Yes, I know, long time, no update! I'm VERY sorry, especially considering the warm reception this story has received! I've been extraordinarily busy, and really haven't had a spare moment in a long time. I can't promise this won't happen again. However, I can promise I will not abandon this story, I will see it through until the end. I'm quite excited about it, really. Also, you may notice a change of title… feel free to theorize!

Enjoy

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or Doctor Who. Unfortunately. *sobs*

Lightning flashed across the dark, rumbling sky. Huddling under the futile protection of the veranda, a very drenched Greg Lestrade banged impatiently against the door of 221b Baker Street.

He knew Sherlock was at home, because he see the Consulting Detective in the window and he could hear Bach's Concerto for Two Violins (somehow played on one instrument, though how Sherlock was managing that was beyond him). He also knew John wasn't home, because otherwise he wouldn't have been left outside in the pouring rain for a quarter of an hour.

Greg growled in frustration, glaring up at the window. Not for the first time, he considered just leaving. After all, it was mostly John he needed to see. But he needed to speak to John as soon as possible, and that was when he returned to 221b Baker Street. He could go to the hospital, but the nature of John's job meant it wouldn't be easy for the Doctor to nip off for a bit. Besides, Greg knew from experience that he'd be regarded as an intrusion and a terrible inconvenience. And anyway, John might have already left for the day, for all he knew.

He considered texting John, and then abandoned the idea. Sherlock was such an annoying prat, and Greg took it upon himself to irk Sherlock as much as possible. Turning up at 221b Baker Street on a frequent but irregular basis was one way he could achieve this. No, he was going to stand here, until somebody let him inside. And then he wasn't going to leave for at least an hour.

"Oh, you poor man!" Greg spun around to see the Landlady hustling towards him, her coat pulled tightly around her, firmly clutching her umbrella.

An umbrella, thought Lestrade. What a wonderful idea. "Hello, Mrs Hudson," he replied, managing to sound somewhat amiable.

"Come in, come in, you're soaked!" Mrs Hudson hustled him inside. "Did Sherlock leave you outside in that weather? Oh, he's a bad man! I'll fetch you a towel. Would you like something to drink?"

"Tea would be lovely, Mrs Hudson," Lestrade replied thankfully, accepting a large, maroon towel from the landlady. "I do need to speak to John though."

Mrs Hudson shook her head, sighing. "John's at work. The poor dear keeps being given horribly long shifts. Sherlock's upstairs, working on something, don't ask me what. Awful of him not to let you in, though. Those boys…" She shook her head affectionately, handing Greg his tea.

"Thank you," murmured Greg, accepting the beverage. "Actually, I need to see Sherlock, too. I'll go up and talk to him. See you later, Mrs Hudson."

"Goodbye, Detective Inspector," she replied, and he began to climb the stairs.

The second he entered the living space, Sherlock appeared in his face. "Have you got a case for me?" he demanded.

"Hello to you too, Sherlock," Greg replied. "And yes, my day was fine, thanks for asking. How was yours?"

Sherlock pouted. "Bored," he pouted, flopping down onto the couch. "A case, Lestrade. Do you have one for me?"

Greg grimaced. "Yes. No. Sort of."

Sherlock gave a tight smile. "John should be home soon, so then you can ask him about Rory Williams. Anyway, you're wrong. The wife is innocent."

Greg gaped at the other man. "I'm not even going to ask," he muttered. Nonetheless, Sherlock opened his mouth. "Please don't explain," Greg interjected hurriedly, but the Consulting Detective was already launching into a detailed explanation.

"Yesterday, John told me you were working on Mr Williams's case. It was only natural that you should come to see his doctor to get more detail on the nature of his injuries, which John tells me are mysterious, to say the least. But, having just come from an interview with his wife, you've determined she's at least partially responsible. You've got a faint trace of mascara on your hand. Not your wife's, she doesn't wear it. Anyway, it can't have been there for more than an hour. So, within the last hour, you've been holding hands with a crying woman. The positioning of the smudge on your hand suggests you were tense at the time, so it wasn't a woman who was familiar to you. So, it was probably someone related to a case. You've only got one case at the moment. Mr Williams doesn't have any family apart from his father, so it was his wife. As to how I know you suspect her," he held up his phone. "You have a contact list of people you send texts to on professional matters. Just your immediate colleagues, and only the ones you trust completely, Sergeant Donavon for example. I took the liberty of adding myself to said list during the Baskerville case."

Greg groaned. Indeed, he had sent a text, naming Mrs Amelia Williams and an adult male friend – tall, brown hair, dressed in suspenders, a tuxedo and a bowtie, who introduced himself only as 'The Doctor' as suspects. Greg glared at Sherlock. "Fine. How do you know she wasn't involved?"

"Because she was crying," Sherlock stated simply.

Greg rolled his eyes. This, coming from a supposed sociopath. "And you don't think she could have been faking?"

"That Mascara has connected to the hairs on your hand. It hasn't washed off, despite the fact you've been walking in the rain, so it's waterproof. For it to get on your hand, she must have been crying before you arrived. Quite violently, too, it takes a fair amount of tears to dislodge waterproof mascara, does it not? If they were tears of guilt, she would have been guarding herself, not crying openly with you as she has apparently done."

Greg sighed, taking a second to absorb this information. Sherlock's phone buzzed. The Consulting Detective picked it up, deftly throwing it at Greg. "Read that out, will you, Lestrade?"

Greg opened the message. "Working overnight. There's risotto in the body-part-free section of the fridge. If you or Lestrade want to talk to me, come to the hospital – JW," he read. "Body part free?..." he trailed off, deciding he really didn't want to know.

Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "Excellent!" he cried, sweeping up his cloak. "Come along, Detective Inspector!"

Lestrade rolled his eyes, and, sighing, followed the younger man out the door.

Sighing, John Watson sagged against the wall, exhaustion from the day's events finally beginning to hit home. Working in the Intensive Care ward was taxing at the best of times, and to make matters worse, two of the overnight doctors had called in sick. Two doctors really weren't enough for the overnight shift, so John had offered to stay.

Someone touched his shoulder. John spun around to see Laura, one of the nurses. Although she was quite young (certainly no older than thirty) she was one of the senior nurses in the ward. "You should go home," she urged him.

John snorted. "You're one to talk," he replied. "This is your… what, fifth shift?"

Laura laughed. "Third, and I'm about to go home – I'm splitting this shift with Vanessa. But I'm serious, Doctor Watson. You've been here since seven this morning. Honestly, you should at least take a break. My flat is just next door; you can get a few hours' sleep and come back, if you like."

"Nah," John smiled wryly. "People might talk."

Laura rolled her eyes. "Just take care of yourself, all right? There's enough people in this hospital without us having to check you in."

John gave a shaky laugh. "Likewise, Laura. Have a good rest. Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Not in the morning, I hope," Laura grimaced. "You're a doctor, you really ought to be aware of how much sleep you need to function properly."

John laughed. "You wouldn't believe how many times I've tried to explain that to my flatmate. My shift doesn't start until two pm, and believe me, I'll be spending the morning in bed. Hopefully Sherlock won't have some foul experiment going on that forbids all notions of sleep."

Laura laughed. "Your flatmate can't be that bad."

"Oh, believe me, he's worse," John groaned. "Anyway, you haven't answered my question."

"My shift starts at midday," Laura smiled. "Well, see you then, assuming neither of us dies of exhaustion before then." She turned to leave.

"Bye," John called after her. She glanced back at him, smiling. Sighing, he glanced at his clipboard. There was nothing that required his immediate attention, so now was probably a good time to check on Rory Williams. He trudged down the corridor towards the young nurse's room.

As John neared Rory's room, he heard a faint whirring sound from within. He stopped dead, his soldier's instincts immediately telling him something was amiss. He pressed his ear to the door.

"For pity's sake, be careful, Doctor!" a woman's voice scolded.

"Sorry," a man's voice grunted. "A bit of help, River, if you wouldn't mind…"

The woman sighed. "I've half a mind to leave you here, it would serve you right. How did you manage to get your foot stuck in the door anyway?"

"The TARDIS was being cheeky," the man muttered.

The woman sighed. "Well, maybe if you didn't always leave her brakes on…"

John's brow furrowed. Surely he couldn't be hearing correctly… honestly, this rivalled some of Sherlock's dialogue for strangeness. Only some, mind you. Nonetheless, there were strange people in his patient's room. He reached underneath his jacket, lightly touching his Browning.

"Well then," the man called. "Amy's preparing the infirmary, we better not keep her waiting for too long! Come on, let's take Rory out of…"

The man never finished his sentence, before John Watson burst into the room, gun in hand. "Step away from him," he barked, glancing at the two intruders. A tall, brown-haired man, dressed in a tuxedo and bowtie, cradled Rory's head, while a tall, curly-haired woman took his pulse. "I said step back!" John repeated, his soldier's instincts flaring.

Abruptly, the two people did as he asked, a look of disgust crossing the man's features. "I am sick and tired of guns," he glared, trying to swat the Browning from John's hand. "Honestly, America is bad enough, but for a doctor in a hospital in London to have one? That's ridiculous."

The woman rolled her eyes. "I told you making too much noise would give us away."

The man shot her a dirty look, before turning back to John. "I'm the Doctor, by the way. This is River Song. We'll just be taking Rory off your hands…" He darted towards the unconscious man, but John blocked his path.

"What?" John snorted. "You expect me to believe you're his Doctor?"

"Weell," The Doctor considered, "I wouldn't say I was his Doctor. I don't think Amy would be too pleased about that. Nope, I'm just the Doctor."

"Yes, well. One doctor to another…" John began sarcastically, before the woman, River, interrupted him.

"Oh, he's not a medical doctor," she said, glaring at her friend.

"What, so you just have a degree in cheese-making or something?" John muttered.

"Cheese-making?" The Doctor grinned. "Nah. Bit of everything, really. But I am rather good at cheese-making."

River rolled her eyes. "I'll get a memory worm," she muttered.

"Fine!" the Doctor exclaimed.

John's brow furrowed. "Memory worm?"

The Doctor nodded. "One touch and you lose all memory of the last hour."

John stared at him incredulously. "Come near me with any sedative and I'll shoot."

"All I want is to take my friend to a half-decent hospital!" The Doctor exclaimed.

Anger rose up within John. A half decent – how dare he? "I can assure you, St Barts is a fully competent, qualified hospital," he replied coolly, "and I'd thank you not to insult my skills -"

"Doctor? What's going on?" a red-haired woman appeared in the doorway of – a blue police box? In a hospital ward?

John blinked rapidly, recognizing the woman as Rory's wife, Amelia Pond. Who had just come out of a blue box. A blue, 1950's police call box, sitting in the ICU ward in St Bart's hospital. Why hadn't he seen it before?

"Amy," he heard himself mutter faintly, "what the hell?"

Amy surveyed him curiously. "Hey," she said, sizing him up. "John Watson, right?"

"Yeah, that's me," replied John. Dimly, he was aware of his gun falling to his side, and he quickly flicked the safety and shoved it in his pocket.

"And you're working at St Barts?" Amy wondered. "Rory said you were in Afghanistan, getting shot at or something. What happened?"

"What? Oh, well. I got shot," replied John, grimacing. Obviously she didn't read his blog. "Ended my career pretty quickly."

Amy winced. "Sorry to hear that. Hey, you'll have to come round for dinner sometime, when Rory's back on his feet."

John's brow creased in confusion. How had he gone from trying to stop his patient from being kidnapped by a mad man with a box, to being invited over for dinner by said patient's wife?

Suddenly, the Doctor laughed. "Oh, I remember you!" he grinned, madly indicating Amy and Rory. "You were at their wedding! So you're an ex-army Doctor? That's brilliant!" He edged towards John. "You're brilliant, it's written all over you. Now, I'd love to stay and chat, but we really are on a tight schedule…"

John laughed shakily. "Yeah… no."

Amy frowned. "I'm his wife. I can discharge him."

"Yes, you can," John replied, "but that involves a truckload of paperwork, you can't just take him away in a magic police box or whatever."

"So… does that mean you won't let us take him?" asked River.

"Yes, yes it does," John confirmed.

"Simple solution," the Doctor proposed. "We'll take John with us!" He turned to the ex-army doctor. "Oh, you are going to love it! All of space and time to see, and you look like a man who could use a holiday."

"Well, that's true," muttered John. "Wait, what? All of space and… look, I don't know what you're playing at, but if you don't leave right now, I'll call the police."

"Oh, you definitely need a holiday..." River muttered, fumbling with something in her pocket.

There was a sharp prick in his hand. The world around him began to blur. He looked down in horror, to see a small needle protruding from his hand.

River shrugged apologetically. "Tranquilizer dart."

John's vision tunnelled, and all went black. Oh, Sherlock was going to love this.

"Where's John?" Sherlock demanded as he and Greg Lestrade entered the ICU ward, swinging on the young nurse unfortunate enough to be walking in the opposite direction.

"Sorry, who?" she asked nervously.

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Doctor Watson. Where is he?"

"He was just checking on a patient," the nurse replied. "Funny, he should be back by now…"

"You wouldn't happen to know where Rory Williams is, by any chance?" asked Lestrade, glaring at Sherlock. He had to remember not to let the Consulting detective do the talking. Ever.

"Room 278. Actually, that's who Dr Watson was checking on. But sir, visiting hours are over…" The nurse protested as Sherlock swept past her, leaving Greg to quickly apologize and explain that this was a police investigation. He turned the corner just in time to see Sherlock break into a run. Sighing, he followed the younger man.

He found Sherlock pressed against the wall of Rory William's room, his brow creased in concentration. Greg immediately fell silent, and was alarmed to hear raised voices coming from within the room.

Suddenly, Sherlock burst into the room. Lestrade followed, to find Sherlock tackling a man in a tweed jacket inside the room. An unconscious John Watson lay on the floor beside them, and a curly haired-woman knelt beside him, checking his vitals.

Rory Williams lay on the bed, his wife sitting next to him clutching his hand, both seemingly unaware of the chaos ensuing around them.

It was at this moment that Rory's eyes flickered open. The young nurse glanced at the scene around him. He looked up at his wife. "Amy, what the hell is going on?" he croaked.

Anyway, thanks to everyone who reviewed! I have some replies for you:

SeraphAdena: Thank you, my dear fiend :D Glad you like it

Nataly SkyPot: Haha, I had to look up what 'muy bueno' means. Glad you think it's good, hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Cactus Noir: Yeah, cutting down the tree would probably be the smart thing to do… then again, it might blunt the blade. But yes, I'd be terrified if I were attacked by garden tool monsters. Or any kind of monster, really. Thanks for your review!

Greekgirrl: Thanks, glad you liked it, hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Sarpndo: Yes, it is a bit of a problem, isn't it? I hope I resolve it to your taste!

Flight of Insanity: Thanks, here you go! and great pen-name, btw!

Panther Moon: Thanks for your encouraging feedback! Characterization is a personal priority for me, so I'm glad you liked the character development

FisherofMen: Here you go!