Bella The Strange posted the first chapter of a fic on the FB group for The Magic of Torchwood. She said that she was going to write something long and epic, but had brain freeze after the first chapter. Since she wasn't going to write it, she posted the chapter, saying that it could be freely used as a prompt.
I am going to continue this story myself and see where it takes me.
I've made a few minor changes like punctuation, British to American English, italics instead of all-caps and one correction: John Hart's sword (according to an interview) is from Korea, and is not a Samurai sword. I probably wouldn't know the difference, but Sherlock would. ;) Other than that, the first chapter is all Bella The Strange. My writing will begin in chapter 2.

Chapter 1: Abduction

x x x

While it was the generally accepted behavior of normal individuals to enter a state of blind panic when confronted with a gun-wielding stranger, Sherlock's first reaction was somewhat less melodramatic.

He had been walking back to his flat in Baker Street, having once more been refused by every taxi along the way. This may have had something to do with the fact he was carrying an object which strongly resembled—but to the educated eye was quite obviously not in fact—a severed human arm.

Could people really not tell that it was plastic? That the 'blood' was quite clearly corn syrup and food coloring?

His assailant was a man in his late forties, though he hid it well. Most men don't know how to wear makeup that subtly, it didn't even streak. Short dark hair, which had at some point within the last month been dyed blond but was now almost completely grown out, a small scar on his left eyebrow caused by a fine sharp object. Most likely a razor, but a well-sharpened dagger or sword wasn't entirely out of the question. The angle allowed for the possibility that it could even have been artfully self-inflicted.

The gun itself was fascinating, in spite of being shoved right into Sherlock's face the moment the man approached him. It was definitely a custom model, though he couldn't quite place the style. Close to military, but definitely not in fact so. The very reason Sherlock was not currently expressing—even though he rarely did feel—fear, was that the safety was on. And the man knew it. He held his finger over the safety latch, but had not actually used it just yet.

Sherlock reserved judgement for the time being on the man's clothes. That would require thought, and as there was quite clearly a gun being aimed at his forehead it would be best for now to react on instinct. He dropped the severed arm and sharply pushed the gun aside, grabbing the man's wrist firmly with both hands and twisting hard. Clearly not hard enough, as he failed to let go of the weapon.

It took a moment for Sherlock to figure out just why the man's eyes dilated. It could have been fear, but that wasn't altogether likely as there was no sign of anyone pursuing him, and Sherlock himself had reacted out of self-defense rather than aggression. It could have been a thrill of the chase, but while it was true that the man had been running and was slightly out of breath, he still looked otherwise quite calm.

No, the so-called 'light' in his eyes was most likely the first sign of arousal. This was confirmed by the way the eyes flickered down over Sherlock's body briefly before returning to his face.

"You're in my way." the man said with a blatantly forced and non-region-specific English accent.

"You could have asked me to move."

"I'm in a bit of a hurry." There was something in the intonation that implied a quote, and deep amusement. Sherlock quickly searched his mind for any reference that may apply, and came up with only one. The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Sweet Transvestite. He would never forgive Lestrade for that night.

"Well I wouldn't want to be any worry." he retorted coldly, stepping aside and twisting once more at the man's wrist, this time succeeding in pulling the gun away from him.

The stranger leered at him, stepping back slightly. Watching him in a more evaluating eye now.

Sherlock got a better look at the clothes, and wondered briefly at the man's sanity. Faux military, and dramatically mismatched. The boots were nineteenth century Italian equestrian. Bog-standard blue-jeans that had seen better days. A classic—and either an amazingly well maintained antique or a highly skilled replica—western gunslinger's belt, set for two pistols, the right hand of which was still holstered. An elaborate Korean sword slung from the right hand side of the belt. A dirty undershirt best denoted as a 'wife-beater', over which was perhaps the poorest impersonation of Napoleonic military jacket that Sherlock had ever seen... and he'd been to the British History Museum.

There were two sharp burn marks on the undershirt as well, the cause of which wasn't entirely logical to Sherlock's analysis... and no evidence of injury to the man himself. Other marks of wear and tear on the clothing implied it had seen combat, and the man was clearly comfortable displaying that fact.

"You never saw me." the stranger informed Sherlock coldly. It was an order, but not one Sherlock had ever been comfortable pretending to comprehend.

"Of course I saw you. You ran into me and pointed a gun in my face."

"I'll be having that back, now." the man added, holding his hand out as if expecting immediate compliance.

Sherlock's pride made him do precisely the opposite, "Only if you tell me where you're going." He sneered slightly, "I can tell where you've been."

"Oh, is that so?" the man took a step closer, trying to be intimidating, and on an ordinary person he would undoubtedly have succeeded. "You don't know anything about me."

Sherlock laughed, that damned pride once more getting the better of him, as he had to make it perfectly clear that this was incorrect. "I know you're left-handed. A craven attention seeker, most probably an only child. Obsessive military interest - no, sorry, military fetish. You're an experienced but not infallible fighter, in brawls, swordplay, and ranged weapons, with a strong preference for the former. Most likely a criminal, as no law-abiding citizen would simply roam around the streets of London kitted out for World War Three. And you're also not heterosexual... wouldn't rule out bisexual, though."

"You say you can tell I'm an experienced fighter... but you're still standing up to me." the man pointed out, relatively unperturbed by Sherlock's usually somewhat off-putting rant.

Sherlock simply smiled, "I am infallible."

"That so?" It wasn't a question of whether or not he told the truth. It was a question of why he believed it.

"Now, if you're going to get all confrontational about it, why would I want to tell you in advance how I would win in a fight?"

To most ordinary people, it would have come with no warning, but the man's eyes broadcast the attack a second before his left fist swung at Sherlock's face. He ducked, striking quickly with a blow to the man's abdomen, before turning and kicking out his right leg. The man stumbled forwards, winded, and as Sherlock stood up straight again, he took the opportunity to hit his assailant again where the neck meets the shoulder, driving him down to his knees. And then he pulled the gun, pointing it at the man's head.

"I really wasn't looking for a fight." he pointed out coolly, to his defeated opponent.

The man rubbed his shoulder and pulled himself to his feet somewhat more quickly than Sherlock had anticipated, "You're good. I like you."

"If you really want to impress me, you'll show some semblance of intelligence now, and either leave, or I suppose much less likely turn yourself over to the authorities."

The man snorted, laughing, "I'll be having my gun back. Then I'll leave."

Sherlock analyzed the words carefully. It sounded honest, and only one man had ever been able to lie to him convincingly before, so he still trusted this judgement. He checked the gun and quickly found the catch to unload the ammunition cartridge, did so, then handed the two separate parts back to the man.

The man holstered the now harmless weapon, and put the ammunition in a pocket hidden in the lining of a jacket based on a design that did not have pockets.
"I'm sorry." he said bluntly, but it didn't quite sound right. It sounded like he was apologizing for something he was going to do, rather than what he had already done. Unfortunately, the moment it took to process this was also all it took for the man to lunge at him.

He hit the ground with some force, the stranger on top of him. He struggled against the greater weight and physical force for only a second before something unexpected happened.

He wasn't entirely sure if it was a blinding light or a blow to the head. His best guess suggested both. However, the next thing he knew he was somewhere else. In precisely the same position, with the man still holding him down as if no time had passed... but very much in a new location.

He blinked against the sparks that flickered across his vision. Most people called it seeing stars, but he very much disagreed with that assessment. Stars were single specs, usually of white or yellow light. These were minute streaks of rainbow-colored light, and always had been such.

It had been dark a moment ago, and now it was twilight. Sunset, if the sky was any indication. How had it gone from late night sunset so quickly?

Perhaps he wasn't seeing clearly and it was actually sunrise?

The stranger stood up, pulling Sherlock to his feet as well. "First time's always the worst," he offered in a tone that at once feigned apology and yet was entirely unrepentant.

There was also some insinuation of ulterior meaning there, and Sherlock was certainly not oblivious as he often pretended to be for the sake of a less infuriating life.

He scanned the area with growing confusion. He must have been out for some time, brought here, and then purposefully woken in the same position as he had been rendered unconscious. Whoever did it had excellent attention to detail. Every crease of his assailant's clothing, the stray strands of hair, all in perfect alignment to the last moment before his head must logically have hit the pavement.

Unrealistically accurate. Nobody was that good. There had to be another explanation.

And he did not know this neighborhood.

"Wondering where we are?" the stranger asked, smirking in a manner deliberately designed to infuriate.

"It's not a location I'm familiar with, no." Sherlock conceded. He would not admit to not being able to figure out how they got there, if he could help it.

"We're in the same place." the stranger told him, watching his reaction perhaps a touch too carefully.

Sherlock sneered at this very suggestion, "Of course we're not. This street is completely different from—"

"We're not in the same time." the man interrupted.

Now that managed to illicit genuine surprise from Sherlock, and the smugness of his assailant made it clear this had shown on his face. He recovered quickly, "Well of course not. It's sunset now, and you accosted me shortly before midnight. I must have been out for some time for you to have brought me here."

"The travel was instantaneous." the man said, looking entirely too knowing and amused for Sherlock's liking.

"You're implying time-travel is possible."

"You think it isn't?"

Sherlock considered the question for a moment, "Well, most leading scientific researchers consider it an impossibility. But most leading scientific researchers aren't me, and generally speaking I am the more intelligent by a significant margin. Theoretically, there are several ways it could be possible, but none of them are reasonably provable with the technology available."

"In your time."

"In the twenty-first century. Yes." he hedged carefully. The man still wasn't giving any of the tells of a lie. It was becoming unnerving.

The man grinned broadly, and gestured expansively to the street around them, "Welcome to the fifty-first century, Sherlock Holmes." So he had been looking for Sherlock, specifically. Either the entire confrontation had been a ruse and/or a test, or the man had failed to recognize him until he had given in to his ego and gone on what John usually called 'one of his rants'.

Sherlock stared at him, reluctant to accept the explanation of time travel, and certainly not without proof. Even if it were true he was still unimpressed. "I don't believe I caught your name?"

"You can call me John Hart."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this then rolled his eyes in some exasperation, "It's not your name." he said with absolute certainty, and he would admit some amusement, "But I can call you it."

I'll continue soon. ^^ Suggestions are welcome, but I have a pretty good idea where I'm going.