"
"Did I . . . Who? What am I looking for? Come on, 'Doctor', you've got to be more specific-"
"The door, Sherlock!"

Slowly, Sherlock's eyes crept to his right, his head turning slowly to take in his surroundings fully.

The door hung ajar, swinging out into the corridor, slowly opening to reveal . . .

A hand. A stone hand, snaked around the door, where before there had been none.
He fixed his eyes onto it, frowning, and squinted. No, it wasn't just a trick of the light.

"What is that?" Sherlock asked bluntly, drawing his eyes away with some effort.
"No! Carry on looking at it, don't look at me! D-"

The television flickered off for a second, plunging him into total darkness.
When it came back on, it wasn't just a hand around the door. It was a head.

"Sherlock, you need to listen to me . . ." The Doctor urged him in a low voice. "Don't blink. Blink, and you're dead. Don't turn your back. Don't look away. And don't blink. They're fast, faster than you could believe-"

The television flickered off again, and back on. The angel had seemingly taken a step over the threshold, hands over its eyes, as if it were . . . weeping.

"It's taking the energy from the television!" Sherlock realised.
"Yes!" He confirmed, but again, the television flickered off, submerging him into darkness again and again: "It feeds off – energies – like – scavenger-"
With every time the television flickered off, the angel got a little closer, starting to reach out to him.
Sherlock focussed on it, unblinking, while he had precious light from the television to work with. He fumbled in his pocket for the torch, infuriatingly unable to retrieve it with his agitation and fear.

He was definitely dreaming, or high, or hallucinating, this was, this was –

He could hear his pulse in his ears, almost blocking out the Doctor's warnings totally – though he felt like his heart was in his mouth, like he might throw it up there and then, he spoke:
"Doctor, you're breaking up – what do I need to do?" He demanded in his most authoritative voice.
He backed away, the television's interference becoming almost blanket, as he tripped backwards over the armchair, smashing a glass, falling over a rug and onto the floor, crawling backwards until his head hit a wall.

He put his hand onto some glass: losing focus just for a second in the pain from his left palm.

The next time he looked up, the angel's wide eyes and gaping mouth were opposite his own, centimetres from his face, leaning over him as he cowered towards the wall in horror.
"Trap – don't – Face to face – they'll – stuck – quantum lock – only hope – I'll get – from there – Good lu – lock Holmes –"

The television cut out for the last time, with Sherlock backed up against the far wall. He was staring at the creature's hand, almost closed around his neck.

Not a second too late, he managed to get his torch, and shine it into the angel's face, knowing that his life depended on his drying eyes refusing to yield.

His struggled breath the only audible thing for miles around, he shook under the angel's unseeing gaze.
Quantum lock. They literally ceased to exist as soon as they were being observed. So, all he had to do was not blink, and it wouldn't get to him – all he had to do so it wouldn't catch him.

So it wouldn't kill him.

Focussing all the while on the statue, he slid out from its near-grip, stood up shakily, and backed out of the dressing room. Finally, he reached the door, and pulled it shut with a slam.
Thinking quickly, he grabbed a large black box – the kind he supposed they'd use for set-dressing – and shoved it with an almighty feat of strength in front of the door.

There was no way it was getting out. Well . . . Not before he was well out of its grasp.
But first thing was first: the Doctor had said they. So there were more. He used his torch to trace a thick red cable that went from the nearby stage to the master switch box, his eyes moving at a rapid speed along its length.

REM. As if he was asleep.
. . . This felt like a dream – more like a nightmare, of course. But he observed his hand: bleeding, and painful. The cut was deep, but it wasn't serious. Annoyingly enough, it had cut right through his expensive leather glove. He hissed in annoyance, and took it off; quickly remembered his own situation, and snapped out of his childish irritation at the damaged garment. He could always buy another pair of gloves. He only had one shot at this.
This was deadly serious, as the Doctor had mentioned. Copiously.

Each step was like a full-sized orchestra crashing into the start of a symphony, impossibly loud in the all-consuming silence of the backstage corridor. He tried to be stealthy, but cringed at every single predictable, unavoidable step.

You can't stay here. You have to keep going.
. . . Doctor?
Yes, Sherlock.
How are you talking to me across time zones? Aren't you in the past?
We have a psychic link now. You're aware of my existence, I know exactly where and when you are, so we can share thoughts – don't ask me how . . . This psychic stuff, people assume it's just reading minds, but really it's more like a big conglomeration of wibbly-wobbly, mindy-windy . . . Abilities.
And that's a technical term, is it?

Sherlock found that he was ignored, as the Doctor carried on:

- I'm glad this message got to you – unlike the one telling you to stay out. You didn't even hear it a little bit? . . . Or would you just have ignored it, even if you'd heard it?
It's irrelevant. What's done is done. Now we need to find a way to stop this.
Couldn't have put it better myself. Listen, what I was trying to say before – you need to-
–Quiet! . . .

Sherlock stopped, by the master control box for the power to the lights. He opened it, finding it to be unlocked conveniently . . .
. . . What was less convenient and more utterly terrifying was that he observed the switch to be already in the 'on' configuration.

The Doctor thought the same as he did:

Impossible – the switch is on, which means . . .
. . . They've already drained all the power from the backstage lights –
- the rest of the building will come next, and then –
- they'll head for the outside world–
- killing people and taking their energy, sucking the life out of them . . .
. . . Doctor, what should I do?
It's too late. You can't do anything – not right now. Stick to the plan. Get out of there, Sherlock Holmes. Regroup – come back better prepared. That torch of yours –

But the connection was severed, as Sherlock turned to go to the back door where he'd come in so he could leave, and was confronted by not one, or two, but three weeping angels blocking the way. The fear hit him like a freight-train, making it impossible for him to maintain and concentrate on the link between himself and the Doctor.

His heart leapt in his chest, and he almost dropped the torch: almost killed himself, with one slackening of his quivering, pale, leather-gloved hand. He couldn't suppress a yelp.

"Who's there?"
He was almost distracted enough by the voice to look away. Almost.

The night watchman: he'd come to investigate the noise he was making, and the flashing of his torch. He was up in the circle by the looks of it. Sherlock had an idea: a simple idea, but he couldn't survive without it. He cursed aloud, a mere hiss to himself, as he backed slowly towards another dressing room, continuously staring at, at . . . Well, those things. Whatever they were. If he wasn't much mistaken, they were non-terrestrial in origin. Aliens.

"You're the night watchman?" He called up, yelling a loud as he possibly could, and hoping his voice would carry.
"Security guard, yes - who the hell are you? . . . Mark, is that you?"
Mark? Who was 'Mark'? . . . Oh, the production manager: he scanned the man's memories, and realised that just from his voice alone, he could get away with pretending to be Mark. It was necessary – it would work better then 'well I've just broken into your theatre, and now I'm being chased by fuck-knows-what'.

"Yeah, it's me – I need you to get to the spotlight, and point it onto the stage – as quickly as possible!"
"Um . . . Alright. Would you like a cuppa first?"
"No, just – this is urgent!"
He heard muttering: ". . . bloody theatre types – I'm not here two days, and already I'm being treated like a piece of shit. I can't believe this . . ."He ceased the muttering, and called out once more: "Right you are,"
Sherlock heard him stroll at his own leisurely pace towards the control desk. "Which one's the spotlight?"
"It should say on it!" Sherlock offered through gritted teeth, his eyes burning and itching and drying out as he backed again into a different dressing room, this time. The angels didn't move, but he knew he'd have to look away eventually, and blink. He was planning on being prepared.

His torch flickered slightly: his already wide eyes widened a fraction, and he felt a cold sweat break out all over his body, like he was suffering from some infernal illness. He was shaking, genuinely scared, with adrenaline coursing through him in a way that the substance in a bag in his coat pocket could never quite induce.

Taking his torch in his mouth, he snatched up a free-standing full length mirror from beside the door, and left the changing room, backing out towards the stage and holding the mirror lengthways; making sure each of the angels could see themselves in it by holding it in front of himself all the time, at their eye level.

Logically, they should have to cease to exist now – surely?
Oh, Sherlock Holmes, you wonderful human being!
Later, Doctor!

Praying the spotlight would hold, he ran out onto the stage, and lost sight of them for half a second in the darkness: in that time, one of them had come up right to him, so close to his face that he could feel his own cold breath bounced back at him from the icy stone. He set the mirror down in front of the angel, and retrieved his torch from his mouth, panting and blinking for just a second; allowing himself a fraction of the rest he required.

Sherlock, the second one – behind you –!

He turned around swiftly, just in time to see the second angel approach from the other side, in an effort to creep up on him that was just a second too slow to capture him.

"What the hell are those?" The guard cried, but he seemed more concerned about an intruder than about the demon stone angels that he'd just witnessed trying to kill him: "You're not – who the hell are you?"
"Yes, let's ask the important questions!" Sherlock growled sarcastically, through gritted teeth once more. He stood under the spotlight, an angel at both sides: one watched by his eyes, and one watched by its own reflection.
Hoping that his strategy would work, he suddenly ducked out from their twin outstretched hands, yanking his mirror away and out of the angels' views.

They faced each other, arms outstretched, quantum locked for all eternity in one another's gazes.
Dead.

What was that? 'He's behind you!' This isn't a pantomime, Doctor.
Sorry. Unfortunate choice of words.
Quite!

He let out a sigh of both relief and annoyance, feeling relaxed that, right now, he wasn't in mortal danger. Setting down the mirror on the floor and letting it lean against him, he found himself wondering if he'd have stayed away from the theatre tonight if he'd known what he'd be facing.

Of course you wouldn't have, you stupid boy. You never knew when to stop.

He turned his torch off with a curling, quivering lip, to save the little battery he had left.
As he stood regarding the angels he had killed, he wondered where those thoughts were coming from. They sounded an awful lot like his father, and his many criticisms.

. . . What was that?
It's nothing, Doctor.
It didn't sound like nothing.
It just happens sometimes, that's all.
Uh-huh. How often-
We're not having this conversation.
But we are later. Got it?

Sherlock sighed. Maybe his father had been right, after all: he really was an idiot for falling into this trap, and coming here in the first place.

"Stop!" Shouted the night watchman, and Sherlock's eyes widened as he realised that the man intended to come down and get him: he'd been witnessed. Not only that, but there was the other angel locked in the dressing room, and . . .

. . . The fourth angel, Sherlock – it'll open the door to the other dressing room, and the other one will be free –
I'm on it-

Breaking quickly into a run, he tucked the mirror under his arm, and snatched up his torch once more. The mirror dug into the cut on his hand as he held it, making him whimper, having lost control of his frustrated and pained utterances about the time that he'd stopped caring if he got in trouble. He wanted to stay alive more than anything, and he couldn't spare the energy to care about anything else.

He felt that he too was having his energy zapped: like his inner light bulb were flickering on and off, and his will to fight diminished.

"Stop! Don't come down here, don't-" Sherlock commanded loudly, trying to summon all authority and a voice loud enough to still be able to reach the man; it was useless against the portly security guard, who was huffing his way down the stairs, and was approaching as fast as he could.

He realised, feeling helpless, that the guard would end up backstage eventually, on the side where he'd just managed to trap the angel in the dressing room. Like the Doctor said, it would probably have been freed by the other angel by now, and there would be two of them there to get him . . . He didn't want the disappearance of another person on his hands.

Sherlock rolled his eyes stoically, which showed how urgent the situation was, as 'he did always love to be theatrical', as Mycroft had once put it.

Conceding that coming out with just a conviction for B&E from this situation would be a joy, he made his way back towards the dressing room he'd locked the weeping angel in, brandishing his full-length mirror like a shield. It was more like a sword, capable of taking their lives, as well as protecting him from them: it was all that worked against them, aside from unsustainable watching.

The number one concern was the angels, not the guard, of course. He wasn't surprised to find the door of the dressing room ajar, with no angels inside. The open door, however, blocked his view of the rest of the corridor: they could be just behind it, or they could be behind him. He propped the mirror up against his back, wincing in pain as it dug into his hand while he altered its position: this way, they couldn't sneak up behind him without being trapped by their own reflection. His hands were free to hold the torch again, but he was unable to move from his position.

The night watchman blundered in, coming in on the other side of the open dressing room door, so Sherlock couldn't see him. He gave a cry of surprise, and dread rose up in Sherlock's stomach: he'd encountered one on the other side, out of Sherlock's view.

"It's an angel, isn't it? – Don't look away from it, don't blink – trust me-"
"Trust you? You just broke in here!" He spluttered.
"I'm a private investigator-"
"Not with the police then-?"
". . . A Doctor, to be specific,"
"What? – What am I supposed to do then, if I'm not allowed to blink?" Whined the guard. He was clearly not from the city; divorced, too. Middle aged or older – maybe in his mid-to-late fifties?
"Hang on – I'm thinking!" Snapped Sherlock.
"Well, that's reassuring!"
Sherlock ignored him, rubbing his forehead and wondering if going back for the guard had been the best idea. He was having second thoughts. Maybe he should have just left when he could, and chalked him up to collateral damage

. . . No. He'd chosen his path now. There was no turning back.

"And some silence would be excellent – I trust you have a torch?"
"Yes! – It's flickering a bit-"
"The second it goes out, it'll move – move in, and kill you,"
"What? – What are they?" He repeated.
"Quiet!" Sherlock insisted.

Sherlock sighed, and turned around for a fraction of a second.
He was confronted by an angel, but not like the others: it had sharp teeth; a forked tongue; clawed hands; arched eyebrows. It was grotesque, and it was unmistakably moving in for the kill, once again reaching for Sherlock's throat.

"Do exactly . . . As I say . . ." Sherlock ordered in deep, low, cautious tones.
"I can't keep my eyes open much longer!" Complained the guard.
"You need to, or else you'll die – we'll both die – got it?" Shouted the sleuth bluntly, suddenly raising his voice's volume with frustration.

The guard groaned in annoyance: Sherlock could hear from his thoughts that he was silently weeping, and saying his goodbyes. His name was . . . Steve.

"Steve, listen – move around the angel – come towards my voice. Shut the dressing room door, but don't look away . . ."

He listened as Steve did as he was told, stumbling clumsily slightly, but evidently still maintaining his focus. He heard the dressing room door slam shut, and Steve back up to him. They were back to back, their torches illuminating their respective angels. Sherlock still had the mirror, which was a small grace, as it allowed him to use that instead of his eyes to keep the angel still. He was able to look around:

"Good," He congratulated the guard, "Now, we need to get out . . ."
He cast his gaze about: his eyes had grown slowly more accustomed to the dark, but the flickering torch light distorted everything.

Any suggestions, Doctor?
The ladder – to your right, and up high. You can reach!

"The ladder! Of course! – Steve, I'm going to move. There's one behind you. Can you hold this mirror at your back, so it doesn't attack you? – I can bring the ladder down for us both to use –"
"What, and let you get away without me?" Moaned the guard, mistrusting of the intruder who had landed in a deadly situation, understandably.
"We need to both get out!" Hissed Sherlock, "We need to get away, and they're blocking both ways. The only way we can go is up, and I'm the only one tall enough to pull down the ladder!"
"But you'll leave me! . . . Oh God, I've only been in the job two days, and I'm gonna die-"
"Pull yourself together! . . . I promise, I won't leave without you! . . . I promise – but there's no time, you're going to blink any moment, I can tell – Take the mirror, okay?"

Sherlock shifted the mirror onto Steve's back, almost dropping it as it slipped over to the left dramatically. They both swore; they both nearly looked away.
"On three, I'm going to move, and grab the ladder down, okay?" He informed the guard urgently.
Steve nodded tersely, but Sherlock could feel him trembling as they stood back to back: one fat, one lean; one short, one tall; one human, one . . . Something else, probably.

"One . . . Two . . . Three!"
Sherlock ducked out of the way, grabbing the high ladder and pulling it down with a sharp yank, in one sweeping movement. He climbed the first few rungs, and looked back, making sure to keep the torch illuminating his angel the entire time.
He saw Steve, sweating and trembling, wanting to blink so badly that he was in agony. The next move was crucial.
"Steve, you can climb up now – if they're looking at each other, they can't move," He winced, but said the next part anyway, against his better judgement: "Take my hand . . ."

Steve took a minute to compose himself.
Suddenly, in one jerking movement, he let the mirror clatter noisily to the floor, and jolted out the view of both the angels, leaving them both gazing endlessly at one another in the corridor below. He grabbed the bloody hand of the same private investigator he had wanted to reprimand just a few minutes ago.

Sherlock, with a superhuman effort, helped hoist the larger man up the ladder. They both climbed it at pace, with the elder of the two climbing at a rate Sherlock hadn't deemed possible.

They reached the top of the scaffold, and looked down, still illuminating the scene:
Two pairs of angels, both lost in one another's gazes. Trapped forever, until someone moved them.

"Come on – the roof," Steve mumbled, informing Sherlock of the only way out.
"Wait," Sherlock grabbed the other man's torch, snatching it away, and used a rope to secure it from the ceiling: it hung there, a spotlight that kept the two aliens in the light. They couldn't drain the energy from it if they weren't alive.

He looked at Steve, who'd initially begun to complain about the theft of his torch, but now was thankful Sherlock had the presence of mind to remember to keep them in the light.

Cautiously, he turned and began to walk again to the emergency exit at the end of the narrow walkway. He opened it, and in came a flood of cold night air, curling around them like a freezing comfort blanket. The shorter man ran out, gulping in breath after breath of fresh air, and panting with his subsiding fear.

Sherlock's nostrils flared as he strode slowly out, and observed this weak specimen of humanity. Granted, he would probably have never gotten out of that situation without him, but still – he was annoying. He found the concept of a companion abhorrent: he worked alone. No one could keep up with him, and he didn't want to have to go around explaining certain talents to just anyone.

"What were those?" Asked the red-faced man, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Aliens. Most probably. Non-terrestrial, from what I could tell. Scavengers, most likely, if my source is correct,"
". . . You're telling me," Steve gathered himself, still panting, "That those things . . . Are aliens?"
"Most likely, yes," Sherlock replied plainly, already losing patience with Steve's idiotic questions, and becoming lost in thought. He looked up at the familiarly inky sky, and narrowed his eyes.

The Doctor was still trapped in the past – whatever that meant. He presumed he was a time traveller, but he'd never known anyone with an ability to go so far as actually naming themselves, like something out of a third-rate comic book. 'The Doctor', a time traveller, calling himself a 'Timelord'. Did he consider everyone with an ability a 'Timelord', then? Well, call me The Detective and brand me a Timelord in that case, he thought acerbically.

He didn't know how, but . . . Perhaps now he'd stopped the angels – at least for now – the Doctor was free to return to the future? – If he hadn't had all of his energy zapped?

You know, Sherlock, I knew you were smart – I never thought you'd manage to outmanoeuvre four weeping angels.
Thank you, Doctor – I think. Tell me, is there a chance we can meet – in person?
More than a chance. I can come back to your present now – about, one in the morning, isn't it? – hang onto your hats!
I don't have a–

There was a grinding noise from across the flat roof: about ten metres away appeared to be the source. Steve, who was still floundering over their encounter downstairs, looked up sharply. Wind buffeted them both: Sherlock pulled his collar around his face as far as it would go, shoving his hands in his pockets and hoping he didn't get a lot of blood on the left pocket lining; Steve held an arm up to shield his face his, clip-on tie blowing behind him frantically.

A strange apparition: a 1960s, bright blue police public call box. Sherlock smirked, and wandered if the Doctor was always going to be so quirky and theatrical.

When the box was fully formed, there was a moment of deathly still calm on the rooftop. The wind didn't blow, and the box didn't move; nor did the two men on the roof. Suddenly, the door of the box swung open, and a familiar face popped its head round the door:
"Care to join us, Sherlock?"

Steve promptly passed out, falling onto Sherlock, who caught him with a bemused expression.
The Doctor rolled his eyes:
"Next time, pick a better companion! You want to get yourself a doctor – isn't that right, Martha?"
"Too right!" Called a female voice from inside the box. Impossible . . . There was room for the two of them in there – and he wanted him to join them?
"I didn't – look, he was just there. He's the night watchman, I couldn't leave without ensuring he hadn't seen me, and that he didn't . . ."

He paused, shifting the heavy weight of the guard in his arms.
"Well, are you going to help or not?" He asked irritably, surprising even himself with his impatience with a man he'd just met.
With a smile and a shake of his head, the Doctor came forward and grabbed the man's legs, and together, they walked towards the box.
Sherlock saw orange light emanating from within – orange as the light of a candle, and yet simultaneously blue, and synthetic . . . Where was it coming from?

His questions were soon answered. There could be four people within the box at once because the box was bigger on the inside. He stepped as gingerly as he could over the threshold – a difficult feat to perform when you were carrying an overweight man between you and another person.

As soon as he entered the box, he began to feel a strange sensation: his stomach felt sickly, and twisted horribly; there was a bitter taste in his mouth, and his muscles felt atrophied and weak. It didn't help his efforts to transport the guard, but he ignored it, even though he was starting to feel even colder than he'd been outside . . . Frozen from the inside out, and numb to the point where his brain functions were starting to malfunction.
He decided not to let these sensations known to the others, of course.

They approached what appeared to be some sort of console in the centre – a control panel? – which had, nearby, a few leather car-style seats, one of which they left the guard on.

Levers. Buttons. Screens. Steampunk design, synthetic lights – electric? No, definitely seems alien in origin . . .
"Well, it's a spaceship, what were you expecting?" The Doctor asked, answering his thoughts.
"I . . . What? I thought you were a time-traveller?"
"That too. I'm a Timelord. This is my TARDIS. Time and relative-"
"-Dimension in space," Finished Sherlock, casting his gaze around the sizeable ship and trying his best not to gape. He was confronted with mixed results: he forgot not to clutch to the metal bar beside him for dear life and logic; his head throbbed, as his lips parted, laced with a single world . . . Impossible . . .

"And yet, here you are – hey . . ."
The Doctor put his hand out to touch Sherlock's shoulder, but the detective automatically pulled away before he could as a reflex, without even looking at him. The Doctor frowned at his reaction, and waved a hand in front of his face, snapping him out of his reverie. Sherlock shut his mouth with a defined 'click', and fixed a steady eye on his . . . Associate? He couldn't really think of the world. He was a little too in awe. He was feeling a little too achy and sick, too.
"Breathe, Sherlock,"
The voice was far away. He'd gone straight from being distracted by the ship to concentrating on something else.

Stupid. Stupid boy. Freak. I just wished I could be proud, and what did I get? I got you.
You are no son of mine.

". . . Sherlock?"
"It's nothing," He replied, a little too loudly and too briskly.
"It doesn't seem like nothing. Trust me. I'm a doctor,"
"You're the Doctor. There's a difference between a name and a qualification," Sherlock replied, but his voice slurred slightly. His knuckles beneath his gloves were white as he clutched the hand rail.
"And I'm a doctor, and I'm saying that you look pretty unwell, to say the least,"

Sherlock turned around, and there she was: Martha Jones. Doctor Martha Jones.
"Sherlock Holmes," He said, reaching out a hand for her to shake, in an effort to distract her. His hand wavered slightly, and he concentrated on keeping it straight. He felt a little like he was drunk, in addition to the ill feelings he was experiencing.
"Martha Jones – the Doctor's . . . companion. Here – sit down,"

A separate chair to the one the night watchman was dozing quietly on was afforded to him: he sank into it, and wondered why he felt so cold, so . . . alone? – What?

"Diagnosis?" The Doctor asked his companion.
"Could just be a drop in your blood sugar. When was the last time you ate?" She asked the private investigator.
"Tuesday,"
"Six days ago?" She asked. "Blimey . . . No wonder your colour's off!"
"It's nothing," He waved her away. "I don't eat when I'm on a case. Digestion slows me down. And I'm always this pale, thank you very much,"
"Oh, sorry . . . You're cold, though," She said, pressing her hand to his forehead. He flinched, and batted her hand away.
"I'm always cold – leave me be,"
"I can't just-"
"Leave me! I'm not human, that's why I'm cold, that's why I'm pale!"
"Oh, Sherlock . . ." the Doctor shook his head with a sad smile. "That is so human,"
"What?" Asked the investigator irritably. He was beginning to get a headache.
"Well . . . Man helps you fight aliens, man shows up in blue box, man invites you in and tells you he's a time-and-space traveller . . . and yet you're not willing to open up a little bit to said man,"
"What's it to you? You can't help," Sherlock retorted bitterly.
"Oh, I think I can . . . Give me your coat," Requested the Doctor.
"But he's so cold already! Why would you want to make him colder?" Martha protested, catching the Doctor's outstretched arm with a look of genuine concern on her face.

"If I'm right, this'll make him feel much better. Tell me, Sherlock, do you wear the coat much?"
"Every day. Sometimes . . ." He cleared his throat, "Sometimes, I forget to take it off. I don't sleep while I'm on a case . . ."

The Doctor nodded, and Martha rolled her eyes. What was it with men and their attachment to their bloody coats? Sherlock smiled weakly, looking down to try and make sure she didn't see; she saw anyway.

"Great – so, you heard that. You're the psychic guy, with the angels, I suppose?" Martha sighed.
"I'm afraid so, yes. I'm sorry to intrude. Nasty habit," He said with an apologetic, placatory smile.
She threw her hands up, and decided this was probably better for someone who knew about supernatural physiology to deal with him. She turned to the Doctor, who waited for Sherlock to undo his coat buttons. The sleuth stood up, and began removing the offending piece of clothing, to reveal a tight black suit and navy blue shirt.

". . . Who else would I be, though?" Sherlock asked with a frown as he got to work on the golden buttons. But before either of them could respond, he realised: "You travel in time . . . Relatively speaking, how long ago was the angels incident, for you?"
"Well-" The Doctor said, tipping his head to the side and elongating the word with a mischievous smile, "-we didn't come straight here. Things never happen to me in order. We had some things to do first. You know – house-keeping, odds and ends . . . Research,"
"Research?"

Sherlock handed over the coat. The Doctor took it in his hand while Sherlock was still holding onto it, but suddenly began to shake violently. He grew paler.
"Ah!" He looked shock, as if the clothing was white hot, ". . . I think we may have found the – problem!" He finished, wincing, in a strained voice. Sherlock frowned, his lips forming the word 'What?'
"Martha, could you – ?" He thrust the coat into her arms, and breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
Martha looked between the two men, grasping the heavy coat, and wondering what was wrong with the both of them.

"Explain," Sherlock demanded in a low voice, eyes burning into the Doctor, who leant on the console, breathing steadily. He instantly felt better, for some reason . . . He couldn't put his finger on it, but it was clearly to do with the coat.
"The TARDIS has a lot of residual psychic energy in it. For a Timelord, it's negligible, but for a human with psychic capabilities – it's a little overwhelming. That's why you feel drunk,"
". . . Oh . . . But, why did I feel . . . Unwell?"
"The energy is amplifying the effects of the coat on your brain,"
"The coat?" He prompted once more.
"You don't know? . . . I wonder what it's like not being me! It must be so relaxing!" He said with a warm smile. Sherlock scowled at him, but had to concede that it was a feeling he himself had been prone to while consorting with other human beings.
"Go on, then," Sherlock encouraged.
"The coat was your father's, yes?" The Doctor asked quietly.
"Yes. You read my mind?" Sherlock presumed.
"No. Something else – psychometrics. That's why you kept hearing his thoughts. They were memories – the coat's laced with them. Hundreds! All of them . . . Not very nice. You weren't close?"

Sherlock laughed bitterly; the hollow sound resonated, and the Doctor pursed his lips. Martha busied herself with taking the poisonous coat to the stand near the door. Well, poisonous – that's what it seemed like it had done to the other two when they'd been in contact with it. She, however, felt fine. It must be a psychic thing, she concluded.

"No. He wasn't . . . No," Sherlock finished curtly. He clearly didn't want to discuss it, and so the Doctor moved on, though he was still uneasy: Sherlock hadn't quite put the issue to rest, and he didn't want to leave him to deal with trauma alone.
"Anyway, you kept picking them up. Congratulations, Sherlock – you've got a dual ability. You can touch things and see their history, as well as reading minds. Put it to good use – oh, actually, you said you were a consulting detective?"
"Private investigator,"
". . . Oh, yeah, right – sorry. Private investigator," The Doctor replied, looking at Martha. Sherlock didn't miss the look they shared; the effort to suppress a smile on the both of their faces.

"What are you not telling me?" Sherlock queried, curiosity aroused.
"No one should know much about their future," Martha called over.
". . . I'm going to start introducing myself as a 'Consulting Detective'? – Is that even a job?"
"You're the only one in the world," Shrugged Martha. The Doctor smirked, obviously not wanting to give anything away himself, but not minding that his assistant was sharing with Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at her quizzically.
"And when does this new title come into play?"
"When you start working with the police," She replied, but then caught herself, looking at the Doctor. She looked as if she'd gone too far.
"I'm going to what?" he asked in horrified disbelief. ". . . No, no! I only like the interesting cases, why would I work with the police? They'll have me doing all sorts of open-and-shut cases, the same as any other ten-a-penny DI!" He moaned, shaking his head.

Though he felt better for losing the coat, he still felt a little out-of-sorts. It was the effect of the TARDIS, he knew – notwithstanding the psychic energy of the place, it was a bit of a mind-fuck to actually be in a spaceship that travelled in time and was bigger on the inside.

"Well," The Doctor said once more, again elongating the syllable in a way the investigator was beginning to see was one of his idiosyncrasies, "You don't have to do all the cases . . . Just the ones they can't do . . . The ones that take your fancy . . ."
"Oh . . . I see. And when does this begin?" Asked Sherlock eagerly. To tell the truth, he was tiring of his endless adultery cases, of tailing people, of investigating potential employees for people who had more money than common sense. Murders . . . They were appealing to him, and no doubt.

The Doctor sucked in the air through his teeth, and told him:
"How about now?"
He spun round, and began to pull levers on the console. He was a blur of movement, throwing switches and pushing buttons with his feet. The whole ship lurched and bounced, forcing Sherlock to cling onto his seat again, digging his nails in and looking frankly alarmed.
"Don't worry – it always does this," Martha told him in a reassuring tone. She looked less sure, however, when she was thrown almost to the floor by a particularly vicious jolt.

Through it all, the unconscious security guard merely slipped from one side to the other, too deeply asleep to be roused by a simple crash-landing spaceship, it would seem.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the movement stopped. They'd landed.

"The police are out there. They're appealing for witnesses at the theatre. You can tell them you've been investigating, but the problem should be cleared up now – don't worry, we'll move the angels. We can keep them looking at one another, so they stay inactive," The Doctor added, answering Sherlock's latent question.

The investigator took a moment to compose himself, before asking,
"So, I suppose this is goodbye – shall I be seeing you around?"
"Not unless we need you . . . Perhaps the odd social call, though? – Don't forget to tell me when you've moved into 221b Baker Street – I don't want to be landing in the wrong place and time, again,"
Sherlock thought about asking what he meant, and then thought again: he'd store that information at the back of his hard-drive for later.

"Until next time, Doctor," The young man said, reaching out a hand to the Timelord.
"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes," The Doctor said with genuine smile that Sherlock would never admit had made him feel warm and optimistic for his future. He took his hand, and shook it.

"Goodbye, Martha," He said with a smile to the Doctor's assistant. She shook his hand, and gave him a parting sentiment as she pressed her other one over his hand too, clasping it gently as she spoke:
"I . . . I hope you find someone, Sherlock. You saved the world today . . . You deserve someone,"
"I don't need anyone," He told her with a raised eyebrow. She rolled her eyes.
"That's exactly that attitude that makes me know that you do,"

He just smiled and turned away, hands in his pockets as he walked to the door, ignoring his coat on the stand as he opened it; it made a squeaking noise like it needed to be oiled.
Then, as he turned back and waved with one hand, he smiled the first genuine smile he had done for at least twelve years, before he'd manifested the ability that would change his life forever.

The door shut, and Martha turned excitedly to the Doctor, managing to contain herself as she told him:
"We – we did it! . . . Didn't we?"
"I'd say . . . We can afford to be cautiously optimistic,"

The Doctor grinned at her, because Sherlock had purposefully neglected to pick up the bag of white powder that lay in his coat's pocket, as well as the coat itself. They'd shown him the bigger picture, and a vision of his future that involved doing a lot of good for the world – and what's more, he'd liked it.

Sherlock Holmes had turned a new page in the long book of adventures that was his life.

"Well, I suppose we'd better get this one back home," The Doctor shrugged in the general direction on the snoring security guard. Martha smiled, and nodded in agreement, gripping the handrail as the Doctor leapt for the TARDIS controls, casting them off once more into the crisp, starry London night . . .