Sherlock/Doctor Who: Promise Kept
Title: Promise Kept
Characters: John, Sherlock, Amy Pond, Rory
Pairings: implied Amy/Rory
Fandom and/or Prompt: Sherlock/Doctor Who
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Warnings/triggers: a character with a broken leg near the end
Word count: 1288
Summary: John and Sherlock are helped out of a sticky situation by some people who seem to know Sherlock very well--who may or may not be imaginary and may or may not travel in time.
Author's Notes: Written for consci_fan_mo
Just a little Wholock, adapted from something else much longer that didn't work and sat around in my folders for ages, so I've shortened it up to make it more concise for the Month and it works much better this way, I think.
2012
John wasn't sure who the ginger-haired woman and the thin man who showed up out of nowhere to save them from the...things with the...things were. He didn't much care, to be honest. He was just happy they were there, and seemed to know what to do to make them go away.
He wasn't sure why it was that Sherlock, who had so far dealt with the...things with the...things very--in fact maddeningly--calmly, went white as a sheet when the ginger-haired woman approached him.
“Oh God,” Sherlock murmured. “This can't be happening.”
John had no idea how these people were any weirder than anything else that had happened so far, but Sherlock seemed genuinely disturbed by them.
“Hey, look at you all grown-up! You're rather fit,” the woman said to Sherlock, reaching out to ruffle his hair.
Someone had just ruffled Sherlock Holmes' hair. All right, John was in agreement with Sherlock. That was weirder than the...things with the...things. John got to his feet, a little surprised his knees were holding.
“Don't touch me,” Sherlock ordered, taking a quick step back.
“Still as polite as ever, I see,” the woman said.
Sherlock pointed at her angrily. “You,” he said. “Are imaginary. I dreamt you up because I was injured and in shock. You aren't real.”
“Sorry, Holmes, I'm afraid we are,” the woman said, with a grin.
Sherlock was silent for a moment, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth like they did when he was thinking hard. “Amy?” he said, uncertainly. The woman nodded. “And Rory?” The man nodded. Sherlock reached out and poked the man in the arm and then jumped back like he'd been stung. “Oh God. You are real, aren't you? You stayed with me and told me stories. You...I thought I had created you to deal with the trauma. That's what everyone said. It made sense. Why did you help me?”
“The Doctor sent us back,” Amy said. “And you were a right little terror, let me tell you. Never even said thank you.”
“Of course I didn't thank you, I didn't think you were real,” Sherlock snapped. He fell silent for a moment again. “Wait, if you're real, why were you dressed as a Roman legionnaire?”
The man shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Well, I had to, didn't I?” he said. “Because that's what happened.”
Sherlock's eyes darted again and then he looked enlightened. “Of course, I see,” he said.
“I don't,” John interrupted. “And I'd like to. So, can someone please tell me what the hell is happening? What were those things? Who are these people?”
Sherlock waved at him, dismissive. “Later,” he said. “It's not important.” He stared at them for a few moments, with something like wonder in his eyes. John had never seen him like that before. Sherlock shook his head clear, and stuck out an awkward hand. “Thank you, I suppose.”
The woman shook it with a grin. “Bout time, brat,” she said.
John never got a full explanation about the...things with the...things, or the man and woman. Sherlock said something about aliens and time travel. John couldn't tell if he was serious or not. He knew about aliens, of course, he'd seen them like everyone else, but time travel seemed, somehow, completely mental.
“Nothing's impossible, John,” Sherlock said. “Only improbable. It's idiotic to assume we know everything.”
“Wait, have you met you?” John said.
One day, months and months later, John was trying to keep up with Sherlock's long strides, when he suddenly stopped and John went right into his back. Sherlock pushed him off, irritably, and stared down an alley with that same look of wonder he'd had on the day with the...things with the...things. There was a blue police box at the end of the alley.
“That's a weird place for that,” John said. “I didn't even know those were still around.”
Sherlock grinned, and hurried over to it, giving the door a knock. He waited for a few moments, but nothing happened.
“Er, I think you're supposed to put people in it yourself,” John said. “And then use the phone to ring for police.”
“Shhh,” Sherlock said. He held out a hand. “Give me your notebook and pen.”
John handed it over, and Sherlock crouched against the wall of the alley, resting the notebook on his knees as he scribbled something in his loopy, eccentric writing. He paused to think several times before he finished, and signed his name with a flourish. He ripped the papers out and folded them up into a little packet, scribbling something on the front. He carefully set it in the window of the box. John could see 'For Amy Pond and Rory' on the front.
“What's going on?” John asked.
“Nothing,” Sherlock said. “It's not important.”
“I...don't understand,” John said.
“Don't worry,” Sherlock replied. “It hasn't happened yet.”
1981
Sherlock was quite furious. He was livid, in fact. He thought that was the right word. It sounded like the right word. It sounded like a word that meant what he felt. He was livid. He was livid at the bird who had made the nest in the tree, he was livid that the tree had branches that made it easy to climb them to look at the nest, he was livid that the branches had looked sturdy but weren't. He was livid that it had given way and he'd fallen, and he was livid at his leg for breaking.
He was also a little scared.
He, technically speaking, wasn't supposed to be this far into the woods behind the house. Not without someone with him. Which, he felt, was quite stupid, as he was five-years old and could figure out how to find his way by himself.
But not on a broken leg.
He'd been out here for a while now. He knew someone would have noticed he was missing soon enough, but finding him would be hard. He felt very dreamy, like he was awake and asleep at the same time. He wanted Mummy, and that made him livid, too, because he was grown-up now and didn't need her. He just needed someone to come and put his bone back in his leg and make the dreamy feeling go away.
“Sherlock?” someone called, from nearby.
“Here, I'm here!” Sherlock called back.
There was crunching on the leaves, and two people appeared. A ginger-haired woman, and a soldier, like out of Sherlock's book about Rome. Sherlock wasn't sure that was entirely possible. He wondered if it was a part of the dreamy feeling.
“Are you real?” he asked.
“Yep,” the woman said. She had a Scottish accent. “Real as can be. We're here to give you a hand. I'm Amy, and this is Rory.”
“'Lo,” the soldier said. He took off his cape and laid it over Sherlock, and then began examining his leg.
Amy sat down next to Sherlock, and smiled at him.
“You don't live here,” Sherlock said. “I haven't seen you before.”
“We're visiting,” Amy said. “Just passing through.”
“Rory isn't a Roman name,” Sherlock added.
“It's short for...something Roman,” Rory said.
Sherlock felt very sleepy.
“Hey, none of that,” Amy said. “Stay awake, brat. We've got a bit of a time to kill here.” She ruffled his hair, and Sherlock made a face at her. “Why don't I tell you a story?”
“You should take me home,” Sherlock said. “I want to go home. Take me home.”
“Not just yet,” Amy said. “I'm under orders. But you're going to be fine. I promise. Now, how would you like to hear a story about a blue box?”
Characters: John, Sherlock, Amy Pond, Rory
Pairings: implied Amy/Rory
Fandom and/or Prompt: Sherlock/Doctor Who
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Warnings/triggers: a character with a broken leg near the end
Word count: 1288
Summary: John and Sherlock are helped out of a sticky situation by some people who seem to know Sherlock very well--who may or may not be imaginary and may or may not travel in time.
Author's Notes: Written for consci_fan_mo
Just a little Wholock, adapted from something else much longer that didn't work and sat around in my folders for ages, so I've shortened it up to make it more concise for the Month and it works much better this way, I think.
2012
John wasn't sure who the ginger-haired woman and the thin man who showed up out of nowhere to save them from the...things with the...things were. He didn't much care, to be honest. He was just happy they were there, and seemed to know what to do to make them go away.
He wasn't sure why it was that Sherlock, who had so far dealt with the...things with the...things very--in fact maddeningly--calmly, went white as a sheet when the ginger-haired woman approached him.
“Oh God,” Sherlock murmured. “This can't be happening.”
John had no idea how these people were any weirder than anything else that had happened so far, but Sherlock seemed genuinely disturbed by them.
“Hey, look at you all grown-up! You're rather fit,” the woman said to Sherlock, reaching out to ruffle his hair.
Someone had just ruffled Sherlock Holmes' hair. All right, John was in agreement with Sherlock. That was weirder than the...things with the...things. John got to his feet, a little surprised his knees were holding.
“Don't touch me,” Sherlock ordered, taking a quick step back.
“Still as polite as ever, I see,” the woman said.
Sherlock pointed at her angrily. “You,” he said. “Are imaginary. I dreamt you up because I was injured and in shock. You aren't real.”
“Sorry, Holmes, I'm afraid we are,” the woman said, with a grin.
Sherlock was silent for a moment, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth like they did when he was thinking hard. “Amy?” he said, uncertainly. The woman nodded. “And Rory?” The man nodded. Sherlock reached out and poked the man in the arm and then jumped back like he'd been stung. “Oh God. You are real, aren't you? You stayed with me and told me stories. You...I thought I had created you to deal with the trauma. That's what everyone said. It made sense. Why did you help me?”
“The Doctor sent us back,” Amy said. “And you were a right little terror, let me tell you. Never even said thank you.”
“Of course I didn't thank you, I didn't think you were real,” Sherlock snapped. He fell silent for a moment again. “Wait, if you're real, why were you dressed as a Roman legionnaire?”
The man shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Well, I had to, didn't I?” he said. “Because that's what happened.”
Sherlock's eyes darted again and then he looked enlightened. “Of course, I see,” he said.
“I don't,” John interrupted. “And I'd like to. So, can someone please tell me what the hell is happening? What were those things? Who are these people?”
Sherlock waved at him, dismissive. “Later,” he said. “It's not important.” He stared at them for a few moments, with something like wonder in his eyes. John had never seen him like that before. Sherlock shook his head clear, and stuck out an awkward hand. “Thank you, I suppose.”
The woman shook it with a grin. “Bout time, brat,” she said.
John never got a full explanation about the...things with the...things, or the man and woman. Sherlock said something about aliens and time travel. John couldn't tell if he was serious or not. He knew about aliens, of course, he'd seen them like everyone else, but time travel seemed, somehow, completely mental.
“Nothing's impossible, John,” Sherlock said. “Only improbable. It's idiotic to assume we know everything.”
“Wait, have you met you?” John said.
One day, months and months later, John was trying to keep up with Sherlock's long strides, when he suddenly stopped and John went right into his back. Sherlock pushed him off, irritably, and stared down an alley with that same look of wonder he'd had on the day with the...things with the...things. There was a blue police box at the end of the alley.
“That's a weird place for that,” John said. “I didn't even know those were still around.”
Sherlock grinned, and hurried over to it, giving the door a knock. He waited for a few moments, but nothing happened.
“Er, I think you're supposed to put people in it yourself,” John said. “And then use the phone to ring for police.”
“Shhh,” Sherlock said. He held out a hand. “Give me your notebook and pen.”
John handed it over, and Sherlock crouched against the wall of the alley, resting the notebook on his knees as he scribbled something in his loopy, eccentric writing. He paused to think several times before he finished, and signed his name with a flourish. He ripped the papers out and folded them up into a little packet, scribbling something on the front. He carefully set it in the window of the box. John could see 'For Amy Pond and Rory' on the front.
“What's going on?” John asked.
“Nothing,” Sherlock said. “It's not important.”
“I...don't understand,” John said.
“Don't worry,” Sherlock replied. “It hasn't happened yet.”
1981
Sherlock was quite furious. He was livid, in fact. He thought that was the right word. It sounded like the right word. It sounded like a word that meant what he felt. He was livid. He was livid at the bird who had made the nest in the tree, he was livid that the tree had branches that made it easy to climb them to look at the nest, he was livid that the branches had looked sturdy but weren't. He was livid that it had given way and he'd fallen, and he was livid at his leg for breaking.
He was also a little scared.
He, technically speaking, wasn't supposed to be this far into the woods behind the house. Not without someone with him. Which, he felt, was quite stupid, as he was five-years old and could figure out how to find his way by himself.
But not on a broken leg.
He'd been out here for a while now. He knew someone would have noticed he was missing soon enough, but finding him would be hard. He felt very dreamy, like he was awake and asleep at the same time. He wanted Mummy, and that made him livid, too, because he was grown-up now and didn't need her. He just needed someone to come and put his bone back in his leg and make the dreamy feeling go away.
“Sherlock?” someone called, from nearby.
“Here, I'm here!” Sherlock called back.
There was crunching on the leaves, and two people appeared. A ginger-haired woman, and a soldier, like out of Sherlock's book about Rome. Sherlock wasn't sure that was entirely possible. He wondered if it was a part of the dreamy feeling.
“Are you real?” he asked.
“Yep,” the woman said. She had a Scottish accent. “Real as can be. We're here to give you a hand. I'm Amy, and this is Rory.”
“'Lo,” the soldier said. He took off his cape and laid it over Sherlock, and then began examining his leg.
Amy sat down next to Sherlock, and smiled at him.
“You don't live here,” Sherlock said. “I haven't seen you before.”
“We're visiting,” Amy said. “Just passing through.”
“Rory isn't a Roman name,” Sherlock added.
“It's short for...something Roman,” Rory said.
Sherlock felt very sleepy.
“Hey, none of that,” Amy said. “Stay awake, brat. We've got a bit of a time to kill here.” She ruffled his hair, and Sherlock made a face at her. “Why don't I tell you a story?”
“You should take me home,” Sherlock said. “I want to go home. Take me home.”
“Not just yet,” Amy said. “I'm under orders. But you're going to be fine. I promise. Now, how would you like to hear a story about a blue box?”