Fic: Something Remembered, part 5 - Sherlock/Doctor Who
Title: Something Remembered
Fandom: Sherlock/Doctor Who
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: none
Spoilers: Through The Great Game for Sherlock and The Big Bang for Doctor Who
Disclaimer: Do I look like I own any of this? Because, sadly, I don't.
Warnings: violence
Summary: When John is kidnapped, he starts to remember something.
Author's Notes: written for the sherlockbbc-fic kink meme. Also, my first attempt at writing for Sherlock.
Previous Parts: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four
John's dreams that night were confused and hazy, with everything tinted gold and leaving him with an overwhelming sense of foreboding when he finally woke up, far earlier than he wanted. He laid in bed for a long moment, just staring up at the ceiling, before he heard a soft snoring coming from the corner of the room.
He glanced over and had to bite back a chuckle. Sherlock was slumped awkwardly in the chair; head tipped back against the wall, mouth slightly open and still wrapped up in his scarf and coat. As far as John could tell, he'd been there all night.
John shook his head, the lingering unease from his dreams fading. They were more than likely the result of the panic attack Sherlock had nearly given him anyway.
Four hours later he had been released and they were on their way back to Baker Street. The moment they arrived Sherlock forced him down onto the sofa and told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to move until they were ready to leave.
John frowned, plucking at the oddly familiar orange blanket that Sherlock had tucked around him. "Sherlock, we're not leaving for another two days. I can't stay on the sofa the entire time, you know."
Sherlock barely glanced at him as he headed for the stairs to John's room. "Of course not, John. But since we're leaving as soon as I finish packing your things it won't matter."
For an instant, John just blinked. "What on earth are you talking about?"
Sherlock's voice echoed down from somewhere in John's room. "It's all been arranged. I texted my father last night, told him what happened and that we'd be down early so I could keep an eye on you."
John hesitated a moment before replying. "I thought we'd be staying the absolute minimum amount of time that we could get away with because you were 'allergic to the countryside.' And possibly to your family, as well."
There was silence from John's room for a long moment, and even the sounds of Sherlock throwing things haphazardly in a suitcase stilled. "Yes, well. I thought the fresh air might aid in your recovery."
A small part of John wanted to continue arguing as he was rather wary of spending too much time with the members of the Holmes family, especially the ones he hadn't even met yet. But he realized that in his own peculiar way Sherlock was trying to do this solely for John's benefit, something he engaged in all too rarely.
And as behavior like that needed to be encouraged at all costs, John held his tongue.
Before he knew it they were on their way, comfortably ensconced in one of Mycroft's unidentifiable black cars. That fact, more than anything else, told John just how concerned Sherlock had been about him as under normal circumstances there was no way Sherlock would have even considered making use of anything of Mycroft's.
It seemed like it was no time at all before they were pulling up to a rather large, well kept house. There were no other houses in sight, but there was a dense, slightly spooky looking forest edging on the back of the house. The house itself seemed perfectly normal, but there was something about it that made John nervous.
Even after the car stopped Sherlock made no attempt to move. John glanced out the car window, then back at Sherlock. "So, are we going in any time soon?"
Sherlock flashed him a glare but still didn't move. "Yes, yes. In a moment."
"I did say we could stay home and watch telly, you know. If you want to turn back around and leave, I won't tell anyone."
Sherlock sighed and finally opened his door. "No, there's no use in leaving now. Father already knows we're here." He slipped out of the car, and by the time John had followed him was already pulling their bags out of the boot.
John took in the sight and blinked. "You're carrying my bags?"
"The doctor said you were not to exert yourself for at least three days and your wrists are still bandaged."
Fighting the sudden urge to check Sherlock for either a fever or a personality-altering head injury, John simply stood there for a moment until Sherlock pushed past him with the bags. Then he shook his head and followed Sherlock to the front door of the house.
The door opened just before they reached it. "You're late, Sherlock."
There was no question that the man was Sherlock's father. He was tall and thin, and while his hair was a greying ginger rather than dark like Sherlock's their eyes were almost exactly the same shade. And even without the strictly physical similarities, both men gave off the same sense of being the only genius in a room full of idiots.
If John hadn't gotten used to the feeling living with Sherlock he'd feel intimidated.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Father, this is John Watson. John, my father Estram Holmes."
Next Part
Fandom: Sherlock/Doctor Who
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: none
Spoilers: Through The Great Game for Sherlock and The Big Bang for Doctor Who
Disclaimer: Do I look like I own any of this? Because, sadly, I don't.
Warnings: violence
Summary: When John is kidnapped, he starts to remember something.
Author's Notes: written for the sherlockbbc-fic kink meme. Also, my first attempt at writing for Sherlock.
Previous Parts: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four
John's dreams that night were confused and hazy, with everything tinted gold and leaving him with an overwhelming sense of foreboding when he finally woke up, far earlier than he wanted. He laid in bed for a long moment, just staring up at the ceiling, before he heard a soft snoring coming from the corner of the room.
He glanced over and had to bite back a chuckle. Sherlock was slumped awkwardly in the chair; head tipped back against the wall, mouth slightly open and still wrapped up in his scarf and coat. As far as John could tell, he'd been there all night.
John shook his head, the lingering unease from his dreams fading. They were more than likely the result of the panic attack Sherlock had nearly given him anyway.
Four hours later he had been released and they were on their way back to Baker Street. The moment they arrived Sherlock forced him down onto the sofa and told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to move until they were ready to leave.
John frowned, plucking at the oddly familiar orange blanket that Sherlock had tucked around him. "Sherlock, we're not leaving for another two days. I can't stay on the sofa the entire time, you know."
Sherlock barely glanced at him as he headed for the stairs to John's room. "Of course not, John. But since we're leaving as soon as I finish packing your things it won't matter."
For an instant, John just blinked. "What on earth are you talking about?"
Sherlock's voice echoed down from somewhere in John's room. "It's all been arranged. I texted my father last night, told him what happened and that we'd be down early so I could keep an eye on you."
John hesitated a moment before replying. "I thought we'd be staying the absolute minimum amount of time that we could get away with because you were 'allergic to the countryside.' And possibly to your family, as well."
There was silence from John's room for a long moment, and even the sounds of Sherlock throwing things haphazardly in a suitcase stilled. "Yes, well. I thought the fresh air might aid in your recovery."
A small part of John wanted to continue arguing as he was rather wary of spending too much time with the members of the Holmes family, especially the ones he hadn't even met yet. But he realized that in his own peculiar way Sherlock was trying to do this solely for John's benefit, something he engaged in all too rarely.
And as behavior like that needed to be encouraged at all costs, John held his tongue.
Before he knew it they were on their way, comfortably ensconced in one of Mycroft's unidentifiable black cars. That fact, more than anything else, told John just how concerned Sherlock had been about him as under normal circumstances there was no way Sherlock would have even considered making use of anything of Mycroft's.
It seemed like it was no time at all before they were pulling up to a rather large, well kept house. There were no other houses in sight, but there was a dense, slightly spooky looking forest edging on the back of the house. The house itself seemed perfectly normal, but there was something about it that made John nervous.
Even after the car stopped Sherlock made no attempt to move. John glanced out the car window, then back at Sherlock. "So, are we going in any time soon?"
Sherlock flashed him a glare but still didn't move. "Yes, yes. In a moment."
"I did say we could stay home and watch telly, you know. If you want to turn back around and leave, I won't tell anyone."
Sherlock sighed and finally opened his door. "No, there's no use in leaving now. Father already knows we're here." He slipped out of the car, and by the time John had followed him was already pulling their bags out of the boot.
John took in the sight and blinked. "You're carrying my bags?"
"The doctor said you were not to exert yourself for at least three days and your wrists are still bandaged."
Fighting the sudden urge to check Sherlock for either a fever or a personality-altering head injury, John simply stood there for a moment until Sherlock pushed past him with the bags. Then he shook his head and followed Sherlock to the front door of the house.
The door opened just before they reached it. "You're late, Sherlock."
There was no question that the man was Sherlock's father. He was tall and thin, and while his hair was a greying ginger rather than dark like Sherlock's their eyes were almost exactly the same shade. And even without the strictly physical similarities, both men gave off the same sense of being the only genius in a room full of idiots.
If John hadn't gotten used to the feeling living with Sherlock he'd feel intimidated.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Father, this is John Watson. John, my father Estram Holmes."
Next Part