Title: Space and Time for Geniuses
Author: Smartkitty314
Summary: The events of Dr. Who, Series 5, with characters from Sherlock BBC interwoven in. The Doctor doesn't land in Amelia Pond's backyard, but in a the Holmes'…
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I'm only doing this for fun ;-)

Chapter 1: 11th Hour

"Dear Santa."

Young Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling slightly ridiculous. Santa Claus didn't exist; he had proved it to his parents four years ago, writing a whole report on handwriting samples, pulling fingerprints, and demonstrating the impossibility of anyone fitting down their chimney. Since then, 'ask Santa' had become the family joke.

It didn't feel so much like a joke now. Not with the crack, glaring down from the wall, and the voices that shouldn't exist.

"Sorry to bother you, I know it's almost Easter, but there's a crack in my wall. Mycroft says it's an ordinary crack, but…"

Now he just felt stupid.

"I can hear voices, at night, so I know there's something wrong," he rushed. "So just…"

Just what? If Mycroft couldn't fix it, then…

"Maybe you can send a police man, or…"

Or what? The police were a bunch of bumbling idiots who couldn't figure anything out. Mycroft, the smartest person he knew, told him the crack was nothing, so this entire idea of his was stupid. He really ought to go to bed.

Suddenly, a sound caught his keen ears—a sort of wheezing whoosh, then a series of crashes. He rushed over to the window, to observe a large, blue, smoking box sitting on the remains of his shed.

No obvious means of transportation, no marks in the dirt around the shed, which means the box must have fallen from the sky. However, it remained intact, leading to the conclusion that it's not made of wood. Smoke rising from inside, but no visible signs of a fire—if it were on fire at all, the wood on the outside would burn. Bigger on the inside? Says 'Police Public Call Box' on the side, those haven't been used since the 1960's and…

Suddenly, he realized the implications.

Okay, Santa, maybe I'll give you another chance. Right now I need to investigate.

In the yard, Sherlock barely noticed how his breath misted, with the excitement rising in his chest. Around him, he buttoned up the new grey wool coat Mycroft had bought him, imagining his older brother lecturing him about taking care of his body. Why bother? Sherlock had retorted. It's the brain that matters. The rest is just transport.

He approached the strange blue box cautiously; after all, if it was truly an alien spacecraft (who else would have the technology to create a flying box that was bigger on the inside?) the fact that it crashed may indicate unstable engines, meltdowns, and imminent Boom! He watched it carefully, but nothing seemed to be happening. He tentatively began to inch forward…

Suddenly, the door burst open, and a grappling hook flew out. One arm, then another, then—

A normal man's head, albeit dripping wet.

"You look disappointingly human, for an alien," he said in his uncannily astute manner. "Oh, and I was right."

The man's eyebrows narrowed. "About what?"

"It is bigger on the inside, isn't it? That doesn't matter. Are you a police man?"

"Do you have an apple?"

Sherlock's turn to be surprised. Of all the responses, this was the least expected. "What?" he stuttered.

"An apple. All I can think about are apples. I love apples. Maybe I'm having a craving. Oh, I've never had cravings before!" He finished pulling himself out, jumping up, giving Sherlock time to observe him. Raggedy, torn suit, not a very good fit, wet, burn marks. Fairly tall, strong-looking, a strange yet memorable face, especially the chin. "Hair like an idiot," Mycroft would say, but he couldn't complain, he wouldn't let Mycroft cut his own black curls.

"Is your engine hydro-combustion? That might explain why you're wet."

"Hm? Oh, no, I fell in the swimming pool."

"Yes, we've already established that your machine is bigger on the inside."

"Then I climbed out through the library."

"You said you were in the swimming pool."

"So was the library. I'm sorry, you asked me if I was a police man. Why? Do you need a police man?"

"I requested someone to look into the crack in my wall. At first, it just seemed unreasonably spooky, but considering your arrival a more likely theory seems to be that the crack is extraterrestrial in origin. May I ask you a few questions?"

Suddenly, the man fell to the ground, clutching his chest, coughing out what appeared to be luminous pollen. Sherlock felt his chest tighten; he knew so little about medical science, and this man probably wouldn't even have human anatomy. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," the man replied. "Still…cooking."

"Who are you?"

He jumped to his feet. "I'm not sure. I'm still figuring that out. Call me the Doctor. Aren't you going to invite me in?" He turned to walk straight into a tree.

Sherlock considered leaving 'the Doctor' (a frankly ridiculous name, because he certainly wasn't a medical doctor, and Sherlock doubted he had any University training, so no PhD either. Mycroft knew everything that went on at the University, he would have noticed any alien this bad at blending in.) outside, but he was curious. Besides, the man was hungry, and Mycroft always stressed how important it was to be aware of social norms, like feeding guests.

Sherlock gave him an apple, only to see him spit it out.

Yogurt. Disgusting.

He fried up some bacon, also rejected. Beans were declared evil. Buttered toast thrown out the door, and told to "never come back!"



"I've been assessing your gustatory reactions. Might I suggest a combination of foods to satisfy this elusive 'craving' of yours?"

The Doctor looked at him, half confused and half interested. "What?"

"Try…" Sherlock took a deep breath, reviewing his deduction in his head. It sounded crazy, but, "fish sticks and custard."

"Hm, that might actually—just what I need! Fish sticks and custard!" He leapt up, opened the fridge, and helped himself. "You eating anything?"

"It'll slow me down. I need my brain sharp, for thinking."

"That," said the Doctor, his mouth half full, "is absolute rubbish. You're not going to grow big and strong if you don't eat enough."

"Who cares about big and strong? Besides, Mycroft makes sure I get enough. He has me on a 15000-calorie per week diet, which he says gives me a bit of wiggle room with each day. That doesn't stop him from planning all my meals, though." Sherlock frowned, still rather upset about this fact. The Doctor just looked amused.

"Mycroft your dad? Where are your parents? I'm surprised we haven't woken them yet."

"They're gone. Mycroft is my brother. He's out at the university party, collecting blackmail. Not that he needs more. He's trying to organize the campaign of one of the upperclassmen for president of some big club."

"So Mycroft's your brother, and you are?"

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

The Doctor smiled. "That's a good name. That's like a fairy tale name…no, not a fairy tale, a murder mystery. Detective Sherlock Holmes. You ever thought of being a private detective, Sherlock?"

"Sounds boring."

"Boring? Are you kidding? Solving crimes, saving the day—"

"Most crimes are committed by idiots, and idiots have accidents, leaving a whole trail of mistakes like a giant arrow pointing to them. There aren't enough smart criminals. A few serial killers, maybe, but homicides don't come up often enough to be a feasible career, and I don't want to have to deal with the boring stuff."

"What if the police consulted you when they had fun stuff?"

"A consulting detective? Doesn't exist."

"Since when have you ever let anything as trivial as that stop you? Make the job up. You'll be the only one in the world."

Sherlock smiled. It appealed to his sense of ego, to be the only consulting detective in the world.

"You know, you're taking this all rather well," the Doctor observed

"What do you mean?"

"Alien crashes into your shed, eats fish custard, and starts chatting about serial killers, and you act as if it's perfectly normal. So you know what?"


"That must be one scary crack in your wall."

They stood in his bedroom, staring at the creepy crack in his wall. "So?" Sherlock asked. "What's your analysis?"

The man took a strange silver device out of his pocket, activating it. Sherlock observed a whirling noise and the end lit up blue. The man consulted it as if it provided him information.

Alien technology, some sort of scanning device, judging from the sound and vibrations, probably—"Sonic?"

"Hm? Yes, sonic screwdriver. Now this crack, it's not in your wall."

"What do you mean? Of course it's—"

"No, if you knocked the wall down then it still would be there, because it's not in your wall. Two parts of time and space that never should have been pressed together that are touching. So. That means it's easy to fix."


"We open it, then it snaps closed."

Sherlock looked skeptical. "That seems rather touchy-feely, like people who restart their computers when they don't know what to do."

"Trust me, I'm the Doctor. I know what I'm doing. You know when a grown-up tells you that everything's okay, but you know they're lying just to try to make you feel better?" He offered Sherlock his hand.

"They generally don't. Well, some of the more stupid ones will, but I think it's to get me to be quiet more than to actually reassure me."

"Well, shut up, because everything's going to be okay."

He delivered this line with a perfectly straight face and a twinkle in his eye. Sherlock decided that he liked this strange Doctor very much.

The crack lit up, a strange, glowing blue, revealing blackness beyond. For a moment, nothing happened, then a giant blue eye appeared.

Prisoner Zero has escaped! Prisoner Zero has escaped!

"That's the voices," Sherlock said. "This is another alien. Is it Prisoner Zero?"

"No, these are the wardens, the Atraxi." He turned to address the giant blue eye. "Yes, yes, we know, Prisoner Zero has escaped. But why? Why are you telling us this?" A thin star of blue flew out from the eye, through the crack, and into the Doctor's midsection. He fell over, his sonic screwdriver dropping, and the crack snapped shut.

Rummaging through his pocket, he pulled out a small black pad. "Psychic paper," he explained. "Prisoner Zero has escaped. But why would they be telling us that?"

"Obvious. Zero must have escaped through the crack."

The Doctor scrunched up his face in annoyance again. "There's something wrong here, something in the corner of my eye, I just need to think, think, I—"


"Oh, no, no, no!" The self-proclaimed Doctor leapt up, and dashed down the stairs, running for his machine, presumably the cause of the alarm. "Engines are phasing, a quick hop, five minutes into the future, should stabilize them."

"Wait!" Sherlock shouted, panting for breath. "Take me with you!"

"Can't, the radiation will fry you. Five minutes, I promise."

"That's what people always say," Sherlock grumbled.

The Doctor jumped down, and put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, staring him straight in the eye. "Am I people? Do I even look like people?"

"No. For one thing, people don't dress like you do. Also, most people don't have two hearts—come on, obvious, I can feel your pulse through your hands, and—"

The Doctor put a finger on his lip, quieting him.

"Then trust me. I'm the Doctor."

Then he jumped back down into his marvelous machine with a shout of "Geronimo!" and the machine began to wheeze again, and dematerialized. Sherlock hurried back upstairs, grabbed his suitcase, and threw in a few extra clothes. Then he hurried back down into the garden and waited.

He waited all night, and no one came. When he woke up the next morning, in his own bed, he knew that Mycroft knew, but his brother didn't say anything, so he didn't either. Sherlock would have thought it was a particularly vivid dream if he hadn't woken up with his coat on, his suitcase packed under his bed, the shed completely and utterly smashed, and the crack in his wall gone.

When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Last night an alien had fallen into his yard, given him a taste of adventure, then disappeared.

Five minutes. Exploding time machine, he should have known that it wouldn't just be five minutes. More likely than not, the Doctor had died, taking the promise of exploring the universe, everything that ever was and ever would be, with him.

I am alive, Sherlock reminded himself, which is less than I would be if I had gone with him. A lot of days, though, when life was so booring that he couldn't stand it, he wished he had just gone off and died with the Doctor. Maybe he would have been able to help, stop the time machine from exploding.

He made a friend, or rather, the one person in school who would talk to him, and only because John Watson was an outcast, too, teased about his lesbian sister in the strictly conventional town of Leadsworth. Watson played 'Raggedy Doctor' with him, and looked at his wall full of carefully drawn pictures, map references, legends collected of a strange man called the Doctor in any time of human history. Sherlock wasn't so much sure that he wanted the Doctor to come back as he was determined to prove that he had been right.

He got into drugs because using them made him feel strange, like maybe what flying around through the stars might feel. He dropped them after a little while, because he didn't like feeling so dependent, but the mind-numbing bliss of addiction still called to him, like an itch in the back of his mind. He started taking cases for the police to ignore it.

And so the little boy who waited learned that people, whether they looked human or not, were idiots, and could never be trusted.

a/n: I'm going to be doing the whole series. Read it. Get your friends to read it. Drop me a review if you'd like. Spread this story!

I would like to hear how you think I managed to fit their characters into the recycled dialogue. Can you imagine it? Drop me a review telling me how you thought I did.