Chapter 2: The Locked Room in Time
The Doctor's twin hearts beat an irregular rhythm as the police car navigated London traffic with Lestrade's sirens clearing the path ahead. Two hearts that had survived the Time War, the death of his people, two thousand years of running through the universe trying to forget what he'd lost. Now they were telling him something was wrong with time itself, here on this small blue planet where impossible things happened with distressing regularity.
Sherlock Holmes sat across from him in the back seat, pale eyes cataloging every detail of the sonic screwdriver the Doctor turned over in his hands. The human's mind was fascinating—structured like a Time Lord's but built from purely organic components, creating connections that defied conventional logic. Still, the arrogance was insufferable.
"Sonic technology," Sherlock said. "Multi-frequency emissions, probably operates on a principle similar to acoustic heterodyning. Crude but effective."
"Crude?" The Doctor's attack eyebrows performed their own particular form of offense. "This sonic screwdriver has saved civilizations. It's unlocked doors across seventeen galaxies, analyzed atmospheric compositions of dying planets, and once convinced a Sontaran fleet to retreat by playing them a very rude song."
"Yes, but can it identify tobacco ash?"
Clara caught John's eye from the front passenger seat and they shared the particular look of people who had learned to recognize when their respective geniuses were about to start a contest that would last until something exploded.
The British Museum rose before them like a temple to human curiosity, its neoclassical columns casting long shadows across the courtyard where police cars and ambulances had created a small city of flashing lights. Lestrade met them at the entrance, his expression carrying the particular strain that came from dealing with murders that refused to make sense.
"Gallery 47," he said without preamble. "Dr. Marcus Webb, night curator. Found this morning when the museum opened. No signs of forced entry, no wounds, no obvious cause of death."
"CCTV?" Sherlock asked, already moving toward the interior.
"Useless. Cameras show him entering the gallery at 11:47 PM. Then nothing until the cleaning staff found him at 6 AM. Seven hours of blank footage."
The Doctor's sonic screwdriver began emitting a low whine as they approached the gallery. The sound grew more agitated with each step, until by the time they reached the cordoned area, it was practically screaming.
"Temporal displacement," the Doctor muttered. "Recent. Something's been messing with the local time stream."
Gallery 47 contained Egyptian artifacts—ancient pottery, scrolls, fragments of stone tablets covered in hieroglyphics that had waited three thousand years to be translated. In the center of the room, outlined in chalk, lay the impossible victim.
Dr. Marcus Webb appeared to be sleeping. No visible injuries, no signs of struggle, no indication of trauma or violence. But carved into the skin of his forehead, as precise as if they'd been etched with a laser, were symbols that belonged to no earthly language.
Sherlock circled the body like a predator, magnifying glass catching the overhead lights as he examined every detail. "Male, forty-three years old, left-handed, coffee drinker—stain on the shirt cuff, same pattern as the machine in the staff room. Recent divorce, still wearing the wedding ring but the tan line suggests he removes it regularly. Worked late frequently, evidence of eye strain and poor posture. No defensive wounds, no signs of struggle."
The Doctor knelt beside the body, sonic screwdriver playing over the carved symbols while his ancient eyes grew darker with each passing second. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of civilizations that had risen and fallen while he watched.
"Gallifreyan," he said quietly. "These symbols are from my world. My dead world. They say 'Time is a circle. The game begins.'"
Lestrade stepped forward. "Your world? Doctor, what exactly—"
"Time Lord technology," the Doctor continued, his scanner painting the air around the body with invisible readings. "Someone created a temporal pocket around this room. Isolated it from the normal flow of time, committed murder inside it, then let it collapse back into the timeline."
Sherlock's carefully controlled expression cracked for just a moment. "That's impossible."
"Welcome to my universe," the Doctor replied. "Where impossible is just another word for Tuesday."
Anderson appeared from behind a display case, evidence bags in hand, looking harried. "Dr. Hooper's preliminary autopsy suggests cardiac arrest, but she says she's never seen anything like it. Heart just... stopped. No medical reason."
Molly Hooper entered as if summoned, tablet in hand, her usual nervous energy amplified by the presence of unexplained death. "The symbols," she said, looking from Sherlock to the Doctor. "They're carved with surgical precision, but there's no tool marks. It's as if they were burned into the skin from the inside."
The Doctor's sonic screwdriver reached a crescendo of electronic distress, and he grabbed Sherlock's wrist, dragging him backward just as the air inside the gallery began to ripple like water disturbed by an unseen hand.
Time folded.
For one impossible moment, they saw through the layers of temporal debris—Dr. Webb walking into an empty room, checking his watch, then clutching his chest as alien symbols burned themselves into his skin from within. His mouth opened in a scream no one could hear, his body collapsing as whatever force had marked him withdrew back into the quantum foam.
Then reality snapped back into place.
Sherlock stood frozen, his empirical worldview cracking under the weight of witnessed impossibility. His hands trembled almost imperceptibly—the first sign of uncertainty the Doctor had seen from the consulting detective.
"Temporal locked room murder," the Doctor said grimly. "Someone with access to Time Lord technology used it to create a murder that technically never happened. The victim died in a pocket of isolated time, then the evidence was collapsed back into the main timeline. Brilliant. Horrifying. And completely illegal under seventeen different galactic conventions."
Clara moved to stand beside John, both companions recognizing the particular quality of silence that meant their respective geniuses were processing something that challenged everything they thought they knew about the universe.
"Doctor," Clara said carefully, "if someone's using Time Lord technology on Earth..."
"Then we have a problem," the Doctor finished. "Time Lord technology in the wrong hands doesn't just threaten Earth. It threatens the structure of time itself."
Sherlock finally spoke, his voice carrying none of its usual confidence. "There's always a logical explanation."
The Doctor looked at him with something that might have been sympathy. "No, Mr. Holmes. Sometimes there's just chaos wearing a suit and calling itself clever."
As they left the museum, Sherlock walked with uncharacteristic silence, his mind struggling to incorporate impossible data into a worldview built on empirical observation. The Doctor watched him with the patience of someone who had seen other rational minds confront the true scope of the universe.
"First time seeing time break?" the Doctor asked.
Sherlock didn't answer, but his hands continued their subtle tremor. Behind them, Anderson's voice carried across the courtyard as he spoke to Donovan.
"I always knew Holmes was involved with weird government stuff. This just proves it."
For once, Sally Donovan thought, Anderson might actually be right.