A/N: I have never tried to write a Doctor Who and Sherlock story before, so this completely new for me. I do not own Doctor Who or Sherlock, I only own my OC and the plot of the story. -Maiden of the Heavens (MOTH)

Lost and Found

They met in a coffee shop.

Or rather, they were supposed to have met inside a coffee shop.

But the rain had muddled up Fate's plans and now they would have to meet rather differently.

It was raining, and not a gentle summer rain that smelled of newness and relaxation, the kind of rain were people stayed inside, huddled up under blankets or some type of afghan with a warm beverage clasped in between chilled hands in a mug or a cup, and a book or a newspaper beside them ready to picked up and read thoroughly.

This was the type of rain that just seemed to happen, suddenly and without warning. Where the sky was covered in dark and brewing clouds in an instant, and then big heavy sheets of rain poured on to the earth below, as if Mother Nature was having a nervous breakdown, or just seemed to be uncontrollably sobbing.

It was in this kind of weather, that the pair met. The first thing that the young lady noticed about him was not his eyes, which were ablaze with curiously and wonder, or his kind of smug, To-Me-You-Are-An-Idiot smile, nor was it his dark chocolate curls. The first thing she noticed about him was the navy-blue scarf that was wrapped around his neck all snug and tight, and his black thick coat, that had been bellowing up behind him only a moment ago, and now he had come to a complete halt, had it been her, who had made him abandon his rush for a matter that had only seconds before very rather important?

Rain dripped down from his curls and into his icy-blue eyes, but for now all he could feel was what little patience he had earlier was now wearing very nearly thin and nearly completely gone. He was supposed to be hailing a cab, so he could continue on with the very important matter that had been in his head. But here was this girl, no not a girl. A young woman, standing in front of him was using a worn and battered copy of The Sound and the Fury written by William Faulkner, as an umbrella. It was not her crimson red dress that flowed down past her knees that made him stop, nor was it the fact that they had nearly collided with each other, nor was it was the snow-white rose on the dress that blossomed where her chest was, or the fact that the stem and the thorns wrapped around the fabric and fit of the dress that was almost suggestive. It was not her bare feet, that were covered with dirt and other sorts of street grime, or that her nails were clipped, no not clipped, bitten down to the quick, caked with dried blood. It was not the freckles that were splattered across the bridge of her nose and cheeks like a frustrated artist that kicks over a bucket of paint and lets the color fall and sprinkle where it lands. Nor was it her hair which was the color of Sepia brown, tangled, matted and need of a thorough wash and a brush.

It was her eyes; they were a caramel brown, warm and filled with compassion and understanding. But an understanding of what exactly? Her eyes were bright with curiosity and a need for adventure, but there was also something else there, something that he could not quiet but his finger on and that bothered him greatly. Her eyes looked as if they had so much chaos and loss, heartbreaking sorrow, her eyes were old but still held a tiny flame of a life that she once must have had.

A kind but somewhat shrill voice came from the open doorway of 221 B Baker Street. The door was a deep and rich black coal color, the letters and numbers looked like gold. The elderly lady standing in the doorway had look of sympathy and the scolding look a mother would give their child if they had misbehaved.

"Invite her inside, Sherlock, before she catches a cold in this weather."

Both the girl and the man with navy blue scarf stared at each for a moment before he said, "Come inside, at least until the rain stops."

"Thank you." The young lady replied following him inside to the warmth of the two bedroom apartment, the stairs squeaked slightly as they made their way into the sitting room.

The wallpaper was white with a black design that could have been some type of flower, the older lady, who could possibly have been someone's grandmother kindly told her take a seat, she did on the couch, becoming aware of the smiley face that was painted in yellow and decorated with bullet holes.

It made her a little easy to see that, but the older lady and the man, who probably thought she was an idiot were not paying attention to the disgraced wall, no, no of course not.

'Oh, my! Darling, you're hurt!" the older woman exclaimed as she went into the small kitchen.

The girl looked down at her feet, they were painful, yes, but she thought it was because of how far she had been walking. That was until she saw the shards of glass that were sticking out of her bare feet, bleeding fresh once again over the caked and dried blood that was already there. She clutched The Sound and the Fury to her chest, she now feel warm salt water tears fluttering on the edges of her eyelashes, her book mark for the novel was a strand of navy blue knitting yarn. Around her waist was an old silver key that hung on one of the silver hooks of the coal black pocket watch that was hanging around her waist as a belt.

She suddenly felt the pain of shards in her feet as if it was lightning strike bringing her back to reality. There were also pieces of rubble in her feet as well, she struggled not to cry, but it flooded as if a dam had broken. "No, no, no!" she cried out, the pocket watch that was the size of a plate meant to host a teacup became unbearably hot, so hot that it burned the skin of Sherlock's wrist when he accidently touched it, trying to get the drenched and screaming girl to calm down, before Mrs. Hudson's decided to call the police.

The private detective stepped back and glanced down at his wrist; it was red like sunburn and certainly felt like one. It was not a pleasant feeling, the young lady, who could have been a university student, who was shaking like a leaf in a chilled autumn breeze. She was clutching her head at the temples with scarred fingers that had dried blood where the nails used to be.

"There was so much…so much fire, pain, screaming, running, had to keep running."

Sherlock had seated himself in his chair and glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who was bringing them both a cup of tea. "What were you running away from?"

"I-I don't. I don't want to remember, I can't, it hurts my head." The young lady replied.

Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes in annoyance; the girl had probably gotten into a car accident and now had a minor case of amnesia. A boring case to see the least, but knowing John, he would take it up in a heartbeat the moment he stepped in their door with the Chinese takeout they were going to have for dinner.

Sherlock finally remembered where he had been meaning to go, that was to be on the hunt for new types of tobacco ash for his website. When he plopped down beside John's laptop, in came the Hobbit-sized man carrying up crinkling plastic bags that were filled with their dinner.

Once he was inside, he set the bags down on the kitchen table and began to set out the usual plates and silverware.

"You'll need to add an extra place, and would mind tending to her wounds. She's a bit worse for wear." Sherlock said almost bored, from where he was reading a rather heavy looking book in his chair.

John looked up from where he had been rummaging through the takeout for their proper orders. The first thing he noticed about the young lady was that she was sobbing and seemed to be rather tattered and beaten.

He quickly grabbed the medical kit from the bathroom, and snagged a clean towel from one of the kitchen drawers. He placed the kitchen towel underneath her feet, as the blood now dripped slowly on to the towel, instead of on to the floor.

"Don't worry, I'm a doctor. I'll fix up so we can take you the hospital." John said calmly as he began to slowly remove the shards of glass with a pair of tweezers, cleaning the wounds with hydrogen peroxide and then wrapping them up with bandages. "My name is John Watson. Do you know what your name is?"

The lady shrugged, and followed the light from the torch that John was slowly examining her eyesight and face with. There was dust and bits of stone and glass also in her hair, and what could have been tangled in knots was dried blood. He frowned in concern and glanced at Sherlock.

"Where did you find her?"

"I didn't." he replied casually.

"I found him." The lady replied softly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this, and set his book down. "Tell me, why you need my assistance and do not make it boring."

"I lost someone very close to me…" her voice became sad as she spoke.

Sherlock was about to say the word, 'boring.' But before he could the lady continued. "But the problem is that, you see, he can change his face, his whole appearance, and that's why I can't find him.

Now this piqued the private detective's interest. "Does he have a name?"

The Lady set her lips into a straight line of thought before saying, "No, but he has a title…"

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. "And that would be?"

"The Doctor."

"Do you have a name?" John asked again, hoping that if she could remember her closest friend then she could at least remember her own name.

"I have this." She opened up the bag that had been hanging against her left hip like a pouch and pulled out a rather large looking journal from inside the tiny navy blue pouch with its silver draw string.

Inside the journal was a letter, a hand-written letter, which was odd for this day and age of technology.

My dearest Evelyn,

I hope this letter finds you safe and sound wherever you maybe, but please come home, we miss you. We know that finding out that you are adopted can be a scary and frightening thing, but we are hoping you will return to us so your father and I can explain to you, why we did not tell you, you were adopted sooner.

Please come home, I am worried sick.

Love from all of my heart,

Mum

There was an address on the back; the owners of the address had to be her adoptive parents: Donna Temple-Noble and Shaun Temple. There was even a picture of Evelyn with her parents, an older sister named Penelope, a younger brother, Curtis, and a basset hound named, Gus. Evelyn was in the middle of the picture, she seemed to be happy, wearing a matching school uniform with her brother and sister.

"They live in Cardiff." Sherlock said in a bored tone. "We can easily call her cab and bring her home, or if her parents would rather bring her to a psych word we can do that."

"No, you can't!" Evelyn protested, standing up on her wobbly legs and still aching feet. "You don't understand, I'm being chased by something! I need to find The Doctor!"

"What are you being chased by?" John asked, his face was still filled with concern.

"I-I don't know…I can't remember…but I can feel it…I can feel it!" Evelyn protested, her shaking hands were now fists.