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The two Londoners had unknowingly pinned a Gallifreyan against a brick wall in a dark alley. Having caught him suspiciously breaking into a high-tech facility, Sherlock feared that the tall, gangly man in the tweed jacket had been another member of Moriarty's web. John, not familiar with the technology contained in the stranger's little green-bulbed instrument with extendable claws, had pointed his gun at him for a sense of safety.
"Whatever went wrong," pleaded the man, both hands in the air against the wall, "I can assure you with... um.. about eighty six percent certainty that it wasn't me. Probably."
John wrinkled his nose at Sherlock in confusion. "Who are you?" he demanded of the stranger, lowering his gun by a couple inches.
"I'm the Doctor," he claimed, eyes darting back and forth between the darkly-clad man whose cheekbones he could sympathize with, to a shorter blond man who would almost remind him of the Master's last form if not for his kind, tired eyes.
"Yeah right," snort
John shuffled home from a long, menial day at work. He drudged up the stairs and stood in the door frame of 221B. Everything was exactly how he had left it. No thumbs in the fridge, no chemicals burning away on the kitchen table, no violin wavering away through the air and no gangly detective sitting in the leather armchair. John glanced at his own chair, despairing the thought of another day sitting in it with nobody across from him.
Instead of taking his jacket off and settling in, he turned back around and hurried down the steps. He had barely remembered to lock the door behind himself before sprinting away down Baker street, trying to escape everything that reminded him of Sherlock.
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