Lost Doctor (Part Two)

(So this is part of a series and you can find part one right over here.)

“… so, hang on,” Joan starts, biscuit in her mouth and a mug in each hand. She passes one to Sherlock, and it gleams with the sugar. “Clara told me only time lords could fly the TARDIS?”

“… always 1895,” Sherlock mumbles under her breath.

“Sorry, what?” The captain asks, with a slight frown.

“Oh,” Sherlock shrugs dismissively and flicks a few switches. “Nothing.”

“… so, how come you knew all those things about the this ship before we were even in it?”

“Knew a man when I lived in Cardiff. He would keep finding things and bringing them to me. Said he would keep finding things in the rift. Talked about a little blue box that was bigger on the inside,” she looked down at Joan from underneath her lashes. “… didn’t actually believe him.”

“But you don’t know anything about space,” the soldier interjects, taking a mouthful of her tea and trying to find somewhere to sit down.

“Don’t need to. She … flies with the same direction and course as a honey bee. It seems aimless and mindless through this vast area but she’s following an instinct. A signal only she can feel because of the hormones and the chemical structure of her heart.”

“Chemical structure of her heart,” Joan echoes quietly. “Her. So it’s a girl, then.”

“Obviously,” the detective says, almost rolling her eyes.

Joan squares her shoulders and casts a measured eye over everything. “So do I tell you I love you and then you say that you know?” She smiles.

“…hm?”

“Oh, nothing,” the doctor takes another mouthful of tea and finds her place beside the detective.

“… can I touch anything?”

“No,” Sherlock replies emphatically, taking large, long strides around the console.

“Not even that big friendly red button over there?” The former captain gestures to one with her mug.

“Especially not that big friendly red button over there,” the taller woman replies. And then, “what happened to Clara?”

“She went to find something and I think she got a bit lost,” Joan says with a loose shrug.

“TARDIS doesn’t like her,” Sherlock explains. “She knows it doesn’t trust her. So they have arguments.”

“Who’d have arguments with a machine?”

“She’s not a machine,” the detective says, with a certain warm bluntness particular to her. It makes Joan pause.

“…right. This is us, though. Finding a doctor. All of time and space, you said.”

And then came the answer, posed as a question.

“Where would you like to start?”