Disclaimer: I'm sad to say I still don't own Sherlock or Doctor Who.

Note: To all who are following this story, my sincere apologies for the length of time it has taken me to update. I'm very sorry. I'd like to pretend I've just been too busy, but truthfully, I just kind of lost my muse. I really thought I'd wrap this up quickly when I started it. I think if I ever write another story I'll finish it before I begin posting. But if you keep reading, I'll keep writing and I will finish this one day!

And now on to the story...


Having left Lestrade at Wester-Drumlins, Sherlock simply walked, deep in thought.

"I must revise my original hypothesis. This isn't kidnapping. The Angels were not moved to frighten people away or attract people to a ghost story. They move themselves. Although, in point of fact, I didn't see it 'move'. It only moved when I wasn't looking. It defies all logic though. We saw them. We touched them. They were statues! Statues that live? Is it a statue when you see it, but alive when you don't? Impossible!" Sherlock shook his head in disgust. "Of course it's possible! You have the evidence of your own senses. What more do you need? Now, the questions are, what are they and what did these things do with John?"

Walking for hours through London, Sherlock finally returned to 221B Baker Street, still without answers. He had checked with contacts in his homeless network, only to find they had little information. Basically, they stayed away from the area around Wester-Drumlins, knowing that people disappeared from there. He let himself into the flat and settled in front of John's laptop, quickly deducing the password, "USE_UR_OWN", he had to smile a bit at John's idea of security. Calling up John's internet history he quickly reviewed the pages John had visited. While he had originally been intrigued by the graffiti in the house, he had disregarded it as irrelevant to the case. Now knowing that a woman named Sally Sparrow had indeed been living in London at the time of the last round of abductions, gathering more data on her and "The Doctor" became necessary. While John had found nothing on "Sally Sparrow", Sherlock quickly found she was now "Sally Nightingale", having married her business partner. Unfortunately, it also appeared they had moved to New Zealand over a year ago. John's research on "The Doctor" had been more in-depth, if urban legend and blogs by conspiracy theorists could be considered in-depth. No one knew his true name, origin or whereabouts. Stories about him went back in time for decades, even centuries. Sherlock would have normally scoffed at the idea. But given the fact that creatures of living stone were apparently real and stealing people away in London, he was inclined to at least read the accounts in detail and commit them to memory.

Daylight was dawning as Sherlock stopped his research and settled in front of the photos and files, slapping on a second nicotine patch.

A persistent ringing intruded upon his thoughts. "John. Phone." Sherlock said automatically. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Sherlock was on his feet. "John's not going to answer." He chastised himself as he checked to caller ID.

"Lestade? Why are you calling so early."

"It's noon Sherlock. What have you been doing?"


"Of course. Well think on this: They're gone, Sherlock. We've searched every inch of the house and grounds and there are no angels."


"You heard me! They're gone. As in they're no longer at the house. There's no trace of them and if we hadn't seen them ourselves we'd never know they'd been there." Lestrade felt like shouting, but learned long ago that shouting at Sherlock was nothing but counter-productive. He forcibly held his temper. "Have you had any ideas?"

"I have many ideas, Lestrade, but as to this case there's nothing I care to share yet."

"You never care to share, Sherlock, it's one of you most annoying traits."

Sherlock didn't bother to reply. After a moment, Lestrade sighed. "Ok, so can you tell me what you found out from the contractors before John…" He stopped.

"Nothing you wouldn't expect. Big, spooky, house. People went missing. Contractors' quit. The end. Of course, I didn't know at the time I should be asking them about alien statues that spirit people away in the dark."

"Aliens?" Lestrade almost laughed. "Did you actually say 'alien statues'?"

Sherlock hadn't actually given voice to that thought before, but it had been there, niggling in the back of his mind ever since he'd read John's research on the Doctor. Most of the blogs had been ridiculous, conspiracy theorist, nonsense. But some had decent data included and if nothing else pointed to something "otherworldly" about him. Add that to the sheer impossibility the situation… He looked out the window, mind already jumping ahead to his next move. "You don't think living statues evolved on this planet, do you, Lestade?" he said, and hung up during the stunned silence that followed.


Arthur looked a bit pale by the time John finished his story. At first his attitude had been just as John feared; a trip to the asylum was not out of the question. However, the indisputable evidence of John's identification, money, pistol and cell phone overcame Arthur's quite reasonable disbelief. "I believe," he said at last, "we could do with something stronger than tea." With that he rose and opened a rather well stocked liquor cabinet, pouring both of them generous glasses. John was impressed that even in his shock, Arthur's hands were steady.

Settling back into his chair, he sipped his drink in silence. John fancied he could see the wheels turning in Arthur's mind, much like he could Sherlock. "Sherlock. What happened to you? Are you here too somewhere?"

Arthur cut off John's train of thought, "So," he said, "what shall we do with you now?"

A thrill of fear ran up John's spine and he choked a bit on his whisky.

Arthur immediately realized John's discomfort and was quick to reassure him. "No, no, my good man! I mean, how shall we ever get you home?" He chuckled at the look on John's face. "Thought I was going to turn you over to the authorities didn't you?"

"Well, I suppose it would be understandable if you did." John replied. "After all, I'm a bit of an oddity I suppose."

Arthur smiled, "Do all men from your time excel at understatement?"

John shook his head, "I must say, Arthur, you're taking this all very well."

"How should I take it, John? Should I panic and run screaming from the man from the future? I rather hope I show a bit more fortitude. No, John, I must believe you, there's nothing else for it. You say you've traveled here not of your own will but by some nefarious means that was used against you, making you a victim in all this. You've shown me no ill intentions. In fact, you've risked your life to save mine. The only honorable thing to do is to assist you in any way I can." Arthur leaned forward, looking at John intently, "Now, do you have any ideas?"

John's relief turned to despair. "I can't imagine." he said bleakly. This sort of thing doesn't happen. It's impossible. I can't be here, but I am. I don't have any idea how to get back or what to do. It's like something from the Twilight Zone."

Arthur frowned, "The what?" He shook his head, "Never mind. I expect we'll have a bit of that happening. You mustn't give up already."

John continued, "I keep wondering what happened to Sherlock. Did he meet up with the angels too? Is he here somewhere? He may be in the same predicament. I just wish I knew what to do. I'm out of my league here."

"Alright then, this friend of yours, Sherlock Holmes, from what you've said he's a clever fellow. What would he do John?"

"He'd go to the scene of the crime." John replied.

"Well then," Arthur nodded, "London it is."