"Aliens," the detective scoffed. "You contend that a member – "

"Several members," the young woman corrected.

"Yes," he smiled sardonically, "that several members of the British Parliament are, in actual fact, aliens."

John Watson looked up from his notepad, a perplexed expression wrinkling his features. "You mean… well, I assume you mean… they're actually from foreign nations? Spies – is that your concern?"

"No," the woman stated with unwavering confidence. "I mean aliens. Alien-aliens. From outer space."

Sherlock rose from his leather seat, clapping his hands together loudly.

"Alright. Well, thank you for your – "

"Sherlock," John warned.

"Yes, well. John?" The detective swept from the room, casting one final sneer in the direction of the person who had just wasted 15 minutes of his time.

John sighed. He never enjoyed this bit, cleaning up after Sherlock's derision. He longed to simply call him a pompous prick and let him deal with the inevitable anger or crying on his own, but they depended too much on the income from cases, which were always few and far between this time of year.

At least this one doesn't seem to be personally affronted, he thought approvingly.

"Listen, don't mind Sherlock, he can be a bit…"

"I've heard. Don't worry 'bout it. I'll make due on my own, have plenty of times before."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that, er – "

"Martha," she repeated. Does no one in this flat listen properly? "Well, anyway," she added with a polite, if slightly exasperated smile, "thanks for your time, Doctor Watson." She turned back to look at him as she zipped her coat, then froze, eyes locked on the small table beside a worn red chair.

"Something the matter?" John inquired, attempting to follow her line of vision. Teacup, a few books with papers sticking out. Nothing remarkable, yet she took a few steps forward, looking for all the world as if she'd seen a ghost.

"That watch. Where did you get it?"

"What watch?" He could hear Sherlock tapping at his laptop keys all the way from the bedroom at the end of the hall. Must be a new entry to The Science of Deduction going up this afternoon. John rolled his eyes. The only reason they had so many clients was because of his own blog, and he was fairly certain that Sherlock knew it.

"This watch," she insisted, brandishing an old but well-cared-for fob watch inches in front of his face. It was covered with bizarre, overlapping circular markings. There was something vaguely familiar about it, but John couldn't muster enough of an interest to determine why.

"I… don't know, to be honest. Just sort of always had it. Maybe belonged to a grandfather or something?"

Martha looked distinctly worried now, much more so than when she was failing to convince Sherlock that space aliens had infiltrated their nation's government. "And your name is John Watson… Doctor John Watson…"

"Yes you knew that, I'm sorry, why does it matter?"

"We need to meet," she turned toward the sound of Sherlock cursing from down the short hallway. "Soon. Alone."

Still got it. "That's a lovely offer, Martha. Not a good time for me now, but maybe, after the holidays, we could go for coffee and, um…"

"No," she laughed good-naturedly, shaking her head. "Are you mad? As if I'd go down that path again."

John furrowed his brow at the odd remark, but she resumed speaking before he could ask what on earth she had meant.

"No, Doctor. Just to talk. And it can't wait, trust me. There's something you need to hear."

"What could I need to hear that I'd have to keep from Sherlock?"

"You're just going to have to trust me on this. Where do you work?"

"A time… I'm sorry, what?"

It was after-hours at the clinic, and John was already alone in the building when Martha had arrived.

"Time Lord," she pronounced carefully. "It's… you're not human, alright? I know how this sounds," She raised a pleading hand as he began to spin his office chair away from her, "but I can prove it."

John raised his eyebrows in skeptical invitation.

"You don't believe me. That's fine. We've been through this before," Martha sighed in resigned frustration. "That fob watch I found in your flat. I told you to bring it. Did you?"

"Coat pocket."

She stood and walked deliberately to the corner of the office where John's coat was hanging on a freestanding rack. She located the watch in the outer left-hand pocket. No zipper, no button. It could've just fallen out on the streets of London and then who knows what might've happened. She swallowed down the rising terror at the thought, forcibly reminding herself that it had not been lost, and that anxious speculation would not help her cause now.

"So if I'm a… Time Lord, then. If I'm an alien. Why would you want me to know it? Wouldn't I just be a threat, like these other people you came to see us about?"

"You're one of the good ones. The best, really," she answered, a sincere and rather wistful look in her eyes. "You're the one who saves us - Earth, other worlds, all of us. You're… well, you're The Doctor."

John was staring at her blankly, no hint of recognition on his face.

"Do you ever have dreams? Odd dreams you can't explain, things that seem like science fiction?"

"No, of course I – "

"Dreams of other planets, other races. Dreams of sonic screwdrivers and the TARDIS and… and… Gallifrey?"

A hand covered his mouth momentarily, a hoarse whisper escaping. "Gallifrey? Why," he asked, a tremor seizing his left hand, "why do you know that word?"

Martha smiled triumphantly, despite his sudden show of fear. "Because that's where you're from. That's your home world. You told me all about it. Time Lords – they're the people of Gallifrey, and you're one of them. Only you locked yourself into this watch," she held it out, willing him to take it. "You locked yourself in here, many years ago, I suspect, and now you don't remember. But if you'd just open this – oh, if you'd just open it! It'll all come back, I swear. You'll come back. You'll be who you really are again. The Doctor."

John tentatively reached out, taking the watch cautiously, as if it might burn him. It's all nonsense. Complete and utter rubbish. And yet… how had she known about Gallifrey?

"Let's say this is true. Then why would I have done it, hm? Why would I be sitting here as John Watson, army veteran, with Sherlock Holmes as my – "

"Companion?" Martha offered, smirking.

John ground his teeth. "Don't know that I'd use that word, but – "

"I would. The Doctor – you – always traveled with a companion. I was one of them. You don't belong on your own. You needed someone, always have, and likely always will."

John chuckled lightly at the sudden image of himself whirling through space, Sherlock Holmes in tow, staring out of a large blue box. A blue box? Where on earth had that image come from?

"Doctor, please, focus. The last time you did this, you were escaping a family of aliens who were hunting you. It ended rather poorly that time, I'll admit, but the plan was to wait until the danger had passed, and then return to your proper self, your proper life. I don't know what drove you into hiding this time, but I believe it's time for you to come back."

"And if I do? If this is all true, and I become this Doctor Time Lord person, what then? What becomes of my life? Of Sherlock?"

"After the last time, you admitted you could've changed back, but that you wouldn't. You had fallen in love with a human, a nurse in 1913, but even for her, you couldn't give up the life you were meant to have."

"I'm not in love with Sherlock," John's response was automatic and defensive.

"Maybe not," Martha agreed without sounding the least bit convinced, "but either way, you're likely to go. It's who you are. You need the adventure. You're drawn to danger. In all of time and space, there's no way you'd rather live."

"Why haven't the other people of Gallifrey come looking for me, then? These Time Lords. If I've been missing this long, why haven't they sent a search party?"

Martha's face fell, her lips parting, though no words came. John didn't know what he'd said to affect such a change, but it was clear that this confident, enthusiastic woman was on the verge of tears.

"John." She had not previously addressed him by his first name, and the realization did nothing to calm his rising sense of dread. "I mean, Doctor, I… there are no others. The Time War… you escaped, but… they didn't make it. Gallifrey is…" she took a deep breath and steeled herself for the truth. "John Watson, you're the only one."

The Doctor walked the darkened streets of London. He didn't feel the cold. He didn't feel anything. He could remember it all now, every day, every moment, more clearly than he ever had as John. He had been running, it was true. Had been overwhelmed by the need to hide, and Earth had always been his favorite refuge. But it hadn't been time-feasting entities that had driven him to this extreme for a second time. It had been his worst enemy, the one that had never ceased to harass his consciousness. His own penchant for destruction. His own loneliness. His own demons. And they had been waiting a very long time.

His eyes searched the topmost ceiling of 221B until morning, hoping the chipping paint and hairsbreadth cracks would impart more wisdom than his own ancient brain. The succession of companions, many beyond his reach forever, paraded before him in ghostly silence. Sarah Jane was there. Rose. Martha he saw in greatest detail, having been in her physical presence twelve hours earlier. Donna. Even Jack, for all of his immortal incorrectness, his terrifying defiance of natural law, brought a pang of loss. And now, there was Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, World's Only Consulting Detective, who would never consent to leave Earth. Don't know that he'd ever leave Baker Street.

How would he leave him? That man, who The Doctor understood better than John ever had, was so fragile, so broken, so desperately and infinitely alone. That man who had come to trust only one person in the world. In the universe. He couldn't simply abandon Sherlock when he was… well… when he's so much like me.

As though a cosmic director was managing the scene, he heard his flatmate calling from below, bellowing the name "John" repeatedly, excitedly, like a child trying to entice his best friend to come out and play. The Doctor felt a horrible tightness in his chest as he leveraged himself to his feet and proceeded toward the stairwell. He had no choice.

"Sherlock," he began, voice already wavering, "I have something – "

"It can wait. John, there's been a triple homicide, no discernable weapon or motive. The police assume one of the three was the killer, but they're wrong, as usual. We need to get across town immediately." Sherlock paused for breath. "Where are my gloves?"

"Please, Sherlock, listen." Maybe it can wait. Just one more case, for old time's sake… but he knew it was a stall tactic, a diversion from what must inevitably come. This needed to be done, and it needed to be done now.

Sherlock must have finally noticed the anguished look on his friend's face, because he stopped, the files he'd been searching under held at an odd angle in mid-air. He unceremoniously released them, tentatively moving toward his flatmate until he was only a half-meter away.

"Yes, John?"

John. It was the name he had taken both times. Nondescript. Non-threatening. No one. The Doctor's eyes searched the sitting room, groping for anything that might help ease his way through this miserable task. Sofa with detective-shaped indentation in the cushions. Frosted window. Cluttered desk. Christmas tree draped in fairy lights.

It was Christmas Eve. He hadn't remembered. There, beneath the tree, were two gifts he'd wrapped in expensive silver paper a week ago. One containing two sets of leather gloves – Sherlock was always losing his – and the other a sillier, more personal gift: a blanket covered in cartoon honeybees. Sherlock didn't know John The Doctor had noticed the man's strange predisposition toward apiology, but he was certain that, whatever his official reaction might be, he would love it.

It's Christmas, and at Christmas you tell the truth.

"To tell the truth," he let out a loud sigh. He couldn't. Not yet. Despite the universe waiting at this fingertips, he didn't want to go. "To tell the truth, I'm not feeling quite up to murder today. You should take someone else."

Sherlock turned his back on his partner, clasping his hands behind him as he paced the floor along a well-worn path in the carpet. He paused absently before the tree, fairy lights still ablaze despite the sharp, white light of morning pouring into the flat. It was Christmas Eve. He had pretended to forget. There was a gift tucked under the tree, expertly wrapped in shining deep blue paper, that he had placed there the evening before, despite having purchased it months ago. John's medical degree had been abandoned in a box in his wardrobe, the frame old and cheap and breaking apart at one corner. Tomorrow morning he would find it reframed, matted to draw out the scant coloring in the university logo, and ready to be hung on a nail that had been carefully placed to display his credentials to anyone entering the flat.

It's Christmas. And at Christmas, you tell the truth.

"I can't take someone else, John, because there is no one else."

"What do you mean, there's no one else? There's Molly and – "

"No, John. You misunderstand me." The detective turned then, his mask artfully removed, displaying a raw vulnerability the likes of which The Doctor could not ever recall seeing on this magnificent man. "There has never been anyone else. There has only ever been you. John Watson… you're the only one."

After double-checking that the door was locked behind him, he straightened his shoulders and marched across the main room of 221C Baker Street. John had guessed that the damp, the mold, had kept potential tenants away. The Doctor knew better. As he reached the smaller back room, he pulled open a closet door that felt as though it'd been sealed for ages. I suppose it has. He wondered what had drawn him to this spot all those years ago. Whether it was some forgotten adventure, some heightened cosmic energy, or simply a poetic coincidence that led him to this place.

The blue wooden doors of the police box stared back at him, and he stroked them tenderly for a moment, greeting his oldest friend, before letting himself inside. He had told Sherlock that he was getting his gun, and the detective had resumed the search for his gloves. This would only take a few minutes, and then…

"John!" Sherlock yelled for the third time from the open door to the street. The taxi was waiting, and he needed to shift into detective mode and away from his momentary lapse in judgment. Not only had he allowed himself to express his not-particularly-subtle sentiment for his best friend, but the reaction made it clear that said sentiment was also unrequited. Obviously, he chided himself, ignoring the intensity of his disappointment.

"JOHN!" This isn't like him. Where could he –

"Sherlock," the blogger panted, running down the stairs while zipping his jacket, "sorry, couldn't find my – bloody hell, how did you find a cab that quickly!"

"Practice," the detective threw over his coat collar just before folding himself elegantly into the backseat.

"Right," John nodded, sliding in beside him and slamming the door as Sherlock informed the cabbie of their destination.

The detective spoke without breaking his gaze away from the foggy window. His voice was more strained than he intended. "What were you really going to say?"

"Sorry. When?"

"In the flat. You said 'to tell the truth.' What truth was that?"

For the first time in two days, John Watson smiled. "Oh. Right. Well. To tell the truth…" he laced his bare fingers through the worn leather covering those of his detective. "In all of time and space, there is no where I would rather be."

"Good," came the clipped response. John was about to withdraw when he felt the larger hand wrapped around his close tightly. The sliver of Sherlock's face that was visible revealed the edge of a brilliant smile. "I'd be lost without my doctor."