Fanfic- chapter 1

It seemed like any other Monday evening when John Watson locked the medical center's door and stepped onto the cobbled path. The chilly wind carried the scent of various takeaway meals, purchased by workers who were too fed up to do anything else. An assortment of leaves and rubbish lined the path, and the streetlamps flickered just often enough that John could imagine himself in the middle of a horror film.

The streets were always empty in the late hours of the evening, everyone eager to get home and sleep after partying all weekend, and having to work straight afterwards. John however, found comfort in the deserted world. As he kicked loose stones on the path and occasionally mumbled about uncooperative patients, he thought about everything that had happened in his life, and everything that was yet to happen.

Mary. He glanced at a lit window, the curtain not yet drawn. A dining table was set, with a paper package of chips and salad thrown in the middle, but there wasn't any family members filling the seats. Mary wasn't like the other women he'd attempted to get to know. Everyone else wanted to talk about hobbies and fashion and the latest celebrity news. Mary on the otherhand, didn't gossip or joke about her youth, she was content to just be.

John passed a stationary taxi, the engine humming, though no one was inside. A faint smell of petrol fumes clouded the air around the vehicle. He glanced over his shoulders, looking for a driver, but the streets remained silent, so John tried the handle. Locked. His brow creased in confusion, how could the keys still be inside when the car was locked and empty? He stepped back onto the path, laughed slightly. Sherlock would come up with some clever explanation in a second, he didn't doubt.

“John? Is that you?” He swirled around on his heels to see an old lady, one of his patients, standing stiff as a stick in her doorway. “Where is everyone?” Her knuckles were white as she gripped onto the door handle.

John cautiously approached the house, not wishing to startle the clearly fragile-minded woman. “Where is everyone?” He said gently. “It's Monday evening, Mrs. Dawson, they'll all be in their homes.”

“But my Freddy and Lucy always come visit me for dinner on Monday.” He saw the woman start to shake and sway, and leapt into action, catching her before she could topple to the cold ground. “They haven't come, and none of them will answer their phones.” Hand removed from the door, she now gripped onto John's arm. He heaved her up straight and led her inside.

After pouring a cup of chamomile tea for Mrs. Dawson and throwing another log in the fireplace, John sat down on a couch and tried to relax. Though the room smelt like an advent calender, and it was as warm as a wooly blanket, the chair reminded John of his arm chair at 221b. He would have preferred to be on his way there at that moment.

“Do you feel better now?” He asked, seeing that she had regained full control of her previously frozen body.

“Maybe,” she answered quietly. The old woman's hair fell down in her eyes as she leaned forward to grab a mobile sitting on the coffee table. “Lucy gave me this, she set it up and everything. But they just won't answer.”

John happily took it from her, thinking that perhaps the woman just didn't know how to use the phone properly and that's what had caused all the trouble. The mobile was an older model of his own, and he had no trouble navigating to Mrs. Dawson's contacts. Being watched eagerly by the old woman, he tapped the call button next to 'Lucy' and waited. It rang, but then a recorded message said that the number had been disconnected.

“That's odd.” John felt a shiver run down his spine, which was strange considering that the room was so warm. “This happens when you call other numbers too?” He was beginning to get that feeling. The one he got when Sherlock was about to open a case. It was a mixture of excitement for adventure, dread for what he might discover, and a rush of adrenalin that made his hands shake. When Mrs Dawson answered, he knew that he would have to investigate.

“I tried Freddy and the lady who lives next door to him as well, we're friends you see, but neither of them answered.”

“Don't worry, Mrs. Dawson, Sherlock and I will find out what's happened.” John knew something unusual was at play and he was certain that the idle taxi downstairs, with locked doors and keys inside, was connected to the disappearances of the woman's children.

“Sherlock? He's your friend, isn't he? The detective from the newspapers?”

“Consulting detective, but yes.” He stood up and took both her hands in his as a comforting gesture, because she was beginning to sway again. But maybe that was just because he'd mentioned Sherlock, Mr Holmes sometimes had that effect on people. “We'll sort this out.” Then he walked desterminedly out of the house with his shoulders back and chin up.

The chilly air and quiet streets no longer calmed John, now he viewed the deserted streets with hostility and patted the pocket of his jacket which contained his gun. He always carried a gun, knowing that it would come in handy. He expected some deranged criminal to jump out at him, and in a way, John hoped that one would.

If John had taken a taxi to the apartment, it would not have been able to drop him off outside, because there was something sitting right in the middle of the road.

It was instantly added to his mental list of strange occurances, which included the missing family members and the locked taxi. He'd also come across two more cars, one in a similar situation, locked but still running at a drop off zone, and a vehicle which crashed into a post box; but there had been no one in sight. The most recent strange occurrence, however, was a dog sitting on a bench. It's red lead was still fastened to its collar, but again, no one was present at the scene.

John decided that the box in the road was the strangest of all, and he pulled out his gun as he approached it. It was a deep blue, and had a sign on top which said 'Police Public Call Box'. John narrowed his eyes, the last place he'd seen a police phonebox was at a village museum. It smelt like a museum too, well, sort of. He thought it smelt of everything at once; old books, moth balls, iron, rain, peppermint, custard and a sandy desert. There were so many smells that his nose couldn't focus on just one, but then it did.

He instinctively raised the gun and his head jerked to look at the side of the box. He'd heard a creak, like the sound a door makes when it needs to be oiled. And he smelt tea, chamomile maybe.

“Oh, put the gun down, John, you look ridiculous.” Sherlock emerged from the box, holding two china cups, looking completely calm. John deposited his weapon in his pocket, and waved a fist at the box.

“What is a police box doing directly outside the building?” His eyes settled on the cups. “And why on earth are you having tea?” He thought Sherlock seemed too calm considering the circumstances, calmer than he normally looked at least. The consulting detective should have had his thinking face on, or his determined face, or frustrated face. But he just looked calm, so that must have meant he'd already solved the case, which was bloody unfair. Not giving his friend a chance to answer, John continued, “I suppose you know where the missing people are too? And what's up with the cars? And this whole damned street?” He folded his arms, and watched as another man stepped out of the box and stood defensively beside Sherlock. “Who the hell is this? What were you doing in there?”

The man's eyes glanced at Sherlock, a confused expression loitering for a moment until his cheeks turned red and he looked at John, eyes wide with shock. “We didn't do anything!” His fingers played with a red bowtie around his neck. “Completely innocent!”

“John, this is the Doctor.” The detective paid no attention to the previous remark and instead held out the second cup for John to take. “I can see you'd like an explanation, so take the tea and come inside.”

He reluctantly snatched the cup from Sherlock's hand, but calmed slightly, the scent wrapping itself around him like a bubble. If he was going to explain for once, then good, but it had better be a good one. John looked at the box, and back at the two men. “I don't think we'll all fit in there.” He held the cup close to him, absorbing the warmth. “And I've got a girlfriend.” He eyed the Doctor wearily, and the strange man's shocked expression returned.

“You're as bad as Amy,” he said, and disappeared inside the box. His upper half emerged a second later. “We'll all fit, come on.”

Sherlock nodded to John and joined the Doctor in the much too small police box. John shook his head in disbelief. “This is bloody mad,” he said to himself. But regardless of how mad it was, he could only see one option, going inside the box. So he took a large sip of the tea and stepped inside, expecting to find himself pushed up against two grown men. But of course, he experienced something completely different.

“What is this?” John stared in disbelief at the gigantic, space-age room in front of him. It was massive, well, bigger than it should've been at least. The lighting was set to a blue haze, with lit up circles on the walls. There were stairs leading to an inner floor, a hexagonal desk sitting in the middle., with a lit up tube thing coming from it. The impossible room was making a sound as well, like breathing, as if it was alive. John wouldn't have been surprised if the police box had swallowed Mrs. Dawson's children whole. Then there was Sherlock and the stranger, sipping their tea like everything was completely normal.

“It's called a Tardis,” The Doctor said, watching John's awed expression.

“Sorry, a what?” John swung his head back our the door, where he saw Baker Street on either side of the box. This just didn't make any sense to him, and he'd seen a lot of crazy stuff in his life.

“A Tardis,” Sherlock continued. “It stands for time and relative dimension in space. Surely you've seen it before? The Doctor has been in London many times.”

The Doctor screwed up his face and shook his head, speaking to Sherlock as if they were old friends. “Nah, they never remember me for long. News dies down, they forget... human brains, you know?” The detective nodded in understanding.

“Anyway,” Sherlock looked back at John, “please take a seat.” He motioned to a chair next to the desk, which had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. John slowly walked further into the Tardis and collapsed into the seat, gripping onto the cup with white hands. “I expect you'd like an explanation now.”

“You're bloody right!” John yelled. He thought he heard the Tardis hum in response, and instantly clasped his lips shut. The Doctor took a chair beside him -yes, another one had appeared- and gave him a warm grin.

Sherlock stood in front of the pair, took one more sip of tea, and simply said, “Approximately four fifths of London's population have been teleported into the middle ages, and the Doctor would like our assistance in retrieving them.” John didn't say anything, he just stared at Sherlock, wanting to hear more. Surely he didn't mean, the middle ages? There must be a theme park or something... but teleported? “It's that simple, John, there's nothing more to say.”

“Honestly, I have no idea what put them there,” the Doctor said, “but all my readings conclude that these people are in Camelot. The actual Camelot, by the way, it was a real place, before you all turned it into a legend.” The bow tie man beamed as if that amused him.

“You're all mad,” John squeaked, his hands shaking, but this time they didn't shake with excitement. It was something else, fear? Maybe disappointment in Sherlock, that he was believing this Doctor person's gibberish.

Sherlock must have read his friend's expression, because he rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, John! You're in a police box that's bigger on the inside than the outside, and I know you saw some strange things on your way here. I bet the streets were all empty, as well? This is real, this is happening, and quite frankly, I want to solve it!” He was almost face to face with John now, he could smell the chamomile on Sherlock's breath. “This is the most exciting case I've had in ages, and you have to agree! So get a hold of yourself!”

“Does that mean you two are coming with me?” The Doctor watched as Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders, trying to shake him into reality.

“We are going with you,” Sherlock began, “aren't we, John?” Though he wasn't willing to admit it, the detective didn't want to do this without his best friend, and John could sense Sherlock's anxiety. Even though he thought it was completely mad, and he was slightly in shock, John knew there was only way forward. And besides, if there was even the tiniest slither of truth in the Doctor's claim, then he could be in for the adventure of a lifetime.

“Yes,” John forced the words out of his mouth, “I'll go.”