Young Writers Society

“Here we go again.” The Doctor lovingly brushed his hand across the smooth wooden exterior of the Tardis. It was still tucked away in the empty stable, pieces of hay and dung stuck to the bottom of it. “Back to the future,” he sighed, remembering the film he'd first watched with Amy and Rory over a bowl of popcorn. He missed them, the Ponds, but there wasn't really time to think about his past at the moment. Not when a medieval kingdom was full of twenty-first century people.

The Doctor had decided to travel back to present day London, to look for clues which might hint at who was responsible for the displacement of so many people. Sherlock and John would remain in Camelot to do their own investigation. He thought they'd be perfectly fine by themselves, well, Sherlock at least. From almost a thousand years of experience, he knew that intense urges for adventure, such as John's, were bound to get the war doctor into trouble. But the detective's quick thinking would surely get them out of it.

The Doctor had no doubt, however, that the pair would be able to piece together what had happened in Camelot. But the future... that was for the timelord to figure out.

As soon as he stepped inside the police box its interior lit up as if in greeting, the console beeping on and off. Eleven put a finger in his ear, moving it around; the beeping continued. He wondered why on earth his Tardis was so eager to get going.

“What have you got to show me?” He asked quietly, placing his hands on a couple of levers, ready to go. “Something important, it must be...” He pushed forward, and the Tardis shook violently, making the Doctor fall onto the floor. “Very important!” He observed, feeling both curious and concerned as the familiar wheezing sound filled the air around him.

After a few seconds, the Tardis seemed to still. It no longer shook, the lights didn't flash impatiently, and the wheezing slowly faded away. The Doctor righted himself, taking in the calm before the storm. Then he approached the door and opened it, stepping into the busy streets of London.

He knew something wasn't right, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Then the realisation hit him. The streets were busy. Where there had previously been cars stalled in the middle of the roads, crashed against trash cans, there were now vehicles driving along just like any other day. Where there had been deserted homes, meals waiting to be consumed, there were now bustling buildings in full stir. There were families strolling along; children holding tightly to parents as they walked the curb. There were couples caressing each others' cheeks, lone workers making their way back from lunch. There was just too much activity.

These people were all meant to be in Camelot, and those who remained were meant to be out of their minds in worry. But everything was normal.

“It's not angels,” his mind flashed back and forth between the possibilities, “definitely not angels. Not their style.” He scratched his chin. “Not zygons, they'd need the copies.” He waved the screwdriver in the air, scanning for aliens, and suddenly grew stiff. “Oh.” The Doctor felt a chill run down his spine, felt his two hearts beating viciously. His eyes narrowed on three passerbys, getting too close to comfort. The screwdriver had figured it out; these weren't the frightened people he'd left in the middle ages. These were clones.

“Very good!” Arthur applauded the young knight he was training. “You're showing great progress, Elsmont.” Merlin watched from the background as the prince displayed his affection in the typical warrior fashion; by smacking the boy on the back.

“Arthur!” Merlin bounded over to his master as the knights dispersed to fetch a snack. “Umm, could I go to my room for a bit?” He wasn't doing anything, apart from standing in the warm sun and watching the knights bash each other. It felt like a waste of time to be there, especially with the witch finders in town. “There's some things Gaius asked me to take care of.” He wanted to go talk to Sherlock.

“Is that so?” Arthur pulled of his gloves, heaving off each piece of leather in one go, rather than delicately picking at the fingers like the ladies of the court did.

“Yes,” Merlin said simply, swaying back and forth with a suspicious grin on his face. “Is that okay?”

Arthur glanced at the sun, pursing his lips. “Well, I did have a list of chores for you to do,” he teased. Then his expression turned serious. “But considering the state of things... is Gaius conducting his own investigation? About the people?”

“Yeah,” Merlin answered, “something like that.”

“Alright then. You can go.”

Before Merlin could knock on the guest room door, it opened before him. Clearly Sherlock had been expecting him, and that didn't come as a surprise. The tall man stared into Merlin's eyes, as if he were analyzing his very soul. Maybe he was.

Merlin broke the silence. “You're from the future, aren't you?”

The corner of the witch finder's mouth turned upwards slightly into what could have passed as a grin. “And you're a sorceror, aren't you?”