Author's Note: This story is based on the "Doctor Who" episode "The Eleventh Hour", focusing on the part when the Doctor realizes the policewoman is actually a kissogram (Amy Pond). Sherlock Holmes is slightly out of character.

John Watson was walking along the streets of London on a cold winter night. He had been in England for only a week, and felt restless. "Nothing happens to me," he had told his psychologist earlier that day. And nothing had happened. Even though the war had beaten him physically and emotionally, he preferred the danger over the calm, the adrenaline over the mundane. So he walked through harried crowds of hurried people, looking for something to cure his boredom. When his leg acted up, he would take a rest on a bench, watching everybody go by and wondering what they were up to. Were they as bored as he was? As restless? The sights and sounds of London partially drowned out his own thoughts, thoughts he didn't want to be alone with.

As he approached an intersection, he saw police lights flashing. The police cars seemed to surround an apartment building, and people were quickly ascending and descending the stairs, talking on radios and taking rapid notes. Curious, John walked closer until the crime scene tape stopped him. A policeman was also standing on the outside, closely surveying the organized chaos.

"What happened here?" John asked.

"Murder of some sort," the policeman said, "Might be connected with those serial suicides."

"Horrible!" John exclaimed, "Any suspects so far?"

"Not that I know of," the policeman answered, putting his hands into his trouser pockets.

John glanced at his companion. The man was tall (but many people were taller than John, much to his vexation), and even though he had several layers of clothing on, it was evident that he was quite thin. His face was pale, and the darkness of the night further accentuated his high cheekbones. His clear blue eyes were fixated on the apartment building and the activity surrounding it. He was a strikingly handsome fellow, much more attractive than many policemen John had seen.

"Awful situation. Do you have any leads or deductions so far?" John further questioned.

"None so far, " the policeman said.

"Really?" John was surprised. Usually after four mysterious deaths, the police would have figured something out, "None at all?"

"None," the policeman's voice had a hint of annoyance in it.

"Now, I would think that Scotland Yard had something to go on. But nothing! Really, it's extraordinary."

"Oh?" the policeman was getting rather monosyllabic in his irritation.

"Yes," John said, "No deductions at all? What do you deduce from these circumstances?"

"Nothing," the policeman snapped.

"Nothing," John cracked a smile, "Nothing at all. No leads?"

"No, no leads."

"And why not? Surely you were hired for a reason than to stand there and…"

"I'M A KISSOGRAM!" the policeman (well, kissogram) nearly shouted. He snatched off his hat angrily, his curly black hair falling onto his forehead.

Oh…this was awkward.

"But…but a policeman?" John managed to stammer out.

"Better than a butler," the kissogram muttered, crossing his arms defensively.

"Oh no!" John said, seeking to smooth over this strange situation, "It's fine. The policeman…butler…everything. It's all…fine. Whatever shakes your…boat. It's fine."

A strained and awkward silence ensued.

"Erm, I'm John. And you?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Nice to meet you," John extended his hand. Sherlock looked at it, looked at John, and then shook his hand.

"So, besides, um, doing your thing…what else do you do?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled a little, "Funny thing is, I'm rather interested in the whole criminology stuff. I've got books on it, and study it when I'm not…doing my regular job."

"Oh! Fantastic," John said, feeling that the previous uncomfortable subject of conversation was happily over.

"And you? Besides watching crime scenes and mistaking kissograms for policemen?" Sherlock asked, not unkindly.

"Well, I've just got back from the war."

"Injured?" Sherlock glanced at John's cane.

"Yeah. Bullet wound," John grimaced a little, feeling the leg starting to ache again.

Sherlock moved aside as a (real) policeman entered the crime scene. As he did so, the glow from the streetlight hit his face, John was again struck by how handsome Sherlock was.

"Well, if it's any comfort, you don't really look like a policeman," John said.

"Oh? What do I look like?" Sherlock asked, amused.

A model. A Greek god. The paragon of male pulchritude.

Somehow, those terms did not strike John as a particularly heterosexual thing to say to a beautiful male stranger.

"Er…maybe a butler," John blurted out quickly, before he said anything that might embarrass him (or challenge his heterosexuality).

Sherlock looked at him oddly, and then stifled a giggle. Which caused John to start giggling.

"Stop giggling, we're at a crime scene," John snorted, causing Sherlock to laugh louder.

Once they quieted down, John turned to Sherlock, "Hey, care for some dinner? I've never had dinner with a kissogram before."

"John," Sherlock looked at him, suddenly serious and guarded, "While I'm flattered by your interest, I am not…"

"OH! Oh no. No no no no no," John exclaimed frantically, "Just dinner. As friends. Dinner as friends."

"Friends," Sherlock said thoughtfully, "That sounds lovely. I mean dinner," he amended, "But friends works as well."

"Now that we've established that…Angelo's? Fantastic Italian place," John suggested.

"Lead the way," Sherlock said. The two turned away from the crime scene and walked off, talking the whole way.

"Hey! Hey you!" a man in a blue coat yelled, floundering out and nearly knocking over the crime scene tape, "Stop! Stop! KISSOGRAM!"

"Anderson, what's the matter?" a silver-haired man asked, frowning as he held a mobile to his ear.

Anderson whipped around and laughed nervously, "Nothing, Lestrade. Just thought I, uh, saw someone I knew. From the forensics lab."

"Well, no need to cause more ruckus. We've enough as it is," Lestrade said. He then walked away briskly, clearly agitated about something.

As soon as Lestrade was out of sight, Anderson kicked a stray stone by his foot, "Just when I get Lestrade a great birthday present, this darn crime has to happen…"