"I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high."

- 'Jane Eyre'

Charlotte Brontë

X X X

It was another sleepless night.

Sherlock had been getting many such nights lately, spent staring out the window at nothing in particular; eyes wide awake and unblinking. He wasn't tired. And besides, how was he supposed to sleep when his mind always kept him awake with its wonderful thoughts and ideas? It was a perfect, beautiful distraction.

From everything.

The window seat he was currently lounging on was old, decorated with an ugly feather cushion that had gone down through the generations; a cushion that was outlined by dirty lace, a hideous flowery pattern, and stains that Sherlock didn't really want to think about. Mycroft often rubbed it in, also. The fact that he got a new leather cushion for the window seat in his room, and Sherlock got the old one. Then again, Sherlock was only twelve, and Mycroft was the eldest, therefore he got the best of everything.

Honestly, though, Sherlock didn't really care. The cushion served its purpose, and that was enough for him.

He was distracted from his thoughts just then, though, as a strange sound from behind him caught his attention. A strong wind suddenly kicked up, blowing things across the room, and Sherlock turned, his gray-green eyes widening as he saw something that defied all logic and rationality literally materializing in front of him.

Sherlock stared, breath hitching in his throat, at a large blue box, complete with a door and a sign that read 'Police Public Call Box' at the top. And, in his moment of hesitation, he could only stand there in shock while desperately trying to figure out what was going on, what this box was, and how it had appeared in his room.

Then the door opened.

Sherlock jumped back, wary, and steeled himself, determined to be ready for whatever came out of the impossible box, no matter what it was or whether or not it disproved all science and reality.

What he did not expect was for a man to emerge.

He was a rather normal-looking man, by all respects. Well, a bit strange, yes, but still nothing that seemed particularly extraordinary. The man had messy brown hair and scruffy features that told Sherlock he was a man who was in constant travel and cared very little for his appearances, and he wore a brown pinstripe suit with a long tan coat over it complete with a pair of bright red converse on his feet. All this offset something and made Sherlock realize that – despite how inconspicuous this man seemed at first glance – it was wrong. All of it, everything about him was wrong.

"Oh, hello." The man seemed to notice him for the first time just then, and he gave Sherlock friendly smile. "Sorry, but where am I?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "My bedroom."

"Oh?" The man bounded out of the impossible box, "That's new. How'd that come about? I was really only trying to land in the middle of London, near that old church, on a Tuesday in the year 2012. It is Tuesday, isn't it?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered slowly, confused and honestly a bit unnerved by this man. He was British, though. That was something.

"And what year is it?"

"1989."

The man's eyes widened. "1989? Really? I'm off by twenty three years? I've never done that before either. How is that possible? I know I set the coordinates right." He put a hand on the impossible box, stroking the blue wood lovingly. "Did you bring me here for a reason, dear?"

Sherlock stared. "Who are you?"

"Me?" The man turned, his eyes locking with Sherlock's, and he smiled again, "I'm the Doctor, and you?"

Sherlock didn't respond for a moment, for he was too lost in the man's – the Doctor's – eyes. Honey-brown and kind, they were wide with wonder and a childish joy normally attributed to ones of a lesser age. And yet there was something else there, underneath what you would see only at first glance; something elusive, secret, and terrifying.

And old, so very old.

"You . . ." Sherlock blinked a few times, willing himself to look away. "Who are you?"

"I already said; I'm the Doctor."

"And what sort of a name is that?"

"It's my name, and what's yours?"

Sherlock hesitated just a moment before answering, "I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh?" The Doctor grinned, his eyes twinkling. "That's a wonderful name, Sherlock Holmes. It's so mysterious and interesting, like something from a fairy tale or a mystery novel."

"What is that thing?" Sherlock interrupted, wanting to distract the Doctor from his ramblings.

"What thing?"

Sherlock pointed at the impossible box, still wary and unsure about the whole situation.

"Oh, that's the TARDIS."

"The . . . what?"

"Time and Relative Dimension in Space," the Doctor said.

Sherlock made a face, obviously not convinced, "Are you saying it's a time machine?"

"Yes, but . . ." The Doctor seemed confused, "How did you know that?"

"Time and Relative Dimension in Space?" Sherlock scoffed, "I'm not an idiot; I know what that means."

The Doctor suddenly pulled something out of his inside coat pocket, something silver with a blue tip, and he flashed it at Sherlock. "How old are you?"

"Twelve."

"Quite smart for a twelve-year-old." The Doctor said, staring at the strange silver device. He paused, again glancing at Sherlock, and for just a moment Sherlock glimpsed something else in his eyes; something hidden even deeper than the ancient secret he kept locked away so far beneath everything else. But before he could focus and figure out what it was, the Doctor looked away and the moment was gone.

A sudden beeping sound reached their ears and the Doctor spun around, his eyes going wide once more with exaggerated surprise as he bounded back over to the TARDIS.

"No, no, no. How is this possible? You shouldn't be doing this, you can't be doing this." He opened the door, launching himself inside but stopping for just a moment to turn back to face the young boy watching him intently. "Sorry to have to cut this short, Sherlock Holmes, but I have to go. It's relocating again, and I have no idea whatsoever where I could end up." A grin found its way to the Doctor's face, then, and he saluted Sherlock, "But that's the fun part, isn't it? Allons-y!"

He whooped loudly then, closing the door of the box behind him, and with a whoosh and a strange, almost screeching sound, the TARDIS had gone as if it were never there.

Sherlock stood there for moments afterwards, staring at the place the impossible box had stood, and came to a sudden decision to never tell anyone of what he'd just seen. He could not. They'd never believe him; they'd just think he was crazy.

So, best just to keep it a secret.

X X X

Twenty three years later . . .

The woman in front of Sherlock was hideous, and not just in outward appearances. Everything about her grated on his nerves, and it was all he could do to not grind as he teeth as he sat there, watching her steadily.

". . . And I was sure I heard a woman's voice on the other end," she was saying as she pursed her lips, placing further emphasis on the particularly horrid shade of red lipstick she'd chosen to clash terribly with her outfit. "I just don't have any way to be sure."

John Watson, Sherlock's partner and the closest thing he had to a friend, stood just behind the chair Sherlock was reclining in, relaxed as he fell into his routine. The good doctor was listening intently and urging the woman – Patricia Earhart was her name – to continue on whenever she paused, determined to gather some good evidence, and maybe even see something Sherlock had missed.

Sherlock, however, wasn't paying much attention to what she was saying, he merely leaned back and steepled his fingers together, resisting the urge to look away from Patricia in all her repulsiveness. It was horribly terrifying, however, for Sherlock to also suddenly realize that she was actually trying to sucker up to him (of all people) which also accurately revealed what a horrid sycophant she was; further dirtying the already considerably large pool of rubbish that was her personality.

And finally, Sherlock decided that he'd had enough.

"Of course your husband is cheating on you," He said suddenly, cutting Patricia off mid-sentence.

Patricia stared at him, "I'm sorry, what?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Honestly, how can you people live with yourselves sometimes? These things are so often right in front of your face, and it's rather disappointing how easily you're fooled. Your husband is cheating on you. It's obvious."

Patricia stood, threw Sherlock a deadly glare, and then turned and left, her stomps echoing through the flat all the way down the stairs and out the door until it slammed shut behind her.

It only took a moment for John to turn on him. "You know, you could've been a bit kinder about that, Sherlock. She came to you for help, not to have her fears thrown in her face like that."

Sherlock massaged his temples, "I don't really care about that, John. I need a case, and that's all that matters right now; an actual case, too. Not some ridiculously easy domestic inquiry that I can solve in less than a minute. I swear, if I don't get one soon, I'm going to go mad."

You already are, John thought mutinously, but of course he didn't say it out loud. Instead he said, "You need a hobby, Sherlock; something to give you a break from your life as a consulting detective."

"I do, John. You know what I do in my spare time."

"Chemistry and all that experimentation you do on heads and thumbs and whatnot is the exact opposite of what I'm talking about."

"Well, I have my violin," Sherlock said.

"You only ever play it when you're thinking about a case, Sherlock. I mean an actual hobby to get you away from all that."

"And what would you suggest, then, doctor?"

"Well, I read in my spare time . . . or I write in my blog, and that sort of acts like a journal, so that's nice. Maybe you could so something like that?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, a faraway look in his eyes, before he said, "I used to keep journals when I was a child . . ."

"Oh?" John looked surprised. "Then maybe you could go look over some of those. Reminisce and all that; it might be good for you and it might give you some ideas, too."

"Maybe . . ." Sherlock murmured, lost in his thoughts again.

John stood there a moment longer, feeling awkward and wondering if Sherlock was going to say anything more. Finally, though, he decided that the consulting detective was too far gone in his thoughts to respond, so he decided he might as well go on a walk and give him some time to think. Slipping on his coat, John left the flat quickly, calling out a friendly goodbye to Mrs. Hudson as he did, and then the building was silent once more.

Moments later Sherlock got to his feet and went to his room, completely oblivious to John's sudden absence as he opened his closet and maneuvered around to the back.

Ah, there it was.

A cardboard box, filled to the brim with his old journals and notebooks. Sherlock had never been one for sentiment, but for some reason he'd always kept these journals. The only things left from his childhood; they'd been left gathering dust in the back of his closets through the years, so maybe it was time they finally fulfilled their purpose.

Grabbing the box, he took it over and sat cross-legged on his bed with it next to him. A cloud of dust spiraled through the air when he pulled the lid off, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the contents. The journals inside it were all basically the same size and shape, but with a different one for each year, and they were each marked with his signature on the top right corner of the cover, too – well, his signature from his childhood.

Oh, what memories.

He picked up on marked 1988 and stared at it for a moment. He'd been eleven then. There wasn't much in the journal itself, though. Sherlock remembered why; that was the year he spent at a boarding school out in Westchester, and it had been a horrible year so he hadn't written much.

He hadn't wanted to remember.

The next one was from 1989. That was when he'd been twelve, and his mother had decided to bring him back from the boarding school and have him tutored at home until he made it to University. That had been a better year. Sherlock flipped through a few pages, just skimming over the entries, but froze suddenly as he read one particular entry from that year . . .

One that brought back memories he'd buried deep down inside of him.

Entry, May 23, 1989

I'm not entirely sure how to write this down.

I met a man today. But he was no ordinary man, no. He was a very strange man who called himself 'the Doctor' and with him he had this little blue box; an impossible box that appeared and disappeared and actually flew.

And then there was something about his eyes . . . they were an old that went beyond ancient, and yet he himself seemed so very young. And the way he talked, it was like he was from another time. He asked me what year it was, and then he said something about being twenty or so years off his target. And I know it wasn't a dream, considering the state of my room. But that wouldn't be proof enough for others. So I won't tell them. It'll just be my secret.

And, maybe one day, the Doctor will come back.

Sherlock stared at the page a moment, wondering how on earth he could've forgotten about the Doctor. He'd never returned of course, but Sherlock had always believed he would. And even now, so many years later, when the child that he'd been had disappeared into dust, there was still that old hope down there at the bottom of his stomach – the hope that the Doctor would return some day and Sherlock would get to see him again.

And oh, that thought alone excited him beyond all measure.

The sound of the door to the flat opening suddenly startled him from his thoughts, and then the familiar sound of John stomping up the stairs reached him as the good doctor yelled, "Sherlock!"

The consulting detective shut the journal from 1989 with a snap, putting it and the others he'd pulled out back in the box and sliding the lid on just as John entered the room.

"Sherlock, its Lestrade." John handed him the phone, "You've got a case."

"Wonderful!" Sherlock got to his feet and snatched the phone, "What is it, Lestrade?"

"I'm not even sure, that's why I called you." Lestrade sighed, sounding exhausted, "This one is all kinds of strange."

Sherlock's eyes widened, their color shining the light blue they did when he was excited. He grabbed his coat and scarf, grinning manically. "Where are you, Lestrade?"

X X X

Gruesome.

That was the only way to adequately describe the crime scene that Lestrade had directed Sherlock and John to. There was blood everywhere; splattered across the walls of the alleyway, dripping from the dumpster off to the side, and still draining from the body that was torn up beyond recognition.

From what Lestrade had told Sherlock so far, they weren't even entirely sure if the victim was male or female.

John was having trouble looking at it, though, Sherlock could tell. In all that John had seen during his time as a soldier – all the blood, death, and violence – he'd never seen anything as horrible as this. And Sherlock, for once, seemed to understand that while John didn't want to be there, he also didn't want to just go walk off and look like a sodding pansy in front of half of the Scotland Yard police force. So, wanting to give him an excuse, Sherlock told him to go hold the cab.

And the good doctor did so willingly, thanking Sherlock under his breath as he did.

Lestrade, realizing what had happened, glanced at Sherlock in surprise. "That was . . . that was actually really kind of you."

"I do have the ability to be kind occasionally, Lestrade." Sherlock replied.

The DI's eyebrows shot up. "I think Doctor Watson is getting to you, Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored him then, instead opting for bending down to examine the mutilated corpse. He noted as he did, though, that Lestrade was having trouble actually looking at it straight-on as well. He supposed that was a normal reaction, though.

"Female," Sherlock said after a few moments.

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock nodded. "Her fingernails – not entirely noticeable, but they're freshly manicured; french tips. Very nicely done and, from what I can tell, expensive. Also, the slight curvature of her hips is still a bit noticeable, even though most of her torso is torn up. And her shoes tell us a lot as well."

"She's not wearing any shoes," Lestrade said.

"And yet you're referring to her as 'she' already, Detective Inspector, so you must believe me."

Lestrade sighed, "Just get on with it, Sherlock."

"Really, all you have to do is take a look at the shape her feet are in. They might be a bit mangled, yes, but it's still there enough to be gathered as data, because only a woman obsessed with fashion enough to get a ridiculously expensive manicure would wear heels that squeezed her feet like that. Isn't there some sort of saying for that? The price women pay for fashion, or something or another? Yes, use that as a reference."

"Alright, then," Lestrade looked sort of like a kicked puppy. "What can you tell us about the murderer?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, and then he said, "Teeth."

Lestrade blinked, "Teeth?"

"Yes," Sherlock frowned, "Either the killer is some sort of rabid animal let loose in the streets of London, or it's someone with very sharp teeth; someone who tore off this woman's skin piece-by-piece until she was reduced to this."

Lestrade looked a bit pale, "But neither of those seem very likely."

Sherlock's eyes darkened, "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

"Fine, then. Do you know which it is? Animal or human?"

Sherlock straightened and shoved his hands in his pocket, "Not yet. And it's dangerous to come to a conclusion now when I have so little data. I have a few ideas, nothing more." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes, "Good day, Inspector. I will call you when I know more."

And then he was off, gone before Lestrade could say anything more. But once he'd gone the DI couldn't resist one more glance at the mangled corpse at his feet, even though he regretted it as soon as he did.

Teeth.

Lestrade shuddered, he didn't like this.