A/N: First crossover, so let me know what you think! I don't care if you review now or in 2060. All reviews are appreciated :D

'Just in time' Birthday Fic for misskam, happy birthday! :D

Disclaimer: Oh how I wish I did, and yet, my wishes have, so far, proved futile.

Warnings: Not beta-ed. Any blindingly obvious mistakes let me know! (:

Sherlock groaned. He was bored - superbly, ridiculously, unanimously - bored. There had been no cases for weeks; well, no interesting ones anyway. A couple of murders, a few shop thefts and a kidnapping, but nothing to really interest him. John had even seen this coming, and hidden his gun. Sherlock could probably work out where it was from the position of his eyebrow, but he was leaving that for when this monotonous phase became unbearable. He groaned again, throwing himself further over the side of the sofa and draping his hand almost to the carpet, in easy reach of his violin should the occasion rise whereupon he would be needed to use it.

In other words; in case Mycroft turned up.

What made it worse was that deep down he was almost certain that John was secretly laughing at him. The smaller man had trundled around the flat for the past couple of days, trying and failing to find something to occupy Sherlock with. However the daily newspapers' pathetic attempt at a crossword was hardly enough to occupy his brain for more than a moment, and if 3 down 5 letters (A constellation on the equator east of Taurus) had escaped him for now, it made no difference. And John had no right to laugh at him like that.

His moans had obviously not gone unheard by his flatmate however, as John sighed to himself before piping up from the confines of that ridiculous armchair he loved so much.

"What is it now Sherlock?" And then, before Sherlock had even had a chance to reply John cut back in, "And if you tell me that you're 'bored' then so help me I will smash your violin against your head for a bit of peace and quiet."

Sherlock promptly shut his mouth again and resumed the petulant child look that he had mastered perfectly.

John tried unsuccessfully to ignore the little huffs of impatience from the sofa; he almost lasted a full minute before he heaved himself upwards with a sigh.

"Cup of tea?"

Sherlock almost laughed at John's predictability, and his obviously strong belief that tea cured everything, but nodded anyway. John knew that it was Sherlock had been hinting at the entire time, and knew he should be irritated, but somehow living with Sherlock for as long as he had meant he was used to being manipulated.

He knew this should probably tell him something about his personality (or mentality) , but if he was honest with himself he didn't really want to hear it if it did.

He'd just poured the milk into Sherlock's tea - only a splash - and was turning to leave the kitchen when he spotted something just behind the fridge.

"What the he-"

There was the sudden smashing sound of a china mug hitting the hard floor, and Sherlock sat bolt upright.

"John?" No answer. "You alright?"

He was greeted with silence.

"Trust you to smash the only disinfected mugs." This statement wasn't answered by a witty remark as he'd hoped. In fact; it wasn't answered at all.

He sighed - if John was angry with him about making him get the tea then he might as well go and explain to him now about how it was all his own fault before he would get unnecessarily confused and demand an apology.

"John?" He called, stepping into the kitchen area. The smashed mugs lay on the ground, surrounded by a steaming puddle of milk and tea, slowly creeping across the uneven floor.

But there was no sign of John.

Sherlock's mind pricked up, the cogs slowly beginning to spin again after so many weeks of laying idle. The window was shut, so no-one had got in or out that way. He'd only been sat on the sofa; no one could have snuck past him, even in this numb state. There were no signs of a struggle, and apart from the smashed mugs there was no evidence to show John had been there at all.

This must be a practical joke; something John had concocted to occupy Sherlock with perhaps? He decided that Mrs Hudson would probably be able to give him some answers. He swept out the door, and leant over the banister, ignoring the fact that he was dressed only in his dressing gown and loose pyjama pants; she was his landlady, she knew what to expect by now.

"Mrs Hudson!"

The answering cry was almost immediate. "Yes, Sherlock dear? I do have a phone you know."

Sherlock ignored her last sentence as if it had never been uttered. "Where's John?"

"John dear? Who's that then, new boyfriend?"

"John. My flatmate John." Sherlock's disbelief was obvious in his tone - surely no-one was that oblivious.

"Oh I didn't know you finally got a flatmate dearie! If he's a keeper you'll have to discuss rent with me soon. Now I must dash, I'm afraid I haven't seen him around and I'm missing 'loose women'…"

She walked back into her flat, eyes twinkling in amusement. As much as Sherlock was loathe to admit it he was getting worried. How had Mrs Hudson forgotten John? They'd had endless afternoons of watching crap Daytime TV together, and gossiping like, well, like old women. They'd even shared conversations on how best to 'deal' with him.

But there was no doubt she was telling the truth. He was Sherlock bloody Holmes for Christ's sake! He could tell from the crinkle at the edge of her lips that she was telling the absolute truth, and if that wasn't enough - the rest of her body language held no implications of a lie. Perhaps she had simply forgotten? She was getting on now, it was a common ailment for the old; memory loss.

He decided to call Lestrade - because John was definitely missing - and if his landlady was going to be so unhelpful then he had to get help from somewhere.

He pulled his phone from his dressing gown pocket, and dialled the DI's personal number whilst walking back through the open door of his flat, failing to notice the absence of John's spare keys on the side table.

When the Detective picked up, he answered with a strained voice, almost a sure sign that there was a mountain of paperwork waiting for him on his desk.

"Yes? Lestrade here."

"Lestrade, it's Sherlock."

"Oh bloody hell Sherlock where have you been? I've been trying to get hold of you for ages, some evidence had gone missing and I really need it for the for-"

"Your paperwork can wait Lestrade, do you know where John is?"

"How did you… ergh. Never mind. Who?"

"John, Lestrade! My flatmate!"

"look Sherlock, I'm busy. If you've got a new flatmate then good luck to him - but I don't have the time or manpower to look for him all across London, why don't you just try his mobile?"

"But… how can you have forgotten John?"

"If you ever introduced him to me, he obviously left a very fleeting impression. I'm very busy Sherlock, and if you don't have that missing evidence I'm going to have to come round with a search warrant."

But his warning fell on deaf ears; Sherlock had hung up.

He paced the room, hands clutching uselessly against his phone, dressing gown floating behind him like some bizarre cloak. This was impossible. It was one thing to be snatched from one's own kitchen, another thing completely to vanish. It was unheard of for people to forget your very existence.

It wasn't just improbable, it was practically impossible!

But his panicked pacing and muttering was interrupted by a strange sound echoing around the room. It was unlike any instrument Sherlock had heard before, yet strangely sounded slightly like the way John described his violin playing in the early hours of the morning; a sort of frenzied see-sawing sound, like a monster taking laboured breaths.

And before his eyes the outline of a blue box began to shape in the middle of the cluttered living room, gradually filling in to reveal a bright blue police box standing right beside the armchair; as if it had any right to be there.

Sherlock found himself holding his breath as an arm appeared from the slightly open door, holding a strange blinking green light on a stick. The arm swung the odd instrument around before withdrawing back into the depths of the box, and Sherlock could just about hear a man's voice inside.

"Earth, late 2011 - Somewhere in London apparently. The Sat Nav's not what it used to be I'm afraid. Room occupied by, one human - no harmful intents."

A head stuck out the space where the arm had appeared from, grinning broadly, "Hello there! I'm the Doctor."

Sherlock frowned at him. It was rare that he was ever at a loss for words, but this time he was content to just let the events unfurl before him.

The flashing green stick was back, sweeping around the flat. When it pointed at the kitchen it made a strangled sound and a small red light flashed; this seemed to mean something to the strange man and he stopped and studied it, a small crinkle beginning to form between his eyebrows.

"Oh dear." He muttered. Before glancing sideways at Sherlock, the pitying look had the effect of waking Sherlock from his shock-induced stupor.

"What are you?" He demanded, folding his arms across his bare chest, feeling under-dressed in front of the stranger who was rather strangely attired in a tweed jacket, braces, polished brown shoes, and a spotted bow tie.

"Don't you mean who?" The stranger inquired, smirking slightly at Sherlock's defensive glare.

"Of course not. You are 'The Doctor' - that much has been covered. However you have just materialised in my living room in a police box. That is as yet unexplained."

His haughty tones and lack of fear seemed to surprise the man who was now staring him down, his eyes assessing Sherlock as if unsure of his mental health.

"That doesn't matter. What matters is - there are two smashed mugs in your kitchen, how did they get there?"

"My flatmate dropped them."

"And where is he now?"

"I don't know. He just vanished."

"What's his name?"

"It's, ermm, J-John. John. His name is John." The panic in Sherlock's eyes was back, creeping into the edges and banishing all other emotion from his face, making his appear childlike and scared. The stranger, The Doctor, advanced towards him, and steered him onto the empty sofa making calming noises all the way - as if trying to calm a spooked horse.

"Tell me, How long had John been your flatmate?"

"Ages. Not very long. I, don't know. Why don't I know?"

"It's alright - its only detail anyway, who needs detail? I want you to tell me as much as you can about John, anything and everything, whatever pops into your head. Just describe him to me."

"He's middle-ish height. Brown hair. No, wait, blonde hair - brown eyes. He was nice, he was a doctor too. Doctor Wilson. I remember he worked at a clinic. Where is he?"

"I don't know, you're doing very well now…"

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock, keep going."

The man was walking around the living room, navigating the blue box, turning over picture frames and even staring at the indentation marks of the armchair. Or lack of them.

That hit Sherlock as a little odd. Shouldn't there be marks?

"He was sitting there." He said, pointing at the chair, The Doctor jumped back as if scalded, glancing around him cautiously. "Then he moved to the kitchen to make tea."

Sherlock was less panicked now, his memories becoming clearer; less jumbled.

"He was an army doctor, had a slight limp in one leg - psychosomatic of course. I told him that on our first meeting at Barts. He got shot in the shoulder though; invalided home. No one could remember him. Why couldn't they remember him?"

But the Doctor had tuned out of the ramblings, his face the mirror image of Sherlock's when he had just realised something blinding obvious.

"What was your name?" He asked, focussing his gaze on the detective on the sofa, he looked a bit wary of him, as if he were going to suddenly sprout another head.

"Sherlock Holmes."

If anything this just panicked the man more.

"And your flatmate?"

"John. Doctor John Wilson."

"Watson."

"What?"

"Watson. Your flatmate is called Doctor John Watson."

Realisation dawned on Sherlock's face. "Yes. You know him? Why did I forget? I never forget. What on earth is happening Doctor?" His pitch was rising again, and he stood up and followed the Doctor into the kitchen doorway.

"Don't look now" The Doctor whispered, "But you've got a crack in your wall."

A/N: dun dun dunn! Reviews = updates and also love :D