A/N: So since I got a pretty good response for the first chapter, I decided to continue writing this! I hope you continue to enjoy it and leave lovely reviews, too!

"No, he can't be gone. There's—there's a way to get him back, right? There has to be," John half-asked, half-insisted, desperately looking from River to the Doctor for confirmation. But neither said anything. "Please tell me there's a way to get him back," he pleaded.

River glanced quickly to the Doctor and then averted her eyes from the both of them, guilt heavily plaguing her features. The Doctor averted his eyes downward warily, a frown on his face as he listened to the desperation in the army doctor's voice and dearly wished he could give the blogger a better answer. Finally, he glanced up at John and, looking none-too-confident, he answered, "Maybe. But I can't make any promises."

"Doesn't matter," John replied more strongly with the shake of his head. "I'll do whatever it takes," he added sternly.

"I wouldn't expect any less of you, John," the Doctor said with a small smile.

"Sorry to interrupt this lovely moment, but would you mind hurrying it up a bit? Staring at a creepy statue that's not a statue for this long of a time period is a bit harder than one would think," Rory piped up from near the Tardis with Amy. Seeing as the Doctor, River, and John had all diverted their attention from the angel, the task of keeping an eye trained on the creature had fallen upon the Ponds.

"Oh, sorry, Rory," the Doctor said apologetically.

"Perhaps we should adjourn to the Tardis," River advised. "It's safer there."

"Sorry, the what?" John asked, brow raised in confusion. Right now he was beginning to feel more lost than he sometimes did trying to keep up with Sherlock's deductions.

"The Tardis. It stands for—" the Doctor began to explain, but Amy cut him off.

"Never mind what it stands for, come on," she said, pulling at the Doctor's sleeve and backing up toward the Tardis, eyes still focused on the angel.

"No, wait, let me see if I can use the sonic screwdriver to get a reading from the angel. Given that Sherlock was sent back only moments ago, the time energy may be strong enough for there to still be a trail that points back as to when Sherlock was sent and where. Or at the very least, it'll narrow things down a bit for us," the Doctor explained, pulling away from the ginger's grip and hurrying over to the angel.

"Well get a move on, then. You know I really don't like these things," Amy said, giving him a small push as he scurried away. She didn't really know why, but out of all the scary and horrible things that she had faced in her travels with the Doctor, the angels scared her most of all. The sooner they got away from those creatures, the better.

"Patience, Pond," the Doctor instructed as he whipped his trusty screwdriver out of his pocket.

"Wait, you mean you've seen these things before?" John asked, interrupting the conversation between Doctor and companion. "And are you Scottish?" he added as an afterthought, having only just noticed Amy's quite prevalent accent.

"Yes and yes," Amy answered tersely. "That's not a problem for you, my being Scottish, is it?"

Quickly the blogger shook his head. "No, of course not. Just curious was all." She definitely had the Scottish attitude, though. He wasn't all too sure how long he would be around these people, particularly Amy, but hopefully he would never get on her bad side. "It's actually rather endearing," he assured her before getting distracted by the strange, high-pitched whirring noise of the Doctor's sonic screwdriver. "What's he doing? How's that going to help Sherlock?" John wondered, watching both the Doctor and the statue of the angel carefully.

"That's his sonic screwdriver. He uses it on practically everything and for just about anything. It'll help him find that time energy trail he mentioned a moment ago that'll help to narrow down when and where Sherlock is," River explained patiently.

"Strange but brilliant," John admitted, sounding fascinated by the idea just like he had been by Sherlock's deductions in the past; he still was always blown away by a particularly astounding observation. He suspected he'd never get used to the way Sherlock's mind worked ten thousand miles per second.

"He's not actually a doctor, though, is he?" he asked a moment later, surveying the Doctor's strange tactics. "'The Doctor' is just a nickname, isn't it?"

"No, he's not an actual doctor," Rory answered slowly, "but how could you tell? You only just met him."

"When you hang around Sherlock Holmes for as long and as often as I have, he starts to rub off on you," John said. "Not to mention, I am an experienced doctor; I know the habits and characteristics of doctors and he doesn't show any of them," he further remarked.

"Oh, I like you," River said with a broad grin.

"Got it!" the Doctor eagerly declared at the same moment. "Well, something, at least," he amended. "Better than nothing," he said as he glanced back down at his screwdriver and studied it carefully for a moment. "Yes, here we go!" he muttered, walking back over to the group. "Good news, John! Our good friend Sherlock is somewhere in the 19th Century!"

"Well that narrows it down," Rory deadpanned.

"I have to agree, that's not exactly the most hopeful of conclusions," John said. "Anywhere in the 19th Century means that he could be anywhere in a time span of 100 years, each with 365 days to choose from. Isn't there any way to narrow that down to something a tad more reasonable?"

"You know Sherlock, John, he'll probably find a way to help us out and narrow it down a great deal by sending us some sort of message. He's clever, I'm sure he'll think of something. Don't lose hope yet, we've still got a chance to save the world's first consulting detective," the Doctor reassured John. "Now let's go, everyone, into the Tardis," he said, moving past them to open the Tardis door. River, Amy, and Rory all quickly shuffled inside as the Doctor held the door open and kept an eye on the angel by the side of the empty home and scene of the crime. "

John, however, paused outside the doors, not yet having seen the enormous space inside. "How are we all possibly going to fit in there?" he questioned, to which the Doctor smiled mirthfully, as if he knew a grand secret he couldn't quite yet tell, and simply answered, "Why don't you step inside and see?"

"Bloody Hell," John murmured as he stepped into the Tardis, the Doctor following closely after him and immediately shutting the door behind him. Rory, Amy, and River all shared looks of amusement as the ex-army doctor gazed around the grand and spacious console room of the Tardis; however, the Doctor looked most delighted of all. He always loved seeing the reactions of companions and everyone else who entered the Tardis for the first time.

To John's credit, he didn't even state the obvious, "It's bigger on the inside," although the Doctor would eat his fez if John wasn't at least thinking it.

"You definitely aren't from around here, are you?" John finally asked after several moments of gaping at his new surroundings.

With a laugh, the Doctor replied, "No, I am most definitely not."

Nightime Somewhere in the Past

A dizzy Sherlock Holmes staggered as he gained his footing in the dim light of his new surroundings. As he found his balance, the detective gazed around, finding his current location quite unfamiliar. And for a detective who knew every main street, alleyway, and back road of London, that was just a tad disconcerting.

But as if this strange location wasn't strange enough, Sherlock immediately noticed that the air was different, too. It was crisp and dry, very different from the cool, refreshing spring breeze from a moment ago, back when he was with John and that blonde woman, River Song. Speaking of the two of them, both they and even the strange stone angel were gone and nowhere to be seen in this dark alleyway that he now found himself in.

The darkness. That was another odd thing, as well. While it had still been light outside—nearly midday when he, John, and River had arrived at the empty home of the missing man—here it was approximately 5:30am going by the steadily brightening blue gray sky above and the quiet that was all around him. This city he was in—for it surely was a city, and he suspected it was still London going by the smells he could pick up even though it was oddly quiet—had not yet fully awoken. But even then, he would have thought it would be a bit more…bustling at 5:30am. Usually some people were already waking up and heading to their jobs at this time, but it didn't seem so here.

Taking a few steps down the shabby alleyway with uneven cobblestone pavement—wait, cobblestone? Sherlock's brow creased in confusion. Sure, there were still some cobblestoned streets in London, but none quite so uneven and bumpy as this one. It must be an older street, he figured; one not deemed important or frequently used enough to be worth fixing. Well, that was a tad bit helpful. He could already think of a handful of small, old roads in London that it could be. However that still didn't help much. He still had over a dozen theories and there was still something that didn't add up here. Something very strange…

"Hello there, love. You lost?" a coy feminine voice called from behind. Sherlock turned sharply around to see a rather disheveled and tired-looking woman in her late forties-Sherlock would guess age 47 to be exact-standing several feet away. Immediately he picked up on a handful of things about her such as the fact that her hair was a mess, indicating that she didn't care enough to fix it or was too tired to and that she had engaged in some sort of activity in which she had managed to rough it up. The stained, dirty, and somewhat raggedy dress she was wearing hung off her shoulders partially because it looked a tad big for her, partially because it was getting old, and partially because she was obviously letting it drape haphazardly like that on purpose in order to gain attention. She obviously wasn't doing it to keep herself warm; the breeze that was stirring up was even chilling him a bit.

The woman's make-up was heavily caked onto her face—another deliberate yet poorly executed attempt to allure him but had probably worked on much more desperate and lonely men the previous evening. However, the make-up was smudged in some spots, mostly around the lips. Clearly, she had been successful earlier. But seeing as she hadn't bothered to touch it up showed that she was either lazy or that it didn't matter at the moment. She must not be 'on duty' to put it politely.

Conclusion? She was obviously what polite society would have once called "a woman of the night." To put it less delicately, she was a prostitute. And one who looked like she belonged in the late 19th Century.

"Lost, yes. Just a bit. 'Fraid I had too much to drink and stumbled a bit of a ways away from where I started out. Mind refreshing my mind as to what day it is as well as where I am, exactly?" he asked, ruffling a hand through his hair, blinking several times as if to focus his vision, and adding in a stumble for good measure. Annie, however, quite clearly knew a drunk man from a sober one.

"You look like the cleanest, soberest drunk I ever saw, but sure. It's early morning of Saturday September 8th and you're on 29th Hanbury Street, Whitechapel District," the woman informed him. Well, she seemed a bit sharper than he thought being rightfully suspicious of his claim of being hung over.

"Whitechapel District?" Sherlock repeated curiously, the name sounding quite familiar, and not because he knew every street and district of London. "What year?" he asked, fearing what the answer might be.

"What year? Maybe you really are drunk, but you'd have to have drunk yourself into quite a stupor to forget the year and you certainly don't look like you did, but," the middle-aged woman shrugged. "Anyways, the year's 1888."

"1888," Sherlock muttered under his breath. Oh, 1888! Saturday, September 8th 1888, to be exact. "I think I'd best be going," Sherlock told her hastily, to which she raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"You sure you don't want to stick around, let me help you…sober up?" she offered with a suggestive wink.

"Definitely not," Sherlock answered quickly, shaking his head and heading down the street already.

"Well if you ever want to take me up on the offer some other time, I'll be right here, love. And if you don't see me around, just ask around for Annie. Annie Chapman," she called after him. "Perhaps I'll be seeing you and those lovely cheekbones of yours some time in the near future."

Cheekbones again, really? Why did they always bring up his cheekbones?

Sherlock gave no response as he turned the corner, quite ready to get away from this shabby little alleyway. Unfortunately, he didn't get far enough away quickly enough, as he had only made it about three streets away from Hanbury when he heard a cut-off scream from back in Annie's direction.

Every instinct told him to run, but since when did Sherlock Holmes ever willingly run away from trouble, let alone trouble involving one of the most infamous murder cases in history. Without another moment's hesitation, the detective was sprinting back down the way he had come to find a few others already on the scene and the grossly mutilated body of Annie Chapman lying on the ground in front of them.

"It's the Ripper, he's struck again!" a man cried from somewhere behind him.

Sherlock stared down at the body of Annie Chapman. Of course he had struck again. Jack the Ripper, the Whitechapel Murderer.

A/N: So, Sherlock is stuck in 1888! And props to anyone who realized Sherlock's apprehension about the day and the date before it was revealed that it had to do with the Jack the Ripper murders. Yes, Annie Chapman was an actual victim, the 4th of all the Whitechapel murders and the 2nd of what was called the "canonical 5" or the 5 women murdered who's deaths were most similar in cause of death and were most likely the victims of the man knows as the Ripper. There were 11 murders in total in Whitechapel, but several of them are believed to not actually have been the work of the Ripper because they weren't killed in quite the same way as Annie Chapman and others.

Yes, Hanbury Street is where Annie was killed and it was at 5:30am. Also, I picked her death for Sherlock to stumble upon because, as it just so happens as you'll learn in the next chapter, the last person that people reported Annie being with was a "dark haired man of shabby genteel." Sherlock isn't exactly of "shabby genteel" but perhaps to someone of the time looking at someone not of the time, he could be. Or he just matches the "dark haired man" profile because I wanted to include Sherlock in the history of this event. Ha ha.

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and please, let me know what you think about where in time I chose Sherlock to end up. Is it cliched? Has it been done? Also let me know what you think of Sherlock's behavior in this chapter. Is it spot on? A bit weak? Was the deduction bit alright? Writing his deductions are the hardest bit of writing Sherlock, most definitely.

Please, I appreciate your feedback!