A/N: Oh God, I'm so, so, so, so, so, so sorry for taking practically a month to get this chapter to you guys! There's just been a ton happening to me lately! I had midterms and a huge project due, a speech...and then Hurricane Sandy came up and I just didn't get anything done during the couple of days we were out of class for that (don't worry, I had absolutely no harm done to me, I'm in an area where the worst we faced were super power outages, downed wires, and fallen trees. I lost a tree in the backyard and a lot of shingles and that's it.) It didn't help that I had, for a little while, hit a road block with what to do with this story.

But on the plus side, it's finally here and it's the longest chapter yet! It's nearly 1,000 words longer than the previous chapter!

Again, I'm really sorry for taking so long, everyone, but hopefully you enjoy this chapter! To be honest, I haven't looked it over very thoroughly at all because I wanted to get it out now, so let me know if you see any really egregious errors that need to be corrected.

Also, just so you know, this story will most likely be over in a few chapters. Sad, I know. I'm sorry.

But in the meantime, enjoy it while it's still going! Have fun reading chapter 4, because I certainly had fun writing it!

Sherlock sat in the small, stuffy office of Detective Anderson as the man and a colleague of his conversed just outside the door. The consulting detective could see the pair of them outside the window of the office, intently discussing something in hushed words. Of course, being able to read their body language and hear a bit of what they were saying, Sherlock understood a great deal of the conversation and inferred the rest.

But even though he could hear them and knew what they were talking about, he was growing antsy. All he wanted to do was go back to the crime scene and then go to the morgue and further inspect the body of Annie Chapman. The only thing that was really keeping him under control at the moment was the strong smell of a pipe that was the very reason for the stuffiness of the room. It was perhaps the only thing he liked about Anderson so far: he smoked, and therefore Sherlock managed to get a whiff of that sweet, pungent smell.

It wasn't going to keep him still for much longer, however. As wonderful as the smell of tobacco was, Sherlock was beginning to grow impatient with the conversation the two men of Scotland Yard were having. They were going around in circles, talking about the crime scene, how suspicious Sherlock appeared, how he had tampered with the evidence, his rudeness (although as far as Sherlock saw it, it was honestly and not impoliteness), how it was suspicious he had tampered with the evidence…

The consulting detective found himself sorely missing John. If John had been with him, they'd both be sitting here impatiently waiting for the pair of idiots to wrap up their conversation and get a move on. He'd then be able to tell John how he could hear them through the rather large gap under the door, how they were doing such a poor job of keeping their voices hushed, how the way the place was designed made sounds reverberate off the walls, and how they were wasting their time worrying about who Sherlock was and what he was doing instead of allowing him to help solve this case.

Honestly, even Lestrade wasn't this difficult. Hell, maybe even the Anderson he knew wouldn't be this difficult!

Immediately he scratched that thought and berated himself for even thinking such a thing. No, of course the Anderson from his time was just as difficult. He was the most stupid, impossible man Sherlock had ever had the absolute, loathsome displeasure of meeting.

And he had, at one point when he was younger, believed that Mycroft was the most impossible person he had ever known.

He really did need John. But John was…well, John was probably still 124 years ahead of him, stuck with that odd woman with the out of control curly blonde hair. How was he supposed to get back to John anyway? That angel statue that had most certainly sent him here in the first place had been nowhere in the vicinity of Hanbury Street and, if his assumption was correct, still exactly where John was by the house of the kidnap victim.

Although he knew now that the man who had once occupied the house was, in fact, not kidnapped but probably displaced in time like him. Wherever he had gone, he wasn't coming back. After all, that woman, River Song, had mentioned that if the angel touched a person, they would be displaced in time and live out their life there until they died. The case would have to be declared unsolved and seemingly unsolved by Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard.

But if that man was gone, then that meant that Sherlock would be spending the rest of his life here, then. Living out his life from 1888, through the turn of the century, until whenever it was he finally died.

As interesting as it was getting to be right in the middle of the Jack the Ripper murders he had been fascinated with since childhood first hand, Sherlock didn't much like the prospect of being stuck in the past. So many of the tools he used to aid him in his investigations hadn't even been invented yet, science was, by comparison to his day, prehistoric, and…

No, he certainly did not miss John. Absolutely not.

No, he would be perfectly alright here. If he needed to, he would live out his life in this time if he could find no other solution. But there had to be a solution, right? If the statue of an angel could send him back in time, then there had to be something else that could perhaps send him back to where he came from. If time travel existed, the so-called "Weeping Angels" surely weren't the only ones who possessed the capability to do it.

"Mr. Holmes," a perturbed voice called, trying to get the man's attention, and Sherlock snapped back to reality only to realize that Anderson and his colleague were standing before him with their arms folded. They appeared to have been waiting for him to notice them and pay attention for a while now by the impatient expressions on both their faces.

"Yes?" he asked, folding on leg over the other, placing his hands on his lap, and leaning back into his chair.

"Your posture is abysmal," Anderson's colleague noted with a deep frown, and Anderson glanced at him as if to tell him that Sherlock's posture was not their main concern at the moment.

"Is it? Oh well," Sherlock replied casually, shrugging. The man's frown deepened and his thick, dark eyebrows furrowed in annoyance.

"Quiet, the both of you. Especially you, Mr. Holmes. There's more important things to discuss than bad posture," Anderson snapped.

"Of course there are. There's a murderer on the loose, you two just wasted at least fifteen minutes that you could've been using to let me help you figure out who it is, he's too busy worrying about how I don't care to sit upright—I'd say we've wasted enough time as it is, don't you?" the consulting detective asked, quirking an expectant brow up at them.

The pair of detectives somehow looked both confused and appalled at Sherlock's lack of respect, looking to each other and then glaring back indignantly at Sherlock.

"Oh, we just going to stand here then? Waste more time when there's another woman dead and a public demanding answers?"

Flabbergasted, Anderson spurred into action. "Mr. Holmes, I am quite aware of the situation, thank you very much! You are not the one who runs this place, I am, and I will do whatever I see fit in order to solve this case! I expect—" the detective shouted.

"Well if you're going to do that, we might as well say goodbye to ever finding the real Jack the Ripper. No wonder the case has gone unsolved for years," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, nothing. Carry on," Sherlock insisted, waving a hand to direct Anderson to continue.

The man looked suspicious, but said nothing more on whatever Sherlock might've said. "As I was saying, in the meantime, I expect you to show me at least a bit of respect or else I will have you thrown in jail!"

The 21st century detective said nothing, but he did seem to narrow his eyes a bit in a show of silent defiance. Anderson stared long and hard at him, as if trying to understand him, before continuing.

"You know, Mr. Holmes, your behavior at the scene of the crime is rather suspicious. Two witnesses claim to have seen and heard you with the victim minutes before she was killed, you claimed to be drunk when speaking to Chapman however you appeared quite sober to her as well as everyone else at the scene, and then you approached the body and proceeded to examine it. Not to mention, there were several things that you pointed out that no one else in our department knew until after the medical examiner had inspected the body. How is it you know so much again, Mr. Holmes?"

"I already told you earlier," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Amazingly enough, detective, there just so happen to be other detectives beside yourself and your men at the Yard," Sherlock answered. "But unlike you, I not only see, but observe."

"You mean you're a detective, too?" asked the man standing beside Anderson, and while tempted to give a smart reply, Sherlock simply nodded.

"Well you're certainly not from the Yard, so where are you from?"

"Baskerville."

"Basker-what?" Anderson's partner asked.

"Baskerville," the consulting detective answered. "Small town out in the middle of nowhere. You've probably never heard of it."

"Baskerville…" Anderson said slowly, as if repeating the name a third time would help him to recall it. "No, definitely haven't heard of it," he finally said, shaking his head.

"And you called yourself a…what was it? Consulting detective?"

Sherlock grinned. "Oh, good, someone was paying attention! Yes, a consulting detective. First and only one in the world."

"And what exactly is a consulting detective?" Anderson asked skeptically.

Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes again. "Means I help people like you when you're being too thick to notice valuable and frankly obvious pieces of evidence in order to solve the case."

"I told you to watch what you say, Mr. Holmes."

"No, you said that if I didn't show you some respect, you'd throw me in a cell. I wasn't showing disrespect at all. In fact, I'm being kind in regards to your intelligence. Trust me, I could say much worse."

"Mr. Holmes," Anderson said crossly in warning.

"Yes?" Sherlock answered patiently, and Anderson looked furious for a moment before taking a deep breath and calming himself down.

"Mr. Holmes," he said calmly, a slight edge to his voice. "Can you explain why you were seen speaking to the victim shortly before she was brutally killed?"

"I was lost. I haven't been in London in a while and I was looking for a place to stay."

"Why did you tell Annie Chapman that you were drunk when you obviously aren't?"

"I thought she might be more willing to help a drunk man find his way to a roof and a bed if she thought I was drunk," Sherlock said, thinking up the lie easily on the spot.

"I see…" Anderson said slowly, in the very kind of 'I see' tone that implied he didn't see anything besides a suspicious-looking man.

Sherlock sighed. "You can either keep questioning me for hours and come up with no evidence whatsoever to prove my guilt and further waste your time looking for the real murderer, or you can allow me to help you solve this case," he told Anderson, sick of wasting his time inside Anderson's office when they all could be out looking for evidence.

"I can't just let you help! Not only is it against regulations, but there's also the fact that half of the crowd back there surrounding the body thought you were the one responsible! They won't let us get anything done if we let you come around with us to solve the case." Anderson said.

"So what?" Sherlock demanded. "Public opinion doesn't matter; it's finding our so-called Jack the Ripper and locking him up that matters."

"And what if it's you who's the Ripper?" Anderson's partner asked.

"Oh for Heaven's sake, not this again!" Sherlock groaned, throwing his head back.

"We all have every right to be suspicious!" the man shot back.

"And I'm telling you that the notion that I'm responsible is absolutely ridiculous. I wasn't even in London at the time of the first murders, only for this one! If all the murders share a similar M.O. and I was out of town for the first few, how could I have committed those, let alone this one? And where would I have hidden the murder weapon and gotten rid of the blood spatter that surely would've gotten onto my clothes if I did commit the crime? There wasn't possibly enough time for me to do all that," he insisted.

"Alright, maybe it is a little unlikely…" the man said slowly, obviously reluctant to admit Sherlock was right.

"A little? Try impossible," Sherlock said.

"Alright, fine, maybe it's not possible for you to have committed the crime," Anderson conceded. "But I'm still reluctant to let you help us in any way."

"If you don't let me help, I'll simply conduct my own investigation."

"And then I'll simply arrest you."

"And then we'll be right back where we started, won't we?"

Anderson sighed. "If I allow you to help, then it'll seem like I'm just letting anyone join us on the hunt of Jack the Ripper."

"Then make sure everyone knows that that's not what's happening," Sherlock supplied. "Given how divided your department is at the moment, you could use my help and you know it, Detective Anderson." Anderson looked a little surprised that Sherlock knew about that, and the consulting detective quickly answered, "I've been keeping up with London news thanks to a friend and it was easy to tell when you walked me through the building that things weren't going like you wanted. Not everyone's willing to listen to you.

"Like I said, Anderson, you need all the help you can get, and you'll most certainly want mine."

"Alright, Mr. Holmes, say I do allow you to help…"

"Then you'll be thanking me later."

"Detective Anderson, this is a bad idea," Anderson's fellow detective interjected, but Anderson waved away his comment off.

"Alright, fine. I'll allow you to help with the case," he conceded at last, and Sherlock's grin became a mile wide.

"Yes! About time you came to your senses."

"But I'll be keeping a close eye on you, Mr. Holmes. A very close eye."

Back in 221B Baker Street

"Alright, I think it was Miss Scarlet—" Rory began, glancing down at the board and at the little figure that represented Amy's piece and currently situated in the kitchen.

Without warning, a fist slammed down onto the board game and Miss Scarlet went flying from the kitchen and all the way over to the library while John's and Rory's pieces, both in the lounge, unexpectedly found themselves flung into the billiard room. The Doctor's piece had flown into the cellar to join River's piece. Mrs. Hudson's—which had not been removed from the board although she had quit the game earlier to make another kettle of tea and to watch her soap—leaped into the air and then bounced from the hall over to the study.

"I can't take this waiting anymore!" the Doctor shouted dramatically, rising from his spot on the floor and beginning to pace by the fire.

John tried not to be reminded of a similarly tall, lanky figure with his hands together and touching his chin, pacing and deep in thought.

"Inside voices, you five!" Mrs. Hudson cried from downstairs. "I'm trying to watch the telly!"

The Doctor paid no mind to Mrs. Hudson, and instead abruptly quit his pacing and turned to the four remaining people in the room. "How is it you humans do it? The natural progression of time is so…boring! And slow! It's maddening!" he said loudly, gesticulating wildly. His hands were flying out in front of him, by his head, as if to indicate how it was near imploding.

"It's not that bad, honestly, Doctor," Amy reasoned. "You're ridiculous," she said, rolling her eyes at his over dramatic behavior.

"She's right. You need to learn to be more patient," River added.

"Not that bad? Not that bad! We've been sitting here playing Cluedo for the past two hours and have been waiting around for the past six and nothing has happened! It's not that I'm not patient, it's just that we've been sitting here for hours doing nothing but—but playing a board game!"

"Why is it that absolutely no one likes Cluedo?" John muttered in exasperation. First Sherlock had protested the game and even gone so far as to nail it to the wall in frustration, now the Doctor had knocked over the pieces and grown impatient with the game and with waiting.

"Well, I have to admit, I'm starting to think maybe Sherlock isn't going to be sending us any letters," Rory said, acting as the calm voice of reason and skepticism.

John frowned. "Maybe he isn't. Maybe there's another way to find out where in time he is…" he said, thinking aloud quietly, but the Doctor seemed to find something in the idea and pointed to him with an approving look and a gleam in his eye that meant a thought was beginning to grow in his head.

"I think you may be right, John. Tell me, Sherlock's not very modest, is he?"

The army doctor let out a loud laugh. "Modest? No, not by a very, very long shot."

"And he absolutely loves to show off, correct?" the Doctor continued.

"Showing off is just about all he does," John answered.

"Then I wonder…" the Doctor began slowly, and then looked about the room as if searching for something. "John, mind letting me use your laptop?" he asked.

"Laptop? What do you need his laptop for?" Amy asked.

"Because, if Sherlock is not at all modest and lives in order to show off his intelligence and his skill to others, then we might be able to find his name somewhere in history that it shouldn't be," the Doctor informed her and the rest of the group. "Argh, why didn't I think of it before?" he asked, more to himself than anyone else in the room. He really wanted to smack himself for being so stupid.

"Oh, honey, that's brilliant! Why did it take so long to think of this?" River said, grinning at her lover's brilliance but frowning at the fact that it had taken so long for anyone to come up with such an idea.

"Knowing Sherlock as well as I know him, I should've thought of it sooner," John said. "If Sherlock found himself in the past, I'm sure he wouldn't shy away from telling everyone who he is and making his presence in that time period shown, especially if he happens to find a case," he reasoned.

"So, John. Laptop. Give it here," the Doctor instructed, and John hurried off to his room to fetch it.

He returned a minute later, carrying his laptop out in front of him. "I have to keep it locked up and hidden somewhere where Sherlock can't find it. He's always taking it without permission and hacking into it."

"He hacks into it?" Amy asked, raising a curious eyebrow.

"He guesses the password within the first try," John answered with a frown, somewhat ashamed that he never managed to keep Sherlock away from accessing his laptop.

"You know, I think they've got laptops with fingerprint technology that makes you use your fingerprint to gain access to your laptop," Rory told John, "If you bought one of those, you could easily keep him out."

"Sounds lovely. If I had the money, I would," he said. "Maybe if I save up for it, it can be a Christmas gift to myself," he added after a moment of thought. It was a nice idea if he could swing it.

"There you go," Amy said cheerfully.

"Speaking of passwords, I'm going to need yours, John," the Doctor called from where he had sat himself down at the table with John's laptop.

"Oh, right," John said, and the rest of the group followed him over to where the Doctor had seated himself. He leaned over the Doctor's shoulder and quickly typed in the password before stepping back as the desktop loaded.

"Amy, that website you and Rory use to search things, what is it again?" the Doctor asked as he clicked on the internet icon on the screen.

"Google," Amy answered, and the Doctor quickly typed it in and then put in the name 'Sherlock Holmes' in the search bar. The results that came up on the first several pages, however, were all from recent news—Sherlock's Science of Deduction site, John's blog, and online news articles on the cases he had solved. There was nothing dating back to anywhere in the 20th century from what any of them could see.

It wasn't until page 9 that they got their first actual hit.

"' ?'" Rory asked, a mix of curiosity and confusion on his face that mirrored that of the others.

The Doctor clicked the link, only for them all to be disappointed by the screen that loaded.

"We have to pay to see the rest," Rory stated with a sigh of annoyance.

"No worries," the Doctor said, completely undeterred by the result. John then watched in amazement as the bow tie wearing alien began to rapidly type in a lengthy code of some sort, small black windows of text and code popping up and out of sight.

"What's he doing?" John asked in a slight bit of alarm, turning to look at River, Amy, and Rory.

"He's hacking into the system so that we don't have to pay to see the results. We'll be able to find any and all information we need to find," River answered calmly. "Don't worry, your laptop will be fine."

"If not a little bit fancier," Rory said with a small grin. "He did something similar with both of our phones shortly after we started traveling with him so that we could get internet access and make phone calls," he explained to John.

"Amy just couldn't live without her Twitter," the Doctor said, his face turning sour.

"Hey, I have a life apart from you, you know," she shot back defensively.

"I'm taking you traveling across all of space and time and you still have to have it," the Doctor complained.

"And I can't have both?"

"Hey, stop it," Rory interjected, put a hand on both his wife's and the Doctor's shoulders to non-verbally inform them that they should both shut up.

Nothing more was said about it; instead, the Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver, aimed it at the screen, and a moment later stuffed it away in his inner coat pocket. "Alright, 'Ancestry,com', now let's see what you've got for us," he announced, and then pulled up the minimized tab to see what results were available to them now.

The first bit of information that caught their eyes, however, had them all gawking.

'Mystery detective from the countryside to assist in solving Ripper case' was the first available piece of information available to them, and the Doctor turned to look at them with wide eyes.

"Wait…Ripper case…Do they mean the Jack the Ripper case?" Rory asked.

"I don't know about any other Ripper cases, do you?" Amy answered.

"Isn't the Jack the Ripper case unsolved?" River asked, turning to the Doctor for an answer.

"It is, and that's why we need to go get Sherlock and fast. He wasn't meant to be in that time period and he can't be allowed to do something as big as solve that case. If he solves it, he'll be a household name from criminal investigators to law enforcement to history and mystery enthusiasts, to the general population. That can't happen. And who knows what else he might do like create new criminal investigation techniques or technology that's meant to be created by someone else. Do you have any idea how it would affect today?"

Rory, Amy, and John looked at him uncertainly.

"It would certainly change a few things," River noted, although she seemed much more relaxed than the Doctor and much more aware than the other three.

"Yes, exactly. Anyways, now that we know where he is, we should get to him immediately," the Doctor said, heading over to the doors of the Tardis. "Come on, then!" he said, gesturing for them all to come follow him after he turned to see them all still standing there doing nothing.

As John entered the Tardis, he couldn't help but mention aloud, "Sherlock's not going to like this…We'll probably have to use force to drag him away from this one."

A/N: Poor John, seems nobody likes Cluedo, not even the Doctor! Hope you liked that little reference to Cluedo as well as the other ones, for example the one to Baskerville and the Twitter reference.

Anyways, there you have it, and I hope you enjoyed it! Please send me reviews to let me know how you liked it, alright, folks?

Thanks, and until next time, best wishes! And I swear it won't be so long next time, okay?