A/N: Hey guys! This is my first fic, you are warned! I hope you all like it though. The doctor is companionless at the moment, after Donna left, but it is the 10th Doctor still. Sherlock is in the point in time right after HOTB. All constructive criticism is greatly appreciated, especially if I write a character as OOC. Reviews will be rewarded with virtual cookies! Thanks!

It was a quiet day on Baker Street. The rain, which had been sprinkling on and off throughout the week, was holding off at the moment, but the thick clouds hung low over the city, as if reminding it's people of the ever-present possibility. The city was already up and moving, despite the –relatively- early time of 8:00. Even Sherlock, who was a notoriously late riser when he actually slept, was up, looking over some case files while John sat in his armchair, reading a book.

Slowly, Sherlock leaned back in the chair, staring at he ceiling for a minute before closing his eyes and sighing.

"Nothing." He murmured quietly.

"Pardon?" John asked, looking up. Sherlock's head snapped forwards, eyes flinging open as he leapt from the chair and began pacing the room.

"Nothing! Nothing interesting in the slightest is going on. No murders, no suicides, not even gang violence- it's maddening, John! Something exciting needs to happen!" John smirked slightly, but he knew that if the consulting detective didn't find something to do soon, he'd soon drag John down into his pit of boredom-induced insanity as well.

"Well…" John began. "Why don't you…why…wh- God, what IS that noise?!" He grumbled, setting down the book and looking around the flat. Sherlock had also frozen mid-rant, listening intently. A soft noise could be heard, but it grew louder with each passing second, until the grinding, whooshing noise was so loud that it pressed against the two men's eardrums almost painfully. A strong wind had begun to pick up, sending papers flying around the flat in a frenzy. John jumped up, spinning around looking for whatever was causing it.

"WHAT THE HELL?!" He shouted over the noise. Sherlock stood frozen in place, staring at the spot right in front of their coffee table, where a shape was beginning to appear. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, as the big blue box solidified, sitting smack dab in the middle of their sitting room as if it had always been there. The wind died away suddenly, and the papers fluttered to a stop. John stared open-mouthed at the thing, then looked to Sherlock, then back to the box, then back to Sherlock, completely bewildered.

"Is- is this y-yours?" he asked. "one of your... experiments?" Sherlock shook his head mutely, and took a small step towards the police box. John put a hand over his gun, and slowly, Sherlock put a tentative finger on the box, frowning when it remained solid and silent.

"Well." John said quietly. "You did want something exciting to happen." Suddenly, the door flew open. Sherlock leapt back, and a tall man stumbled out of the box, waving his hand in front of his face and coughing- a considerable amount of smoke had followed him out into the flat, rendering it almost impossible to see him at all.

"Where in the blue blazes am I now- oh! Hello!" The smoke had cleared, and Sherlock and John stood staring at a tall, thin man wearing a pin-stipe suit and a trench coat, along with some well-worn Converse and a shocking head of hair that rivaled Sherlock's in it's disheveldness. The man frowned and looked around, then walked to the window and pulled the curtain back a bit, peeking out. "London..." He mused to himself. He spun around to face the two, and said "London, right? We're in London? What year is it?"