I'm Sophia Holmes, the daughter of the world's only consulting detective. I'm not going to go into detail about how I do what I do because chances are you wouldn't understand. If you've got a problem that you want me to solve, then contact me. Interesting cases only please. If you need assistance, contact me or my father and we'll discuss its potential. Follow for updates on my cases, as written up on Wattpad and Fan Fiction. S.H.
"Here to speak to Mr Berwick," dad says to the prison guard, flashing him a small ID card. "I believe he wanted to speak to us?"
The uniformed man nods us in, and I follow my breath into an even colder, but larger room.
After we'd finished the case of the Weeping Angels, we were contacted by Barry Berwick: an English man detained in Belarus. The Angels shook us both up, but we're managing to ease ourselves back into The Game. It is quite disturbing being in the nineteenth century one moment with the author of your books, but mind-blowing stepping into a time machine which is bigger on the inside.
"Mr Berwick," dad says coldly as we walk up to one of the tables. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate Sophia Holmes. You wanted to talk to us about your case."
"Thanks for comin' Mr. Holmes," Berwick says, and we sit down in the seat opposite him.
Except for the one guard at the other end of the room, we're alone with a - potentially - rather violent murderer.
Dad was very reluctant to come here, but I persuaded him into it, but even I am beginning to regret it as I feel the bite of the cold snow outside whilst I look over the boring client.
"I don't really know what to tell you."
"Just tell me what happened, from the beginning," dad prompts.
"We'd been to a bar –" Berwick begins, "a nice place – and, er, I got chattin' with one of the waitresses, and Karen weren't 'appy with that, so ... when we get back to the 'otel, we end up havin' a bit of a ding-dong, don't we?" His misuse of grammar makes us both cringe, and dad lets out a deliberate, noisy sigh. "She was always gettin' at me, sayin' I weren't a real man."
"'Wasn't' a real man," dad corrects him before I can.
"What?" Berwick demands.
"It's not 'weren't'; it's 'wasn't'," dad explains, sounding bored already.
"Oh," he says, looking down, but keeping calm.
"Go on," I urge.
"Well, then I dunno how it happened, but suddenly there's a knife in my hands," I roll my eyes; how very original: he's going to say that he's been cursed or hypnotised or something. "And, you know, me old man was a butcher, so I know how to handle knives." My gaze lowers to his hands to cross-check that fact, and the rough palms and old scars confirm his story. "He learned us how to cut up a beast."
I grimace again, and dad steps in. "'Taught'."
"What?" he demands again, his anger starting to boil. Must have been what Karen Berwick experienced not long before her death.
"'Taught' you how to cut up a beast."
Berwick glares at dad.
"Continue, Mr Berwick," I sigh.
"Yeah, well, then-then I done it."
"'Did it,'" dad contradicts.
"'Did' it!" he emphasises, slamming his hand down onto the table and causing me to draw my hands away. "Stabbed her ... over and over and over, and I looked down and she weren't ..." Dad sighs again and turns his head away in frustration. Controlling his anger, Berwick immediately corrects himself, allowing dad to turn his head back to face him. "'Wasn't' movin' no more." Dad turns it away again, with an even more, annoyed expression painted over his pale cheekbones. "'Any' more," Berwick corrects himself once more, before letting out a shaky breath. "You've gotta help me," he says in a lower and softer voice than before. "I dunno how it happened, but it was an accident. I swear."
"Just like all the times before, you mean?" I ask as dad pushes his chair back. "You were a serial domestic abuser, Mr Berwick. I'm afraid 'sorry' just won't cut it this time."
I follow dad towards the door, and Berwick calls frantically after us. "You've gotta help me, Mr Holmes!" We stop, just for a second. "Everyone says you're the best. Without you, I'll get hung for this."
Dad turns. "No, no, no, Mr Berwick, not at all. 'Hanged', certainly."
I turn and walk away whilst dad cracks Berwick a quirky smile.
"You nearly gave me a coronary, you bloody idiots," a voice says as I begin to regain consciousness. The ground beneath feels like a mound of soil, and I rise up out of it.
"The graveyard?" I question, looking to dad beside me, who is also in the same earth pile as me. "Why are we...?"
"You bloody ... you threw yourselves in front of a bus," John says. "You all but died, in fact you did ..."
"But the paradox rewrote over that," The Doctor says, stepping out from around the corner to reveal himself, "and the energy from the Angels was enough to resurrect you. Perfectly safe."
"Doctor?" dad questions. "What are you doing here?"
"Not getting rid of us that easily," Martha smiles.
"I knew the Angels wouldn't have given up so easily, but you were already writing the paradox so we've only just been able to land," the Doctor explains. "Good thinking on your behalf, Sherlock. I'd call you a genius, except I'm in the room."
"Graveyard," I correct and Martha chuckles.
"But you were just going to leave us in a world full of Weeping Angels without a plan of rescue?" dad says, eyebrow raised.
"You're the amazing Sherlock Holmes!" The Doctor cries. "Knew you'd figure something out."
"So they're gone now?" I question. "The Angels, I mean."
"Yep! And the gap they left between the universes are beginning to seal up. We only have a few minutes left."
"Will we see you again?" I ask.
"Does the the Earth revolve around the Sun?" The Doctor smiles.
Dad and I exchange glances of confusion. "I don't ..." dad begins.
"Yes, of course!" The Doctor laughs. "Like Martha said: not getting rid of us that easily."
"You don't know that the earth goes around the sun?" John questions, nudging me as we begin to walk towards the TARDIS.
"Shut up, John," I reply curtly.
"But you don't ..."
"It doesn't matter!" I snap. "It's not important."
The Doctor turns back around and grins at us. "Sherlock and Sophia Holmes, two of the most intelligent people in the universes, yet outwitted by the solar system."
"And Prime Ministers," John adds, and I glare at him.
"Shut up, the both of you," I retort.
The Doctor laughs as he opens the TARDIS doors. "See you soon," he promises before stepping inside.
"Stay safe," Martha says, coming forward to hug me again.
"You too," I tell her, and she turns, giving a little wave before disappearing inside.
Before the door closes, The Doctor catches it and tosses John a book. "Oh, by the way - thought you might want a copy. The rest will be erased shortly, but this one won't."
"What is it?" John questions, searching for the title.
"The book," I smile. "We met someone today, and he said he was thinking about writing a book about us. It's how The Doctor found us."
"I knew something like this would happen," John says, shaking his head.
"It's not that much of a deal, John," The Doctor says.
"You inspired a man to write a bloody book series about you!" John persists, turning to us.
"You were in them too."
"That's even worse!" John cries.
"If it makes you feel any better, I don't think he really wanted to write them. You've got me to blame for that!" I say, grinning. "Besides, how is it any different to your blog? Wouldn't you say we inspired you to write that?" John shakes his head in denial, and I turn back to The Doctor and shake his hand. "Goodbye Doctor."
"Goodbye, Miss Holmes," he a grin flickers onto his face before stepping back inside.
For the second time today, we stand back as the TARDIS begins to disappear, fading away through the crack once more.
"Back home then?" I question, once the odd blue box has gone. "I'm starving."
Dad smiles at me, and I think back to our conversation before. It can't be any more than a week ago, yet this trip has felt like it's lasted a lifetime.
"Come on then," he says, then his phone bleeps. "Lestrade. He says ..." he pauses, looking down at his phone.
"What?" John urges.
"Those people who disappeared, they've all been found. Apparently, they were found in the graveyard earlier, wandering around."
"Must have been weird for those who found them," John laughs. "Tonight's headline 'Zombies Walk London Graveyard'."
We laugh, and once again, everything is quiet and ordered.
The engines whir into action and the control panel lights up into a thousand lights. All of a sudden, the TARDIS begins to shake.
"Doctor?" Martha yells, leaning against one of the columns which spiral up to the ceiling. "What's happening?"
The Doctor leans across the controls, flicking switches and pulling down leavers to try and stabilise the ship.
"I don't know," he admits, skipping over to the other side to the screen. "The TARDIS won't fly back through the time barrier - something's holding her back."
"The Angels?" I question standing up shakily and moving towards the panel for something better to hold onto.
The Doctor looks back and nods before hopping across to some switches on the other side of the console.
"Can we help?" dad offers, joining my side. "I can fly a helicopter."
The Doctor looks up, offended. "Are you calling her a helicopter?"
"Well ..." dad replies, suddenly speechless.
"Her?" I put in, picking up on the pronoun for a second time. "Bit sentimental, isn't it?"
Martha smirks. "See, I'm not the only one!"
The Doctor glares at her, but brushes over the subject. "Sophie, if you can take the lever, Sherlock, you can do the buttons, and Martha you can do this," he says, pointing to something around the other side. "She may just fly a little steadier then, and we'll be able to break through."
The next five minutes was sickening as we fought to get through. For a moment, The Doctor seemed to get a bit worried, but after hitting something on the panel with a hammer, we were able to pull through, and we let out a sigh of relief as the TARDIS stabilised.
"We're almost there now," The Doctor remarks and I stand up from where I'd sat down on the chairs.
"Will that be it then?" I question. "Have the Angels gone?"
"Maybe," The Doctor lies as the TARDIS begins to land, then looks up at my face and reconsiders. "Probably not."
"Why do they take people back in time?" dad questions. "Is there any specific pattern?"
"No," he replies. "The Angels feed off all types of energy - nuclear, but also time - which is why they like to take humans back in time. They feed on the life you left behind. To them, time energy is like a bag of sweets in the way that it can give you a short burst of energy, but you will tire quicker than if you were to eat something healthier."
"Then what happens when we step outside?" dad questions. "Will the Angels stop following us?"
"You're supposed to be in 1877, but time can be rewritten. One of two things can happen when you step out these doors." The Doctor looks at us, concern written across his face. "One, the Angels will be poisoned by the paradox of your existence here. Two, the Angels will still be here and they will chase you across the stars if necessary to get you back to the nineteenth century."
"If that was to happen," I begin, thinking, "then we would need another, stronger paradox to kill them off, surely?
The Doctor nods. "It'll be difficult though, might even rip the fabric of time apart."
"You said that before," I remind him, "and it didn't happen then, so why should it now?"
He doesn't reply, so I take it as a cue to step outside.
I don't know where I was thinking I would be, but the fact that we've moved destination surprises me, even if it is just a little bit.
"Weird, huh?" Martha smiles, stepping out for herself. "I was pretty creeped out the first time as well." I look around at the busy London street outside Bart's.
"Impossible," dad exclaims, looking up at the building behind us. "We've moved in both time and space."
"Well, what did you expect?" The Doctor exclaims, appearing in the doorway before giving dad a pointed look. "She's no helicopter."
"No sign of the Angels," Martha observes. "Maybe they've gone after all."
"Hmm, maybe," The Doctor answers, not sounding so sure.
"Is it just me, or do the streets seem quieter to you?" I question.
"It does seem so, but maybe it's just the timing," The Doctor reassures.
"So this is goodbye then?" I ask, turning back to The Doctor.
"For now, yes," he looks me in the eyes and grins widely. "But it's been great, Miss Holmes."
We exchange handshakes before he moves onto dad, then he steps back inside the box, giving us a small wave.
"Bye!" Martha smiles, embracing me in a tight hug, leaving me feeling awkward in her arms.
"Yeah, sure," I smile back before she follows The Doctor back in. We stand back as the TARDIS begins to take off, and we watch until it fades off completely.
Only to reveal another statue.
"Sophie," dad says, taking my hand. My grip tightens around his. "Run!"
The Angel follows us, through the quiet streets.
"We need to create a paradox," dad reminds me. "It's the only way we can finally defeat them."
"Will it work though, really?" I question. "The last paradox didn't."
"That was tiny, minute in comparison."
I follow his gaze and my stomach tightens. "If you're sure," I say, grasping his hand tighter as we run out across the road.
The bus squeals as the driver slams on the brakes, but it isn't enough.
I clean and dress my wounds in the back of the cart, not sparing Arthur any blushes by taking off my shirt to do so. Instead, the boy faces away as I patch myself up the best I can before changing into the fresh shirt.
"How do you planning to get back to your time?" he questions as we arrive in London, speaking for the first time since I told him he wasn't coming with us. "Can the Angels take you forward in time as well?"
"From what I've been told, no, they can't," I admit. "I have some people out looking for us, but they need us to send them a message through time that they can link onto. I haven't worked out how yet."
"I was thinking about writing a book about you two," Doyle says shyly. "It was just an idea."
I turn my head towards him, remembering what The Doctor had said. If Doyle writes about us, would that erase our existence?
"It could work, but I don't think it'll be enough - just enough to attract their attention. We need to pinpoint a location for them first."
"So these people, can they travel through time too?" Arthur questions, looking excited.
"From what I've heard, yes. But no, time travel isn't common in my time. The Doctor comes from another planet altogether."
Arthur's eyes widen. "You mean you have discovered the ability to travel across the stars and meet the creatures who live there?"
I smile slightly. "Our space travel explorations are not nearly so advanced. The Doctor found us."
"An extra-terrestrial invasion?" he asks, his face whitening and I sigh, wishing I hadn't broached the subject with him.
"Not exactly."
Arthur looks at me uncertainly for a moment, then changes the subject. "When exactly do you come from? I know you live in future London, but what year?"
"When I left, it was March 2010," I say slowly, watching for his inevitable reaction.
"2010?!" he yelps. "But that's almost one hundred and fifty years into the future!"
I laugh at his bewildered face. "Yes, and we would like to get back there as soon as we can."
Dad pulls the cart to a gentle stop, and we hop out.
"Where are we?" Arthur questions. "I haven't been this far into London before."
"Baker Street," dad tells him. "This is where Sophie and I will live in the future."
"And it's where our rescue party are likely to converge," I finish, and dad nods in agreement.
A shiver runs through me as we step inside the building. It's odd: while much of it looks the same as it will in a hundred years, it still doesn't feel like our home.
"Keep quiet," dad tells us unneccessarily as we creep up the stairs, missing out the ones that creaked back home, even if they may not be creaky now.
I push the lounge door open and walk in, looking around the room.
"Arthur, could you make sure you write down every detail for that book you were going to write?"
If Arthur's story is written exactly the same as it happens, it's going to be a lot easier for The Doctor to track us down. If he finds the book.
"What book?" dad asks, spinning around to face Doyle.
"It was just an idea," he blushes.
"No," I insist. "You've got to write it, our future depends on it."
Doyle shrugs reluctantly and I feel another shiver as I look around. Something is different than a moment ago.
"Something's changed," I voice, looking around again. "I think time was just rewritten. Just a bit, but enough."
The real-life version of spot the difference.
"There," Arthur says, pointing. "There's a rip in the wallpaper that wasn't there before."
"Are you sure?" dad says, frowning, slightly annoyed that he didn't notice it before him.
I walk forward to investigate as Doyle nods. "Certain," he replies, sounding more confident about this than with anything else that's happened today. "My family used to play a game of observation."
"I'm sure it'll come in handy with your books," I say, pointedly, beginning to tear back the wallpaper.
At first, nothing is revealed, but as I peel the paper back further, some black writing appears.
"Allons-y?" Arthur reads. "What does that mean?"
"It's French," I tell him, "for 'let's go'. But what's doing here?"
Dad sighs. "The Doctor said it when we first met him, weren't you listening?"
My eyes widen in realisation. "He's already tracking us," I say, and turn to Arthur. "He's reading your book."
"I haven't written it yet!" Doyle protests.
"But you will," I snap. "You have to now."
Arthur looks to dad to see whether he's going to lecture me, but he's to busy to notice. "I don't necessarily think your time changed for the better," he retorts bitterly, and I have to stop myself from replying. The game is on, and I need to concentrate.
"Sophie, how did The Doctor tell you to send this message?"
"He didn't," I admit, not wanting to tell him that I left before he had the chance to tell me any more. "But I logged his number on the way to the graveyard, so I should have enough here to do what I need to."
Dad nods and I walk towards the window and close the curtains as I pull out my phone.
"What's ... what's that?" Arthur stammers, pointing to it.
"It's a communication device," I tell him, typing. "Quite common where we come from." I frown, thinking for a moment before continuing. "You might have heard of the telephone Alexander Graham Bell invented? This is a compact version."
His eyes widen. "That's a telephone? But it has no wires. And it's so small - where do you fit all the components?"
I roll my eyes and ignore him as I send the message. It takes just a few seconds to get a response and I grin at dad. "Their signal is locked. He says 'stand back!'"
"Into the kitchen," dad suggests, and I nod, dragging Arthur with me as he continues to stare at my mobile.
Within a minute of receiving the message, something begins to happen. A loud whirring engine croaks as the wind echoes through the flat, then suddenly a blue box crashes through the window. The TARDIS lands, and the door swings open.
"Sophie!" the Doctor grins widely. "Is Sherlock with you?"
"But that's impossible," Arthur yelps. "How is that possible?"
I see dad gritting his teeth - Arthur's limited intelligence is beginning to get on the nerves of both of us.
"Yeah, he's here,"
"Who's your friend?" he questions, laughing at Arthur's puzzled expression.
"Arthur Conan Doyle, he's the one who wrote that book," I say, gesturing towards the book in The Doctor's hand.
"My book? I haven't -"
"Arthur Conan Doyle," The Doctor grins, rushing forward to shake the boy's hand. "No way!"
"Pleasure to meet you sir, but how can my book be in your hand if I haven't written it yet?"
"Your books are going to live forever in most universes!" The Doctor says, continuing to shake his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"I presume you're here to take us back," dad says pointedly, and The Doctor grins.
"Of course, get in."
The Doctor holds the door open as I step into the box. I'm not sure what I'd expected, but this is certainly not it. This ... this is impossible.
Obviously using some sort of alien technology, The Doctor has managed to squeeze an entire room - if not more - into a small police box from Earth. An entire spaceship is hidden inside, an entire, impossible spaceship. This must be as baffling to me as my mobile was to Arthur.
"What do you think?" Martha questions from the circular control panel where a transparent column winds up through the centre to the ceiling.
"Impressive," I remark. "And not what I was expecting."
"I wonder how the 'famous Sherlock Holmes' will hold up!" she exclaims, and I smile as The Doctor tries to coax dad in.
I walk around the control panel, looking below at the complex-looking machinery underneath the metal mesh, and then up at the circular lights lined across the bronze walls, just taking everything in. I don't know how to deduce anything from it, so I join Martha as she watches a small screen embedded into the control. The engines give a little moan, causing me to jump.
"The Doctor said it's the TARDIS matrix," she explains, smiling at my startled expression. "I guess this is a lot to take in for someone like you."
"How would you define 'someone like me'?" I question, feeling a little uncomfortable.
She shrugs. "I dunno, logical, intelligent -"
"Narrow-minded?" I put in and Martha looks at me guiltily.
"Sorry," she apologises.
"No, you're right," I admit. "I never expected ..." I don't finish, I just gesture around at the control room.
The Doctor eventually manages to lead dad in, before turning to Arthur to give him a hearty farewell.
Dad steps in, his mouth open in confusion before he frowns. "This is impossible," he says, turning back to the doctor. "This shouldn't be happening, it can't."
The Doctor smiles as he steps in. "Anything to say?" he asks, and dad spins around.
"How is this possible?" dad demands. "How is it that this control room is bigger than the entire box."
"Time Lord technology," The Doctor says simply.
I look to him incredulously. "Who's that? Your people?"
He looks back over to me and nods silently, beginning to flick the switches on the control panel. "Are you two okay?" he questions, diverting from the subject. "Because sometimes the TARDIS can make you feel a bit ..." he pulls a face and dad and I exchange glances before continuing to look around.
"Yeah, yeah, we're fine," dad replies.
"So, back to 2010," I remind him, and The Doctor looks up, smiling.
We edge quietly along the walls of the barn, sticking to the shadows as I still have the feeling of being watched.
"Someone will be in, in a minute," I tell dad in a low voice. "They'll notice we're gone."
"Then we'll have to be quick," he hisses back.
We open the barn door enough to slip through but freeze, startled by the number of people outside. Carriage loads of unconscious people are being brought in by the minute, and each cab is flanked by at least two lanky men.
"Ah," dad remarks, stepping back into the barn and closing the door. "We might have to wait."
I hear something metal drop to the ground a few yards away, but I can't see who caused it.
"Who's there?" I call out, stepping cautiously forward. I expect dad to hold me back, but he looks on curiously, so instead, I arm myself with a rusted nail from the ground and inch forward again. "Show yourself."
A lean figure steps forward, shaking as he holds his hands up. He seems fairly genuine in his fear. "Please don't hurt me, I'm sorry!"
I lower the nail slightly and look him over. He doesn't look much older than fifteen or sixteen. "What's your name?" I ask.
"I'm Conan Doyle, sir, Arthur Conan Doyle. Please - I only came to see to your head. I'm the physician."
I hesitate for a moment before nodding and he creeps forward. He seems too young to be a physician, but then I've been told I'm too young to be a detective. Age doesn't always have to be a limitation. Plus there's the fact an operation of this sort probably wouldn't want to attract attention by hiring a legitimate physician.
"Why were you hiding?" I ask curiously. "Why didn't you stop us from escaping? You had plenty of opportunities."
"To be honest, sir," he says, lifting up my head to check it over. "I never wanted this job. I don't agree with it."
"Good for you." I wince as he touches a sore area.
"Sorry. You have a minor concussion, sir, but nothing to worry about," Doyle concludes, letting go. "You will be fit enough in a few minutes. I can do less about your flesh wounds."
"Thank you," I say, my eyes glancing across the walls of the barn. "Is there any other way out of here?"
"Afraid not," he replies. "Only way is the front door and, well, you saw it for yourself. You'd be mental to try to escape."
I bite my lip, thinking of what we could do. "What would you have done if our injuries had been bad?" I question, and dad latches onto my train of thought immediately.
"Er," he pauses for a moment. "I dunno, take you to the infirmary, I guess."
Dad and I glance at each other. "Arthur, we can get you out of here if you can do the same for us," dad tells him. "You won't have to return."
It takes him a moment to process the request, but then he nods. "But we need to hurry," he says. "We might be able to catch them as they switch shifts."
We nod in agreement and allow him to tie our hands loosely together with the remaining rope before leading us out of the barn.
The sunlight dazzles us as Arthur leads us between the carriage, and I blink rapidly to try and adjust. Not a single eye passes over us - in fact, those who aren't focused on carrying the other prisoners have their heads down, determined, obviously, not to stand out lest the same fate awaits them sometime in the past.
We stop as we reach the fence bordering the edge of the farm, and I double over in pain as my cuts burn. Arthur unties our bonds as I draw myself up, grimacing, and survey and farm to make sure we haven't been seen. But we have.
I let out a gasp and dad spins around, his gaze also fixing automatically on the Weeping Angel that has appeared on the other side of the field, facing, unmistakably, in our direction.
"Arthur," dad mutters quietly, "keep your eyes on the Angel."
"Of course sir," he replies. "I've heard tell of these creatures. Creatures of the devil, so I'm told."
"Not too far from the truth," I answer. "They aren't from this world, at least."
Arthur gulps from beside, his eyes unblinkingly staring at the Angel.
"Can you keep moving?" dad asks me, not taking his eyes off the Angel.
"I'm fine," I lie. "It's nothing; it's just beginning to smart, that's all."
Dad grimaces and I can tell he's unconvinced. But we have no other choice - we can't stay here. "Now, on my mark, we're going to edge backwards and duck under the fence," he proposes, and I nod in agreement.
He gestures with his hand and I begin to walk backwards, my hands feeling out behind for the fence. I reach the fence first and somehow I manage to duck under without breaking eye contact with the Angel, then I help dad and Arthur through.
"The fence isn't going to stop it from getting through," I realise, and think around for a further escape plan. "Arthur, do you have access to any of the carriages?"
The boy shakes his head for a moment, then he seems to remember something. "No, but Farmer Carter only lives a mile away. He has a good set of horses we could borrow."
"Brilliant," dad says. "I hope, Arthur, that you're a fast runner?"
Doyle shrugs. "Decent enough, I suppose sir, why?"
"Because we're going to have to outrun the Angel," I reply. "And I'm fairly sure it's going to be quite quick."
"On the count of three," dad begins, his eyes beginning to water. "One, two, three!"
We turn our backs immediately and begin to run. I hear the crack of wood behind us, and I know it must have already broken through the fence.
I seem to be ahead of the other two as I push myself faster still, but make sure I pace myself. I've reigned champion of the cross-country for three years now and, finally, it's being put into use. I whip my head back for a moment and cry with despair.
"Now there's four of them!" And they're dangerously close behind. "We are not going backwards again!"
I push myself on even faster, ignoring my wounds as they open again. Behind, Arthur lets out a cry of pain as his stitch begins to burn, but we're soon at the farm. We slow to a walk as the farmer and his wife comes out, meaning more eyes on the Angels.
"What the devil do you think you're doing here, boy?" Farmer Carter demands, his face growing red with rage. "Those things are best kept back there and you have no right to bring them here."
"We had no choice, we had to escape," I tell him. "We have a plan to get rid of the Angels once and for all, but we need to get back to London. Could we borrow one of your carriages?"
Carter looks over me and dad critically. "I s'pose you're part of them future kind, are you not?"
I nod quickly. "Yes, and I think I know of a way of getting us back if you can help us."
Dad gives me a sideways glance, and it occurs to me that I haven't told him of The Doctor's plan.
"Don't speak to us about no time travel," Carter grumbles. "Can't be doing with that God-forsaken fantasy. But I'll lend you a cart if that's what you want. The Good Lord knows that it's better in your hands than in the hands of the filth down the road."
"Thank you," dad replies. "We appreciate it."
"So what's it like in the future?" Carter asks gruffly, seeming to ignore his previous statement. "Is Britannia still the greatest Empire in the world?"
"A lot will change," I tell him, truthfully. "You'll see the first changes happen soon. I'm afraid I can't say much more than that." The farmer nods, satisfied as I turn to dad and Arthur. "There's one thing I can think of that would trick the Angels into letting us go, and I don't think you're going to be too happy about it."
They look at me quizzically for a second before I grin and start running again. Dad and Arthur follow behind.
"What are you doing?" Arthur pants, looking back, we can't just keep running!"
"I know," I reply, turning into a field. "Just trust me."
"They're circling us in," dad hisses. "What are you doing?"
"The Doctor said that they work with quantum locking," I explain as we arrange ourselves into a triangle, staring outwards at the Angels surrounding us. "It's probably why they cover their eyes: if they look into the eyes of another Angel, they turn back into stone and won't be able to move."
"So we're leading them into a trap?" Arthur asks.
"Exactly," I smile.
"A trap which we're the bait."
My smile slides. "I suppose. If you want to look at it like that."
"It's the only idea we have," dad says grimly and we blink to allow the Angels closer.
"I really hope you know what you're doing," Arthur says as the Angels get closer and closer until, at last, they are just a meter away, their hands up over their heads, their mouths open and teeth bared.
And their eyes staring at us.
"Duck!" I cry, grimacing as we bend down and hoping beyond hope that my theory will work.
If we're as important as The Doctor makes out, then the Angel won't be able to take us again. I hope. Either that or they'll be able to feed even more on our potential time energy and they can keep sending us back for centuries.
I wait for the inevitable crack. But it doesn't come.
Arthur is the first to risk looking up and he lets out a cry of exclamation. I follow his gaze and smile. Their eyes are still looking at where our heads were. When we ducked, nothing was blocking their line of vision. Nothing except the other Angels.
"You did it!" Arthur says.
"Stay close to the ground and edge yourselves around the Angels," dad instructs. "If you stand up in this circle, we'll be as good as dead."
We do as he says and squeeze past the Angels, only standing up once we've got behind them. I look back at them and shake my head in disbelief. That was unbelievably close.
It only takes us a few minutes to walk back to the farm, and as we arrive I notice a good, fresh workhorse harnessed up to a lightweight cart.
The farmer's wife approaches from inside carrying a small hamper, along with a clean shirt, some water and some bandages.
"May God look after your souls," she says, pushing the bundle into my hands.
"Thank you," I say sincerely, before stepping into the back of the cart. "Arthur, can you drive this thing?"
"I'll do it," dad says swiftly, stepping up into the front.
I watch him climb up, slightly startled. I didn't know he'd had much to do with horses before - let alone know how to drive a cart. I thought he'd always lived in the city. I don't know much about his life before me, to be honest.
"So, you and him," Arthur says, jerking his head upwards at dad as we ride out of the farm, "are you brothers?"
I smile slightly. "No! Not at all."
"You two seem strange, 'tis all. You more than him. You seem..." he stops, looking down at his feet.
"What?" I encourage.
"My deepest apologies if I'm wrong, sir, but you seem a bit of a Molly."
I frown. "What's a Molly?"
Arthur reddens. "A jack-the-lass?" he tries again, but I give him another blank look. He clears his throat and looks away. "You seem a bit feminine, is what I mean."
I let out a soft laugh. "I am, Arthur." I laugh harder as he looks up, startled. "I'm a girl."
"What's your name?" Arthur questions, suddenly realising he hadn't asked before.
"Sophia, Sophia Holmes. My dad is Sherlock." Doyle nods as he processes that.
"So women in your time have their hair short, and wear, well, men's clothes?" I nod.
"As I said to Farmer Carter: 'a lot will change'."
"But you can't say any more than that?"
"Arthur, where are we?" dad calls down.
"Stubbins Hall lane, sir," Arthur calls up. "Comes of from the Hollyfield track."
"Right," dad answers and urges the horse onto a quick trot.
"It takes about an hour to get into London again," Arthur murmurs to me. "Of course you two would have been unconscious for that trip. Will we still be using a cart and horse where you come from? I can't wait to see ..."
"Arthur," I interrupt.
"... It'll be amazing and ..."
"Arthur!" I repeat, louder and Doyle looks up. "You can't come with us." The boy looks crestfallen and begins to protest. "You belong here," I say, interrupting again. "You don't belong in our London. God knows what could happen."
"But I thought ..."
"No," I say, firmer than before, and he doesn't bother to reply.
I groan quietly as I regain consciousness, feeling the pain burn across my body. But my main concern is my head: I can barely hold it up as I blink my eyes open to look around.
The air smells musty - like this area hasn't been used for several months - and the missing boards of wood from the walls further indicates that it's fallen into disrepair. I'm no expert on the Victorian era, but I'm fairly sure their basements and warehouses weren't made from wood which considerably narrows the field of where I can be.
I become aware of someone else nearby, watching me through the shadows. I go to reach for my phone, but my hands are tied behind me with a thick rope that cuts into my skin.
I inhale some dust as I try to breathe, and I splutter as the tiny particles choke me.
"Sophie?" somebody calls, and my ears begin to ring. "Is that you? Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I think so," I call back, a feeling of relief flooding through me. I've found him.
I can accept that somebody may want to take me - either as a ransom or for some other purpose common in this time - but why take dad as well? It doesn't make any sense.
"I swear I am never getting into another cab."
Dad chuckles quietly. "Yes, that job certainly seems to attract a certain type of person."
"So where are we?" I question, looking around.
"Surely you can answer that?" he challenges and I roll my eyes.
"Concrete ground and wooden walls suggest we are in a barn, which means we're probably no longer in London."
"Good ..." dad urges, looking for more.
"This barn obviously hasn't been used for a while," I continue, squinting as I look around the building. "But there are unopened crates over in the corner which means it's used for storage. I thought originally the air was musty, but there's something else that I was missing. Those crates contain bottles of alcohol, but they haven't been opened, meaning they would still be drinkable. The fact they aren't being used means the owner had no use for them - he was bankrupt and lost his business then. But the crates haven't been sold on at auction to another, solvent business. The men who took me were unemployed of any job I could recognise, but I didn't make the connection that they may have been working for someone else. They didn't take me on a whim, otherwise they wouldn't have taken us both. That means they know that we aren't from this time. They've taken us to a farm which means we're obviously out of London, but what if it's more than that? What if the Angels are keeping certain humans alive on the agreement that they take the future-kind to the farm. A farm where we're the livestock."
"Well done," dad compliments. "Are you able to move?"
"These ropes are too tight for me to undo," I admit as I fiddle with the knots.
"We're in a barn," dad reminds me, and I smile at my stupidity.
"Of course!" I nudge my chair closer to the walls.
A barn always contains something sharp - whether it's a sharpened hook on a wall or some over sharp implement. If we can find something, we can cut through the rope.
"I've found something," dad calls out, and I hear the slice as the metal cuts through cleanly. "Where are you?"
"Your eleven o'clock," I guess, judging on his voice. "I'd say thirty paces."
He sees me as he steps into a splinter of light coming through the roof. "Right, hold still."
"Like I can do otherwise," I mutter, smirking. He glares at me for a moment.
"I could leave you here," he tells me, a smile creeping through his poker face.
"You wouldn't," I dare and he chuckles, bending down behind me to cut through my bonds.
"I know," he says as the rope fall to the ground, and he helps me stand up. I fall against him as my head swirls. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"My head hurts," I admit. "I must have hit it when I fell."
It's not just my head either. Looking down, I notice my shirt is soaked with blood and, as I move, the cuts from the glass rub against the material. This isn't good if we're going to stay unnoticed.
"Not much we can do about it here," dad says grimly. "Might have to wait until we get back into London."
I nod in acknowledgement and smile, trying to conceal the amount of pain I'm in. "I can wait. I can also walk, so we may as well start."
I sit up as we approach Baker Street, ready to step off as we pull up close. But we don't stop.
"Excuse me," I say, hitting the top of the carriage. "Could you stop here please?"
The driver pulls hard on the reigns and I fall forward as we're brought to an abrupt stop. As I'm picking myself up, the cab door opens and two men get in, neither of them from my 'social class'. They look like toshers: people who scavenge in the sewers beneath London - hardly the sorts of people who would be able to afford a cab fare.
"'Scuse young master," the first says grinning darkly, flashing his rotten black teeth. "Mind if we hitch a ride?"
I look them over again. Two males in their late twenties - early thirties perhaps. Both unemployed and struggling for money. Deductions are getting harder in surroundings I don't know.
"Where are we going?" I demand, ignoring the shady smile the two were giving me as I'm coerced back into my seat. "Where are you taking me?"
"Well, that'll be our little secret," the second says, his hair hanging limply in oily snakes around his face.
It's my turn to smile. "I hope you aren't expecting me to go without a struggle." I stand up, steadying myself as the cab knocks against the cobbles.
The other two aren't the strongest men, nor are they very talented in any martial art. But they're desperate, and that alone will make them dangerous.
"Course not," the first admits as he stands. The space inside is now very limited, and both of our heads are ducked to avoid hitting them on the low ceiling.
"Well then," I say punching out quickly at his nose. "Let's get this over with."
He falls onto his friend who shoves him aside, standing up for himself and blocking my exit.The door of the cab would open outwards with any sort of pressure, and the driver hasn't had the funds to maintain it properly, which means the catch is likely to slip. Hopefully.
I charge towards him, knocking him backwards and out of the door. We land together on the cobbles, but my impact is softened by the man, who groans as we roll. On the sides of the roads, people watch on as I stand up and begin to run, my limbs aching from the fall. The cab has stopped now, and although the second man won't be getting up for a while, the first man is now on my chase.
I weave through the busy streets, trying to shake them off my trail, ignoring the protests as I push past couples and through markets. Now and again, I spin my head around to look for my pursuer and, by the fifth turn, I'm able to slow down and stand, panting for a minute against the walls.
If I was replaceable, they wouldn't have chased me: not if I was just another mugging victim. They wouldn't worry about me going to the police. So why do they need me? It's also doubtful that they'll give up. They might have underestimated the effort needed to grab me, but they'll still be coming for me. So where are they?
Still panting heavily, I pull out my phone and tap a quick message to dad before slipping it quickly away again. Looking around, I've got no idea of where I am. I'd memorised every street in the London back home, but here, I'm lost.
Just as soon as I've got my breath back, I hear the muffled, running footsteps of a man, identical to the sounds which followed me across London. Picking myself back up from the wall, I turn and run back the way we came, back towards Baker Street.
As I approach the market again, I see one of the shadows to my right flicker. I push on forward but, in the next second, I feel an arm around me, dragging me into a narrow alleyway - invisible if you didn't know it was there.
A hand is clamped over my mouth as I struggle against the grasp, but my attempt to bite the flesh is foiled as they let go, only to bring their hand back in a quick hit to my head, knocking me down into the dirt and broken glass scattered around me.
I feel dizzy as a hundred different colours fly past me. I hear the bustle of human life as it rewinds, many generations rising out of their grave and climbing back into their mother's womb.
I land with a thump as I arrive and realise, by feeling around, that I've landed on grass. Could be worse. I rise with a groan, my head pounding as I look around in an attempt to locate my surroundings. The Doctor said we could be moved in space as well as time, but looking around I recognise the cemetery. Not much has changed - or should I say, nothing much will change - apart from the number of gravestones.
I stumble shakily to my feet after a moment, set on finding dad in this new era. But where would he be?
I keep to the shadows, making sure I don't draw too much attention to myself as I draw closer to the gate. I haven't seen many people yet, but I'm fairly sure my outfit is no longer an acceptable outfit for a young woman. Where would dad go if he's taken back in time? Where would I go?
I push myself up against the fence as a man and a woman walk by.
"Out of the way, boy," the man says gruffly and I widen my mouth to retort before thinking better of it.
"My apologies, sir," I say quietly, ducking my head down in a quick bow as they hurry along.
My tall frame, short curls, white shirt and black trousers seem to be enough for me to blend in ... as a boy. In Victorian London, that must be an advantage.
Yes, the age of Queen Victoria. I recognise the stuffy women with their heavy dresses and fancy hats, their arms linked to the men they don't love. In some ways, not much will change.
I follow the cobbled road along, dodging the mounting piles of horse manure as they stop to unload. I can get away with these clothes for now, but I need to find a way of locating some currency. My eyes trace the streets, looking for anything I can use.
"'Scuse me guv'nor," a boy from beside says, nudging me with a dirty finger. "Any spare cash?"
My eyes widen as an idea comes forward. "What for?"
"Just for a pie, guv," he replies, gesturing towards the market. "I'm starvin' see?"
I nod, thinking it through before I slip my diamond bracelet off. It's only glass, after all, and worth nothing to me. "Here, have this," I say, then noticing the surprised look on the boy's face, add, "My beloved declined it, it's yours."
He looks up, his eyes sparkling. "Thanks, mate," he grins, his rotten teeth showing. "Here, 'ave this, 'ave it all! I'm going to be min'ed!"
I laugh as he thrusts his small tin into my hands and he trots down the road, holding the small bracelet high. It's a shame the pawnbroker won't believe him when he says it's his, and a disreputable one will realise on small inspection that it's a fake. He'll be lucky if he even gets back what he gave me for it. The boy will be penniless and the world will still turn.
I open up the tin as I retreat back into the graveyard and after a quick glance I can see it should be enough to buy a cab fare. But where should I go? Biting my lip nervously, I cross the road over towards a parked cab and greet the driver as he holds out his hand for a lady to step out.
"Excuse me, sir," I begin, deepening my voice slightly in an attempt to sound more masculine. "Can I get a cab to Baker Street, please?"
The cabby looks me over critically, obviously seeing if I have enough money to pay for the fare. After a moment, he nods and gestures for me to step in, and I hand him a few shillings in return.
There's no telling where dad could be, but it only makes sense to return to about the only place in London that will be the same.
Now in the dark confines of the carriage, I slip my phone from my pocket and check for signal. As expected, there's none, but as every hacker knows, there's always another way. I type in a few lines of code and wait anxiously for the dialling tone to start up. I should have given enough reception for both me and dad to talk - if I've done it right.
"Sophie?" dad asks quietly.
"It's me," I confirm, peering through the cab window, peering onto the busy Victorian street of Hampstead. "Where are you?"
"Accounting for the fact that I've been taken back in time, I assume," he says, and I roll my eyes.
"Naturally."
"I'm at Bart's, just outside. Are you here too?"
"Hampstead road," I inform him, "I'm heading towards the flat."
I hear dad's hair ruffle against the speaker as he nods his head. "Alright, stay there, I'll be with you soon." I hang up, slipping my phone deep into my pocket to avoid any anachronisms, which is the last thing we need.
One mistake, and we could find ourselves in the middle of a paradox.
We decide to take the cab straight to the graveyard, leaving The Doctor's TARDIS behind, much to his dislike.
"The last time the Angels were here, they tried to take the TARDIS. I don't want them to take it again."
"There's too many people for the Angels to get anywhere near your box," I remind him. "If you're as popular as John makes out, your box will be surrounded by fans. It's them you'll have to worry about."
The cabby remains silent, but I can see his gaze constantly flicking up to the mirror. No doubt he's later going to boast he had the cast of Doctor Who in the back of his cab.
A little later, Martha nudges me. "So what's it like, living with somebody like Sherlock as a dad?" she whispers.
I shrug. "I don't know any different," I admit. "He teaches me little things here and there in the hope that one day I will be as good as him."
"Do you want that though, really?"
I look at her in disbelief. "Why wouldn't I?"
She smiles. "Just so long as its what you want," she says gently before turning back to look out of the window.
We file out of the cab one by one and gather around the entrance to the graveyard, looking in.
"Those statues have moved," I say, almost immediately after I step out of the cab, and point towards the creature.
They all look up, blinking away the dull sunlight. The Angels aren't weeping any more.
"Everyone, keep your eyes fixed on the statues," The Doctor orders, seeming to be more serious then he was before. "If at least one of us is looking at the Angel it can't move - it becomes quantum locked. As long as we're looking at it, it'll remain in stone form."
Silently following The Doctor's orders, we edge around the stone arch and into the graveyard.
"We won't be able to keep our eyes on the Angel from Christine's gravestone," dad remarks, voicing my thoughts.
"No, but if we can lead them to the stone, we might be able to build up enough time energy to open another rift to send them back through."
The others nod, but I catch The Doctor grimace.
"But...?" I prompt, and The Doctor looks to me.
"We'll risk blowing up this universe."
"So no pressure then," John mutters, cursing under his breath.
"The Doctor will sort it," Martha says positively. "He always manages to save us."
"Not this time," he says grimly. "Don't you see? Just a little too much energy and the entire universe is incinerated. A universe with the impossible: two stories combining into one."
"Yeah, but you can do it," Martha insists. "You'll manage it."
I see a flicker of interest in John's eye as he looks over to The Doctor's companion. I thought he was going out with Sarah?
The Doctor sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Let's hope so."
With our joint effort, we're able to hold the Angels off until we reach Christine Blake's gravestone.
"Look," I say, pointing to the stone. "Her son's name has been added recently."
The Doctor steps forward, sliding a pair of rectangular glasses onto his nose as he looks at the stone.
"It looks like they all got taken back to the same year," The Doctor says quietly, and Martha looks over to him.
"The same angel?"
The Doctor nods in agreement. "I would say so, yes."
"So these angels take their victims back in time, but the year differs between each Angel?" I confirm, taking my eyes back off of the Angel.
"Exactly," the Doctor agrees, "Sometimes the Angels can move in space as well but -" he stops short as a crack cuts over his voice, coming from behind.
I whip my head around just before the Angel can get any closer. But dad is gone.
"Sherlock?" I call tentatively. "Sherlock, are you there?" I already know the answer. Footprints matching dad's lead to this clearing, but none lead away. He's gone.
"No no no no no!" The Doctor cries, rushing forward into the empty space. He whirls around, grimacing. "There's nothing I can do. He's gone."
Martha places a comforting hand on my shoulder, but I shake my head. "But you said that we became famous. How can we if he's dead?" I question, but I'm just giving myself false hope. He's not coming back.
"Parallel universes," The Doctor explains quietly. "Some other Sherlock Holmes will become famous now. Someone without a daughter. Would explain why we hadn't heard of you."
"Wait, you said that each individual Angel sends people back to a particular time. If I was to let the Angel touch me, then I would go back to the same time as him. We would be together. That's what you said. "
I catch sight of a gravestone I hadn't noticed before and I break down inside. Swallowing away any tears I step forward, ignoring The Doctor as he tries to reach out to me.
"We don't know it'll work that way," The Doctor says, grabbing my arm and turning me back to face him as John and Martha watch the Angel. "It's taking a massive risk. I won't let you do it."
"I'm not staying here without him," I insist, pulling free.
"Sophie ..." John tries, but words fail him as I shake my head as the words on the stone sink in, and I feel the first tear slip.
"There's room for another name on the stone," I choke. "It's meant for me, surely?" I whip back to The Doctor. "I just have to blink, don't I? Blink and I can be back with him."
John steps over to comfort me, leaving The Doctor and Martha's eyes fixed on the angel. He envelopes me in a warming hug and I cry softly into his jumper.
"I can't let you do that," the Doctor says softly to me. "It'll be very difficult for me to come and rescue you - almost impossible." His eyes narrow in anger at the Angel. "Is this what you like to see? Families torn apart just so you can feed?"
The Doctor's anger is irrational. The statue can't reply, but it makes me feel a little better. My whole world is caving in, although I know dad is probably even safer back in whenever time period he's in.
"It's worth a try," I say quietly. "You said it was almost impossible. How can we get him back?"
The Doctor grits his teeth. "I need something to latch onto. A signal which can pull me through the barrier that'll stop me from landing."
"A message," I nod, slotting that in, "Okay. Thanks, Doctor, thanks for everything. John, look after yourself and Martha, be safe." The trio look at me in alarm. I'm actually doing it. "Goodbye."
I blink, everyone's eyes on me instead of the Angel, and I feel myself falling. Falling into oblivion.
Just as I begin to realise what I'm seeing, somebody else emerges from the blue box: a dark woman with soft features dressed in clothes that were fashionable just a few years ago.
"So this is London," the woman says, walking over to where the man with the spiked hair stands, staring up at the hospital. "It looks like London, at least. Are we in London?"
I frown and begin to walk over, but dad holds me back. "They don't know where they are," I say, looking at him. "How is that possible? A publicity stunt?"
Dad frowns, shaking his head and gesturing for me to be quiet.
"Yes, London," the man with the brown trenchcoat confirms, turning back to the woman. "Your near future, if I'm correct." He walks over to a bin nearby and pulls out a newspaper. "Yes, look," he says, pointing. "London, 2010. Not a bad year. Of course, Eyjafjallajökull caused a lot of problems for airliners."
"Eyjafjallajökull?" the woman repeats, stumbling over the syllables. "That volcano in Italy?"
The man nods and begins to walk over towards us. "The question is, why did the TARDIS take us here?" the man says.
The TARDIS? John mentioned earlier that the TARDIS was The Doctor's spaceship. This can't be right: it must be an act - or maybe they're filming an episode. But I don't see any cameras.
"Excuse me," the man says, stopping in front of us, and we act as though we've heard nothing. He holds up a small identity card case and I frown, looking at the card inside. "My name is Doctor John Smith and this is my associate Martha Jones."
"Hi," Martha smiles, raising her hand in a small wave.
"We were just wondering whether anything strange has happened lately - anything that has appeared in the news that is out of the ordinary."
"That paper is blank," dad says bluntly. "And you're lying."
"Well," the man says, groaning and flipping the wallet shut again. "It was worth a try."
"That was the psychic paper, wasn't it?" John queries, looking excited. "It was, wasn't it, because you're The Doctor and she's Martha."
"Yes ..." The Doctor frowns, startled as he looks to his companion. "Sorry: time travellers. Sometimes things don't exactly happen in the order they're meant to. Get's a bit confusing at times - especially with birthdays? Who are you? Have we met?"
"John. John Watson," John says, offering his hand. "We haven't met."
The Doctor's eyes light up with curiosity for a second as John introduces himself, but then Martha steps forward. "Then how do you know The Doctor?" she asks, frowning.
"Apparently you're both characters from a cheap, predictable sci-fi programme for children," I tell him, and The Doctor's eyes fall on me.
"Who would you be then?"
"Sophia Holmes," I say simply and gesture towards my dad. "This is my father, Sherlock."
The two in front of us widen their eyes in some sort of realisation, but I don't understand why; we aren't that famous yet.
"But that's impossible," The Doctor exclaims, rubbing a hand across his face. "You're characters in a novel."
"And several screen adaptations," Martha adds, her eyes full of wonder as she looks us over.
"Not the last time I checked," dad says calmly.
"But you're not even supposed to exist," The Doctor continues, gesturing to me. "You're not in any of the books - or their adaptations!"
I narrow my eyes in a deep frown. Either he is a very good actor, or John was telling the truth. Although it goes against everything I thought I knew, my intuition is telling me it's the latter. If that's the case, then in The Doctor's world, we are the fictional characters. Except I don't exist.
"Could it be, I dunno," Martha starts, but hesitates for a moment, "a parallel universe or something. These things are always happening in the movies."
"Possible," The Doctor begins, raking a hand through his gelled hair. "A universe in which the roles are reversed. We're from the programme, and they're real. The thing is, I thought all pathways between parallel universes had sealed. Nobody can get through any more."
"Wow, that's weird," Martha exclaims, looking around. "You mean to say that people will recognise us around London?"
The Doctor doesn't reply, a distinct look in his almost tearful, ancient eyes. "Hmm, maybe," he says, the glimmer of tears suddenly replaced by curiosity. "But how did we get through here in the first place?"
"Yes, whilst you're trying to work that out, people are disappearing, seemingly back in time," dad says, impatiently and I notice the couple in front exchange glances.
"Back in time?" Martha repeats as The Doctor spins around.
"That's how we got through," The Doctor exclaims in sudden realisation, looking up. "They made a rift which we fell through when they came here."
"They?" John questions, following his gaze.
"The Angels?" Martha questions quietly, and The Doctor nods.
"The Weeping Angels?" John puts in. "You mean to say that they're real as well?"
The Doctor looks back over to us. "Hmm? Yes. How much about us do you actually know?"
John smirks, about to reel off his unnecessary knowledge before I interrupt.
"That isn't going to help us find these Angels," I point out, impatient for some more action.
Molly is waiting for us when we arrive, her arms stacked high with paperwork.
"I found him," she says, taking out a folder from her pile and handing it to dad. "Jacob Blake. It took a bit of digging, but it's all in there. He died when he was eighty-three, natural causes." I nod in agreement and take the folder from dad.
"Have you processed a copy of what he may have looked like when he was younger?" dad asks.
"Yeah," she replies, fiddling shyly with her hair. "It's going through now." She leads us through to the labs upstairs and shows us a picture on the computer screen. "That would be him at about the age of thirty, like you asked."
I take out my phone and compare the picture I took of the Blake's on their wedding day with the computer-generated image and smile.
"It's the same person," I confirm, showing dad, who passes it onto John. "The entire Blake family just whisked back in time with somebody else who doesn't seem to connect to them in any way."
"It reminds me of the Doctor Who episode where those people were taken back in time," Molly reminisces.
I look up to her in unison with dad. That's the second time that show has been mentioned in the last hour. "What?"
Molly looks up, startled, and shares a quick look with John. "It's a very popular TV program," she laughs, uncertainly.
"Which would explain why we don't know it," dad dismisses. "Television is overrated and mind shrinking."
"And it isn't going to help us," I add, taking my phone back.
Molly smiles slightly.
***
"Do you ever get the feeling we're missing out on something with our lifestyles?" I question as we step outside the hospital. John stayed behind to 'help Molly with a few things', but it's clear they're talking about us. I don't mind.
"Mm, occasionally, but after all, 'normal people' don't have very interesting lives. Without the thrill of the case, I know what I'd be turning to to supplement that adrenaline."
I grimace and nod, and open my mouth to say something else when the sound of a whirring engine, croaking with the age cuts me off.
I look over to where the sound came from once the noise cuts, but I see nothing but one of those old police boxes, obviously one of those retro antiques which are often displayed around London for publicity before they're taken to auction.
"That wasn't there when we arrive," I notice, pointing to the box.
Dad looks over from the road, his eyes narrowing. "No, it wasn't."
"Can't have just been put there, can it?" I question.
"No, it would take longer to place. Besides, these people always take photographs of their art before leaving them."
Behind, John emerges from the hospital. "What are you -" he cuts off as his eyes fall upon the box. "My God." He looks over to us, his face lit up in a smile of disbelief as he turns back. "That's - that's The Doctor's spaceship, the TARDIS. My God, how the hell ...?"
John stops as the box opens and a man in a long, brown coat and a blue suit steps out, seemingly unaware that he just stepped outside a 1960s police box.
I take the taxi home alone in a futile attempt to gather my thoughts.
This goes against everything I've ever learnt about real life and brings me crashing down into fantasy. I don't know what to think about this case. I'm still expecting somebody - dad or Lestrade, maybe - to jump out with a chorus of 'April Fools!' but I have a constant nagging feeling telling me that it's all real.
My mind flickers back to the warning Sam Jones gave me about going into the cemetery. Is he going senile? Is he even Sam Jones? Then again, there's the possibility that he was drugged into believing he had gone back in time. But then that doesn't explain the increased ageing speed.John is home when I return and I trot up the stairs, still undecided on what to do next.
"Case?" John questions, looking up from his phone as I enter.
"Yeah," I say vaguely, making John look up.
"What?"
"I don't know," I admit, sighing and sitting myself down in dad's chair, my eyes glancing hungrily at the apple in the bowl before drawing them away again. I can survive. "It's a bit of an unusual one."
"Oh yeah?" John smirks, thinking back to our last case. "What are we comparing this to?"
I glare at him for a moment before summarising the case so far, explaining about the graveyard, the house and the patient, and probably making no sense at all to John.
To my surprise, he smiles. "A bit 'Doctor Who', isn't it?" I frown, and John sends me back a look of disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me," he laughs. "You don't know who The Doctor is?"
"What do you mean?" I insist. "You're the doctor, the only doctor I know personally, at least."John shakes his head in continued disbelief, but I'm saved by the arrival of dad.
"Lestrade called," dad says, getting straight to the point as he comes in, not taking his coat off.
"And...?" I question, standing up. John puts his phone down, interested.
"Christine Blake was the first of her name on both sides of the family until July, 1920," dad begins, but I sense there's something else.
"Until?"
"A Christine Blake appeared, seemingly out of the blue. A middle-aged woman with a young son."
"Another 'time travel' case then?" John questions and dad frowns at him.
"What?" he questions, just as puzzled as I am on this topic.
John smirks, shaking his head with a smug smile. He knows something we don't.
"So Christine Blake and her son supposedly travelled backwards in time to get to the 20's," I begin, thinking this over. "How is that even possible?"
"I don't think it is," dad says quietly, his mind palace failing him for once. "There must be something I'm missing, something right in front of me."
I shake my head. "There is nothing else," I say gently. "We've searched their house. What was Jacob Blake's cause of death?"
"Molly's still looking through the records," dad says. "She said she'll text us when she gets them through."
I nod. "This doesn't make any sense," I say through gritted teeth. "I can't see what else it can be. But time travel? Seems impossible."
"It may seem impossible, but it's the only theory we have," dad says reluctantly.
"'No matter how improbable it may seem,'" I quote from our website.
"Exactly," dad says, and then slides his phone out from his pocket as it buzzes. "That's Molly; she wants us over at Bart's for the results."
I nod in acknowledgement and gather my things together. "Coming?" I ask John."Mm, yes, if you want me too." He stands up and follows me towards the door.
"You'll never believe it," Lestrade says as we walk up towards the ward. "I'm not sure if I understand myself."
I frown and turn to the DI. "What do you mean?"
"Samuel Jones was twenty-four when he went missing last week," he informs us as as we open the ward doors. "Now look at him." He towards the bed at the far end of the ward.
I raise my eyebrows, expecting this to be one of his jokes, but nevertheless, find myself walking over to the bed. "Excuse me," I say quietly, approaching the old man in the corner. "Do you know Samuel Jones?" Grimacing with pain, the old man props himself up on the pillow and opens his eyes. "Sorry if I woke you," I add as an after-thought.
"No, just waiting for death to take me," he croaks, coughing, each cough shaking his frail body. "Sam Jones, yes. I used to know someone called Sam."
"Do you know where I could find him?" I persist, my patient facade running thin.
"You've already found him, dear," he says. "I am Samuel Jones." I stand still, frozen as I attempt to process what he just said. How is it possible to grow to such an age in the space of a couple of weeks?
After a moment, I turn to Lestrade who stands by the bed behind me.
"It's a good one, isn't it?" he smiles smugly.
I turn back to dad and exchange a confused glance. He doesn't understand either.
"Mr Jones," dad says, looking to the old man as he comes over. "You don't have any younger relations with the same name, do you?"
The man laughs, but it turns to a violent cough in a matter of seconds. "If only I did. Childless, that's what I am."
This isn't helping me to understand. "Would you know anything about the disappearance of Samuel Jones at the Highgate Cemetery last week?" I question.
He looks over to me, grabbing my hand and looking at me sternly. "Don't go back to that place," he begs. "If you value your life, your friends, and your family then stay away from the cemetery."
"Sir, please -"
"Go on," dad requests, interrupting me.
"I went there last week, on your timeline," Sam explains, turning his head to look out of the window. "Seventy years ago for me now. One minute I was laying flowers on my mother's grave, the next I was in the middle of Yorkshire, 1940."
Dad takes a step back, a frown furrowing its way into his brow.
"And you can't remember how you got there?" I question, still trying to work out whether or not to believe him.
"No," he says, turning back to face me. "I saw something move behind me, but before I could turn around, I'd already gone back."
"Thank you, Mr Jones," I say, beginning to turn around. "You've been very helpful."
"Remember," he calls after me. "Stay away from the graveyard!"
"Here's Christine's address," Lestrade says, handing us a slip of paper as he continues to look through his filing cabinet. "And here's the phone numbers for her family."
I nod my thanks as I take the folder, flicking through it and taking out what we need.
"Any news yet on Blake's older family?" dad questions as I slip the folder back onto Lestrade's desk.
"Not yet," he admits, straightening up. "We're running a scan through all the old census', but nothing's come up so far."
"Text me when you get them through," dad says, turning and leading me out of the police station.
***
"Christine's house," dad says as we come to a stop outside a small, semi-detached house halfway down Bigginwood Road, near Croydon.
"Certainly one of the better neighbourhoods to live in," I remark, looking critically around the street as I follow dad up the path. "Must be worth half a million of anyone's money."
"It's an old lock," dad says quietly, running his hand along the door handle. He grimaces as he pushes the handle down and the lock snaps. Dad stumbles forward as the door suddenly swings open, and he regains his balance as he grabs onto an old chest.
I follow him in slowly, taking in the small size of the rooms. "It looks as though she's just stepped outside to the corner shop," I say, my eyes brushing over the dishes piling up by the sink and a table laid out for two. "Or to the graveyard."
Dad nods in agreement as he steps through into a living room and we squeeze past a coffee table too large for the room. Photos of family members line the walls and mantelpiece, taking pride of place beside the cheap knick-knacks. Family obviously meant a lot to her, I note, as I pick up a photo of a woman with a young boy. I slip the picture out and turn it over, looking to see if the people were identified.
Christine Blake, 34, with son Billy, 7, on his birthday trip to London Zoo.
"So where's the boy?" I wonder out loud, and dad turns to me. "Christine had a son, Billy. No father anywhere on the scene as we can see from the photos."
"They were all taken around six years ago," dad continues, beginning to pick up some of the Blake's at their wedding day. "If they'd divorced, then she would have taken the pictures down. The fact that the pictures are still up suggests his death."
"The gravestone Christine was looking at," I say, flicking through the mental pictures I took of the stone. "It says she was married to 'Jacob Blake'..." I trail off as dad flips the picture in his hand over, looking at the name.
"Jacob Blake," he confirms, before taking a picture and sliding it back into its frame.
"Bit of a coincidence," I mutter.
"'The world is rarely so lazy,'" dad quotes himself, manoeuvring his large frame around the table and back through to the hallway again.
I follow him out, looking up the dark staircase before climbing it.
Space is limited up here too. Robots and electrical devices line the skirting boards but my eyes brush over them, focusing instead on the closed door at the top.
I push it open gently and blink away the dust which greats me. The room looks like it's been untouched for several weeks, despite it belonging to the youngest of the family. Where has the boy been for so long? He could have been abroad to visit family, but the room would be tidier than this. Perhaps he's dead? No, I think to myself, they would have made an effort to clear the room. It's almost as if they were waiting for him to come back, maybe from school. So he's gone missing too.
I take the stairs two at a time as I climb back down, and enter the living room to find dad with a burst of energy, but stop as I notice he's on the phone.
"Where?" dad questions as I stand by the doorframe, and he nods in acknowledgement after a moment of silence. "We'll be there." He ends the conversation and slides his phone into his pocket. "It's Lestrade," he confirms, reading my mind. "One of the missing people have been found in St. Ann's Hospital, approximately fourteen minutes away from the cemetery." I nod my head and follow him towards the door.
"Well, I'm off," John says, standing up. "Got to sort things with Sarah at the clinic." He leaves quietly, whilst we continue to flick through the papers for a new case.
"More disappearances," I mutter quietly, looking at the pictures above the article. I look up, smiling, as the phone rings.
Dad answers it immediately, slipping the phone from his pocket.
"Lestrade," he greets, pausing and allowing the DI to speak. "Brilliant, we'll be there in five." He drops his mobile back into his pocket.
"Good news?" I question, closing the paper.
"The best. We're going to the graveyard."
I jump up, grabbing my coat and wrapping my scarf around my neck as I follow after dad down the stairs.
"It's about those disappearances you were talking about," he says as we reach the street. "Lestrade has been looking into it and he has reason to believe that these people are being murdered."
I nod thoughtfully as a cab comes around the corner. "So he needs us."
"Basically," dad agrees, holding his hand out to hail. "Taxi!" The cab pulls up and we step in. "Highgate Cemetery, please." Dad turns back to me as the cab drives away. "All of these disappearances have one, notable thing in common."
"They were all visiting the cemetery," I complete, grimly. Dad nods. I give a dry smile. "Always wanted a graveyard mystery."
***
"Sophie, Sherlock," a familiar voice calls dad pays the cabbie, and I spin around to face the DI. "Glad you could make it."
"Has anything happened since you rang?" I question, looking up at the stone arch by the entrance to the graveyard.
"Not a thing," Lestrade admits, leading us in. "We've tried looking for patterns in the times of these disappearances, but there doesn't seem to be one - not that we can find, anyway."
I smirk. "I'm sure I can find it."
Lestrade gives me a wry smile and shakes his head. "Just find this bastard, will you?"
I gaze around the open area as we walk through, my earlier cockiness slipping away as a shiver runs down my spine. It just feels so ... lonely.
I whip my head around as I see something move in my peripheral vision, but I see nothing but a stone angel, standing with her hands over her eyes as if mourning for the loss of a loved one.
Lestrade stops walking as we reach the shelter of the trees, where the light is dim. "This is where Christine Blake was last seen," he tells us, looking around for himself as we walk the area, looking for indents in the leaves where Christine could have walked away. "A dog walker noticed her standing by that grave, over there." He points to a headstone beneath the trees, where moss has begun to grow over the top, hiding the name from sight.
I walk over and brush my hand over the top and narrow my eyes at what I see. "Have you found anything in this immediate area that could belong to Christine?" I question, staring at the stone.
"No, but we've contacted her family to let them know," Lestrade replies.
Picking up on the curiosity in my voice, dad steps over to join me.
"Get onto them and research her recent family history up to seventy years ago. See if there are any repetitions in names," I demand, and Lestrade nods.
Dad turns to me as the DI walks away, his phone to his ear. "The Christine beneath this grave has only recently died," he says, lowering his voice. "It's nearly impossible for Christine to be visiting the remains of a relation who died that same day. Not even the quickest burials happen within a day."
"Could it be a threat?" I ask, reminded of the Hangzhou numerals that warned Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis of their imminent deaths in our last case. "
"Some effort to go to for a threat," dad muses.
"There must be some reason," I remind him, looking at the date on the stone again. "There has to be."
There's no mistake: the headstone specifically says that Christine Blake died today.
The news of Amanda's luck hits the papers the next morning, and I return from the shops with the Sunday papers for us to go through.
Dad comes in from his bedroom wearing his dressing gown over his shirt and trousers as he sits down at the dining table, and John emerges from upstairs a little while later and sits opposite him, picking up his newspaper as dad begins to read.
"'Who wants to be a million-hair'," dad quotes the lead article as he folds the paper in half, lying it down on the table before picking up his second. "I think the journalists have been taking notes from your blog, John."
John scowls at him before opening up his paper and reading the story. "Over a thousand years old and it's sitting on her bedside table every night." He shakes his head in disbelief.
"He didn't know its value; didn't know why they were chasing him."
"Hmm," John replies. "Should've just got her a lucky cat." He gestures to the awful ornament on our fireplace and I smirk.
"Hmm," dad replies, his gaze becoming distant as John looks him over critically.
"You mind, don't you?"
"What?" dad answers, looking over to him.
"That she escaped – General Shan," John continues. "It's not enough that we got her two henchmen."
"It must be a vast network, John; thousands of operatives," I answer. "We barely scratched the surface."
"You cracked the code, though, Soph; and maybe Dimmock can track down all of them now that he knows it."
I shake my head, smiling sadly as I flick through dads abandoned paper. "No. No. I cracked this code; all the smugglers have to do is pick up another book."
The room grows silent as I scan the pages before my eyes narrow.
A middle-aged woman, thought to have been visiting London from China, has been found dead by her son in her hotel room. The cause of death is unclear, although early investigations are showing that Shan Ling, 46, was shot.
I show the article to dad, and his own eyes narrow.
"It looks like we won't need to worry about them anymore," dad says, handing the paper over. "She's dead."
"What, really?" John splutters, taking the newspaper.
"A shot to the head," I mutter. "No doubt her employer killed her for not returning the pin."
"Do you think it's -"
"Moriarty," dad interrupts. "Very likely. I think we can expect something to happen very soon." John nods.
"Well, I'm off. Got to sort things with Sarah at the clinic." He leaves quietly, whilst we continue to flick through the papers for a new case.
"More disappearances," I mutter quietly, looking at the pictures above the article. I look up, smiling, as the phone rings.
Dad answers it immediately, slipping the phone from his pocket.
"Lestrade," he greets, pausing and allowing the DI to speak. "Brilliant, we'll be there in five." He drops his mobile back into his pocket.
