BBC's Sherlock/Doctor Who -- Second Fiddle (10/10)
Title: Second Fiddle (10/10)
Date Written: 5/17/11
Rating: PG-13/T
Word Count: 1,618; 16,015 total
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock/Doctor Who
Disclaimer: Not mine, property of their respective owners
Characters/Pairings: John Watson/Donna Noble (yes. you read that right), Sherlock Holmes
Spoilers: Up through The Great Game (Sherlock) and up through The Unicorn and the Wasp (Doctor Who)
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: I blame
midassa_in_gold for this, completely, utterly, and entirely. All of this. Thanks, as always, to my betas:
totally4ryo,
k8stamps, and
gingerlr.
And here we are. The final chapter. I would like to thank each and every one of you for reading and commenting on this fic! I truly enjoyed writing it, and the fact that it made so many of you happy thrills me to no end.
They leave their bags at the door of the flat and stumble together to the couch. Donna collapses on one end, reclining back and putting her feet up on the coffee table, eyes closed. John sits on the other side of the couch, bent over with his elbows on his knees and face in his hands. Five full minutes pass this way, neither speaking, until finally the ex-soldier lifts his head.
"Did that -- ?" he ventures.
"Yes," Donna replies immediately. She doesn't even move, just enjoys the quiet of the flat.
John nods. "Is it -- ?"
"Always."
He nods again. "And he's -- ?"
Donna huffs out a laugh. "Raving," she says fondly.
"Yeah?" He looks over at her, cheek leaning against his pressed-together hands.
One amused blue eye dances at him. "Yeah."
"No," he tells her firmly.
"Nope," she agrees. "Next time 'round, we're going to do what everyone's supposed to do."
"To hell with that. We're not even telling them where we're locking ourselves away for a week."
"We should probably go out of the country," Donna points out. "If we're close and Sherlock gets bored, he will track us down."
"So noted." John sits back next to Donna, tipping his head back over the edge of the sofa. Donna leans up against him, comfortable.
"It was pretty entertaining after the government was overthrown," he finally admits.
Donna starts gigging against his shoulder. "You should have seen your face when they offered to make you their king regent."
"It could not have been as good as your mother's when you told her I was an alien," John counters.
"She got over it," the redhead dismisses with a wave of her hand. The gold and diamond rings on her left ring finger slip a little at the movement, and she fiddles with them idly, unused to their weight on her hand.
John hadn't even been thinking about how the whole thing was going to work out when he'd proposed to Donna. He'd just assumed they'd do the paperwork and quietly make the announcement to their friends and family. Maybe at Christmas dinner. "Oh, by the way, Harry, Donna and I got married this summer. Pass the turkey, please."
He really should have known better.
Donna had wanted a proper wedding, and John had been more than happy to give it to her. The problem was, while they could pack up her mother and grandfather, they couldn't very well pack up her extended family and friends and coworkers, people apparently required to attend. They couldn't do it with John's side, either, especially considering the TARDIS' denial of entry to Sherlock.
(The ancient time machine refused to even open its doors when the consulting detective was around. John and Donna considered this a very wise move on her part. Who knew what havoc Sherlock Holmes would wreck given command of Time and Space)
John had been perfectly content with one ceremony in Donna's time, but then his flatmate had blabbed to his sister one night. And Harry had thrown a proper fit and commented about it all over his blog and before he had realized what was going on, they were planning two weddings.
The forged paperwork alone had done his head in. He eventually just told Donna to tell him what to wear and where to show up and washed his hands of the whole thing.
And, of course, in keeping with their grand tradition, their first round of matrimony -- Donna's side first, of course -- had ended in near disaster when an alien-fighting division of the government called UNIT showed up at the church wanting to talk to John. Jack had jumped in on his behalf, but the entire thing had quickly devolved into a pissing contest between Torchwood, Jack’s outfit, and UNIT. A UNIT medic named Martha, a lovely young black woman who was friends with Jack and Donna, had tried to defuse the situation, but it hadn't been until the Doctor stepped in that the whole thing had been resolved.
Jack and his team had turned up two hours late to the reception, suspiciously tight-lipped, and wearing different clothing, but they seemed to enjoy themselves after a little liquor.
Donna, of course, had looked beautiful. Even when she'd been looking at him with fond exasperation because he had been too caught up staring at her and missed the vicar's ceremonial prompt for their rings.
They'd traveled with the Doctor for their honeymoon -- which had been so much fun, a different kind of thrill than working with Sherlock -- but after a few weeks had decided it was time to go home and be to themselves for a while.
Their flat is still a work-in-progress, a mishmash of the new and the old and the alien. The kitchen is half gleaming-new wedding presents, half old appliances that came with the rental. Pictures of friends and family, paintings from various eras, John's elegantly framed diplomas and medals, and a detailed star chart full of pushpins decorate the freshly-painted walls. Alien knickknacks are cleverly hidden in plain sight, their usefulness disguised as modern art pieces. (John's personal favorite is a little force field-like item that doubles as both a security system and a heating unit, totally powered on oxygen.) New furniture sits next to older, worn pieces handed down to them by John’s sister Harry and Donna’s mother Sylvia.
It's a little small, and it gets downright chilly sometimes, and the neighbors are a bit nosy, but it's theirs.
"I have a brilliant idea," Donna announces.
"What's that?"
She finally moves, pointing an arm towards their bedroom. "We go in there, right?"
"Uh-huh."
"And we go to sleep. For ages."
John chuckles. "With you so far."
"Then, we wake up. Have fantastic, fantastic married sex. Maybe eat something, then fall asleep again."
"I love the way you think, have I ever said that before?"
Donna makes a pleased noise and kisses his neck.
"There's only one problem, though. We'll have to move off the sofa."
"Ugh. Plan B then?"
"Fall asleep here, then have sex on the sofa?"
"Yep."
"I can live with Plan B."
John's just about to seriously nod off when he hears it -- a pounding at the flat door. Donna moans and buries her face into his shoulder and calls out, "Go 'way!"
"Just leave it," John mutters. "He'll wear himself out."
After a moment, the banging stops. "See? He realized we're not going to -- "
Then they hear the lock click open.
"You gave him a bloody key?" Donna demands.
"He doesn't really need a key," John points out with a sigh.
The door opens and Sherlock Holmes glides into the flat like he owns it. Neither one of them move, but they both crack one eye open to look at the lanky younger man. "Oh good," he says flatly, the way a film villain would express surprise over finding someone they'd ordered to be killed dead. "You're back."
"Like you didn't hear us come in," Donna drawls.
"You never know," Sherlock chastises. "I could have been occupied."
John lifts his head to properly look at his former flatmate. "How many times have you broken in here while we've been gone?"
"I have a spare, it's not breaking and entering."
"I didn't give one to you. How did you get it?"
Sherlock ignores his question. "Lestrade's just texted."
"Did you steal Mrs Hudson's copy of our flat key?" John demands.
"We've got a case," the younger man insists.
"And I've got a wife, and we're both very exhausted."
"Bring her along."
"She's right here," Donna pipes up. "And she's not moving from this flat until after she's had some sleep."
John gives Sherlock a sympathetic look and shrugs his shoulders in the universal sorry mate, Missus wins again signal.
"Fine." It's still that flat tone, but this time it's all petulant child denied sweets. "I'll just have to make do without you. Anderson's working forensics tonight."
John caves. He tells himself Anything to prevent a bloodbath, but the excitement, the addiction of a new case is already starting to buzz in his head. "Give me two minutes."
"Good. Taxi's waiting."
"Bloody Sherlock Holmes," Donna grouses as the man in question sweeps out of the flat.
"I know, I know, we should string him up for his insolence," John deadpans as he levers himself up off the couch and snags his jacket.
"Why did we move into the basement?"
"Because Mrs. Hudson isn't upping Sherlock's rent because we're here in the flat she could never rent out."
There's a bare corner in the living room just big enough for a police box. Both know it; neither mentions it.
"Don't get killed, I haven't finished the beneficiary paperwork," Donna tells him when he leans over to kiss her goodbye.
"I love you too, Noble."
"Oi." Donna grabs his jacket collar. "It's. Donna. Watson." She punctuates each word with a kiss.
"Well, whoever you are."
"Get outta here," she says fondly and lets him go. "Sooner you leave, sooner you're back."
"Take a nap," he suggests. "Hopefully I'll be in before you wake up."
"I'll dream of you," she sing-songs.
"That was terrible!" John calls out as he walks through the flat door.
"I know!" Donna replies, turning to blow him a kiss.
He locks the door to 221c before heading outside and sliding into the back of the cab next to Sherlock. The younger man glances up from his mobile phone to look at John. He shakes his head sadly before going back to whatever he's texting.
John just grins and fidgets with the gold band on his finger.
Content.
Date Written: 5/17/11
Rating: PG-13/T
Word Count: 1,618; 16,015 total
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock/Doctor Who
Disclaimer: Not mine, property of their respective owners
Characters/Pairings: John Watson/Donna Noble (yes. you read that right), Sherlock Holmes
Spoilers: Up through The Great Game (Sherlock) and up through The Unicorn and the Wasp (Doctor Who)
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: I blame
midassa_in_gold for this, completely, utterly, and entirely. All of this. Thanks, as always, to my betas:
totally4ryo,
k8stamps, and
gingerlr.
And here we are. The final chapter. I would like to thank each and every one of you for reading and commenting on this fic! I truly enjoyed writing it, and the fact that it made so many of you happy thrills me to no end.
They leave their bags at the door of the flat and stumble together to the couch. Donna collapses on one end, reclining back and putting her feet up on the coffee table, eyes closed. John sits on the other side of the couch, bent over with his elbows on his knees and face in his hands. Five full minutes pass this way, neither speaking, until finally the ex-soldier lifts his head.
"Did that -- ?" he ventures.
"Yes," Donna replies immediately. She doesn't even move, just enjoys the quiet of the flat.
John nods. "Is it -- ?"
"Always."
He nods again. "And he's -- ?"
Donna huffs out a laugh. "Raving," she says fondly.
"Yeah?" He looks over at her, cheek leaning against his pressed-together hands.
One amused blue eye dances at him. "Yeah."
"No," he tells her firmly.
"Nope," she agrees. "Next time 'round, we're going to do what everyone's supposed to do."
"To hell with that. We're not even telling them where we're locking ourselves away for a week."
"We should probably go out of the country," Donna points out. "If we're close and Sherlock gets bored, he will track us down."
"So noted." John sits back next to Donna, tipping his head back over the edge of the sofa. Donna leans up against him, comfortable.
"It was pretty entertaining after the government was overthrown," he finally admits.
Donna starts gigging against his shoulder. "You should have seen your face when they offered to make you their king regent."
"It could not have been as good as your mother's when you told her I was an alien," John counters.
"She got over it," the redhead dismisses with a wave of her hand. The gold and diamond rings on her left ring finger slip a little at the movement, and she fiddles with them idly, unused to their weight on her hand.
John hadn't even been thinking about how the whole thing was going to work out when he'd proposed to Donna. He'd just assumed they'd do the paperwork and quietly make the announcement to their friends and family. Maybe at Christmas dinner. "Oh, by the way, Harry, Donna and I got married this summer. Pass the turkey, please."
He really should have known better.
Donna had wanted a proper wedding, and John had been more than happy to give it to her. The problem was, while they could pack up her mother and grandfather, they couldn't very well pack up her extended family and friends and coworkers, people apparently required to attend. They couldn't do it with John's side, either, especially considering the TARDIS' denial of entry to Sherlock.
(The ancient time machine refused to even open its doors when the consulting detective was around. John and Donna considered this a very wise move on her part. Who knew what havoc Sherlock Holmes would wreck given command of Time and Space)
John had been perfectly content with one ceremony in Donna's time, but then his flatmate had blabbed to his sister one night. And Harry had thrown a proper fit and commented about it all over his blog and before he had realized what was going on, they were planning two weddings.
The forged paperwork alone had done his head in. He eventually just told Donna to tell him what to wear and where to show up and washed his hands of the whole thing.
And, of course, in keeping with their grand tradition, their first round of matrimony -- Donna's side first, of course -- had ended in near disaster when an alien-fighting division of the government called UNIT showed up at the church wanting to talk to John. Jack had jumped in on his behalf, but the entire thing had quickly devolved into a pissing contest between Torchwood, Jack’s outfit, and UNIT. A UNIT medic named Martha, a lovely young black woman who was friends with Jack and Donna, had tried to defuse the situation, but it hadn't been until the Doctor stepped in that the whole thing had been resolved.
Jack and his team had turned up two hours late to the reception, suspiciously tight-lipped, and wearing different clothing, but they seemed to enjoy themselves after a little liquor.
Donna, of course, had looked beautiful. Even when she'd been looking at him with fond exasperation because he had been too caught up staring at her and missed the vicar's ceremonial prompt for their rings.
They'd traveled with the Doctor for their honeymoon -- which had been so much fun, a different kind of thrill than working with Sherlock -- but after a few weeks had decided it was time to go home and be to themselves for a while.
Their flat is still a work-in-progress, a mishmash of the new and the old and the alien. The kitchen is half gleaming-new wedding presents, half old appliances that came with the rental. Pictures of friends and family, paintings from various eras, John's elegantly framed diplomas and medals, and a detailed star chart full of pushpins decorate the freshly-painted walls. Alien knickknacks are cleverly hidden in plain sight, their usefulness disguised as modern art pieces. (John's personal favorite is a little force field-like item that doubles as both a security system and a heating unit, totally powered on oxygen.) New furniture sits next to older, worn pieces handed down to them by John’s sister Harry and Donna’s mother Sylvia.
It's a little small, and it gets downright chilly sometimes, and the neighbors are a bit nosy, but it's theirs.
"I have a brilliant idea," Donna announces.
"What's that?"
She finally moves, pointing an arm towards their bedroom. "We go in there, right?"
"Uh-huh."
"And we go to sleep. For ages."
John chuckles. "With you so far."
"Then, we wake up. Have fantastic, fantastic married sex. Maybe eat something, then fall asleep again."
"I love the way you think, have I ever said that before?"
Donna makes a pleased noise and kisses his neck.
"There's only one problem, though. We'll have to move off the sofa."
"Ugh. Plan B then?"
"Fall asleep here, then have sex on the sofa?"
"Yep."
"I can live with Plan B."
John's just about to seriously nod off when he hears it -- a pounding at the flat door. Donna moans and buries her face into his shoulder and calls out, "Go 'way!"
"Just leave it," John mutters. "He'll wear himself out."
After a moment, the banging stops. "See? He realized we're not going to -- "
Then they hear the lock click open.
"You gave him a bloody key?" Donna demands.
"He doesn't really need a key," John points out with a sigh.
The door opens and Sherlock Holmes glides into the flat like he owns it. Neither one of them move, but they both crack one eye open to look at the lanky younger man. "Oh good," he says flatly, the way a film villain would express surprise over finding someone they'd ordered to be killed dead. "You're back."
"Like you didn't hear us come in," Donna drawls.
"You never know," Sherlock chastises. "I could have been occupied."
John lifts his head to properly look at his former flatmate. "How many times have you broken in here while we've been gone?"
"I have a spare, it's not breaking and entering."
"I didn't give one to you. How did you get it?"
Sherlock ignores his question. "Lestrade's just texted."
"Did you steal Mrs Hudson's copy of our flat key?" John demands.
"We've got a case," the younger man insists.
"And I've got a wife, and we're both very exhausted."
"Bring her along."
"She's right here," Donna pipes up. "And she's not moving from this flat until after she's had some sleep."
John gives Sherlock a sympathetic look and shrugs his shoulders in the universal sorry mate, Missus wins again signal.
"Fine." It's still that flat tone, but this time it's all petulant child denied sweets. "I'll just have to make do without you. Anderson's working forensics tonight."
John caves. He tells himself Anything to prevent a bloodbath, but the excitement, the addiction of a new case is already starting to buzz in his head. "Give me two minutes."
"Good. Taxi's waiting."
"Bloody Sherlock Holmes," Donna grouses as the man in question sweeps out of the flat.
"I know, I know, we should string him up for his insolence," John deadpans as he levers himself up off the couch and snags his jacket.
"Why did we move into the basement?"
"Because Mrs. Hudson isn't upping Sherlock's rent because we're here in the flat she could never rent out."
There's a bare corner in the living room just big enough for a police box. Both know it; neither mentions it.
"Don't get killed, I haven't finished the beneficiary paperwork," Donna tells him when he leans over to kiss her goodbye.
"I love you too, Noble."
"Oi." Donna grabs his jacket collar. "It's. Donna. Watson." She punctuates each word with a kiss.
"Well, whoever you are."
"Get outta here," she says fondly and lets him go. "Sooner you leave, sooner you're back."
"Take a nap," he suggests. "Hopefully I'll be in before you wake up."
"I'll dream of you," she sing-songs.
"That was terrible!" John calls out as he walks through the flat door.
"I know!" Donna replies, turning to blow him a kiss.
He locks the door to 221c before heading outside and sliding into the back of the cab next to Sherlock. The younger man glances up from his mobile phone to look at John. He shakes his head sadly before going back to whatever he's texting.
John just grins and fidgets with the gold band on his finger.
Content.