Fic: A Crack In Time PART 6/8
Title: A Crack In Time
Fandom: BBC Sherlock, The Time Traveller's Wife
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Genre(s): Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Fantasy
Warnings: None
Length: 13,939 total words
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has never been the subject of bullies, and has a rather happy childhood. But he's also alone. And while he doesn't mind being alone, he would like a friend.
But one day a man literally pops into his garden.
Notes: Original prompt http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=119001119#t119001119
31st January 2011. (John is 39, Sherlock is 35.)
“Who is this?” asks Lestrade sternly.
Sherlock brushes past both the D.I and John, who is still dressing himself in the customary blue, plastic suit. Sherlock waves a hand. “He’s with me.”
“But-“
“I said he’s with me.”
Lestrade looks carefully at John. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?
“Probably,” Sherlock replies, cutting John out. “He’s an old friend of mine.”
John holds out his hand and smiles. “Glad you remembered. Sorry I never introduced myself, Detective Inspector. John Watson.”
The offered hand holds steady, but it isn’t taken. Lestrade’s face clears. “You were the bloke with Sherlock when I had to give him a kick up the backside, right? In 1997.”
At Sherlock’s slow nod, Lestrade leans forward and peers at John’s face. “Wow, you haven’t aged a bit. In fact, I’d say you look younger now than you did then.”
“Thank you,” replies John uncertainly. His fingers fiddle with the cuff of the blue jumpsuit. Lestrade knows body language, he’s been trained on it, so he’s certain that this bloke hasn’t a clue what he and Sherlock are on about. But there’s no doubt about it, this is the man from all those years ago. Unless Sherlock had managed to make a robotic friend, which Lestrade wouldn’t really put past him.
Lestrade tries to shrug it off and opens the door into the crime scene. His job comes before curiosity. But he will definitely have to enquire about Sherlock’s…friend later.
*
John seems to totally vanish after the murderer is shot, which puzzles Lestrade to no end, because the laptop he carried and the clothes he wore were left on the sidewalk outside of the college in a line, as if he’s been running and they’d just dropped off of him one by one. It would have been suspicious had the murderer not been apprehended and shot, not to mention that he had admitted to murder right in front of Sherlock. And the self-proclaimed genius’ deductions only mentioned one culprit. The evidence seemed to add up. But then what had happened to John Watson?
Later, when the emergency services and the press arrive at the scene, Sherlock inquires as to who shot the cabby for him.
“We have no idea,” replies Lestrade. The shooter was a Good Samaritan for sure though, knowing to wait until he knew that Sherlock was really in danger to shoot the cabby. But his team still don’t have any clues. “We have nothing to go on.”
Sherlock smiles smugly and eyes the pile of clothes still sitting on the pavement. Lestrade had seen him pickpocket something out of the jeans and place it in his coat. It had looked distinctly gun-like.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Sherlock says, standing up. “Not at all.”
*
3rd February 2011. (John is 39, Sherlock is 35.)
The obvious thing to do when you have an illness is monitor your condition and keep yourself treated. So that’s what John does. For a while now, he’s been medicating himself with drugs, sometimes calming and sometimes even epileptic ones. He’s figured that his time travelling episodes are akin to epileptic fits, mostly photosensitive; he can’t seem to watch a TV for longer than five minutes without feeling queasy and likely to jump in time. Flashing lights seem to set him off too. That’s why after his accident, he opted for a simple family doctor job instead of a surgeon. All of those flashing monitors, not to mention the stress and exhaustion that comes with the job from life-saving operations and late nights. God knows he couldn’t have gone back on the field anyway, what with the psychosomatic limp, the hand tremors and the deep fear coiled in the pit of his stomach, but it was nice to think that he had a choice.
He does his self-medicating with care though. It must have been fate to have been an army doctor and gone through medical school. He knows what dosages to take, the amount he has to measure, the length of time they have to be taken for and at what time they should be taken at. He also knows how to wean himself off of the drugs and start taking others as he deem fit in a healthy manner. Sherlock was very vocal about safely giving his body less amounts, which doesn’t really surprise John since Sherlock was almost an expert in that field, having had to go through drug abuse rehabilitation more than once. Sherlock was also very insistent that John use him (and when he says that, he means use Molly Hooper) in order to get to the equipment at St Barlothomew’s hospital. Molly doesn’t seem to mind though; in fact, she positively beams and blushes when Sherlock enters the room. Sherlock talks and accepts her flirts begrudgingly whilst John fiddles around with charts, researches modern medicine and even occasionally manages to acquire Molly’s pass to the hospital and get a head scan done upstairs in one of the quiet rooms. Sherlock accompanies him on these trips and helps him set things up, if only because he is curious and very as to John’s condition. This is the seemingly one time that Sherlock does him any favours. John has only thanked him once though, because Sherlock shrugged him off and continued being just as nosey as he was, and this is kind of repayment to Sherlock messing up the flat, intruding into everyone’s lives, acting bloody rude and just generally being a pompous git.
Although saying that, as a child, Sherlock used to declare that when he gre up and got a bit cleverer that he would cure John.
“I like it, but I know you don’t like time travelling because it hurts you. So I’ve decided that I’ll stop you time travelling, only you have to stay with me. It’s pointless curing you if you’re just going to stay away forever instead of a few weeks.”
John had laughed, but a bubble of hope had risen up. He knew that Sherlock was a genius in the future, not only in his job but also in chemistry, biology, physiology, psychology and numerous other ologys. If anyone could find a cure, it was Sherlock.
Only as time went on and no cure was forthcoming, he had begun to miserably doubt the little boy’s original promise. Sherlock has taken blood from John and studied his medical records in his early thirties, but even since then there hadn’t been a sound from Sherlock about it.
Perhaps he couldn’t do it and was just too proud to admit it, thinks John.
Perhaps he just didn’t want to make a mistake and cause a dire consequence, knows Sherlock.
*
10th August 2058. (John is 40, Sherlock is 82.)
John stumbles over a plant pot as he is deposited roughly on the pavement. He tried to reach for it, but he fumbles and it breaks anyway, scattering beige pieces everywhere. The corner of his mouth lifts and he sucks a breath through his teeth, displeased. It was getting dark, but if anyone were to find him now…
That’s when he notices the clothes folded neatly on the back door step, as if waiting for him. He looks around: there is nobody in sight. He creeps forward on practised, silent feet and inspects the clothes. He does a double take. Yes, that’s definitely his jumper. The beige, cable knit one. John eyes it carefully; if his clothes are here, then maybe another John is too. Or perhaps someone is waiting for him. But the only person who has his time travel dates is…
John dresses quickly and runs around the corner of the house, one of his arms still stuck in his jumper. He swats a stray bee away and smiles, because this is what Sherlock has always wanted: to retire at a golden age and move to the countryside with John to raise bees. It seems an age that he runs; up the wooden steps past the pond and rockery, to slide his hand against the smooth bricks and vines that makes up the cottage.
“Sherlock!” he calls, panting slightly as he walks around to the front garden. He smiles broadly and looks around, noting with fascination the futuristic cars. He must be a lot further in the future. Possibly the furthest he’s ever travelled.
“John.”
John swivels around and falters. Standing before him, holding a dog by its collar, is Sherlock Holmes. His hair is grey, his face wrinkled and his gait unsteady. He is still the wisest and best man that John has ever known.
“Hello, Sherlock,” says John, smiling. He looks around for himself, a future John, but there is no one else to be found. His heart sinks like a stone. He looks at his best friend, standing on frail legs, looking lost and forgotten. John never thought he would have used those adjectives on that man. If only John had the same deduction powers, if only he could figure what went wrong, why Sherlock is standing here today without his John, without his confidence and power.
“What happened?” says John. He is suddenly frightened. He strengthens his voice though. “What…happens?”
Sherlock edges closer, his bright eyes fixed hungrily on John. He lets go of the dog’s collar and pitches forward, straight into John’s waiting arms.
“You took your time, John Watson, that’s what happened. I’ve been waiting decades for you.”
*
Later, John silently takes a pencil in his shaking hands and adds the date of his visit to the second last page in the notebook. Sherlock never even looks at this anymore - they’re both memorised the written dates and he’s not one for sentimental value - so it would be unlikely that he would look at this again anytime soon. Until something bad happens to John.
John pauses and then writes something new.
10th August 2058.
Wait for me, Sherlock.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock, The Time Traveller's Wife
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Genre(s): Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Fantasy
Warnings: None
Length: 13,939 total words
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has never been the subject of bullies, and has a rather happy childhood. But he's also alone. And while he doesn't mind being alone, he would like a friend.
But one day a man literally pops into his garden.
Notes: Original prompt http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=119001119#t119001119
31st January 2011. (John is 39, Sherlock is 35.)
“Who is this?” asks Lestrade sternly.
Sherlock brushes past both the D.I and John, who is still dressing himself in the customary blue, plastic suit. Sherlock waves a hand. “He’s with me.”
“But-“
“I said he’s with me.”
Lestrade looks carefully at John. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?
“Probably,” Sherlock replies, cutting John out. “He’s an old friend of mine.”
John holds out his hand and smiles. “Glad you remembered. Sorry I never introduced myself, Detective Inspector. John Watson.”
The offered hand holds steady, but it isn’t taken. Lestrade’s face clears. “You were the bloke with Sherlock when I had to give him a kick up the backside, right? In 1997.”
At Sherlock’s slow nod, Lestrade leans forward and peers at John’s face. “Wow, you haven’t aged a bit. In fact, I’d say you look younger now than you did then.”
“Thank you,” replies John uncertainly. His fingers fiddle with the cuff of the blue jumpsuit. Lestrade knows body language, he’s been trained on it, so he’s certain that this bloke hasn’t a clue what he and Sherlock are on about. But there’s no doubt about it, this is the man from all those years ago. Unless Sherlock had managed to make a robotic friend, which Lestrade wouldn’t really put past him.
Lestrade tries to shrug it off and opens the door into the crime scene. His job comes before curiosity. But he will definitely have to enquire about Sherlock’s…friend later.
*
John seems to totally vanish after the murderer is shot, which puzzles Lestrade to no end, because the laptop he carried and the clothes he wore were left on the sidewalk outside of the college in a line, as if he’s been running and they’d just dropped off of him one by one. It would have been suspicious had the murderer not been apprehended and shot, not to mention that he had admitted to murder right in front of Sherlock. And the self-proclaimed genius’ deductions only mentioned one culprit. The evidence seemed to add up. But then what had happened to John Watson?
Later, when the emergency services and the press arrive at the scene, Sherlock inquires as to who shot the cabby for him.
“We have no idea,” replies Lestrade. The shooter was a Good Samaritan for sure though, knowing to wait until he knew that Sherlock was really in danger to shoot the cabby. But his team still don’t have any clues. “We have nothing to go on.”
Sherlock smiles smugly and eyes the pile of clothes still sitting on the pavement. Lestrade had seen him pickpocket something out of the jeans and place it in his coat. It had looked distinctly gun-like.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Sherlock says, standing up. “Not at all.”
*
3rd February 2011. (John is 39, Sherlock is 35.)
The obvious thing to do when you have an illness is monitor your condition and keep yourself treated. So that’s what John does. For a while now, he’s been medicating himself with drugs, sometimes calming and sometimes even epileptic ones. He’s figured that his time travelling episodes are akin to epileptic fits, mostly photosensitive; he can’t seem to watch a TV for longer than five minutes without feeling queasy and likely to jump in time. Flashing lights seem to set him off too. That’s why after his accident, he opted for a simple family doctor job instead of a surgeon. All of those flashing monitors, not to mention the stress and exhaustion that comes with the job from life-saving operations and late nights. God knows he couldn’t have gone back on the field anyway, what with the psychosomatic limp, the hand tremors and the deep fear coiled in the pit of his stomach, but it was nice to think that he had a choice.
He does his self-medicating with care though. It must have been fate to have been an army doctor and gone through medical school. He knows what dosages to take, the amount he has to measure, the length of time they have to be taken for and at what time they should be taken at. He also knows how to wean himself off of the drugs and start taking others as he deem fit in a healthy manner. Sherlock was very vocal about safely giving his body less amounts, which doesn’t really surprise John since Sherlock was almost an expert in that field, having had to go through drug abuse rehabilitation more than once. Sherlock was also very insistent that John use him (and when he says that, he means use Molly Hooper) in order to get to the equipment at St Barlothomew’s hospital. Molly doesn’t seem to mind though; in fact, she positively beams and blushes when Sherlock enters the room. Sherlock talks and accepts her flirts begrudgingly whilst John fiddles around with charts, researches modern medicine and even occasionally manages to acquire Molly’s pass to the hospital and get a head scan done upstairs in one of the quiet rooms. Sherlock accompanies him on these trips and helps him set things up, if only because he is curious and very as to John’s condition. This is the seemingly one time that Sherlock does him any favours. John has only thanked him once though, because Sherlock shrugged him off and continued being just as nosey as he was, and this is kind of repayment to Sherlock messing up the flat, intruding into everyone’s lives, acting bloody rude and just generally being a pompous git.
Although saying that, as a child, Sherlock used to declare that when he gre up and got a bit cleverer that he would cure John.
“I like it, but I know you don’t like time travelling because it hurts you. So I’ve decided that I’ll stop you time travelling, only you have to stay with me. It’s pointless curing you if you’re just going to stay away forever instead of a few weeks.”
John had laughed, but a bubble of hope had risen up. He knew that Sherlock was a genius in the future, not only in his job but also in chemistry, biology, physiology, psychology and numerous other ologys. If anyone could find a cure, it was Sherlock.
Only as time went on and no cure was forthcoming, he had begun to miserably doubt the little boy’s original promise. Sherlock has taken blood from John and studied his medical records in his early thirties, but even since then there hadn’t been a sound from Sherlock about it.
Perhaps he couldn’t do it and was just too proud to admit it, thinks John.
Perhaps he just didn’t want to make a mistake and cause a dire consequence, knows Sherlock.
*
10th August 2058. (John is 40, Sherlock is 82.)
John stumbles over a plant pot as he is deposited roughly on the pavement. He tried to reach for it, but he fumbles and it breaks anyway, scattering beige pieces everywhere. The corner of his mouth lifts and he sucks a breath through his teeth, displeased. It was getting dark, but if anyone were to find him now…
That’s when he notices the clothes folded neatly on the back door step, as if waiting for him. He looks around: there is nobody in sight. He creeps forward on practised, silent feet and inspects the clothes. He does a double take. Yes, that’s definitely his jumper. The beige, cable knit one. John eyes it carefully; if his clothes are here, then maybe another John is too. Or perhaps someone is waiting for him. But the only person who has his time travel dates is…
John dresses quickly and runs around the corner of the house, one of his arms still stuck in his jumper. He swats a stray bee away and smiles, because this is what Sherlock has always wanted: to retire at a golden age and move to the countryside with John to raise bees. It seems an age that he runs; up the wooden steps past the pond and rockery, to slide his hand against the smooth bricks and vines that makes up the cottage.
“Sherlock!” he calls, panting slightly as he walks around to the front garden. He smiles broadly and looks around, noting with fascination the futuristic cars. He must be a lot further in the future. Possibly the furthest he’s ever travelled.
“John.”
John swivels around and falters. Standing before him, holding a dog by its collar, is Sherlock Holmes. His hair is grey, his face wrinkled and his gait unsteady. He is still the wisest and best man that John has ever known.
“Hello, Sherlock,” says John, smiling. He looks around for himself, a future John, but there is no one else to be found. His heart sinks like a stone. He looks at his best friend, standing on frail legs, looking lost and forgotten. John never thought he would have used those adjectives on that man. If only John had the same deduction powers, if only he could figure what went wrong, why Sherlock is standing here today without his John, without his confidence and power.
“What happened?” says John. He is suddenly frightened. He strengthens his voice though. “What…happens?”
Sherlock edges closer, his bright eyes fixed hungrily on John. He lets go of the dog’s collar and pitches forward, straight into John’s waiting arms.
“You took your time, John Watson, that’s what happened. I’ve been waiting decades for you.”
*
Later, John silently takes a pencil in his shaking hands and adds the date of his visit to the second last page in the notebook. Sherlock never even looks at this anymore - they’re both memorised the written dates and he’s not one for sentimental value - so it would be unlikely that he would look at this again anytime soon. Until something bad happens to John.
John pauses and then writes something new.
10th August 2058.
Wait for me, Sherlock.