Don't look back; I'll take you where you belong
Title: Don't look back; I'll take you where you belong
Author: fate_incomplete
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Set after 2.03 for Sherlock, and after 6.13 for Doctor Who
Characters: John Watson, Eleven, Sherlock, Mycroft
Word Count: 6,200
A/N: Doctor Who and Sherlock crossover. Post Reichenbach Fall for John, and post Lake Silencio for the Doctor.
Summary: John is alone, finding it hard to move on when everything seems so empty, and the Doctor gets a message he can't ignore, despite his best efforts. An impossible blue box and an adventure bring John back (or more accurately, forward) to something he thought lost.
.......................
The rhythmic clank of the spoon as Mycroft stirred his tea broke the silence between them. John gritted his teeth in time to it, as his fingers griped the arms of his chair, fighting the urge to simply leave.
John had spent the past three weeks ignoring the elder Holmes. Slammed doors, walking past black cars on the street, even as they followed him, messages left with Mrs Hudson, and incessant phone calls unanswered, to the point of ditching his old phone. It had taken only four hours for Mycroft to get the new number though.
When he had come home half an hour ago to find Mycroft sitting in their flat, he had decided to just hear whatever the persistent, arrogant git had to say, and get it over and done with.
John watched as Mycroft kept up his elegantly restrained stirring. Even his tea drinking habits were infuriating. John fantasised about bodily removing him from the flat, but knew it would be pointless. It might be mildly satisfying though, to toss him out on the street, and ruffle that ridiculously tailored suit.
Mycroft would only come back though. He clearly had something to say. If it was yet another attempt at an apology for his involvement in the events leading to Sherlock's apparent suicide, John thought he might just break his nose. That may actually be even more satisfying.
Mycroft finally stopped stirring, tapped the spoon gently on the side of the teacup before placing it on the saucer with such deliberate care, John wondered if he actually practiced being so maddeningly insufferable and deadpan. Only Mycroft Holmes could use etiquette as an interrogation method, which is somehow what this felt like.
Childhood dinners at the Holmes residence must have been a hoot.
The unintended thought of the Holmes brother's together brought that all too familiar stab of grief. He buried it beneath his military control, stifling it before it could register on his face. John had no doubt Mycroft had seen it anyway.
Mycroft took a sip of his tea.
John tapped his fingers on the arm chair, unnerved by the growing silence.
Another sip.
"Why are you here Mycroft?" John snapped.
Mycroft looked up, setting his tea on the table, looking affronted at the apparent rudeness of asking someone who broke into your house, what they were doing there.
Bastard, John thought.
"I was...concerned," Mycroft eventually answered in practiced detachment.
"Concerned?"
"Yes. You seem surprised?"
John didn't answer for a moment. "Why do you even care?"
"Sherlock would have..."
"Would have what? What exactly do you know about what Sherlock would have wanted?"
"Yes...well," Mycroft answered, looking out the window.
John momentarily regretted snapping. Mycroft had lost a brother after all. As incapable at expressing any sort of human emotion as the brothers had appeared, there had always been some sort of concern between them.
Mycroft looked like he was about to say more, but took another sip of tea instead, the silence now even more awkward. The one thing they had in common no longer in either of their lives.
John's fingers started tapping again, his eyes drawn to the smiley face on the wall in an effort to avoid eye contact as Mycroft turned back to look at him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mycroft pull something out his coat pocket.
"I found this when I was going through Sherlock's belongings."
John didn't answer, but couldn't help looking at the blue notebook in Mycroft's hand.
Most of Sherlock's things were still scattered all around the flat. He hadn't known what to do with them, so had left pretty much everything as it was. The reminders of his friend were both comforting and painful. He hadn't seen the notebook before though.
"Apparently, he wanted you to have it."
Mycroft stood, holding the notebook out to John, who made no move to take it.
Sherlock didn't take notes, he had his mind palace.
"It's from one of his more...troubled times. A year or two before he met you," Mycroft continued.
John still made no move to take it, so Mycroft set it down on the table.
"Well, if you ever need anything..."
John looked back at the smiley face.
"I'll see myself out."
John didn't react as Mycroft walked out of the flat. He sat there staring at that stupid smiley face for an hour before he finally picked up the book.
Sherlock's handwriting was scrawled across the pages, even more manic than John expected. He assumed by 'troubled times', Mycroft meant when he was still doing drugs. Equations and half formed thoughts filled the pages. None of it seemed to make sense.
Whole pages were crossed out irritably. It was as if Sherlock had stumbled across something even his remarkable mind couldn't comprehend. John could imagine Sherlock's agitation at finding a mystery he couldn't unravel as easily as most people fell asleep, though he had no idea what could have confounded the great Sherlock Holmes.
John flicked through the pages, making out what little he could, fingers tracing the words, as if he could find a way closer to the man who had written them hidden in the texture of the page.
A white card in a leather cover slipped out of the note book. John flipped it over in his hands, unsure of what it was. It had a note scribbled across it, bugger off Mycroft and give this to John. He wondered when Sherlock had written it, though it didn't really look like Sherlock's writing.
He was about to put it aside when he noticed something that he was sure hadn't been there a second ago. There was a line of text beneath the note, call if you're bored. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to remember when it last was he'd had a good night's sleep, as the words shimmered before his eyes.
The flat had gotten dark as he had sat reading. John closed the note book, finger still possessively running over the cover. He had an early shift at the clinic in the morning, but didn't have the energy to make it to the bedroom. He drifted off to sleep in the chair instead, wondering why Sherlock would have wanted him to have the notebook.
Maybe it had been just to annoy Mycroft.
.......................
The Doctor sucked on his finger that was still tingling from an electric shock. Another series of beeps emanated from the monitor above. The Doctor continued to ignore it as he messed with a set of wires, promptly receiving anther shock.
"Okay, okay," he said rubbing at the newest tingling finger. "But you know what happened last time."
He turned the monitor on, tapping it on the side as the signal cut out, before it settled on coordinates. London 2012.
"Fine," he muttered to himself. "Why not? Just because last time he caused a temporal rift that nearly destroyed a solar system, as apparently gravity wasn't important enough for him to bother remembering."
The Doctor flipped levers and set the TARDIS to home in on the signal, which could only be coming from the psychic paper he had given to Sherlock Holmes several years ago.
He opened the door as the TARDIS settled in what he assumed must be Sherlock's new address. Books were scattered everywhere, and a few papers were still settling after being disturbed by the TARDIS materialising.
A man in his thirties was standing in the middle of the room, holding the psychic paper and staring wide eyed at him and the TARDIS.
"You're not Sherlock," the Doctor stated.
The man blinked, looked to suddenly realise his mouth was hanging open, and closed it.
"No, I'm not."
"But that's his psychic paper."
"Yes," he replied looking down at the paper. "His what?"
The man's knees looked like they suddenly forgot how to function as he stumbled, grabbing the back of a chair to hold himself up with one hand, while pointing at the TARDIS with the other.
"That's a police box."
"Yes. Well, not really."
"In the middle of my flat."
"Ah, yes, sorry about that," the Doctor replied, peeling off a sheet of paper that was stuck to the side of the TARDIS, and placing it apologetically on a table.
"There's a police box, in the middle of my flat."
"I believe we covered that. Is Sherlock here? Or have I rather messed up the coordinates? Again."
"Sherlock's dead."
"Oh right...What year is it again?"
The man managed to get his legs to work well enough to slump into the chair with relative dignity.
"Sherlock's dead?" The Doctor asked when he didn't get an answer.
"He killed himself, three months ago."
"That doesn't sound right."
"It wasn't."
"Right, sorry. I'm the Doctor by the way."
"John," the man answered automatically, obviously still trying to process what was going on.
"Of course, John Watson. Read your blogs. Loved the deer hat by the way, deer hats are cool."
John was still staring at him. Sitting up straight backed now. The Doctor remembered reading that John was a soldier, and assumed his military training was keeping him from freaking out, which was a novel change from some of the more hysterical receptions his appearance had received.
"Tea!" The Doctor said suddenly.
"What?"
"Tea, always good at times like this."
The Doctor spun in a circle, spying the kitchen and heading off to make tea as he tried to think what to do next. He had been prepared to find a Sherlock so desperately bored he had used the psychic paper to spice up his day, despite their less than amicable parting the last time they had seen each other. Not an obviously still grieving John Watson, still unaware his friend wasn't actually dead.
He checked his watch to confirm exactly where he was in John's time line. He had of course already heard the story of Sherlock's apparent demise and return from the older Holmes brother after trouble with an unfortunate alien parasite infestation at Downey street. If he had the time right, it would still be some months before John found out the truth.
He spent about half a breath wishing he had actually bothered to check the monitor before appearing, but he had been too distracted by the thought of Sherlock messing things up again. Of course Sherlock had messed things up, in an entirely unrelated way, for John, the Doctor thought harshly. Conveniently forgetting he had recently done something similar himself.
He walked back to John, balancing two cups of tea with relative success. The Doctor noted that John seemed to have somewhat reconciled the unexpected arrival of the TARDIS as he took the offered tea with a remarkably steady hand.
Still unsure about what to do, he decided planning to have a plan usual worked well enough, as he took a sip of tea, and promptly spat it back out again.
.......................
John awkwardly held his cup as he watched the man, the Doctor, spit out a mouthful of tea. It was all entirely too surreal to make any sort of sense, so he just sat staring; deciding the Browning Pistol he had hidden in his jacket while the Doctor was in the kitchen wasn't quite called for just yet.
He wasn't sure exactly what was called for, having already dismissed several more plausible explanations for who this strange man was, and how the hell a police box had appeared in the middle of his flat.
He thought at first he must be dreaming, but decided that was unlikely. This was hardly the sort of dream he usually had. He had also dismissed the possibility of consuming some sort of hallucinogenic that Sherlock had left lying around. It had been months since Sherlock's death, and all of the food in the house was new. Besides, Mrs Hudson had cleaned up all of Sherlock's experiments the week after the funeral, all the while fondly reminiscing about Sherlock's peculiar habits, as John sat unresponsive in his chair, staring at the empty one across from him.
"So, you're John?" The Doctor asked after an extended silence.
"I am."
"I'm the Doctor, but we did that already didn't we."
"Who...what, are you?" John asked, looking between the Doctor and the blue box.
"Ah, complicated. That is the TARDIS, time and relative dimension in space. Self explanatory, it travels through time and space, and I'm, well, an alien if you want to be all humany. Of course you're an alien to me, it's all relative really."
"An alien, of course," John said, even less sure what to think, but going along with it until some better explanation presented itself, like possibly he was going insane. "An alien, who looks human, with a time machine, which looks like a blue box. Couldn't stretch the budget for special effects I suppose?"
The Doctor looked insulted for a second, before smiling smugly as he straightened his bow tie. "I could show you a thing or too, if you had the time, which, well I'm a Timelord, so you do. All of time and space...and shenanigans. If you're bored, which you must be, or the physic paper wouldn't have called me. Just think of me as a un-bored-o-gram. Or not, rubbish title."
He pointed to the psychic paper John was still holding. "That was meant for Sherlock, but any friend of Sherlock, well, would be pretty much unheard of, but the principle holds. So, how about it? Time, space, adventure and danger? Just what a man like you needs I'd say."
The Doctor clicked his fingers, opening the door to the TARDIS. "Interested? Or I could just go, if you have other thrills and excitement planned?"
"You seriously expect me to just run off with you, in a blue box?"
"Well yes, why wouldn't you?" The Doctor replied indignantly.
"Because it's insane. Or I'm insane, and imagining an alien that just happened to land in my flat."
"I didn't just happen to land," the Doctor said, the crazed childlike facade dropping for a moment. "I knew Sherlock, and we both know there are few who could say that. You'll come with me, because you want to, because you miss him, and if even for a moment, you can find something of him in a part of his life you never knew, it will be worth the insanity."
John stared at the man, alien, jaw clenched at the undeniably tug of truth in those words, as much as he wanted to ignore it.
He was tired of the pity stares from those he knew and didn't know. The whispered, that's poor John Watson, the man who was suckered in by Sherlock Holmes, you know the one in the papers. There was no pity in the Doctor's eyes, just understanding, a tangible sadness, and so much more.
John stood, clutching the battered notebook and psychic paper. Without saying another word, he walked past the Doctor into the TARDIS, and madness.
.......................
"People usually go ooh, ah, but it's so much bigger..." the Doctor said, looking disappointed as John walked around the interior of the control room silently.
"A man in a police box just appeared in the middle of my flat. This isn't really all that weird after that," John replied as he looked around, trying to comprehend exactly what he was seeing, which was undeniably jaw dropping.
John let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.
"It's amazing. Absurdly, impossibly, amazing," he finally said, no longer able to hide his awe, and earning a beaming smile from the Doctor.
John rubbed a hand over his face. He was a soldier, not given to wild fantasies or paranoid theories. He believed what he could see and touch. What he was seeing was pretty convincing evidence the Doctor was exactly what he said he was, an alien. The odds that this really was a time machine were looking pretty good too.
"All of time and space, your pick," the Doctor said.
John was still busy trying to take everything in, he almost missed the implied question.
"Um, I don't know, the battle of Trafalgar?"
"Oh, don't be so obvious."
John looked across the complicated looking console at the Doctor, the sentiment behind those words all too familiar.
"Anywhere at all," the Doctor continued, apparently unaware of the sudden lump in John's throat.
John rubbed his palms against his jeans, berating himself for being caught by a sudden stab of grief even as he stood in the middle of some alien ship beyond anything he could have imagined.
"I really don't know," John replied quietly.
He glanced back out the door that was still open, back at the space he had shared with Sherlock, at all his friend's belongings he couldn't bring himself to deal with. He could just turn around and walk back to it all, and forget an alien had ever appeared in his living room. He could, but knew he wouldn't, not yet.
"Take me anywhere."
.......................
Mycroft walked into the makeshift laboratory Sherlock had set up, discreetly placing a file containing information on Moriaty's associates on the table. Sherlock had been too stubborn to ask for help, but after his visit with John two days ago, Mycroft thought it best to speed things along as best he could.
He knew Sherlock wouldn't return home until all the loose ends had been tied up, and frankly he wasn't cut out for dealing with both a brooding, vengeful brother and his grieving friend, thus deeming it sensible to contain the fallout from the events at St Bart's and preventing Sherlock from causing too much calamity. It had nothing to do with actually caring of course.
"John's missing," Mycroft stated when Sherlock refused to acknowledge his presence.
"Is he?" Sherlock asked, not bothering to look up.
"Sherlock?"
"He is perfectly capable of looking after himself I'm sure."
Sherlock replaced a slide under the microscope, adjusting the focus.
"What was in the note book?" Mycroft asked, putting the pieces together with his usual efficiency.
"Nothing, just a tip for a good holiday destination," Sherlock replied.
"I'm sure," Mycroft said more to himself as he picked up a petri dish.
"John is fine."
"You're certain?" Mycroft grimaced as he looked at the bacteria spreading across the dish.
"Yes. Well, mostly. As safe as he can be at least."
"Where is he?" Mycroft asked, careful to feign indifference.
"I have no idea."
Mycroft put down the dish, wiping his hand fastidiously. "Probably for the best," he said, before walking out, dousing his curiosity with practiced ease by pretending it wasn't important.
.......................
John had managed to take exactly three steps before his legs stopped working.
When he'd said anywhere, this was not what he had been imagining. He had no idea exactly what he had thought would happen, as his brain had still been stuck somewhere between first and reverse from the Doctor's rather mind blowing arrival, and was still struggling to catch up. Now it seemed to have settled on a flat out stall.
An hour ago he had been snoozing in the chair in his flat. Now, well now he was standing on an alien planet god knows where, looking up at the most fantastic skyline that beggared belief.
Emerald green light shifted across the sky, somewhat similar to the northern lights, but about a thousand times more impressive. The deep green reflected on a frozen landscape that was barren and harsh, but beyond beautiful.
John was a man of few words, but couldn't find even one at the moment.
The Doctor stood next to him with his hands shoved in his pockets as he rocked on the balls of his feet, seeming content to leave John to his speechlessness.
Three, no, four moons were overhead, light from the largest one refracting on ice crystals in the atmosphere, and emitting a massive halo that took up nearly a quarter of the sky.
"That, is impressive," John finally managed, looking across at the Doctor, a smile slowly spreading.
The Doctor smiled back, a strange almost tight lipped smile. John figured it was probably just a normal day for him.
"So, you're an alien then, not just some sort of..."
"Madman with a box?" The Doctor finished for him.
"One hell of a fantastic box."
"It is, isn't it."
The smile was more genuinely now.
Now that the shock of everything was starting to settle, John studied the Doctor more closely. The face was youthful, but deceptively though, John decided. Still in the grips of his own grief, John recognised the sorrow behind those eyes. He had no idea what from, and thought he probably never would. There was just something about the Doctor, a depth that was almost intoxicating, begging to be understood, but probably impossible to.
Everything about him seemed impossible. It should be intimidating, and it was to a point, but there was also an innate air of kindness, though maybe a hard edged sort of kindness.
John imagined everything about him would have intrigued Sherlock.
"I brought Sherlock here once," the Doctor said quietly, as if reading John's thoughts.
Hell maybe he could, John thought, trying to repress the sudden rush of asinine images that came to mind.
"He spent the better part of a day looking at ice crystals under a magnifying glass, trying to prove a point," the Doctor continued unperturbed, so maybe not a mind reader then. "Idiot nearly froze to death."
John smiled. That sounded like Sherlock all over.
The Doctor walked away, hands in pocket. John followed, picking his ways through the ice and snow while trying to take in the vista. It looked like a lifeless world. He stifled a smile at the half assed thought about where were all the droids or alien creatures waiting to gestate in unsuspecting humans.
"Is there any life on this Planet?"
"Not so much," the Doctor replied.
"What exactly are we doing here then?" John asked, shoving his hands into his pockets as well. It was pretty and all, but cold as hell.
"That," the Doctor answered, pointing at something.
John slipped as he reached the crest of a snow dune, having to pull his hands out to brace himself from an undignified fall. He brushed snow from increasingly freezing fingers, before stilling.
What the Doctor had been pointing at was a crashed spaceship.
"Wow, that's...massive."
"Size isn't everything," the Doctor said, seeming unimpressed with John's awe, before heading off down the slope in a mildly controlled slide.
Up close the ship was even bigger, and the damage more apparent. It was practically ripped in half, twisted and charred metal strewn around everywhere. John hurried to keep up with the Doctor, who seemed to know where he was going, scanning with some sort of device as they entered the ship through a hole in the hull.
"What exactly are you looking for?" John asked as they explored.
"A box."
"Like a black box?"
"More of a greyish green."
"Of course," John mumbled.
The device in the Doctor's hand gave off a sort of beep, causing the Doctor to exclaim animatedly and start digging through rubble. Curiosity outweighing annoyance at being kept in the dark, a familiar feeling, John helped lift away the debris until they uncovered what looked like a computer console.
The Doctor brushed away ash from a panel, kneeling down to press an ear to it as he ran his fingers over the surface. He started to pull apart the console, and hauled out what John guessed you could call a kind of box, it looked to be part of the computer.
"That's what you were looking for?"
"It's a data core, of sorts, like a hard drive, but not really."
"What's on it?"
"Me."
John's curiosity was well and truly roused, but before he could ask anything, he was distracted by a sound. The Doctor clutched the box to his chest, scanning again, flicking the device as he checked whatever it was showing him.
"What is it?" John asked, completely out of his element.
"Ah, survivors."
"Is that a good thing?"
"No. It's a really, really not good thing."
"Of course it is," John said.
The Doctor grabbed him by the arm. "Run."
They both scrambled over debris, heading back the way they had come in. A strange clicking noise echoed behind them. John turned to see what was following them, and to make sure the Doctor was with him. He saw movement in the darkness before the Doctor barrelled into him.
"I said, RUN!"
John didn't flinch, just followed the order. Heart pounding, every bit of his awareness was focused on his feet, instinct telling him a stumble would be deadly. He didn't remember their path through the ship being this long on the way in.
He turned a corner. The corridor split in two before him. Before he had time to panic at the unfamiliarity of the choice in path, instinct again instructed him to turn right. One thing war had taught him, was to trust his instincts. He ran right without hesitation.
Two dozen heartbeats, and a several meters later he saw light from the gaping hole in the hull they had entered through. Despite the order to run, he paused. The Doctor wasn't behind him.
A thudding heartbeat pounded against his ribs.
"Doctor!"
The Doctor skidded into view at the corner John had just turned, boots scraping, sending up plumes of ash as he changed direction.
"Get to the TARDIS."
John hesitated, hearing noises from the other corridor a split second before a shape crashed into the Doctor, knocking him to the ground. An alien creature loomed over the Doctor as he scrabbled backwards, hands and feet struggling for purchase on the ash strewn floor in an effort to avoid the impending assault.
A gunshot reverberated through the crashed ship before John even realised the Browning was in his hand. Two more followed in quick succession before the creature slumped to the ground, half falling on top of the Doctor.
John swallowed thickly. Stashing the handgun back in his jacket as he rushed forward, grabbing the Doctor's hand and dragging him out from under the hopefully dead body.
The Doctor's expression was dark, simmering, like he was holding back some sort of outburst, which he quickly stifled, pulling John along behind him instead. They didn't stop running until they were safely back in the TARDIS.
John slumped against the door as the Doctor pulled it shut behind them. He sucked in gasping breaths, fighting the urge to giggle. The Doctor glanced at him, stowing away that dark look again as he smiled, leaning against the door next to John.
"See, space, time, and shenanigans," the Doctor said, equally breathless as John.
John lost his fight against the urge to laugh, feeling alive for the first time in months.
.......................
John lost track of the weeks as they skipped from planet to planet, and time period to time period. Running for their lives in the year 2345, watching the ships land at Thermopylae, barely avoiding a firing squad in the Cephei system, almost being eaten by a two headed lizard like creature, to spending a lazy Tuesday afternoon arguing with Hippocrates.
It felt like he had barely had time to catch his breath. Let alone think.
The TARDIS was currently drifting idly in space. John leant against the open door, staring out into the vastness of the cosmos. It was still mind numbingly impossible. He let the expanse settle over him, eyes drifting from one star to another, lost as much in his memories as the vista of star clusters and nebulas.
The Doctor emerged from wherever he had been tinkering with the TARDIS's circuits, or whatever it was he had been doing. John enjoyed his company, far more than he would have thought possible given the absurdity of the situation, then again, since meeting Sherlock absurd had pretty much been the norm.
The Doctor leant against the wall, watching John as much as the view. He knew he was being studied, but found it somehow comforting. John had grown used to the Doctor's almost incessant babbling filling up the silence, yet he was strangely quiet now. The weary look of someone who had seen and lost so much that was always hiding somewhere in the Timelord's eyes was more prevalent in the rare moment of stillness.
John's conclusion the first day they met, that he would never really know the Doctor, had held true, though there was much he had learned. Little things that had been said, or those quiet moments when the Doctor would shy away from a topic, all had much to say about the Timelord. Along with the picture of a young couple and a woman with impossibly wild curly hair John knew the Doctor always carried with him.
He knew the Doctor was 1100 odd years old, and that fact alone was enough for John to conclude he must have inevitably lost people he cared for. The Doctor never spoke of any of it, nor did either of them talk of Sherlock. It was an unspoken agreement to leave past pains hidden away, to run as far as they could from them. He could spend a life time running, exploring the galaxy with the Doctor and be perfectly happy and undoubtedly never bored again.
So much he had never imagined possible had been shown to him over his time with the Doctor. Yet everything he had seen inevitably drew him back to the empty space inside of him. John knew that despite all the wonders, London, and a vacant flat, was drawing him back, as if he was just passing time until he returned to his life.
He had no idea why, there really wasn't all that much waiting for him back there. John found himself wondering if he asked to stay, would the Doctor say yes, while knowing he would never actually ask.
His time with the Doctor seemed inescapably short lived, one way or another.
"There's something it's time I showed you," the Doctor said suddenly, pushing off the wall and jumping up the steps to the controls with his usual energy.
"What?" John asked following at a slower pace.
"It's a surprise."
"One I'll like?"
"Yes, and maybe a little no."
"This isn't like the time you thought it would be fun to see that Mayan festival, and ended up nearly getting me sacrificed to a sun god?" John asked as he flipped a lever the Doctor indicated.
"Ah, good times," the Doctor said with impish grin John couldn't help but return. "No sun gods, though he may be as annoyingly egotistical."
"Great," John muttered, grabbing hold of the console as the TARDIS dematerialised with the Doctor's customary flair.
John waited expectantly as the TARDIS landed, but the Doctor was busy fiddling with something on the console. The doors opened showing the familiar surrounds of Baker Street, only a few hundred metres from 221B by the looks.
"Baker Street?" John asked, confused and a little uneasy.
"Yes," the Doctor answered, not meeting John's gaze.
"When?"
"Your own time, well a few months later. 2012. November 27, 8.34pm to be precise."
"You're leaving me behind."
"Well, not really, you're about to leave of your own accord. Slight difference."
"And why exactly would I choose to do that? There's nothing here for me, remember," John said trying to control his anger and dread at returning to an empty flat he hadn't yet reconciled himself to.
"That's not entirely true," the Doctor said gently, looking at something over John's shoulder.
John turned slowly, breath hitching and his grip on the console tightening.
The not so dead Sherlock Holmes was standing in the doorway.
"I thought you were dead," Sherlock and John said at the same time.
"Hello John," Sherlock said dismissively, as if he had simply popped out for awhile, not supposedly killed himself months ago. "You're meant to be dead," Sherlock repeated, glaringly icily at the Doctor as he walked up the steps.
John looked between the two, lightheaded, confused, and almost certain he would fall over if he loosened his grip on the console.
"Neat trick, much like your own," the Doctor said coldly.
"So it would seem."
The two men locked gazes, a battle of egos of the Earth's only consulting detective against that of the universes only Timelord. Both apparently unconcerned with the fact John had no idea what the fuck was going on, and felt like he might just explode if someone didn't tell him right now.
"You're not dead," John directed at Sherlock, enunciating each word with barely contained anger.
"It was, necessary. John, I'm sorry, you had to believe..."
"And you knew?" John asked accusingly, cutting Sherlock off and turning to glare at the Doctor.
The Doctor scratched his head, "Um, spoilers?" He answered, more questioningly than certain. "It's all timey wimey, I thought you knew, but then, well you didn't. It's really not my fault. He's the one who didn't tell you," he said pointing at Sherlock.
"The Doctor always lies," Sherlock said in that deep voice John hadn't heard in months, but remembered so well.
John continued to glare at the Doctor, still unable to process that his friend was really alive, afraid that if he looked back, Sherlock wouldn't really be there.
"So you did bring me back to the right time?"
"Yes," the Doctor answered, sneaking a look at the monitor as if to make sure. "Of course,"
"And that's really Sherlock, and he's really not dead?"
"Yes."
"Right," John replied, sucking in his lip as he took it all in, before turning back to Sherlock, and punching him in the face.
.......................
Sherlock held an ice pack to his cheek as he sat in one of the jump chairs in the console room, long legs crossed. He had outlined his apparent demise, satisfying John's immediate questions over his return, and they had been sitting in a remarkably comforting silence for several minutes.
"What did you mean, you thought he was dead?" John asked quietly, looking across the room to where the Doctor was fussing with the console in an attempt to give them some privacy, though obviously still listening.
"Long story, clearly exaggerated."
"Like yours?"
Sherlock shrugged, eyes flitting John's way briefly. Probably as close to an admission of guilt or apology John was likely to get at the moment.
"I didn't even remember him until I saw the TARDIS appear," Sherlock said loudly.
John smiled as he saw the Doctor's head lift at Sherlock's words.
"Vaguely remember this room, must have deleted everything else."
"I took you to see a supernova in the Crab Nebula, and you deleted it?" The Doctor asked indignantly, giving up any pretence of not listening.
"It wasn't important," Sherlock said with a sigh, as if the whole thing was a bother.
"But you deleted me too," the Doctor continued, even more indignantly.
Sherlock just shrugged in response, though a small smile tugged at him lips.
"Deleted me? He deleted me?" the Doctor asked turning to John.
"He does that," John offered helpfully.
The Doctor pulled at his jacket, jaw working wordlessly. John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock as the Doctor turned and stomped down the stairs leading below the console.
"You're welcome back anytime John," the Doctor called up before disappearing below the jumble of circuits.
John smiled at the implication that Sherlock wasn't.
"Coming John?" Sherlock asked, jumping up from the chair. "Far more important things waiting," he said loud enough to ensure the Doctor heard him, sharing a grin with John as if the last few months had never happened.
They both turned and walked out of the TARDIS, leaving the Doctor to his repairs and loud musings on the stupidity of humans bearing the name of Holmes, and promising the TARDIS that he wouldn't bother her with either of the brothers ever again.
John was sure there was a note of fondness in his voice though.
"You couldn't possibly forget him? Could you? I mean, you gave me the notebook?" John asked once they were outside.
Sherlock pulled out the psychic paper he had pick pocketed back from the Doctor, flipping it between his fingers as the TARDIS dematerialised.
"Doctor who?" Sherlock replied with exaggerated perplexity.
John giggled, the weight of his grief and anger dropping away as Sherlock's chuckle mingled with his own. Sherlock was back, and really, what else actually mattered? He couldn't help turning back though, to look at the empty space where the TARDIS had been.
He realised he hadn't said goodbye to the Doctor, though maybe it wasn't really a goodbye anyway. After all, with a mad man in a blue box, and all of time and space? Who knew what the future might hold, certainly more possibilities than he anticipated a few months ago,
Sherlock Holmes and the Doctor. John wondered when he had stopped caring that his life didn't make sense.
.......................
Author: fate_incomplete
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Set after 2.03 for Sherlock, and after 6.13 for Doctor Who
Characters: John Watson, Eleven, Sherlock, Mycroft
Word Count: 6,200
A/N: Doctor Who and Sherlock crossover. Post Reichenbach Fall for John, and post Lake Silencio for the Doctor.
Summary: John is alone, finding it hard to move on when everything seems so empty, and the Doctor gets a message he can't ignore, despite his best efforts. An impossible blue box and an adventure bring John back (or more accurately, forward) to something he thought lost.
.......................
The rhythmic clank of the spoon as Mycroft stirred his tea broke the silence between them. John gritted his teeth in time to it, as his fingers griped the arms of his chair, fighting the urge to simply leave.
John had spent the past three weeks ignoring the elder Holmes. Slammed doors, walking past black cars on the street, even as they followed him, messages left with Mrs Hudson, and incessant phone calls unanswered, to the point of ditching his old phone. It had taken only four hours for Mycroft to get the new number though.
When he had come home half an hour ago to find Mycroft sitting in their flat, he had decided to just hear whatever the persistent, arrogant git had to say, and get it over and done with.
John watched as Mycroft kept up his elegantly restrained stirring. Even his tea drinking habits were infuriating. John fantasised about bodily removing him from the flat, but knew it would be pointless. It might be mildly satisfying though, to toss him out on the street, and ruffle that ridiculously tailored suit.
Mycroft would only come back though. He clearly had something to say. If it was yet another attempt at an apology for his involvement in the events leading to Sherlock's apparent suicide, John thought he might just break his nose. That may actually be even more satisfying.
Mycroft finally stopped stirring, tapped the spoon gently on the side of the teacup before placing it on the saucer with such deliberate care, John wondered if he actually practiced being so maddeningly insufferable and deadpan. Only Mycroft Holmes could use etiquette as an interrogation method, which is somehow what this felt like.
Childhood dinners at the Holmes residence must have been a hoot.
The unintended thought of the Holmes brother's together brought that all too familiar stab of grief. He buried it beneath his military control, stifling it before it could register on his face. John had no doubt Mycroft had seen it anyway.
Mycroft took a sip of his tea.
John tapped his fingers on the arm chair, unnerved by the growing silence.
Another sip.
"Why are you here Mycroft?" John snapped.
Mycroft looked up, setting his tea on the table, looking affronted at the apparent rudeness of asking someone who broke into your house, what they were doing there.
Bastard, John thought.
"I was...concerned," Mycroft eventually answered in practiced detachment.
"Concerned?"
"Yes. You seem surprised?"
John didn't answer for a moment. "Why do you even care?"
"Sherlock would have..."
"Would have what? What exactly do you know about what Sherlock would have wanted?"
"Yes...well," Mycroft answered, looking out the window.
John momentarily regretted snapping. Mycroft had lost a brother after all. As incapable at expressing any sort of human emotion as the brothers had appeared, there had always been some sort of concern between them.
Mycroft looked like he was about to say more, but took another sip of tea instead, the silence now even more awkward. The one thing they had in common no longer in either of their lives.
John's fingers started tapping again, his eyes drawn to the smiley face on the wall in an effort to avoid eye contact as Mycroft turned back to look at him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mycroft pull something out his coat pocket.
"I found this when I was going through Sherlock's belongings."
John didn't answer, but couldn't help looking at the blue notebook in Mycroft's hand.
Most of Sherlock's things were still scattered all around the flat. He hadn't known what to do with them, so had left pretty much everything as it was. The reminders of his friend were both comforting and painful. He hadn't seen the notebook before though.
"Apparently, he wanted you to have it."
Mycroft stood, holding the notebook out to John, who made no move to take it.
Sherlock didn't take notes, he had his mind palace.
"It's from one of his more...troubled times. A year or two before he met you," Mycroft continued.
John still made no move to take it, so Mycroft set it down on the table.
"Well, if you ever need anything..."
John looked back at the smiley face.
"I'll see myself out."
John didn't react as Mycroft walked out of the flat. He sat there staring at that stupid smiley face for an hour before he finally picked up the book.
Sherlock's handwriting was scrawled across the pages, even more manic than John expected. He assumed by 'troubled times', Mycroft meant when he was still doing drugs. Equations and half formed thoughts filled the pages. None of it seemed to make sense.
Whole pages were crossed out irritably. It was as if Sherlock had stumbled across something even his remarkable mind couldn't comprehend. John could imagine Sherlock's agitation at finding a mystery he couldn't unravel as easily as most people fell asleep, though he had no idea what could have confounded the great Sherlock Holmes.
John flicked through the pages, making out what little he could, fingers tracing the words, as if he could find a way closer to the man who had written them hidden in the texture of the page.
A white card in a leather cover slipped out of the note book. John flipped it over in his hands, unsure of what it was. It had a note scribbled across it, bugger off Mycroft and give this to John. He wondered when Sherlock had written it, though it didn't really look like Sherlock's writing.
He was about to put it aside when he noticed something that he was sure hadn't been there a second ago. There was a line of text beneath the note, call if you're bored. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to remember when it last was he'd had a good night's sleep, as the words shimmered before his eyes.
The flat had gotten dark as he had sat reading. John closed the note book, finger still possessively running over the cover. He had an early shift at the clinic in the morning, but didn't have the energy to make it to the bedroom. He drifted off to sleep in the chair instead, wondering why Sherlock would have wanted him to have the notebook.
Maybe it had been just to annoy Mycroft.
.......................
The Doctor sucked on his finger that was still tingling from an electric shock. Another series of beeps emanated from the monitor above. The Doctor continued to ignore it as he messed with a set of wires, promptly receiving anther shock.
"Okay, okay," he said rubbing at the newest tingling finger. "But you know what happened last time."
He turned the monitor on, tapping it on the side as the signal cut out, before it settled on coordinates. London 2012.
"Fine," he muttered to himself. "Why not? Just because last time he caused a temporal rift that nearly destroyed a solar system, as apparently gravity wasn't important enough for him to bother remembering."
The Doctor flipped levers and set the TARDIS to home in on the signal, which could only be coming from the psychic paper he had given to Sherlock Holmes several years ago.
He opened the door as the TARDIS settled in what he assumed must be Sherlock's new address. Books were scattered everywhere, and a few papers were still settling after being disturbed by the TARDIS materialising.
A man in his thirties was standing in the middle of the room, holding the psychic paper and staring wide eyed at him and the TARDIS.
"You're not Sherlock," the Doctor stated.
The man blinked, looked to suddenly realise his mouth was hanging open, and closed it.
"No, I'm not."
"But that's his psychic paper."
"Yes," he replied looking down at the paper. "His what?"
The man's knees looked like they suddenly forgot how to function as he stumbled, grabbing the back of a chair to hold himself up with one hand, while pointing at the TARDIS with the other.
"That's a police box."
"Yes. Well, not really."
"In the middle of my flat."
"Ah, yes, sorry about that," the Doctor replied, peeling off a sheet of paper that was stuck to the side of the TARDIS, and placing it apologetically on a table.
"There's a police box, in the middle of my flat."
"I believe we covered that. Is Sherlock here? Or have I rather messed up the coordinates? Again."
"Sherlock's dead."
"Oh right...What year is it again?"
The man managed to get his legs to work well enough to slump into the chair with relative dignity.
"Sherlock's dead?" The Doctor asked when he didn't get an answer.
"He killed himself, three months ago."
"That doesn't sound right."
"It wasn't."
"Right, sorry. I'm the Doctor by the way."
"John," the man answered automatically, obviously still trying to process what was going on.
"Of course, John Watson. Read your blogs. Loved the deer hat by the way, deer hats are cool."
John was still staring at him. Sitting up straight backed now. The Doctor remembered reading that John was a soldier, and assumed his military training was keeping him from freaking out, which was a novel change from some of the more hysterical receptions his appearance had received.
"Tea!" The Doctor said suddenly.
"What?"
"Tea, always good at times like this."
The Doctor spun in a circle, spying the kitchen and heading off to make tea as he tried to think what to do next. He had been prepared to find a Sherlock so desperately bored he had used the psychic paper to spice up his day, despite their less than amicable parting the last time they had seen each other. Not an obviously still grieving John Watson, still unaware his friend wasn't actually dead.
He checked his watch to confirm exactly where he was in John's time line. He had of course already heard the story of Sherlock's apparent demise and return from the older Holmes brother after trouble with an unfortunate alien parasite infestation at Downey street. If he had the time right, it would still be some months before John found out the truth.
He spent about half a breath wishing he had actually bothered to check the monitor before appearing, but he had been too distracted by the thought of Sherlock messing things up again. Of course Sherlock had messed things up, in an entirely unrelated way, for John, the Doctor thought harshly. Conveniently forgetting he had recently done something similar himself.
He walked back to John, balancing two cups of tea with relative success. The Doctor noted that John seemed to have somewhat reconciled the unexpected arrival of the TARDIS as he took the offered tea with a remarkably steady hand.
Still unsure about what to do, he decided planning to have a plan usual worked well enough, as he took a sip of tea, and promptly spat it back out again.
.......................
John awkwardly held his cup as he watched the man, the Doctor, spit out a mouthful of tea. It was all entirely too surreal to make any sort of sense, so he just sat staring; deciding the Browning Pistol he had hidden in his jacket while the Doctor was in the kitchen wasn't quite called for just yet.
He wasn't sure exactly what was called for, having already dismissed several more plausible explanations for who this strange man was, and how the hell a police box had appeared in the middle of his flat.
He thought at first he must be dreaming, but decided that was unlikely. This was hardly the sort of dream he usually had. He had also dismissed the possibility of consuming some sort of hallucinogenic that Sherlock had left lying around. It had been months since Sherlock's death, and all of the food in the house was new. Besides, Mrs Hudson had cleaned up all of Sherlock's experiments the week after the funeral, all the while fondly reminiscing about Sherlock's peculiar habits, as John sat unresponsive in his chair, staring at the empty one across from him.
"So, you're John?" The Doctor asked after an extended silence.
"I am."
"I'm the Doctor, but we did that already didn't we."
"Who...what, are you?" John asked, looking between the Doctor and the blue box.
"Ah, complicated. That is the TARDIS, time and relative dimension in space. Self explanatory, it travels through time and space, and I'm, well, an alien if you want to be all humany. Of course you're an alien to me, it's all relative really."
"An alien, of course," John said, even less sure what to think, but going along with it until some better explanation presented itself, like possibly he was going insane. "An alien, who looks human, with a time machine, which looks like a blue box. Couldn't stretch the budget for special effects I suppose?"
The Doctor looked insulted for a second, before smiling smugly as he straightened his bow tie. "I could show you a thing or too, if you had the time, which, well I'm a Timelord, so you do. All of time and space...and shenanigans. If you're bored, which you must be, or the physic paper wouldn't have called me. Just think of me as a un-bored-o-gram. Or not, rubbish title."
He pointed to the psychic paper John was still holding. "That was meant for Sherlock, but any friend of Sherlock, well, would be pretty much unheard of, but the principle holds. So, how about it? Time, space, adventure and danger? Just what a man like you needs I'd say."
The Doctor clicked his fingers, opening the door to the TARDIS. "Interested? Or I could just go, if you have other thrills and excitement planned?"
"You seriously expect me to just run off with you, in a blue box?"
"Well yes, why wouldn't you?" The Doctor replied indignantly.
"Because it's insane. Or I'm insane, and imagining an alien that just happened to land in my flat."
"I didn't just happen to land," the Doctor said, the crazed childlike facade dropping for a moment. "I knew Sherlock, and we both know there are few who could say that. You'll come with me, because you want to, because you miss him, and if even for a moment, you can find something of him in a part of his life you never knew, it will be worth the insanity."
John stared at the man, alien, jaw clenched at the undeniably tug of truth in those words, as much as he wanted to ignore it.
He was tired of the pity stares from those he knew and didn't know. The whispered, that's poor John Watson, the man who was suckered in by Sherlock Holmes, you know the one in the papers. There was no pity in the Doctor's eyes, just understanding, a tangible sadness, and so much more.
John stood, clutching the battered notebook and psychic paper. Without saying another word, he walked past the Doctor into the TARDIS, and madness.
.......................
"People usually go ooh, ah, but it's so much bigger..." the Doctor said, looking disappointed as John walked around the interior of the control room silently.
"A man in a police box just appeared in the middle of my flat. This isn't really all that weird after that," John replied as he looked around, trying to comprehend exactly what he was seeing, which was undeniably jaw dropping.
John let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.
"It's amazing. Absurdly, impossibly, amazing," he finally said, no longer able to hide his awe, and earning a beaming smile from the Doctor.
John rubbed a hand over his face. He was a soldier, not given to wild fantasies or paranoid theories. He believed what he could see and touch. What he was seeing was pretty convincing evidence the Doctor was exactly what he said he was, an alien. The odds that this really was a time machine were looking pretty good too.
"All of time and space, your pick," the Doctor said.
John was still busy trying to take everything in, he almost missed the implied question.
"Um, I don't know, the battle of Trafalgar?"
"Oh, don't be so obvious."
John looked across the complicated looking console at the Doctor, the sentiment behind those words all too familiar.
"Anywhere at all," the Doctor continued, apparently unaware of the sudden lump in John's throat.
John rubbed his palms against his jeans, berating himself for being caught by a sudden stab of grief even as he stood in the middle of some alien ship beyond anything he could have imagined.
"I really don't know," John replied quietly.
He glanced back out the door that was still open, back at the space he had shared with Sherlock, at all his friend's belongings he couldn't bring himself to deal with. He could just turn around and walk back to it all, and forget an alien had ever appeared in his living room. He could, but knew he wouldn't, not yet.
"Take me anywhere."
.......................
Mycroft walked into the makeshift laboratory Sherlock had set up, discreetly placing a file containing information on Moriaty's associates on the table. Sherlock had been too stubborn to ask for help, but after his visit with John two days ago, Mycroft thought it best to speed things along as best he could.
He knew Sherlock wouldn't return home until all the loose ends had been tied up, and frankly he wasn't cut out for dealing with both a brooding, vengeful brother and his grieving friend, thus deeming it sensible to contain the fallout from the events at St Bart's and preventing Sherlock from causing too much calamity. It had nothing to do with actually caring of course.
"John's missing," Mycroft stated when Sherlock refused to acknowledge his presence.
"Is he?" Sherlock asked, not bothering to look up.
"Sherlock?"
"He is perfectly capable of looking after himself I'm sure."
Sherlock replaced a slide under the microscope, adjusting the focus.
"What was in the note book?" Mycroft asked, putting the pieces together with his usual efficiency.
"Nothing, just a tip for a good holiday destination," Sherlock replied.
"I'm sure," Mycroft said more to himself as he picked up a petri dish.
"John is fine."
"You're certain?" Mycroft grimaced as he looked at the bacteria spreading across the dish.
"Yes. Well, mostly. As safe as he can be at least."
"Where is he?" Mycroft asked, careful to feign indifference.
"I have no idea."
Mycroft put down the dish, wiping his hand fastidiously. "Probably for the best," he said, before walking out, dousing his curiosity with practiced ease by pretending it wasn't important.
.......................
John had managed to take exactly three steps before his legs stopped working.
When he'd said anywhere, this was not what he had been imagining. He had no idea exactly what he had thought would happen, as his brain had still been stuck somewhere between first and reverse from the Doctor's rather mind blowing arrival, and was still struggling to catch up. Now it seemed to have settled on a flat out stall.
An hour ago he had been snoozing in the chair in his flat. Now, well now he was standing on an alien planet god knows where, looking up at the most fantastic skyline that beggared belief.
Emerald green light shifted across the sky, somewhat similar to the northern lights, but about a thousand times more impressive. The deep green reflected on a frozen landscape that was barren and harsh, but beyond beautiful.
John was a man of few words, but couldn't find even one at the moment.
The Doctor stood next to him with his hands shoved in his pockets as he rocked on the balls of his feet, seeming content to leave John to his speechlessness.
Three, no, four moons were overhead, light from the largest one refracting on ice crystals in the atmosphere, and emitting a massive halo that took up nearly a quarter of the sky.
"That, is impressive," John finally managed, looking across at the Doctor, a smile slowly spreading.
The Doctor smiled back, a strange almost tight lipped smile. John figured it was probably just a normal day for him.
"So, you're an alien then, not just some sort of..."
"Madman with a box?" The Doctor finished for him.
"One hell of a fantastic box."
"It is, isn't it."
The smile was more genuinely now.
Now that the shock of everything was starting to settle, John studied the Doctor more closely. The face was youthful, but deceptively though, John decided. Still in the grips of his own grief, John recognised the sorrow behind those eyes. He had no idea what from, and thought he probably never would. There was just something about the Doctor, a depth that was almost intoxicating, begging to be understood, but probably impossible to.
Everything about him seemed impossible. It should be intimidating, and it was to a point, but there was also an innate air of kindness, though maybe a hard edged sort of kindness.
John imagined everything about him would have intrigued Sherlock.
"I brought Sherlock here once," the Doctor said quietly, as if reading John's thoughts.
Hell maybe he could, John thought, trying to repress the sudden rush of asinine images that came to mind.
"He spent the better part of a day looking at ice crystals under a magnifying glass, trying to prove a point," the Doctor continued unperturbed, so maybe not a mind reader then. "Idiot nearly froze to death."
John smiled. That sounded like Sherlock all over.
The Doctor walked away, hands in pocket. John followed, picking his ways through the ice and snow while trying to take in the vista. It looked like a lifeless world. He stifled a smile at the half assed thought about where were all the droids or alien creatures waiting to gestate in unsuspecting humans.
"Is there any life on this Planet?"
"Not so much," the Doctor replied.
"What exactly are we doing here then?" John asked, shoving his hands into his pockets as well. It was pretty and all, but cold as hell.
"That," the Doctor answered, pointing at something.
John slipped as he reached the crest of a snow dune, having to pull his hands out to brace himself from an undignified fall. He brushed snow from increasingly freezing fingers, before stilling.
What the Doctor had been pointing at was a crashed spaceship.
"Wow, that's...massive."
"Size isn't everything," the Doctor said, seeming unimpressed with John's awe, before heading off down the slope in a mildly controlled slide.
Up close the ship was even bigger, and the damage more apparent. It was practically ripped in half, twisted and charred metal strewn around everywhere. John hurried to keep up with the Doctor, who seemed to know where he was going, scanning with some sort of device as they entered the ship through a hole in the hull.
"What exactly are you looking for?" John asked as they explored.
"A box."
"Like a black box?"
"More of a greyish green."
"Of course," John mumbled.
The device in the Doctor's hand gave off a sort of beep, causing the Doctor to exclaim animatedly and start digging through rubble. Curiosity outweighing annoyance at being kept in the dark, a familiar feeling, John helped lift away the debris until they uncovered what looked like a computer console.
The Doctor brushed away ash from a panel, kneeling down to press an ear to it as he ran his fingers over the surface. He started to pull apart the console, and hauled out what John guessed you could call a kind of box, it looked to be part of the computer.
"That's what you were looking for?"
"It's a data core, of sorts, like a hard drive, but not really."
"What's on it?"
"Me."
John's curiosity was well and truly roused, but before he could ask anything, he was distracted by a sound. The Doctor clutched the box to his chest, scanning again, flicking the device as he checked whatever it was showing him.
"What is it?" John asked, completely out of his element.
"Ah, survivors."
"Is that a good thing?"
"No. It's a really, really not good thing."
"Of course it is," John said.
The Doctor grabbed him by the arm. "Run."
They both scrambled over debris, heading back the way they had come in. A strange clicking noise echoed behind them. John turned to see what was following them, and to make sure the Doctor was with him. He saw movement in the darkness before the Doctor barrelled into him.
"I said, RUN!"
John didn't flinch, just followed the order. Heart pounding, every bit of his awareness was focused on his feet, instinct telling him a stumble would be deadly. He didn't remember their path through the ship being this long on the way in.
He turned a corner. The corridor split in two before him. Before he had time to panic at the unfamiliarity of the choice in path, instinct again instructed him to turn right. One thing war had taught him, was to trust his instincts. He ran right without hesitation.
Two dozen heartbeats, and a several meters later he saw light from the gaping hole in the hull they had entered through. Despite the order to run, he paused. The Doctor wasn't behind him.
A thudding heartbeat pounded against his ribs.
"Doctor!"
The Doctor skidded into view at the corner John had just turned, boots scraping, sending up plumes of ash as he changed direction.
"Get to the TARDIS."
John hesitated, hearing noises from the other corridor a split second before a shape crashed into the Doctor, knocking him to the ground. An alien creature loomed over the Doctor as he scrabbled backwards, hands and feet struggling for purchase on the ash strewn floor in an effort to avoid the impending assault.
A gunshot reverberated through the crashed ship before John even realised the Browning was in his hand. Two more followed in quick succession before the creature slumped to the ground, half falling on top of the Doctor.
John swallowed thickly. Stashing the handgun back in his jacket as he rushed forward, grabbing the Doctor's hand and dragging him out from under the hopefully dead body.
The Doctor's expression was dark, simmering, like he was holding back some sort of outburst, which he quickly stifled, pulling John along behind him instead. They didn't stop running until they were safely back in the TARDIS.
John slumped against the door as the Doctor pulled it shut behind them. He sucked in gasping breaths, fighting the urge to giggle. The Doctor glanced at him, stowing away that dark look again as he smiled, leaning against the door next to John.
"See, space, time, and shenanigans," the Doctor said, equally breathless as John.
John lost his fight against the urge to laugh, feeling alive for the first time in months.
.......................
John lost track of the weeks as they skipped from planet to planet, and time period to time period. Running for their lives in the year 2345, watching the ships land at Thermopylae, barely avoiding a firing squad in the Cephei system, almost being eaten by a two headed lizard like creature, to spending a lazy Tuesday afternoon arguing with Hippocrates.
It felt like he had barely had time to catch his breath. Let alone think.
The TARDIS was currently drifting idly in space. John leant against the open door, staring out into the vastness of the cosmos. It was still mind numbingly impossible. He let the expanse settle over him, eyes drifting from one star to another, lost as much in his memories as the vista of star clusters and nebulas.
The Doctor emerged from wherever he had been tinkering with the TARDIS's circuits, or whatever it was he had been doing. John enjoyed his company, far more than he would have thought possible given the absurdity of the situation, then again, since meeting Sherlock absurd had pretty much been the norm.
The Doctor leant against the wall, watching John as much as the view. He knew he was being studied, but found it somehow comforting. John had grown used to the Doctor's almost incessant babbling filling up the silence, yet he was strangely quiet now. The weary look of someone who had seen and lost so much that was always hiding somewhere in the Timelord's eyes was more prevalent in the rare moment of stillness.
John's conclusion the first day they met, that he would never really know the Doctor, had held true, though there was much he had learned. Little things that had been said, or those quiet moments when the Doctor would shy away from a topic, all had much to say about the Timelord. Along with the picture of a young couple and a woman with impossibly wild curly hair John knew the Doctor always carried with him.
He knew the Doctor was 1100 odd years old, and that fact alone was enough for John to conclude he must have inevitably lost people he cared for. The Doctor never spoke of any of it, nor did either of them talk of Sherlock. It was an unspoken agreement to leave past pains hidden away, to run as far as they could from them. He could spend a life time running, exploring the galaxy with the Doctor and be perfectly happy and undoubtedly never bored again.
So much he had never imagined possible had been shown to him over his time with the Doctor. Yet everything he had seen inevitably drew him back to the empty space inside of him. John knew that despite all the wonders, London, and a vacant flat, was drawing him back, as if he was just passing time until he returned to his life.
He had no idea why, there really wasn't all that much waiting for him back there. John found himself wondering if he asked to stay, would the Doctor say yes, while knowing he would never actually ask.
His time with the Doctor seemed inescapably short lived, one way or another.
"There's something it's time I showed you," the Doctor said suddenly, pushing off the wall and jumping up the steps to the controls with his usual energy.
"What?" John asked following at a slower pace.
"It's a surprise."
"One I'll like?"
"Yes, and maybe a little no."
"This isn't like the time you thought it would be fun to see that Mayan festival, and ended up nearly getting me sacrificed to a sun god?" John asked as he flipped a lever the Doctor indicated.
"Ah, good times," the Doctor said with impish grin John couldn't help but return. "No sun gods, though he may be as annoyingly egotistical."
"Great," John muttered, grabbing hold of the console as the TARDIS dematerialised with the Doctor's customary flair.
John waited expectantly as the TARDIS landed, but the Doctor was busy fiddling with something on the console. The doors opened showing the familiar surrounds of Baker Street, only a few hundred metres from 221B by the looks.
"Baker Street?" John asked, confused and a little uneasy.
"Yes," the Doctor answered, not meeting John's gaze.
"When?"
"Your own time, well a few months later. 2012. November 27, 8.34pm to be precise."
"You're leaving me behind."
"Well, not really, you're about to leave of your own accord. Slight difference."
"And why exactly would I choose to do that? There's nothing here for me, remember," John said trying to control his anger and dread at returning to an empty flat he hadn't yet reconciled himself to.
"That's not entirely true," the Doctor said gently, looking at something over John's shoulder.
John turned slowly, breath hitching and his grip on the console tightening.
The not so dead Sherlock Holmes was standing in the doorway.
"I thought you were dead," Sherlock and John said at the same time.
"Hello John," Sherlock said dismissively, as if he had simply popped out for awhile, not supposedly killed himself months ago. "You're meant to be dead," Sherlock repeated, glaringly icily at the Doctor as he walked up the steps.
John looked between the two, lightheaded, confused, and almost certain he would fall over if he loosened his grip on the console.
"Neat trick, much like your own," the Doctor said coldly.
"So it would seem."
The two men locked gazes, a battle of egos of the Earth's only consulting detective against that of the universes only Timelord. Both apparently unconcerned with the fact John had no idea what the fuck was going on, and felt like he might just explode if someone didn't tell him right now.
"You're not dead," John directed at Sherlock, enunciating each word with barely contained anger.
"It was, necessary. John, I'm sorry, you had to believe..."
"And you knew?" John asked accusingly, cutting Sherlock off and turning to glare at the Doctor.
The Doctor scratched his head, "Um, spoilers?" He answered, more questioningly than certain. "It's all timey wimey, I thought you knew, but then, well you didn't. It's really not my fault. He's the one who didn't tell you," he said pointing at Sherlock.
"The Doctor always lies," Sherlock said in that deep voice John hadn't heard in months, but remembered so well.
John continued to glare at the Doctor, still unable to process that his friend was really alive, afraid that if he looked back, Sherlock wouldn't really be there.
"So you did bring me back to the right time?"
"Yes," the Doctor answered, sneaking a look at the monitor as if to make sure. "Of course,"
"And that's really Sherlock, and he's really not dead?"
"Yes."
"Right," John replied, sucking in his lip as he took it all in, before turning back to Sherlock, and punching him in the face.
.......................
Sherlock held an ice pack to his cheek as he sat in one of the jump chairs in the console room, long legs crossed. He had outlined his apparent demise, satisfying John's immediate questions over his return, and they had been sitting in a remarkably comforting silence for several minutes.
"What did you mean, you thought he was dead?" John asked quietly, looking across the room to where the Doctor was fussing with the console in an attempt to give them some privacy, though obviously still listening.
"Long story, clearly exaggerated."
"Like yours?"
Sherlock shrugged, eyes flitting John's way briefly. Probably as close to an admission of guilt or apology John was likely to get at the moment.
"I didn't even remember him until I saw the TARDIS appear," Sherlock said loudly.
John smiled as he saw the Doctor's head lift at Sherlock's words.
"Vaguely remember this room, must have deleted everything else."
"I took you to see a supernova in the Crab Nebula, and you deleted it?" The Doctor asked indignantly, giving up any pretence of not listening.
"It wasn't important," Sherlock said with a sigh, as if the whole thing was a bother.
"But you deleted me too," the Doctor continued, even more indignantly.
Sherlock just shrugged in response, though a small smile tugged at him lips.
"Deleted me? He deleted me?" the Doctor asked turning to John.
"He does that," John offered helpfully.
The Doctor pulled at his jacket, jaw working wordlessly. John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock as the Doctor turned and stomped down the stairs leading below the console.
"You're welcome back anytime John," the Doctor called up before disappearing below the jumble of circuits.
John smiled at the implication that Sherlock wasn't.
"Coming John?" Sherlock asked, jumping up from the chair. "Far more important things waiting," he said loud enough to ensure the Doctor heard him, sharing a grin with John as if the last few months had never happened.
They both turned and walked out of the TARDIS, leaving the Doctor to his repairs and loud musings on the stupidity of humans bearing the name of Holmes, and promising the TARDIS that he wouldn't bother her with either of the brothers ever again.
John was sure there was a note of fondness in his voice though.
"You couldn't possibly forget him? Could you? I mean, you gave me the notebook?" John asked once they were outside.
Sherlock pulled out the psychic paper he had pick pocketed back from the Doctor, flipping it between his fingers as the TARDIS dematerialised.
"Doctor who?" Sherlock replied with exaggerated perplexity.
John giggled, the weight of his grief and anger dropping away as Sherlock's chuckle mingled with his own. Sherlock was back, and really, what else actually mattered? He couldn't help turning back though, to look at the empty space where the TARDIS had been.
He realised he hadn't said goodbye to the Doctor, though maybe it wasn't really a goodbye anyway. After all, with a mad man in a blue box, and all of time and space? Who knew what the future might hold, certainly more possibilities than he anticipated a few months ago,
Sherlock Holmes and the Doctor. John wondered when he had stopped caring that his life didn't make sense.
.......................