"Sherlock, have you seen this?" Asked John Watson, sitting at his computer.
"It's your computer." Said Sherlock dryly.
"Yes, but there's an email from Detective Lestrade. Sent it to me because he thought you might ignore it." He said. "They've found a dead woman. She was having a party, then disappeared. Some friends found her on her bed, but they thought she was just asleep. Wasn't until the next morning that they realised she was dead. He says the police are baffled, and they need your help."
"They always do." Replied Sherlock. He sighed. "Perhaps we'll go have a look. Should be dull, but there's nothing else on."

Sherlock and John walked into the dead woman's bedroom, where she still lay on her bed.
"Here she is. Sophie Dove, died late last night."
"How'd she die?" Asked John. The lady looked uncomfortable.
"We don't know, that's the thing. There's no cause." Sherlock huffed in a clearly disbelieving way and began to examine the body.
"Alcohol, or poison?" Suggested John, giving the body a quick medical examination himself. It was true, there were no physical signs of death, at least.
"We checked. There's some alcohol in her system, but barely enough to make her woozy, let alone kill her. No poisons, toxins, diseases or anything." The three looked up as a new person entered the room, followed by a policeman, who was looking rather confused.
"It's okay, okay, I'm from Scotland Yard, see?" Said the newcomer, showing the guard his badge. The man waved it around, showing it to everyone in the room. The policeman shrugged, then left. "I'm here to investigate Ms. Dove's death - or are you two already on it?" He asked, turning to John and Sherlock. "Though you don't look very Scotland Yard." He added.
"Nor do you." Said Sherlock, his eyes raking over the man. He took in his worn out Converses, long overcoat and brown suit, his messy brown hair and dark eyes.
"I'm John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes. We're looking into it, yes."
"Not with Scotland Yard, but you have just about as much authority as them." Said the man, stroking his chin. "I'm the Doctor - wait, did you say John Watson and Sherlock Holmes?" He asked, incredulous. He smiled, then started laughing.
"Yes, that's our names. And, sorry, doctor who?" Asked John, confused.
"No, nobody. Just the Doctor." He said distractedly. "Is that just a coincidence? Holmes and Watson, investigating a murder, or - wait. Have you heard of a man called Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?" He asked.
"No, never." Replied John.
"Ah, right. I forgot, those books came from… somewhere else." The Doctor said, remembering picking up the Sherlock Holmes books from a different universe. He cleared his throat. "Well then, Sherlock Holmes, what have we got?"

The Doctor strode over to the body, examining it.
"You tell me, Doctor." Said Sherlock dryly. The Doctor smiled. That was clearly a challenge. He pulled out his glasses, put them on, and walked up and down the bed, taking in everything he could.
"Let's see… The body been touched?" He asked, looking up.
"No, Sherlock doesn't like it if we do." Said the lady, slightly unhappy. The Doctor smiled.
"Right then. Left handed, not married, though probably wants to be, worked for some government organisation, quite high ranking, I think, but very secretive. Job involved not much standing, but typing, ooh, lots of typing. Had a nephew who she visited every weekend and liked bowling, but bowled with her right hand." The Doctor looked at Sherlock, smiling slightly smugly. "Did I get it all?" He asked innocently.

John stared at the two of them, eyebrows raised.
"Just about." Said Sherlock, trying to look unsurprised - which really wasn't too hard, as he had expected something along these lines. The Doctor raised his eyebrows.
"Just about?" He asked.
"You didn't get the chemicals." He pointed out. The Doctor looked up and down the body, peering at it intensely.
"Ohhh! Yes, of course, the hair. Embarrassing, that I missed that. But typing, and chemicals… ooh, oh!" He said, grinning. "Oh, yes, and you said there was no cause, which is to be expected, of course!"
"You'd expect there to be no cause of death?" Asked John, skeptical.
"Well, if the murderer was clever. I think I get why I'm here now." The Doctor grinned.
"Who on Earth are you?" Asked John, frowning.
"That is a good question. I know every detective in this area, and 'the Doctor' certainly isn't one of them." Said Sherlock.
"Oh, come on, you're Sherlock Homes! What can you deduce about me? I bet you've been trying. Much luck?" Said the Doctor, spreading his arms wide, giving Sherlock a good veiw of his whole body. Just then, Detective Lestrade entered, pushing the Doctor aside to talk to Sherlock.
"What've you got for me, Sherlock, please tell me you've worked it out."
"Nothing of use just yet." Said Sherlock, sounding bored again. "Though, do you know that man there?" He asked, pointing to the Doctor. Lestrade shook his head.
"Nope. Why?" He asked.
"Says he's with Scotland Yard. Had a badge and everything." Said John. Lestrade turned to face the Doctor.
"Have you been impersonating an officer?" He said severely. The Doctor smiled slightly.
"No, nope, law-abiding citizen, that's me! God save the Queen, all that - do you want me to get my credentials?" He said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it over to Lestrade, who looked at it closely.
"You're with the secret service?" He asked.
"If that's what it says, then yes."
"What are you doing on this case?" He asked.
"Oh, you know, taking some time off, that kind of thing." Said the Doctor dismissively as the paper was passed around to John, then to Sherlock.
"John, this paper's blank." He said quietly, but the Doctor heard, even if Lestrade didn't.
"No, Sherlock, look. 'Agent John Smith, known as the Doctor', see?" He said, pointing to a spot on the blank paper. The Doctor walked over to them, took the paper back and whispered to Sherlock, "I'll explain in a sec."
"How would you like to come back to our place this afternoon, and collaborate on the case?" Asked Sherlock, curious. "John and I share a flat. 221b Baker Street." The Doctor grinned.
"221b Baker Street? Really? That's brilliant. I'd love to."

"So, come on then. How'd you know." Said John, resigned, as he climbed into the taxi. It sounded like this was some kind of normal occurrence.
"Nails on the left hand were far more worn than the right; left handed. No wedding ring. Neat, nondescript clothes, expensive, employee card in the left pocket with a serial code that could only belong to a government organisation. Not much information on the card, though, so secretive. Weak legs, saying she sat around a lot, with worn out fingers and strong wrists; therefore a typist. Nephew was in the picture frame on her dresser, and her right hand was worn in spots only caused by regular bowling. Hair was thinned out, skin a bit dry and unhealthy, so she worked with chemicals often." Said Sherlock, in a rush. The Doctor sat back, looking impressed.

"Cuppa tea?" Asked Mrs Hudson with a smile.
"That'd be excellent." Said the Doctor, sitting down in the apartment's living room, careful not to choose Sherlock's chair. After the three had received their tea, and Mrs Hudson had left, Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, curious.
"You said you'd explain the blank paper?" Said Sherlock.
"Yup. But it'll take a big leap-"
"Doctor, I'm used to taking leaps between bits of information." He said, sounding almost bored again.
"Not this big." He said. "Besides, that's not what I was talking about. Really, logically it should make sense."
"I'm a very logical man."
"Logic only goes so far." Warned the Doctor. "Here," he said, tossing Sherlock the paper from before, "blank, yes?"
"Get John to have a look. He may disagree." John walked over, and read out loud from the paper:
"Doctor John Smith, medical advisor." Sherlock frowned. "Can't you see that?" Asked John. The Doctor walked over to them and picked up the paper, then handed it back. John leaned over and read again. "Doctor James McCrimmon, Professor of medical sciences" He read. To Sherlock, the paper still looked blank. "It changed." Said John. "You didn't do anything to it, but it changed." The Doctor took back the paper and placed it in his pocket.
"It's psychic paper. In reality, it's blank, but I can make it say whatever I want. I can make you think it says whatever I want." He told them, sitting back down. "Clever people, or psychic people, see right through it. The only other person I've met who sees it as blank was Shakespeare." He confided. "Though really, I expected a bit more of him. Now, don't get me wrong, he was obviously a genius, absolutely brilliant, but like they say, you should never meet your heroes."
"You've met Shakespeare?" Asked John. "You can't have met Shakespeare!" Sherlock didn't say anything, but was deep in thought.
"I get that a lot. Though normally it's 'You can't have been there!' or, mostly just 'That's impossible!'. I'm not normally so specific, you see." Replied the Doctor, sipping his tea. "Your landlady makes excellent tea." He commented with a smile. "Okay Sherlock, that's quite a few more clues for you. Any ideas?" He asked. Sherlock looked up.
"You're a traveller, that's obvious. Worn out shoes and clothes, but your shoes are more worn out, so you do a lot of running, or walking from place to place."
"Running. Oh, you have no idea how much running is involved." The Doctor laughed. "Next?"
"No family or friends, at least none that you're in contact with. No luggage with you, not even a bag, which would normally make me think short trip. But your clothes are too worn for that; no, you're more of a backpacker, homeless." The Doctor remained silent. "Right handed, very-"
"Yes, that's just the boring stuff." Said the Doctor. "Stuff you could know with your eyes closed. Well, not with your eyes closed, but you know what I mean. C'mon, there's a big leap here and you know it, you just don't want to say it. Traveller, no bags, out of date clothes, no obvious form of transport, psychic paper and I said I met Shakespeare!" He exclaimed. "I'm not with Scotland Yard, or the secret service, that was just a lie. You know that. Weren't you the one who said that once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?"
"Insane?" Offered John.
"Oh, come on, you're far from stupid, John. I'm too clever to be insane. Maybe you think you're stupid, I don't know. If you do, you've been spending too much time with him." He pointed at Sherlock. "Anyone'd seem stupid next to him. Well, maybe not Einstein. Or Newton - though, I did have to push him in the right direction for the whole gravity thing. He would've gotten there by himself, I swear, I just helped a bit. No harm done." The two men stared at the Doctor in disbelief. They were both thinking the same thing, but neither wanted to say it.
"You're implying that you're a time traveller." Said Sherlock finally, after a moment's silence. The Doctor sipped his tea.
"You're observing that I'm a time traveller." There was more silence.
"That's impossible." Stated John. "And I've taken to not saying impossible very much anymore."
"Then why start now?" Replied the Doctor. Suddenly, he grinned. "Do you want to see it?" He asked, excited.
"See what?" Asked John. Sherlock remained quiet.
"My time machine. My spaceship. My home. D'you want a look?"

"Well, John, this day may turn out to be interesting after all." Commented Sherlock. The Doctor said his time machine was about half an hour away, so he'd go alone, but he'd be back here within about a minute. "I can't come back too close, crossing timelines is very dangerous." He'd said, before running out the door.
"Might be? Sherlock, we quite possibly just met a time traveller. And even if he just turns out to be insane, he's at least as clever as you. That's an interesting day." Sherlock huffed.
"As clever as me? Just because he's good at looking at a dead body? That was a fairly basic one, if you can observe properly."
"Now then, that's hardly fair! John's clever, he didn't see much of that." Said the Doctor, who had appeared in their doorway. "And I'm just as clever as you, cleverer even, but only because I've got more space up here," he tapped his head, "and that's not your fault, human limitations, after all." Sherlock was essentially speechless. John smiled; he was loving this. Not many people could say things that Sherlock couldn't think up a condescending reply to. It was quite refreshing.

Sherlock and John followed the Doctor out of the building, where he led them to a little side street.
"Don't tell me that's your 'time machine'." Said John, looking at the blue box in front of him.
"That's her." Said the Doctor proudly. "TARDIS, T-A-R-D-I-S. Time And Relative Dimension In Space."
"It's wooden." Said Sherlock, after looking at it carefully. "A wooden replica of a 1950s police box." He said.
"1960s police box, actually. And not a replica. Well, a replica, but it was 'made' in the 60s." He said. "Landed there, and the cloaking device got jammed. Stuck this way ever since, but I like it. It's grown on me." The Doctor opened the door and went inside, shutting the door most of the way so that neither of them would get a good look inside. After a moment he realised no one was following him, so he stuck his head out the door. "You can come in, if you want. More room than you'd expect." Sherlock and John shrugged at each other, then John opened the door.
"Shi-Sherlock." He said, catching himself just in time.
"I can see." The two walked slowly into the TARDIS, looking wide-eyed at their surroundings.
"It's bigger on the inside!" Whispered John, amazed. The Doctor grinned.
"I love it when people say that. Best part of an intra-dimensional time-travelling spaceship? People's reactions. Well, second best. Well, really, maybe third best, or fourth. Well, it's pretty good. Up in the top twenty."

Hello, everybody! I apologise for the terrible name. Yes, I know I should be working on the Berners' House, but I just finished watching Sherlock (It's brilliant. Watch it.) and all I could think about was this. The Doctor plus modern-day Sherlock? LOVE. Steven Moffat, I'm looking at you to somehow make this happen. If we can have Agatha Christie and a murder mystery, Charles Dickens surrounded by ghosts on Christmas, and Shakespeare with witches, then we can have the Doctor and Sherlock Holmes (or maybe Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who behaves like Holmes. I dunno.)

I had troubles with the Doctor today. Sometimes, he doesn't sound right. I think I fixed most of it, but let me know if anything seems a bit... off. He feels wrong somehow. I don't know when this is set in either of the shows' timelines.

Enjoy, and remember to review. Next chapter will be up ASAP, but may be a while - school, other stories, life, etc etc.