The as-yet-unnamed Jealousy Fic, Chapter Two
Fandom: Sherlock BBC/Doctor Who
Pairings: Sherlock/John, River/Eleven, (background) Rory/Amy
Warnings: Slash, het, drunkeness, oblivious geniuses and, in case you didn’t see that, crossover-ness.
Summary: River and John have a Plan. It’s a brilliant Plan, if a bit unoriginal. That’s alright though because the people they’re enacting the plan for take the term ‘socially retarded’ and prove exactly how much of an understatement it is. And, as capable as the Doctor and Sherlock are of adding one and one together, if the equation doesn’t involve actual quantifiable values, it goes straight over both of their heads. Which is rather why they had to resort to the Plan in the first place. Because hopefully their genius idiots know enough about emotions to know what to do when jealousy rears its ugly head…
AN: Is that? Another chapter? So soon? Surely not. I’m putting off doing university work. My bad.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Rory and John become friends - best friends, even - astonishingly fast. Partly because of their once-a-month meet ups where neither of them felt they entirely belonged (although, more there than anywhere else) but mostly because they were the only people they complain to without sounding like lunatics. Of course, John has his blog, but that’s really not the same as meeting up with a mate and complaining about the things that you can’t mention to the rest of the world.
And John has to tell someone. After almost a year of living under the same roof as Sherlock he’d almost reached breaking point when he finally made friends with Rory. He couldn’t tell Harry, partly because of her break up with Clara, but mostly because she’s his little sister and that would be weird. He can’t tell anyone at Scotland Yard - they all think they know anyway, and none of them would be capable of not telling Sherlock. And he really can’t tell Mycroft. That’s too many levels of wrong.
But Rory is perfect, he understands and he doesn’t know Sherlock, except in an abstract sense. He doesn’t quite get it, of course, because his wife isn’t quite the same level of crazy as Sherlock and, well, John didn’t expect her to be a genius. Although it would have been nice.
“I love him,” John finally explained. “He’s completely insane, he’s lazy and a slob and he can’t eat or sleep healthily to save his life. And the job! He’s married to his work, and not just in the doesn’t-have-a-social-life way. Literally, doesn’t care about anything other than the thrill of the chase - the ‘Great Game’.” John says the last part mockingly and he hoped it didn’t sound too bitter. He’d never admit it out loud, and it’s not an emotion he’s proud of, but John is jealous of Moriarty. The flame of interest in Sherlock’s eyes that just his name fires up.
Rory watched John steadily - as steadily as he could after his sixth beer - and made a wordless noise of commiseration.
“You ever known anyone like that?” John asked. “Anyone so bloody brilliant he can’t see past the end of his nose? All he can see is what he wants to see and he’s completely and utterly blind to human emotion. Sherlock’s diagnosed himself as a sociopath, you know. It’s not true, but the fact that he doesn’t think of himself as capable of human emotions… God.” John put the half finished beer down on the table and lowered his head to his hands. “I’m setting myself up for a hell of a fall, aren’t I?”
“I dunno about that,” Rory replied with an easy roll of his shoulders, as though something that’s been weighing on his mind for a while has been lifted. “I know a man like that. Not immune to emotions, but he could do a jolly good job of pretending to be sometimes.”
“Yeah?” John peered up through his fingers, doing his best to squash the ray of hope that flares in his chest and failing abysmally.
Rory nodded, the movement more sloppy than it would have been had he been sober. “Married my daughter. Will marry. Is marrying. I dunno. At some point in time, relative to know, the Doctor will have married my daughter.”
John snorted a laugh. For a brief moment he thought it was a joke, but then he remembered the oldness of this man’s eyes. How young he looks and how old he must be. They’d only been friends for two months, but Rory had already told more stories than anyone who’s not yet thirty has any right to know. So, maybe, time isn’t to Rory what it is to everyone else.
“How old are you?” John finally decided with asking.
Rory looked at him for one long, confused moment. Hadn’t they been talking about River’s wedding? “29,” he told John. Then adds, “I think. I lose track sometimes.”
“Hah!” John shouted, pointing sharply and almost toppling his chair over backwards in the process. “Time traveller! Take that, Mr Holmes! We’re not all geniuses, but I’m not a complete idiot!”
It was at this point that Amy poked her head out of the patio door to check on the pair of confused and slightly glum men now occupying their garden. “Rory?” she asked accusingly.
Rory threw his hands up in the air. “I didn’t tell him anything!” he immediately denied, then took a moment or two to consider what he was being accused of. “Well. I said that River is/was/will be marrying the Doctor.” - John let out another triumphant ‘Hah!’ - “And he figured the rest of it out,” Rory finished miserably.
Amy eyed the pair of them for a moment, then sighed and shrugged her shoulders. She oughtn’t have been surprised really. She’d known from the moment that Rory and John had first stumbled home out-of-their-skulls drunk the first night they’d become friends two months ago that something like this would happen. She had known who Sherlock was, and as a by-product who John was as well. And if she’s learnt anything from her time travelling with the Doctor (other than, when he grins in a certain kind of way you really ought to run very fast away from whatever he’s grinning at but will, undoubtedly, end up running straight towards it) it’s that genius rubs off.
‘The Science of Deduction’ was the name of Sherlock’s website and she’d visited it a couple of times out of interest. But more interesting by far was John’s blog. Because it didn’t take a lot of figuring out to know that Dr John H Watson was a genius in his own right. Oh, he didn’t measure up to Mr Holmes, or the Doctor, not by a long shot. And that was rather the point, Amy suspected. John looked like he should be your average bloke, a bit smarter than average, perhaps, but nothing extraordinary. Which meant that any ‘bad guys’ - and there were quite a lot of those - would underestimate him.
And the thing about intelligent men is that a lot of the time if the simplest explanation doesn’t fit into a set of rules they accept as given about the world they live in, they dismiss them sooner or later. So John would soon dismiss the idea of them having travelled through time. Although, given how many empty bottles between the two of them, Amy rather suspected that John wouldn’t remember in the morning that he had such an idea to dismiss.
“Rory,” John said, only slurring a little. “Have I ever told you how beautiful your wife is? And how reeeeed her hair is?”
“Stop it,” Rory tried to demand, turning to squint at Amy as well and grinning stupidly at her. “’S my wife.”
“I don’t fancy your wife,” John replied, looking a little annoyed that such an accusation was made. “But she’s got very red hair.”
Rory blinked some more, still grinning. “Yeah,” he agreed after a bit.
Amy watched as the two men sat on the patio, slumped in their wooden seats staring admiringly up at her. They’d probably had a bit too much to drink, she thought. That wasn’t a surprise. Neither of them were particularly heavy drinkers and it didn’t take a lot of alcohol to get them pissed and John had turned up on their doorstep earlier that evening with a hangdog expression on his face and a lot of alcohol in the plastic bags he was carrying.
“Ok, stupid face, let’s get you to bed.”
“Sherlock calls me an idiot,” John told her candidly as she bent to put one of Rory’s arms around her shoulder and shifted to take his weight, hauling him out of the chair and staggering upright. “D’you think he means it as a term of endearment?”
“I’m sure he does,” Amy said. If she’d been taking any of what John said seriously, she might have tried to sound more sincere about her answer. All that she’d read and heard about Sherlock indicated that, if the consulting detective wasn’t in love with John, he was very, very close to. But she wasn’t really listening and was far busier trying to manhandle her now-dozing husband indoors and up the stairs.
So John was left with a patronising answer and the rest of his bottle of beer. He stared at it for a long moment and contemplated bursting into tears. Not particularly manly, but the massive gay crush he had on his flatmate wasn’t exactly the height of masculinity either. He decided against it at any rate, because he had been in the army and he did have a gun and really, if he’d managed surviving for three weeks on his own in utter, mind-rending boredom before Sherlock came along without a emotional breakdown, he jolly well wasn’t going to have one now.
He downed the rest of the beer to reenlarge his testosterone driven side. Then immediately regretted it because he promptly started hallucinating.
Or, rather, he thought he began hallucinating.
Because one does not go from sitting on one’s own on an uncomfortable wooden chair on your best mate’s porch entirely alone in the world to having a rather fit woman sprawled across your lap looking just a tad cross-eyed.
“Hello,” John said, wondering if it counted as having voices in your head if you saw things.
The woman - who had a rather astounding amount of curly hair atop her head - sat as upright as she could wedged between his lap and the table and tried to blink away her cross-eyed-ness. “Hello,” she echoed back.
“I’m John,” he told her. Even if she was a figment of his imagination, there was no point being rude about it.
“Why?” she demanded to know. “Why are you called John? All men are called John, it’s boring!”
There was a pause where they both sort of stared at each other for a while. John wondered if it was normal to hallucinate people that were also drunk. He thinks he ought to know that alcohol doesn’t make you hallucinate and that he should start worrying about whether Sherlock had tampered with the bottles. Which would have been bloody impressive, considering he’s pretty certain he picked them up after storming out of 221B and on his way straight to Rory’s. Heh. Straight. Not any more he’s not. Well. Rory is. Mostly. John thinks. John isn’t. Totally loop-de-loop in love with another man. Who wasn’t interested. Serves him right for going gay when his sister had done that years ago.
“Hamish,” John blurted out before he started declaring his love for a man in front of this gorgeous woman who might or might not let him get off with her if he doesn’t mention it and she turns out to be real.
“You said John,” she accused, probably trying to raise an eyebrow at him but she goes cross-eyed again so that’s just idle speculation on John’s part.
“I’m John,” he frowned back. One second she was complaining about how boring his name is, and the next she was trying to steal it? She can’t use the name ‘John’ anyway, she’s a she.
She glared at him and toppled forward a bit. It’s a bit painful because her forehead clonks against John’s chin but he doesn’t mind after that because now she’s properly sprawled on top of him. “You said John was boring.”
“It is boring.”
“Well Hamish isn’t.”
“But you’re name isn’t Hamish, it’s John. You said so.”
“It is too Hamish.”
“So you lied to me?”
John scowled. He didn’t think so. He doesn’t like lying as a rule, and tries to do it as little as possible. Of course, living with Sherlock means that ‘as little as possible’ is still a hell of a lot more frequently than John used to, but that’s really not the point. He’s pretty certain that he hasn’t lied about his name to her. Whose name he still hasn’t learnt, coincidentally.
“I can have more than one name,” he informed her primly. “Whuzurs?” That was meant to be ‘what’s yours?’ he thought, but the sentence lost momentum as her weight caused him to slouch lower in the chair and he had to put more effort into not falling off.
“River Melody Song-Pond,” the woman replied cheerfully and hiccoughed a bit. “I’m a bit drunk.”
John hummed. It began tunelessly and ended up as an off-key rendition of ‘All You Need is Love’. River Melody Song-Pond joined in singing the chorus and John’s bum lost the last of its dubious grip of the chair he was slouched in and the two of them fell to the ground with a muffled thump. Then John started giggling and so did she and when Amy came back downstairs, they were a big tangled pile of limbs that was shaking hysterically
Amy was a godsend, really she was, John thought about half an hour later curled up in a sleeping bag on top of a double bed. She’d pushed him in the direction of the bedroom and thrown a sleeping bag at his head. Which meant no luck on the getting-some front, but John rather suspected that that boat sailed a long time ago about the same time his heart decided that falling in love with an asexual maniac was a good idea. Or, maybe good idea was putting it too strongly. Inevitable was probably closer to the truth. He blamed Sherlock.
“John-who-might-be-Hamish?” a soft voice from the doorway broke into his thoughts.
“River Melody Song-Pond!” he exclaimed, a little too loud, and rapidly shushed himself.
She’s wrapped in a sleeping bag as well, and half hopped, half waddled across the room, flopping onto the bed next to him. “You can call me River,” she murmured, tossing her head a bit and getting her curls in John’s mouth.
“I’m John,” he said, pretty certain he’d said that before and that it had led to a lot of confusion, so continued quickly, “Hamish Watson. Hamish is my middle name, everyone just calls me John. You can call me Hamish if that’s too boring though.”
“John’s alright,” she confessed. “My Dad’s a nurse, you know.”
“I’m a doctor,” he replied. “My Dad was a lazy bum.”
“I love the Doctor.” And the way she said it, she doesn’t mean any doctor, she means one specific one, just like Rory had earlier. “He doesn’t love me though. I think I get on his nerves.” She settled her head on his shoulder, one arm that had worked its way free from the cocoon that she’s in slipped across John and hugged him.
John frowned up into the dark, a hand idly playing with River’s hair. He rather likes her, he thinks. It’s a shame that they’re both in love with other people, it seems like she likes him too. But Rory said that the Doctor would marry his daughter. And Rory’s surname was Pond (Williams-Pond, but everyone forgot that). And River’s name was Song-Pond. Which could just be Pond. Which meant that marrying was going to happen in relation to this point in time. Or something. So River would get her man.
She didn’t have him yet, though, and she was very good at cuddling, so John refused to feel guilty about wrapping his arms around her and going to sleep. They were in separate sleeping bags and she started it, anyway. But if all else failed he could blame Sherlock. John didn’t know how, but he was certain is was possible.
~To Be Continued~
NEXT>>
Argh. Why must tenses be so confusing? I had a lot of fun writing this. I'm really rather tired and have only eaten a couple of digestive biscuits all day. And drunk lots of tea. I think it's going to my head. Anyway. TaDa! Enter River. This is not beta'd and I haven't edited it myself yet because I'm a lazy sh*t. :D love me?
Much love,
Yellow
xx
Pairings: Sherlock/John, River/Eleven, (background) Rory/Amy
Warnings: Slash, het, drunkeness, oblivious geniuses and, in case you didn’t see that, crossover-ness.
Summary: River and John have a Plan. It’s a brilliant Plan, if a bit unoriginal. That’s alright though because the people they’re enacting the plan for take the term ‘socially retarded’ and prove exactly how much of an understatement it is. And, as capable as the Doctor and Sherlock are of adding one and one together, if the equation doesn’t involve actual quantifiable values, it goes straight over both of their heads. Which is rather why they had to resort to the Plan in the first place. Because hopefully their genius idiots know enough about emotions to know what to do when jealousy rears its ugly head…
AN: Is that? Another chapter? So soon? Surely not. I’m putting off doing university work. My bad.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Rory and John become friends - best friends, even - astonishingly fast. Partly because of their once-a-month meet ups where neither of them felt they entirely belonged (although, more there than anywhere else) but mostly because they were the only people they complain to without sounding like lunatics. Of course, John has his blog, but that’s really not the same as meeting up with a mate and complaining about the things that you can’t mention to the rest of the world.
And John has to tell someone. After almost a year of living under the same roof as Sherlock he’d almost reached breaking point when he finally made friends with Rory. He couldn’t tell Harry, partly because of her break up with Clara, but mostly because she’s his little sister and that would be weird. He can’t tell anyone at Scotland Yard - they all think they know anyway, and none of them would be capable of not telling Sherlock. And he really can’t tell Mycroft. That’s too many levels of wrong.
But Rory is perfect, he understands and he doesn’t know Sherlock, except in an abstract sense. He doesn’t quite get it, of course, because his wife isn’t quite the same level of crazy as Sherlock and, well, John didn’t expect her to be a genius. Although it would have been nice.
“I love him,” John finally explained. “He’s completely insane, he’s lazy and a slob and he can’t eat or sleep healthily to save his life. And the job! He’s married to his work, and not just in the doesn’t-have-a-social-life way. Literally, doesn’t care about anything other than the thrill of the chase - the ‘Great Game’.” John says the last part mockingly and he hoped it didn’t sound too bitter. He’d never admit it out loud, and it’s not an emotion he’s proud of, but John is jealous of Moriarty. The flame of interest in Sherlock’s eyes that just his name fires up.
Rory watched John steadily - as steadily as he could after his sixth beer - and made a wordless noise of commiseration.
“You ever known anyone like that?” John asked. “Anyone so bloody brilliant he can’t see past the end of his nose? All he can see is what he wants to see and he’s completely and utterly blind to human emotion. Sherlock’s diagnosed himself as a sociopath, you know. It’s not true, but the fact that he doesn’t think of himself as capable of human emotions… God.” John put the half finished beer down on the table and lowered his head to his hands. “I’m setting myself up for a hell of a fall, aren’t I?”
“I dunno about that,” Rory replied with an easy roll of his shoulders, as though something that’s been weighing on his mind for a while has been lifted. “I know a man like that. Not immune to emotions, but he could do a jolly good job of pretending to be sometimes.”
“Yeah?” John peered up through his fingers, doing his best to squash the ray of hope that flares in his chest and failing abysmally.
Rory nodded, the movement more sloppy than it would have been had he been sober. “Married my daughter. Will marry. Is marrying. I dunno. At some point in time, relative to know, the Doctor will have married my daughter.”
John snorted a laugh. For a brief moment he thought it was a joke, but then he remembered the oldness of this man’s eyes. How young he looks and how old he must be. They’d only been friends for two months, but Rory had already told more stories than anyone who’s not yet thirty has any right to know. So, maybe, time isn’t to Rory what it is to everyone else.
“How old are you?” John finally decided with asking.
Rory looked at him for one long, confused moment. Hadn’t they been talking about River’s wedding? “29,” he told John. Then adds, “I think. I lose track sometimes.”
“Hah!” John shouted, pointing sharply and almost toppling his chair over backwards in the process. “Time traveller! Take that, Mr Holmes! We’re not all geniuses, but I’m not a complete idiot!”
It was at this point that Amy poked her head out of the patio door to check on the pair of confused and slightly glum men now occupying their garden. “Rory?” she asked accusingly.
Rory threw his hands up in the air. “I didn’t tell him anything!” he immediately denied, then took a moment or two to consider what he was being accused of. “Well. I said that River is/was/will be marrying the Doctor.” - John let out another triumphant ‘Hah!’ - “And he figured the rest of it out,” Rory finished miserably.
Amy eyed the pair of them for a moment, then sighed and shrugged her shoulders. She oughtn’t have been surprised really. She’d known from the moment that Rory and John had first stumbled home out-of-their-skulls drunk the first night they’d become friends two months ago that something like this would happen. She had known who Sherlock was, and as a by-product who John was as well. And if she’s learnt anything from her time travelling with the Doctor (other than, when he grins in a certain kind of way you really ought to run very fast away from whatever he’s grinning at but will, undoubtedly, end up running straight towards it) it’s that genius rubs off.
‘The Science of Deduction’ was the name of Sherlock’s website and she’d visited it a couple of times out of interest. But more interesting by far was John’s blog. Because it didn’t take a lot of figuring out to know that Dr John H Watson was a genius in his own right. Oh, he didn’t measure up to Mr Holmes, or the Doctor, not by a long shot. And that was rather the point, Amy suspected. John looked like he should be your average bloke, a bit smarter than average, perhaps, but nothing extraordinary. Which meant that any ‘bad guys’ - and there were quite a lot of those - would underestimate him.
And the thing about intelligent men is that a lot of the time if the simplest explanation doesn’t fit into a set of rules they accept as given about the world they live in, they dismiss them sooner or later. So John would soon dismiss the idea of them having travelled through time. Although, given how many empty bottles between the two of them, Amy rather suspected that John wouldn’t remember in the morning that he had such an idea to dismiss.
“Rory,” John said, only slurring a little. “Have I ever told you how beautiful your wife is? And how reeeeed her hair is?”
“Stop it,” Rory tried to demand, turning to squint at Amy as well and grinning stupidly at her. “’S my wife.”
“I don’t fancy your wife,” John replied, looking a little annoyed that such an accusation was made. “But she’s got very red hair.”
Rory blinked some more, still grinning. “Yeah,” he agreed after a bit.
Amy watched as the two men sat on the patio, slumped in their wooden seats staring admiringly up at her. They’d probably had a bit too much to drink, she thought. That wasn’t a surprise. Neither of them were particularly heavy drinkers and it didn’t take a lot of alcohol to get them pissed and John had turned up on their doorstep earlier that evening with a hangdog expression on his face and a lot of alcohol in the plastic bags he was carrying.
“Ok, stupid face, let’s get you to bed.”
“Sherlock calls me an idiot,” John told her candidly as she bent to put one of Rory’s arms around her shoulder and shifted to take his weight, hauling him out of the chair and staggering upright. “D’you think he means it as a term of endearment?”
“I’m sure he does,” Amy said. If she’d been taking any of what John said seriously, she might have tried to sound more sincere about her answer. All that she’d read and heard about Sherlock indicated that, if the consulting detective wasn’t in love with John, he was very, very close to. But she wasn’t really listening and was far busier trying to manhandle her now-dozing husband indoors and up the stairs.
So John was left with a patronising answer and the rest of his bottle of beer. He stared at it for a long moment and contemplated bursting into tears. Not particularly manly, but the massive gay crush he had on his flatmate wasn’t exactly the height of masculinity either. He decided against it at any rate, because he had been in the army and he did have a gun and really, if he’d managed surviving for three weeks on his own in utter, mind-rending boredom before Sherlock came along without a emotional breakdown, he jolly well wasn’t going to have one now.
He downed the rest of the beer to reenlarge his testosterone driven side. Then immediately regretted it because he promptly started hallucinating.
Or, rather, he thought he began hallucinating.
Because one does not go from sitting on one’s own on an uncomfortable wooden chair on your best mate’s porch entirely alone in the world to having a rather fit woman sprawled across your lap looking just a tad cross-eyed.
“Hello,” John said, wondering if it counted as having voices in your head if you saw things.
The woman - who had a rather astounding amount of curly hair atop her head - sat as upright as she could wedged between his lap and the table and tried to blink away her cross-eyed-ness. “Hello,” she echoed back.
“I’m John,” he told her. Even if she was a figment of his imagination, there was no point being rude about it.
“Why?” she demanded to know. “Why are you called John? All men are called John, it’s boring!”
There was a pause where they both sort of stared at each other for a while. John wondered if it was normal to hallucinate people that were also drunk. He thinks he ought to know that alcohol doesn’t make you hallucinate and that he should start worrying about whether Sherlock had tampered with the bottles. Which would have been bloody impressive, considering he’s pretty certain he picked them up after storming out of 221B and on his way straight to Rory’s. Heh. Straight. Not any more he’s not. Well. Rory is. Mostly. John thinks. John isn’t. Totally loop-de-loop in love with another man. Who wasn’t interested. Serves him right for going gay when his sister had done that years ago.
“Hamish,” John blurted out before he started declaring his love for a man in front of this gorgeous woman who might or might not let him get off with her if he doesn’t mention it and she turns out to be real.
“You said John,” she accused, probably trying to raise an eyebrow at him but she goes cross-eyed again so that’s just idle speculation on John’s part.
“I’m John,” he frowned back. One second she was complaining about how boring his name is, and the next she was trying to steal it? She can’t use the name ‘John’ anyway, she’s a she.
She glared at him and toppled forward a bit. It’s a bit painful because her forehead clonks against John’s chin but he doesn’t mind after that because now she’s properly sprawled on top of him. “You said John was boring.”
“It is boring.”
“Well Hamish isn’t.”
“But you’re name isn’t Hamish, it’s John. You said so.”
“It is too Hamish.”
“So you lied to me?”
John scowled. He didn’t think so. He doesn’t like lying as a rule, and tries to do it as little as possible. Of course, living with Sherlock means that ‘as little as possible’ is still a hell of a lot more frequently than John used to, but that’s really not the point. He’s pretty certain that he hasn’t lied about his name to her. Whose name he still hasn’t learnt, coincidentally.
“I can have more than one name,” he informed her primly. “Whuzurs?” That was meant to be ‘what’s yours?’ he thought, but the sentence lost momentum as her weight caused him to slouch lower in the chair and he had to put more effort into not falling off.
“River Melody Song-Pond,” the woman replied cheerfully and hiccoughed a bit. “I’m a bit drunk.”
John hummed. It began tunelessly and ended up as an off-key rendition of ‘All You Need is Love’. River Melody Song-Pond joined in singing the chorus and John’s bum lost the last of its dubious grip of the chair he was slouched in and the two of them fell to the ground with a muffled thump. Then John started giggling and so did she and when Amy came back downstairs, they were a big tangled pile of limbs that was shaking hysterically
Amy was a godsend, really she was, John thought about half an hour later curled up in a sleeping bag on top of a double bed. She’d pushed him in the direction of the bedroom and thrown a sleeping bag at his head. Which meant no luck on the getting-some front, but John rather suspected that that boat sailed a long time ago about the same time his heart decided that falling in love with an asexual maniac was a good idea. Or, maybe good idea was putting it too strongly. Inevitable was probably closer to the truth. He blamed Sherlock.
“John-who-might-be-Hamish?” a soft voice from the doorway broke into his thoughts.
“River Melody Song-Pond!” he exclaimed, a little too loud, and rapidly shushed himself.
She’s wrapped in a sleeping bag as well, and half hopped, half waddled across the room, flopping onto the bed next to him. “You can call me River,” she murmured, tossing her head a bit and getting her curls in John’s mouth.
“I’m John,” he said, pretty certain he’d said that before and that it had led to a lot of confusion, so continued quickly, “Hamish Watson. Hamish is my middle name, everyone just calls me John. You can call me Hamish if that’s too boring though.”
“John’s alright,” she confessed. “My Dad’s a nurse, you know.”
“I’m a doctor,” he replied. “My Dad was a lazy bum.”
“I love the Doctor.” And the way she said it, she doesn’t mean any doctor, she means one specific one, just like Rory had earlier. “He doesn’t love me though. I think I get on his nerves.” She settled her head on his shoulder, one arm that had worked its way free from the cocoon that she’s in slipped across John and hugged him.
John frowned up into the dark, a hand idly playing with River’s hair. He rather likes her, he thinks. It’s a shame that they’re both in love with other people, it seems like she likes him too. But Rory said that the Doctor would marry his daughter. And Rory’s surname was Pond (Williams-Pond, but everyone forgot that). And River’s name was Song-Pond. Which could just be Pond. Which meant that marrying was going to happen in relation to this point in time. Or something. So River would get her man.
She didn’t have him yet, though, and she was very good at cuddling, so John refused to feel guilty about wrapping his arms around her and going to sleep. They were in separate sleeping bags and she started it, anyway. But if all else failed he could blame Sherlock. John didn’t know how, but he was certain is was possible.
~To Be Continued~
NEXT>>
Argh. Why must tenses be so confusing? I had a lot of fun writing this. I'm really rather tired and have only eaten a couple of digestive biscuits all day. And drunk lots of tea. I think it's going to my head. Anyway. TaDa! Enter River. This is not beta'd and I haven't edited it myself yet because I'm a lazy sh*t. :D love me?
Much love,
Yellow
xx