AN: BBC owns the latest, glorious Sherlock reinvention. The estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or something of that sort owns other things. Oh, I don't know. Don't sue me.

Amy Pond looked up in surprise. She'd been dozing off after her and the Doctor's latest adventures (all that running had left her more than a little sore and winded), when he started slamming buttons and shouting "No, no, no. What? WHAT?" over and over. No longer babbling in excitement to himself, he was more upset than she'd ever seen him.

"Doctor?" she said, rubbing her eyes.

"Not now, Amy."

"But wha-?"

"Not NOW!" and again he began shouting, only stopping to mumble technobabble.

Amy got to her feet and walked to the TARDIS' console. "Doctor, maybe I can help?"

He whirled around, eyes flashing. He was no longer playful and boyish, and this sudden change scared her. Her beloved raggedy Doctor...

With a particularly violent stab, Sherlock wedged the knife into the ribcage before him. Blood leaked out and started to run along the raw slab of flesh before him and onto the kitchen island. Ignoring the blood and bits of flesh and hair all over his hands and arms, he dashed off to John's laptop, popped open the lid, and began typing energetically.

As Sherlock was giving the carcass the finishing blow, John entered the flat. He pulled off his scarf and coat and hung it on the coatrack besides Sherlock's. Then, he picked his bag of groceries back up and, whistling jauntily, he made his way to the kitchen.

"Sherlock, why are you using my laptop? Your comp-" he trailed off as he noticed the gore on the man's slender arms. "Oh God. Did you kill someone? Oh no, Sherlock. I know it's been dull lately." And then, realizing the real problem: "You're using my laptop, without my permission, after killing someone and you couldn't be bothered to wash your bloody hands?"

"Was that last bit intentional? Because it was actually rather amusing. I suppose you haven't been reading my blog. And after I've made such efforts to keep up with yours..."

"What?" John said, surprised. Why weren't they talking about the dead person? Was Sherlock in shock or simply excited by some discovery?

"Your deductions are getting worse. I should be ashamed of myself, for failing to impart any of my wisdom, especially on my flatmate."

"So you didn't kill anyone?" John perked up noticeably.

"Go look in the kitchen."

So John bumbled over to the kitchen.

"What have you done to the place? This is bad, even for you! Mrs. Hudson will go through the roof!"

It was probably true. Bullets in her wall and the smell of burning eyeballs had elicited but the slightest reprimands from their landlady. She was used to Sherlock's peculiar experiments, and seemed to pity the man's lack of private lab space. But even this sentiment did not deter her from adding a hefty price increase on the rent as 'security.'

But this - this rivaled the damage of the bomb from their last adventure with Moriarty. Somehow, Sherlock had managed to smuggle a large pig carcass into their second-story flat. Part of it was suspended by hooks crudely jammed into the ceiling. Bits of plaster and blood mixed below on the floor, and bloody footprints wound about the entirety of the room. The pig's brain lay, shiny and wet, on a piece of china and a squiggle of intestine looped out of the sink and wound its way to the floor. Various organs, all punctured, sat in bowls and even an old tea-kettle. What appeared to be every pointy sharp thing in the flat were arranged neatly on the stove, covering the stainless steal top with slimy liquids diluted with blood. Oh, that wasn't even all of it. Everything was messy and smelly and gory, and even the hardened army doctor blinked his eyes and winced at the sight.

"Why did you do this?"

"I was studying the eff-"

"You know what? Never mind. I'm not responsible for this. I'll be leaving now."

John strode out quickly, neglecting the scarf and jacket. It wasn't really that cold out, anyways.

Once he reached the park, he pulled his cell out of his pants' pocket. He dialed a familiar number and waited as it rang. A click, a "John?" and then:

"Mrs. Hudson? I've been sending Sherlock texts all day and he hasn't replied. Could you check in on him and see if he's okay? He's been rather bored lately so..."

"John, I saw you come in and leave today. Don't lie to me. Is it a couples' thing?"

"Err...Well-"

"You want me to see if he's sorry? Let me go see, dearie" the sound of her footsteps - slightly off from her bad hip- and breathing as she walked up the stairs. "Sherlock? Are you there? Sherlock?" and then: "SHERLOCK! WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE TO THE PLACE NOW?"

John hung up quickly.

It started to pour down rain, so he nervously started to make his way back.

The TARDIS flung itself through space and time, breaking the laws of physics as it shook and twisted. It was like riding a roller-coaster, except more dangerous, more frightening. And much, much louder. Alarms and bells sounded, the vworp vworping was particularly fervent, and lights flickered and flashed.

The Doctor shouted and clung to the console as the TARDIS bucked and swerved.

"What the hell is going on, Doctor?" Amy asked, and finally, he answered.

"We've left our reality. Not good, not good. Not good at all."

Suddenly, the doors flung themselves wide. Eyes wide, Amy flung herself to the side and grabbed the nearest pole. Caught by surprise, the Doctor felt himself being sucked through the doors. In vain, he tried to get a solid grip on some part of the machine, but failed, and was ejected through the gaping doorway.