A Case of Identity
A Case of Identity: Sherlock doesn't eat. Sherlock doesn't put cases on hold. And Sherlock certainly doesn't do Christmas. Crossover with Doctor Who. Written for the sherlockmas 2012 Holiday Fic Exchange.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 4633
Pairing: Sherlock/John, Amy/Rory
Disclaimer: I am not related in any way to the Beeb, Sherlock, Doyle, etc, all rights belong to them.
Warning: Brief, explicit sex, random aliens, and TARDIS-style romps
Beta/Brit-pick: donutsweeper and thesmallhobbit
“John, your breakfast awaits!”
The man in question groaned and rolled away from the door to his bedroom. “Jesus, Sherlock, I just got into bed,” he said, or tried to say. What came out was something more like, “JZ-z, Sh'uck, juss ga inna beh.”
“You've slept four hours exactly, I checked,” the madman replied briskly. He strode to the curtains and whisked them open, letting early-morning sunlight spill across John's pillow. John groaned again and curled up even more, trying to pull his pillow over his head. It disappeared with a sharp yank, and he found himself being hustled upright and bundled into his dressing gown without so much as a 'put out your arm, please' as Sherlock added, “That's quite long enough for a full REM cycle, you should be rested.”
Sherlock swept out of the room again, his blue dressing gown flaring as dramatically as his coat did at crime scenes, clearly expecting John to follow.
“Four hours is a general estimate,” John mumbled, stumbling down the stairs and into the living room. He stopped abruptly in shock. “What the hell happened in here?”
The room was not its usual cluttered mess, but instead looked as though a cleaning service had been through. On second viewing, it was obvious that most of the clutter had simply been shoved behind the sofa, but the majority of the room had been cleared, the furniture rearranged, and a small, slightly dejected-looking tree had taken up residence in the corner usually inhabited by Sherlock's chair. It was festooned in swathes of tinsel and what looked to be repurposed lab equipment, probably for lack of traditional ornaments. Fairy lights were strewn haphazardly over the branches, and the whole spectacle was reminiscent of a small child having gotten hold of its parents' lab sets in the middle of the night. Which was most likely not far from what had occurred.
“Christmas, John!” Sherlock cried. John turned in shock to see Sherlock hugging himself and beaming in delight. “We didn't have anything up for Christmas Eve, and I thought I'd get it done before you awoke.”
“Well, that was...thoughtful of you,” John said bemusedly.
“Breakfast!” Sherlock announced, and dashed into the kitchen, John trailing behind him. Sherlock had...cooked. Toast, eggs, bacon, fried tomatoes and potatoes, a veritable cornucopia of food filled the table that had been cluttered with some form of experiment only the night before. The bits of table that could be seen under the food looked as though it had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. The food itself smelled heavenly, and there was a chair pulled out in front of one of the two empty plates. John's eyes felt like they were going to pop clean out of his head. “Sit!” Sherlock ordered, and John did, still staring at the mountains of breakfast.
Somewhat to John's surprise - where John had any left, he didn't know - Sherlock himself sat too, and they began divvying up the toast and bacon and eggs and tomatoes and potatoes, buttering the toast and salting the eggs, pouring tea for each other from a steaming teapot (and where had Sherlock got that, John wondered), and setting to with a will. Something about this behaviour seemed bizarre to John, even through the muzziness of being recently awakened, but it didn't really sort itself in his head until he'd sat back, heartily sated, and watched Sherlock go for second helpings of the bacon.
“I thought you had a case on,” John commented, sipping his tea and watching Sherlock crunch with evident delight.
“Christmas,” Sherlock muttered around his mouthful, then swallowed. “It can wait until Boxing Day.”
John blinked. Sherlock did not eat on cases. Sherlock did not postpone cases, especially cases he had dubbed three-patch problems. Sherlock also did not cook breakfast, although John's ecstatically full stomach disagreed with him there. Something was deeply, desperately wrong.
“Well, John, what shall we do for the day? Ice skating? Watching Christmas movies? We could go have a snowball fight,” Sherlock said, looking gleeful at the thought.
“Actually, I, uh, I forgot to buy you anything,” John said a little desperately. “Last-minute shopping for presents sound good to you?”
“Brilliant!” Sherlock exclaimed, bounding out of his seat. “Presents! I'd forgotten about presents. Go get dressed!” he shouted, already barreling into his room. John also made a quick exit, hurriedly changing into somewhat worn jeans and a holiday jumper he dug up out of the back of his wardrobe. This new Sherlock might go off without him, he thought, at least until he looked up midway through putting on his socks and saw Sherlock staring at him from the doorway.
“Hurry up, John!” he said, bouncing a little in place. “The shops won't wait forever!”
~~~~~
They took a cab to Oxford St, where Sherlock was delighted by absolutely everything. John followed him for a bit, then made his excuses to ostensibly find something for Sherlock - “Of course, John, I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise!” - and slipped away to call for help. But who? That thought stopped him dead. Who did you call when your flatmate suddenly liked Christmas? Most anyone would simply congratulate him on Sherlock becoming normal and ring off to their own festivities. It's not as if there's a pod-person hotline, John thought gloomily, slumping down onto a handy bench.
“You look like someone's ruined your Christmas,” said an unfamiliar voice. John looked up to see an extremely attractive ginger sitting next to him.
“More like someone's gotten too much of the spirit,” he said, trying to smile and grimacing instead.
“Mm, hitting the Christmas spirits a little hard?” she asked sympathetically.
“No, just...he doesn't do, well, this,” he said, gesticulating to the bustle around them. “The whole thing really, and suddenly he's rocketing about like the hols mean something to him.”
“Bit out of character?” she said, looking surprisingly intense.
“More than a bit. It's nice, but...” he trailed off. “John Watson, by the way,” he added, sticking out his hand.
“John Watson? The John Watson?” she said, instead of taking it. Before John could so much as groan - another fan! - she extended her hand too. “Amy Pond.”
“Nice to meet you,” John said, shaking it. She had a firm clasp, warm and dry, and John decided cautiously that he liked her.
“And you,” she said, smiling. “So, your Sherlock has gotten a bit un-Sherlocky?”
“Uh...yes,” he replied, suddenly feeling as though the world was about to tip sideways.
“That explains it,” Amy said, and pulled him to his feet. “Come on, I want you to meet someone.”
~~~~~
It was bigger on the inside. Not just bigger, but weird, with gadgets and gizmos and a platform in the middle with a clear glass floor, which looked vertigo-inducing. John blinked once or twice, then rallied.
“John, I want you to meet the Doctor,” Amy was saying, indicating a tall, slightly goofy-looking fellow in a tweed jacket and bow tie. “Doctor, this is...John Watson,” she added, looking meaningfully at him.
“John Watson? Oh! Fantastic! I'd always wanted to meet you, but never quite gotten round to it,” the man said. He bounded down from the platform and shook John's hand vigorously in both of his. “So, Sherlock?”
“Uh, I suppose?” John ventured.
“Exceedingly festive,” Amy said smugly.
“Put a case on hold. Ate,” added John. He had no idea what was going on, but as long as he was being sucked into what was clearly some sort of science-fiction movie, the more information that was shared, the better the outcome might be. And if this is some sort of bizarre dream, no harm in enjoying it, he thought, trying to unobtrusively admire Amy's short skirt atop the glass platform.
“Oy! Eyes front, soldier,” Amy barked, but she was smiling, and John grinned briefly before turning back to the Doctor.
“It's not much to go on,” said a new voice, coming down a ramp leading off into the depths of the box. A slightly tired-looking young man trotted down next to Amy, kissing her and looking at John with a slightly raised eyebrow. John shrugged apologetically and the young man grinned. “Rory,” he said, waving. “You really think that's why we're here?” he asked, looking at the Doctor.
“Where there's smoke there's fire,” said the Doctor, smiling in a somewhat maniacal fashion.
“Or Silurians,” muttered Amy.
“Or other things,” Rory added.
~~~~~
“Sherlock? Sherlock, I'm back!” John shouted up the stairs. Sherlock had texted while John was still in the TARDIS, saying he'd finished his shopping and did John need more time? John had texted back that yes, he was having difficulty and would meet Sherlock back at the flat later. After a long and confusing chat with the Doctor, Amy, and Rory, John was still unsure what was happening, but the gist of it was that his flatmate was not his flatmate, but mostly harmless, and they were going to get to the bottom of this.
“Found something nice?” Sherlock asked, appearing at the top of the stairs. The childish anticipation on his face made something in John's chest twinge a little, before Sherlock, or the thing playing Sherlock, got a good look past him. “Awww, not you!” he pouted, and stormed back into the living room.
John, the Doctor, Amy, and Rory all trooped up into the living room, where “Sherlock” had flung himself into a pout on the sofa. “I don't want to go home!” he declared, deliberately turning his back on the group. John, Rory, and Amy exchanged glances. Whatever they had been expecting, it wasn't this.
“Well, you really can't stay here,” the Doctor said, almost gently. “I'm sure they miss you at home.”
“Do not,” 'Sherlock' mumbled into the sofa. “They don't care about me at all.”
The Doctor pulled out what looked like some sort of hand tool with a green gem on the end, hit a few buttons, and the device made a humming sort of sound. He looked at it and his eyebrows went up. “Well of course they do!” he said, putting the device away. “After all, you're the crown prince of Jortha, everyone will care once they realise you've vanished!”
“They won't!” exploded the figure on the couch, and abruptly it shifted a little, and when it sat up it was...still very similar to Sherlock, but evidently inhuman. “I picked one that looks like me, and he's smart, he'll be fine!”
“What...” John breathed out, and the person looked imploringly at him.
“Don't send me home, John,” it begged, and John got the impression that whoever he was talking to was much younger than it looked. “It's so boring there, and I know I can help people here, I can do what Sherlock does, honest! I just need a couple of days to myself, and I'll pick up right where he left off! I'm clever, you'll see!”
“Well, um,” John said, and shot the Doctor a slightly panicked look.
The Doctor immediately crouched down by the young person on the sofa and grabbed its hands. “We won't make you go anywhere you don't want to go, Sh'k'leh, but you have to think about poor Sherlock. If you were bored, imagine how he feels!”
Sh'k'leh drooped a little. “He likes new things, though,” it pleaded. “He'll have fun!”
John exchanged another round of glances with Amy and Rory, then headed for the kitchen. There was still enough food left from earlier for a second breakfast and the Doctor was clearly going to be busy for a bit.
~~~~~
“So how exactly are we going to talk their High Council into letting Sh...Shk...”
“Just call me 'Leh, I don't mind,” Sh'k'leh said.
John coughed. “Right. How are we going to talk them into letting 'Leh take a holiday here?'
“Really there's no reason hin can't just tell them,” the Doctor said, pulling the TARDIS door shut behind them all and dashing to the console. (John wondered if the man ever walked anywhere.) “Sh'k'leh's technically of age, hin can just tell them to sod off and swan down to Earth for a bit, so long as hin keeps up with the regularly scheduled public appearances and essential ruling duties. Most of the governmental heavy lifting is done by the Council and King, if hin's really needed they can contact hin anytime.”
“Technically,” 'Leh sulked. “Uncle R'yeh'th likes to say that a lot.”
“Hin?” John asked, confused.
“Proper pronoun for the progenitor gender,” Rory said in an undertone. “Works for the equivalent of 'he' and 'his' both, gets confusing.”
Amy snorted delicately. “Makes more sense having just one, I'd say.”
The Doctor and 'Leh had been conversing about various Jorthan legalities while the impromptu grammar lesson had been going on. The Doctor now sported a satisfied expression that made John think he'd uttered something he thought was stunning. 'Leh had a thoughtful look on its (hin's? John thought) face. “Maybe if I consent to meet that male my esteemed progenitor's been hinting about, the Council will concede the vacation point. I don't have to worry about wedding until I'm five hundred, much less breeding, and grenfelzing sounds interesting. Plus I don't have to worry about breeding unless hin starts suggesting a female, too.”
(John quietly tried not to boggle at the implications of that.)
A sudden BOOM! shook the TARDIS, and everyone grabbed hold of something to avoid falling over. “The shields!” 'Leh cried, and lurched toward a keyboard, rapidly typing in something. The shuddering stopped, and the Doctor finished slapping at controls. “Sorry about that,” 'Leh said sheepishly.
“Didn't know you had something that could keep the old girl out,” the Doctor said.
“Not really, but it'd bang us up a bit on the way through,” 'Leh replied, straightening hin's coat. “I guess I'd better - what's the term? Face the music?”
They trooped toward the door, and 'Leh swung it open directly into the middle of a firefight, complete with what John thought for a wild moment was literally fire until he saw the 'gun' one of the combatants was firing. “Down!” John hollered, and body-checked 'Leh out of the way of what he'd realised was a laser beam. Oh, dear god, I really have walked into a science fiction movie!
“What the hell is going on?” Rory asked, flattened against the side of the wall next to the door, Amy snugged up beside him.
“A war?” the Doctor suggested from the floor.
“A bloody mess,” grumbled John. “You all right, 'Leh?”
“Outrageous!” 'Leh growled from under John. “Shooting at me?!”
“Shooting at the TARDIS,” Amy corrected.
“Mmph,” 'Leh acknowledged, then struggled up from under John. Hin pulled hin's watch free of the coat's sleeve, then poked a few buttons. Instantly hin's skin glowed indigo, and hin stood and made to stride off into the madness outside.
“We're a team now! Get back here!” hissed Amy.
'Leh stopped at once, looking apologetic. “I don't know how to extend this over all of us,” hin said, gesturing at hin's watch-thing. The Doctor fumbled his device out of his pocket and pointed it at the band, making the device buzz at higher and higher frequencies for a few seconds and then sending up a shower of sparks.
“Oops!” said the Doctor, then jumped upright to look at the damage. “Ooh, bit of an overload. Hang on,” he said, and buzzed the watch at a lower frequency. “That should do it, but we all have to pack in close.”
They all bunched in tightly together, touching at the shoulders and arms, then carefully made their way out of the TARDIS. Lasers sizzled past them, and occasionally made bits of them glow an intense indigo upon impact. John giggled madly as one hit him in the side, and only by hanging onto Rory's arm did he not lose contact with the group. “Sorry, tickles like hell,” he panted.
“I know,” Rory said ruefully, scratching at the side of his neck where he'd been hit moments before. “Didn't think I was ticklish there anymore.”
It took what seemed like an eternity for the group to make their way down the corridors to a large double door, guarded by two dangerous-looking guards. “Your Highness!” cried one of them, lowering its weapon a little. “They caught the imposter, they're going to execute that upstart male in a moment!”
“Execute?!” John cried, pushing to the front of the group.
'Leh looked horrified. “No, no, no! I brought him here! He's not - oh, argelfraster, let me by!”
“Your companions -” the other guard started.
“Are with me. Blast you, let me in!” 'Leh roared. The guards hurried to obey, pushing the doors open.
“How does it feel to be a companion, Doctor?” Amy said in an undertone, obviously trying not to giggle. The Doctor, however, wasn't listening.
The tableau before them was unfortunately nothing new to John. A group of people surrounded a large table, with Sherlock in the centre, looking irritated and wearing some form of handcuffs. Two of the beings gesticulated with some form of weaponry, another three just as adamantly shouted back, and the rest looked some form of worried, shocked, or disgusted. Everyone fell silent as 'Leh broke away from the group as the doors boomed shut behind them.
“What in the name of the Seven is going on here?!” Sh'k'leh demanded, sounding as imperial as hin had childish not hours before. You could hear a pin drop in the silence as everyone stared. “No, really, anytime you're ready.”
“I think, your Highness, that your plan lacked a few details,” drawled Sherlock. “For instance, briefing your body double.”
~~~~~
After everything had been sorted out - Sh'k'leh's attempt at finding a replacement gone horribly sideways when Sherlock's gender had been discovered, the High Council's immediate assumption of treasonous intent, and Sherlock's ability to be both entirely too observant and horrifically socially inept causing battles in the hallway having all been explained - John finally got a chance to talk to his errant flatmate.
“So, what did you say to stir all this up?” he asked, gesturing to what looked very much like an intense, quiet domestic going on in the sidelines of the main conversation.
“How do you know that was my fault?” Sherlock said, failing to look innocent. John simply raised an eyebrow. “All right, I pointed out that Karithca had evidently been grenfelzing with F'gh'thia, and D'ki'vor took exception to my comment.”
“I'm not even going to ask how you knew that,” John said, rubbing his forehead.
“Chocolate,” Sherlock stated simply.
“Right,” said John. “What did you do to your forehead?”
“Forehead?” Sherlock touched his forehead, a little startled. “Oh. That's not my blood.”
“I'm not going to ask,” John repeated, and they grinned at each other.
“Right! Time to go!” exclaimed the Doctor, bounding over to them. “John, Sherlock, if you're willing Sh'k'leh would like to visit for a bit in three weeks; hin's quite interested in your cases, Sherlock.”
Sherlock groaned. “What?” John asked, smiling innocently. “I think hin would be lovely to have along on cases, and unlike some people I could mention, hin's actually interested in cooking.”
“I can cook,” Sherlock said, wounded.
“Mm-hmm,” John replied sceptically.
“Just give hin a chance?” the Doctor said hopefully.
“Mmph,” grumped Sherlock.
~~~~~
“John, your breakfast awaits!”
John rolled over and stared at the madman in his doorway. “'Leh?” he asked, frowning a little. “I thought you'd be here in three weeks?”
“Hin will be, John, it's me,” Sherlock frowned back. “Breakfast is waiting.”
“You cooked?” John rolled out of bed and grabbed his dressing gown.
“I said I could,” Sherlock replied, and vanished from the doorway.
“Hmm,” said John, and curiously puttered down the stairs to the living room, which still had its disaster of a tree up, much to John's surprise. Sherlock had taken one look, snorted, and ignored it for a mad search for papers on his current case when they'd gotten home, but John had thought that surely Sherlock would want his lab equipment for some experiment or other by now.
Breakfast was indeed awaiting them on the kitchen table - French toast, made into a sort of sandwich with jam and sprinkled on top with powdered sugar, sausages, and hard-boiled eggs. The teapot that 'Leh had dug up smelled of coffee, but there was a mug of tea in John's spot. “You really did all this?” John asked, casting a suspicious eye at Sherlock. “Didn't badger Mrs Hudson into it?”
“You wound me, John,” Sherlock said, sounding smug. “Grandmere taught Mycroft and myself both to cook when we visited her in France. Claimed even young men should be able to feed themselves; most times I don't see the point. Takeaway does well enough.”
“I see,” John said, and did not question further. They both sat, although Sherlock contented himself with a sausage and egg, sipping coffee from his mug and watching John eat rather than take his share. “How's the case coming, then?”
“A cold case, actually; Sh'k'leh wasn't too far off when hin said it could wait until Boxing Day. Some interesting details, but until I reassemble the experiment that was on the table it won't go far, and...the tree looks. Interesting.” Sherlock evaded John's questioning look by refilling his mug and drinking more coffee.
“Mm.” John polished off his French-toast sandwich; it was almost treacly sweet, with blackberry jam, and John could feel the incipient cavities. “This is really quite good.”
“Grandmere's special treat, for holidays,” Sherlock said softly, an unusually nostalgic smile on his face. “Mycroft always ate them until he was sick.”
“He's not coming here today, is he?” John said, stopping mid-forkful of potatoes.
“Of course not!” Sherlock looked affronted. “I merely sent him a picture of the finished plateful.”
John giggled. “Eeeeevil pilotfish,” he rebuked, and giggled harder at the baffled look on Sherlock's face.
They (or rather John) finished breakfast, and then Sherlock allowed himself to be pestered into sitting on the sofa for the latest Christmas special on the telly. He even refrained from picking apart too many of the major plot holes.
“You're being suspiciously nice,” John said, after the credits had started rolling. “Is there something you have to tell me?” He turned to Sherlock, smiling, and caught a look of - embarrassment? - on his face. “Oh god, please tell me there's not another head in the fridge, or you've done something dastardly to the bathroom again.”
“No!” protested Sherlock, with all the innocence of a usually guilty man for once in the right. “I keep the heads at Bart's now, Mrs Hudson wouldn't talk to me for a week after the last one.”
“Then what is it?”
Switching off the telly, Sherlock turned a little more toward John, looking deeply uncomfortable. “I...wanted to thank you. For the rescue,” he added, flicking his eyes toward John and away, as if unable to really look at him.
John blinked. “You're welcome, but the Doctor and the Ponds had a little to do with it, too,” he pointed out.
“Yes, but you knew immediately something was wrong, didn't you?” Sherlock persisted.
“Well, yes,” admitted John. “'Leh eats, for one thing.”
Sherlock snorted. “I can understand why, the food on Jortha is terrible. A McDonald's is five star cuisine in comparison. The only decent thing there is the chocolate, and that's highly regulated.”
“Poor fellow,” John said sympathetically.
“Hin's not a fellow, hin's - oh never mind, it's too complicated,” Sherlock said irritably, flapping a hand. “Anyway, the point is, you knew something was wrong, and you got help as quickly as possible.” He looked away again, then back, then away. “That...that was good.”
“What happened?” John asked quietly, sensing that maybe yesterday hadn't been as entertainingly madcap for Sherlock as it had for him.
“Had you been approximately fifteen minutes later I would be dead, on a planet not even visible to Earth, and no one would know,” Sherlock replied just as quietly. “And there was literally nothing I could do.”
“There certainly was, you made it more complicated,” snorted John, trying to lighten the mood a little.
Sherlock huffed through his nose, a small grin quirking his lips. “Body language among the Jorthans is similar enough to humans that I thought perhaps I could put enough cats among the pigeons to make them think of things other than me,” he said. “I'm not sure if that slowed the proceedings more or just made them more eager to kill me for my silence.”
“Possibly both,” agreed John.
“So...I wanted to thank you,” Sherlock said. He still looked uncomfortable, though, and John had the distinct impression he was missing something.
“You're welcome?” he said hesitantly.
“Oh, this is impossible,” Sherlock burst out, and suddenly John had a lapful of Sherlock pressed up against him and was being kissed quite thoroughly.
“Mmph!” John half-protested, but his arms tightened almost without him realising it, and while part of him was still beyond shocked, it was dwindling rapidly in the onslaught of lips and tongue and surprisingly warm body draped across his front. At some point in his checkered past, Sherlock had learned to be an excellent kisser, and John spared a brief second to be grateful to whoever had been so brilliant a teacher, because it was possibly the most mindblowing kiss John had had in a very long time, and when had Sherlock's hands gotten inside his dressing gown?
The next several minutes did not involve much thinking at all. Dressing gowns were abandoned, draped on the sofa and the floor, pyjamas and pants strewn through the hall to Sherlock's bedroom, and they had tumbled into the neatly-made sleigh bed with hands and mouths absolutely everywhere. Sherlock must have been thinking of this for a bit, or perhaps he simply took care of himself here, because when John fumbled in the bedside drawer for something to speed their progress he found a small bottle of lube. With only minor spillage on the sheets he got enough of it on his hand and their cocks to grip them both without too much friction, and with Sherlock's enthusiastic help they both achieved orgasm with a gasp, and a cry, and Sherlock's teeth in John's good shoulder.
John came back to himself when Sherlock's hand eased from their softening cocks, and fumbled for something to wipe them off with. He came up with a sock that had been kicked off next to the bed, checked it briefly to be sure it was his (and probably mostly clean) before cleaning up the sticky mess between them. Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at John, who wearily tossed the sock back onto the floor and flopped back on the bed with a breathless chuckle. “Bit overboard for a thank you, really,” he panted.
“Well. Breakfast was perhaps too much,” Sherlock mused.
John swatted him with a pillow. “Not that, you ponce. I hope that wasn't just a thank you, though; I'd quite like to try again in less of a tearing great hurry.”
“Not exactly. I'd been thinking of it for some time, but hadn't fully planned out how to tell you.” Sherlock looked briefly annoyed. “Can't say that was precisely the way I'd thought of going about it.”
“You're barely socially functional, I'm unsurprised you hadn't a suave plan of seduction laid out,” smiled John. “Besides,” he reached up and stroked Sherlock's face, “this is more you, anyway. Works for me.”
“I can be suave!” Sherlock protested.
John laughed. “Yes, but I'd rather have you, without any of the disguises.”
“Good, because that would get boring quickly,” Sherlock admitted.
“Can't have that,” John breathed, and pulled him down for another kiss.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 4633
Pairing: Sherlock/John, Amy/Rory
Disclaimer: I am not related in any way to the Beeb, Sherlock, Doyle, etc, all rights belong to them.
Warning: Brief, explicit sex, random aliens, and TARDIS-style romps
Beta/Brit-pick: donutsweeper and thesmallhobbit
“John, your breakfast awaits!”
The man in question groaned and rolled away from the door to his bedroom. “Jesus, Sherlock, I just got into bed,” he said, or tried to say. What came out was something more like, “JZ-z, Sh'uck, juss ga inna beh.”
“You've slept four hours exactly, I checked,” the madman replied briskly. He strode to the curtains and whisked them open, letting early-morning sunlight spill across John's pillow. John groaned again and curled up even more, trying to pull his pillow over his head. It disappeared with a sharp yank, and he found himself being hustled upright and bundled into his dressing gown without so much as a 'put out your arm, please' as Sherlock added, “That's quite long enough for a full REM cycle, you should be rested.”
Sherlock swept out of the room again, his blue dressing gown flaring as dramatically as his coat did at crime scenes, clearly expecting John to follow.
“Four hours is a general estimate,” John mumbled, stumbling down the stairs and into the living room. He stopped abruptly in shock. “What the hell happened in here?”
The room was not its usual cluttered mess, but instead looked as though a cleaning service had been through. On second viewing, it was obvious that most of the clutter had simply been shoved behind the sofa, but the majority of the room had been cleared, the furniture rearranged, and a small, slightly dejected-looking tree had taken up residence in the corner usually inhabited by Sherlock's chair. It was festooned in swathes of tinsel and what looked to be repurposed lab equipment, probably for lack of traditional ornaments. Fairy lights were strewn haphazardly over the branches, and the whole spectacle was reminiscent of a small child having gotten hold of its parents' lab sets in the middle of the night. Which was most likely not far from what had occurred.
“Christmas, John!” Sherlock cried. John turned in shock to see Sherlock hugging himself and beaming in delight. “We didn't have anything up for Christmas Eve, and I thought I'd get it done before you awoke.”
“Well, that was...thoughtful of you,” John said bemusedly.
“Breakfast!” Sherlock announced, and dashed into the kitchen, John trailing behind him. Sherlock had...cooked. Toast, eggs, bacon, fried tomatoes and potatoes, a veritable cornucopia of food filled the table that had been cluttered with some form of experiment only the night before. The bits of table that could be seen under the food looked as though it had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. The food itself smelled heavenly, and there was a chair pulled out in front of one of the two empty plates. John's eyes felt like they were going to pop clean out of his head. “Sit!” Sherlock ordered, and John did, still staring at the mountains of breakfast.
Somewhat to John's surprise - where John had any left, he didn't know - Sherlock himself sat too, and they began divvying up the toast and bacon and eggs and tomatoes and potatoes, buttering the toast and salting the eggs, pouring tea for each other from a steaming teapot (and where had Sherlock got that, John wondered), and setting to with a will. Something about this behaviour seemed bizarre to John, even through the muzziness of being recently awakened, but it didn't really sort itself in his head until he'd sat back, heartily sated, and watched Sherlock go for second helpings of the bacon.
“I thought you had a case on,” John commented, sipping his tea and watching Sherlock crunch with evident delight.
“Christmas,” Sherlock muttered around his mouthful, then swallowed. “It can wait until Boxing Day.”
John blinked. Sherlock did not eat on cases. Sherlock did not postpone cases, especially cases he had dubbed three-patch problems. Sherlock also did not cook breakfast, although John's ecstatically full stomach disagreed with him there. Something was deeply, desperately wrong.
“Well, John, what shall we do for the day? Ice skating? Watching Christmas movies? We could go have a snowball fight,” Sherlock said, looking gleeful at the thought.
“Actually, I, uh, I forgot to buy you anything,” John said a little desperately. “Last-minute shopping for presents sound good to you?”
“Brilliant!” Sherlock exclaimed, bounding out of his seat. “Presents! I'd forgotten about presents. Go get dressed!” he shouted, already barreling into his room. John also made a quick exit, hurriedly changing into somewhat worn jeans and a holiday jumper he dug up out of the back of his wardrobe. This new Sherlock might go off without him, he thought, at least until he looked up midway through putting on his socks and saw Sherlock staring at him from the doorway.
“Hurry up, John!” he said, bouncing a little in place. “The shops won't wait forever!”
~~~~~
They took a cab to Oxford St, where Sherlock was delighted by absolutely everything. John followed him for a bit, then made his excuses to ostensibly find something for Sherlock - “Of course, John, I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise!” - and slipped away to call for help. But who? That thought stopped him dead. Who did you call when your flatmate suddenly liked Christmas? Most anyone would simply congratulate him on Sherlock becoming normal and ring off to their own festivities. It's not as if there's a pod-person hotline, John thought gloomily, slumping down onto a handy bench.
“You look like someone's ruined your Christmas,” said an unfamiliar voice. John looked up to see an extremely attractive ginger sitting next to him.
“More like someone's gotten too much of the spirit,” he said, trying to smile and grimacing instead.
“Mm, hitting the Christmas spirits a little hard?” she asked sympathetically.
“No, just...he doesn't do, well, this,” he said, gesticulating to the bustle around them. “The whole thing really, and suddenly he's rocketing about like the hols mean something to him.”
“Bit out of character?” she said, looking surprisingly intense.
“More than a bit. It's nice, but...” he trailed off. “John Watson, by the way,” he added, sticking out his hand.
“John Watson? The John Watson?” she said, instead of taking it. Before John could so much as groan - another fan! - she extended her hand too. “Amy Pond.”
“Nice to meet you,” John said, shaking it. She had a firm clasp, warm and dry, and John decided cautiously that he liked her.
“And you,” she said, smiling. “So, your Sherlock has gotten a bit un-Sherlocky?”
“Uh...yes,” he replied, suddenly feeling as though the world was about to tip sideways.
“That explains it,” Amy said, and pulled him to his feet. “Come on, I want you to meet someone.”
~~~~~
It was bigger on the inside. Not just bigger, but weird, with gadgets and gizmos and a platform in the middle with a clear glass floor, which looked vertigo-inducing. John blinked once or twice, then rallied.
“John, I want you to meet the Doctor,” Amy was saying, indicating a tall, slightly goofy-looking fellow in a tweed jacket and bow tie. “Doctor, this is...John Watson,” she added, looking meaningfully at him.
“John Watson? Oh! Fantastic! I'd always wanted to meet you, but never quite gotten round to it,” the man said. He bounded down from the platform and shook John's hand vigorously in both of his. “So, Sherlock?”
“Uh, I suppose?” John ventured.
“Exceedingly festive,” Amy said smugly.
“Put a case on hold. Ate,” added John. He had no idea what was going on, but as long as he was being sucked into what was clearly some sort of science-fiction movie, the more information that was shared, the better the outcome might be. And if this is some sort of bizarre dream, no harm in enjoying it, he thought, trying to unobtrusively admire Amy's short skirt atop the glass platform.
“Oy! Eyes front, soldier,” Amy barked, but she was smiling, and John grinned briefly before turning back to the Doctor.
“It's not much to go on,” said a new voice, coming down a ramp leading off into the depths of the box. A slightly tired-looking young man trotted down next to Amy, kissing her and looking at John with a slightly raised eyebrow. John shrugged apologetically and the young man grinned. “Rory,” he said, waving. “You really think that's why we're here?” he asked, looking at the Doctor.
“Where there's smoke there's fire,” said the Doctor, smiling in a somewhat maniacal fashion.
“Or Silurians,” muttered Amy.
“Or other things,” Rory added.
~~~~~
“Sherlock? Sherlock, I'm back!” John shouted up the stairs. Sherlock had texted while John was still in the TARDIS, saying he'd finished his shopping and did John need more time? John had texted back that yes, he was having difficulty and would meet Sherlock back at the flat later. After a long and confusing chat with the Doctor, Amy, and Rory, John was still unsure what was happening, but the gist of it was that his flatmate was not his flatmate, but mostly harmless, and they were going to get to the bottom of this.
“Found something nice?” Sherlock asked, appearing at the top of the stairs. The childish anticipation on his face made something in John's chest twinge a little, before Sherlock, or the thing playing Sherlock, got a good look past him. “Awww, not you!” he pouted, and stormed back into the living room.
John, the Doctor, Amy, and Rory all trooped up into the living room, where “Sherlock” had flung himself into a pout on the sofa. “I don't want to go home!” he declared, deliberately turning his back on the group. John, Rory, and Amy exchanged glances. Whatever they had been expecting, it wasn't this.
“Well, you really can't stay here,” the Doctor said, almost gently. “I'm sure they miss you at home.”
“Do not,” 'Sherlock' mumbled into the sofa. “They don't care about me at all.”
The Doctor pulled out what looked like some sort of hand tool with a green gem on the end, hit a few buttons, and the device made a humming sort of sound. He looked at it and his eyebrows went up. “Well of course they do!” he said, putting the device away. “After all, you're the crown prince of Jortha, everyone will care once they realise you've vanished!”
“They won't!” exploded the figure on the couch, and abruptly it shifted a little, and when it sat up it was...still very similar to Sherlock, but evidently inhuman. “I picked one that looks like me, and he's smart, he'll be fine!”
“What...” John breathed out, and the person looked imploringly at him.
“Don't send me home, John,” it begged, and John got the impression that whoever he was talking to was much younger than it looked. “It's so boring there, and I know I can help people here, I can do what Sherlock does, honest! I just need a couple of days to myself, and I'll pick up right where he left off! I'm clever, you'll see!”
“Well, um,” John said, and shot the Doctor a slightly panicked look.
The Doctor immediately crouched down by the young person on the sofa and grabbed its hands. “We won't make you go anywhere you don't want to go, Sh'k'leh, but you have to think about poor Sherlock. If you were bored, imagine how he feels!”
Sh'k'leh drooped a little. “He likes new things, though,” it pleaded. “He'll have fun!”
John exchanged another round of glances with Amy and Rory, then headed for the kitchen. There was still enough food left from earlier for a second breakfast and the Doctor was clearly going to be busy for a bit.
~~~~~
“So how exactly are we going to talk their High Council into letting Sh...Shk...”
“Just call me 'Leh, I don't mind,” Sh'k'leh said.
John coughed. “Right. How are we going to talk them into letting 'Leh take a holiday here?'
“Really there's no reason hin can't just tell them,” the Doctor said, pulling the TARDIS door shut behind them all and dashing to the console. (John wondered if the man ever walked anywhere.) “Sh'k'leh's technically of age, hin can just tell them to sod off and swan down to Earth for a bit, so long as hin keeps up with the regularly scheduled public appearances and essential ruling duties. Most of the governmental heavy lifting is done by the Council and King, if hin's really needed they can contact hin anytime.”
“Technically,” 'Leh sulked. “Uncle R'yeh'th likes to say that a lot.”
“Hin?” John asked, confused.
“Proper pronoun for the progenitor gender,” Rory said in an undertone. “Works for the equivalent of 'he' and 'his' both, gets confusing.”
Amy snorted delicately. “Makes more sense having just one, I'd say.”
The Doctor and 'Leh had been conversing about various Jorthan legalities while the impromptu grammar lesson had been going on. The Doctor now sported a satisfied expression that made John think he'd uttered something he thought was stunning. 'Leh had a thoughtful look on its (hin's? John thought) face. “Maybe if I consent to meet that male my esteemed progenitor's been hinting about, the Council will concede the vacation point. I don't have to worry about wedding until I'm five hundred, much less breeding, and grenfelzing sounds interesting. Plus I don't have to worry about breeding unless hin starts suggesting a female, too.”
(John quietly tried not to boggle at the implications of that.)
A sudden BOOM! shook the TARDIS, and everyone grabbed hold of something to avoid falling over. “The shields!” 'Leh cried, and lurched toward a keyboard, rapidly typing in something. The shuddering stopped, and the Doctor finished slapping at controls. “Sorry about that,” 'Leh said sheepishly.
“Didn't know you had something that could keep the old girl out,” the Doctor said.
“Not really, but it'd bang us up a bit on the way through,” 'Leh replied, straightening hin's coat. “I guess I'd better - what's the term? Face the music?”
They trooped toward the door, and 'Leh swung it open directly into the middle of a firefight, complete with what John thought for a wild moment was literally fire until he saw the 'gun' one of the combatants was firing. “Down!” John hollered, and body-checked 'Leh out of the way of what he'd realised was a laser beam. Oh, dear god, I really have walked into a science fiction movie!
“What the hell is going on?” Rory asked, flattened against the side of the wall next to the door, Amy snugged up beside him.
“A war?” the Doctor suggested from the floor.
“A bloody mess,” grumbled John. “You all right, 'Leh?”
“Outrageous!” 'Leh growled from under John. “Shooting at me?!”
“Shooting at the TARDIS,” Amy corrected.
“Mmph,” 'Leh acknowledged, then struggled up from under John. Hin pulled hin's watch free of the coat's sleeve, then poked a few buttons. Instantly hin's skin glowed indigo, and hin stood and made to stride off into the madness outside.
“We're a team now! Get back here!” hissed Amy.
'Leh stopped at once, looking apologetic. “I don't know how to extend this over all of us,” hin said, gesturing at hin's watch-thing. The Doctor fumbled his device out of his pocket and pointed it at the band, making the device buzz at higher and higher frequencies for a few seconds and then sending up a shower of sparks.
“Oops!” said the Doctor, then jumped upright to look at the damage. “Ooh, bit of an overload. Hang on,” he said, and buzzed the watch at a lower frequency. “That should do it, but we all have to pack in close.”
They all bunched in tightly together, touching at the shoulders and arms, then carefully made their way out of the TARDIS. Lasers sizzled past them, and occasionally made bits of them glow an intense indigo upon impact. John giggled madly as one hit him in the side, and only by hanging onto Rory's arm did he not lose contact with the group. “Sorry, tickles like hell,” he panted.
“I know,” Rory said ruefully, scratching at the side of his neck where he'd been hit moments before. “Didn't think I was ticklish there anymore.”
It took what seemed like an eternity for the group to make their way down the corridors to a large double door, guarded by two dangerous-looking guards. “Your Highness!” cried one of them, lowering its weapon a little. “They caught the imposter, they're going to execute that upstart male in a moment!”
“Execute?!” John cried, pushing to the front of the group.
'Leh looked horrified. “No, no, no! I brought him here! He's not - oh, argelfraster, let me by!”
“Your companions -” the other guard started.
“Are with me. Blast you, let me in!” 'Leh roared. The guards hurried to obey, pushing the doors open.
“How does it feel to be a companion, Doctor?” Amy said in an undertone, obviously trying not to giggle. The Doctor, however, wasn't listening.
The tableau before them was unfortunately nothing new to John. A group of people surrounded a large table, with Sherlock in the centre, looking irritated and wearing some form of handcuffs. Two of the beings gesticulated with some form of weaponry, another three just as adamantly shouted back, and the rest looked some form of worried, shocked, or disgusted. Everyone fell silent as 'Leh broke away from the group as the doors boomed shut behind them.
“What in the name of the Seven is going on here?!” Sh'k'leh demanded, sounding as imperial as hin had childish not hours before. You could hear a pin drop in the silence as everyone stared. “No, really, anytime you're ready.”
“I think, your Highness, that your plan lacked a few details,” drawled Sherlock. “For instance, briefing your body double.”
~~~~~
After everything had been sorted out - Sh'k'leh's attempt at finding a replacement gone horribly sideways when Sherlock's gender had been discovered, the High Council's immediate assumption of treasonous intent, and Sherlock's ability to be both entirely too observant and horrifically socially inept causing battles in the hallway having all been explained - John finally got a chance to talk to his errant flatmate.
“So, what did you say to stir all this up?” he asked, gesturing to what looked very much like an intense, quiet domestic going on in the sidelines of the main conversation.
“How do you know that was my fault?” Sherlock said, failing to look innocent. John simply raised an eyebrow. “All right, I pointed out that Karithca had evidently been grenfelzing with F'gh'thia, and D'ki'vor took exception to my comment.”
“I'm not even going to ask how you knew that,” John said, rubbing his forehead.
“Chocolate,” Sherlock stated simply.
“Right,” said John. “What did you do to your forehead?”
“Forehead?” Sherlock touched his forehead, a little startled. “Oh. That's not my blood.”
“I'm not going to ask,” John repeated, and they grinned at each other.
“Right! Time to go!” exclaimed the Doctor, bounding over to them. “John, Sherlock, if you're willing Sh'k'leh would like to visit for a bit in three weeks; hin's quite interested in your cases, Sherlock.”
Sherlock groaned. “What?” John asked, smiling innocently. “I think hin would be lovely to have along on cases, and unlike some people I could mention, hin's actually interested in cooking.”
“I can cook,” Sherlock said, wounded.
“Mm-hmm,” John replied sceptically.
“Just give hin a chance?” the Doctor said hopefully.
“Mmph,” grumped Sherlock.
~~~~~
“John, your breakfast awaits!”
John rolled over and stared at the madman in his doorway. “'Leh?” he asked, frowning a little. “I thought you'd be here in three weeks?”
“Hin will be, John, it's me,” Sherlock frowned back. “Breakfast is waiting.”
“You cooked?” John rolled out of bed and grabbed his dressing gown.
“I said I could,” Sherlock replied, and vanished from the doorway.
“Hmm,” said John, and curiously puttered down the stairs to the living room, which still had its disaster of a tree up, much to John's surprise. Sherlock had taken one look, snorted, and ignored it for a mad search for papers on his current case when they'd gotten home, but John had thought that surely Sherlock would want his lab equipment for some experiment or other by now.
Breakfast was indeed awaiting them on the kitchen table - French toast, made into a sort of sandwich with jam and sprinkled on top with powdered sugar, sausages, and hard-boiled eggs. The teapot that 'Leh had dug up smelled of coffee, but there was a mug of tea in John's spot. “You really did all this?” John asked, casting a suspicious eye at Sherlock. “Didn't badger Mrs Hudson into it?”
“You wound me, John,” Sherlock said, sounding smug. “Grandmere taught Mycroft and myself both to cook when we visited her in France. Claimed even young men should be able to feed themselves; most times I don't see the point. Takeaway does well enough.”
“I see,” John said, and did not question further. They both sat, although Sherlock contented himself with a sausage and egg, sipping coffee from his mug and watching John eat rather than take his share. “How's the case coming, then?”
“A cold case, actually; Sh'k'leh wasn't too far off when hin said it could wait until Boxing Day. Some interesting details, but until I reassemble the experiment that was on the table it won't go far, and...the tree looks. Interesting.” Sherlock evaded John's questioning look by refilling his mug and drinking more coffee.
“Mm.” John polished off his French-toast sandwich; it was almost treacly sweet, with blackberry jam, and John could feel the incipient cavities. “This is really quite good.”
“Grandmere's special treat, for holidays,” Sherlock said softly, an unusually nostalgic smile on his face. “Mycroft always ate them until he was sick.”
“He's not coming here today, is he?” John said, stopping mid-forkful of potatoes.
“Of course not!” Sherlock looked affronted. “I merely sent him a picture of the finished plateful.”
John giggled. “Eeeeevil pilotfish,” he rebuked, and giggled harder at the baffled look on Sherlock's face.
They (or rather John) finished breakfast, and then Sherlock allowed himself to be pestered into sitting on the sofa for the latest Christmas special on the telly. He even refrained from picking apart too many of the major plot holes.
“You're being suspiciously nice,” John said, after the credits had started rolling. “Is there something you have to tell me?” He turned to Sherlock, smiling, and caught a look of - embarrassment? - on his face. “Oh god, please tell me there's not another head in the fridge, or you've done something dastardly to the bathroom again.”
“No!” protested Sherlock, with all the innocence of a usually guilty man for once in the right. “I keep the heads at Bart's now, Mrs Hudson wouldn't talk to me for a week after the last one.”
“Then what is it?”
Switching off the telly, Sherlock turned a little more toward John, looking deeply uncomfortable. “I...wanted to thank you. For the rescue,” he added, flicking his eyes toward John and away, as if unable to really look at him.
John blinked. “You're welcome, but the Doctor and the Ponds had a little to do with it, too,” he pointed out.
“Yes, but you knew immediately something was wrong, didn't you?” Sherlock persisted.
“Well, yes,” admitted John. “'Leh eats, for one thing.”
Sherlock snorted. “I can understand why, the food on Jortha is terrible. A McDonald's is five star cuisine in comparison. The only decent thing there is the chocolate, and that's highly regulated.”
“Poor fellow,” John said sympathetically.
“Hin's not a fellow, hin's - oh never mind, it's too complicated,” Sherlock said irritably, flapping a hand. “Anyway, the point is, you knew something was wrong, and you got help as quickly as possible.” He looked away again, then back, then away. “That...that was good.”
“What happened?” John asked quietly, sensing that maybe yesterday hadn't been as entertainingly madcap for Sherlock as it had for him.
“Had you been approximately fifteen minutes later I would be dead, on a planet not even visible to Earth, and no one would know,” Sherlock replied just as quietly. “And there was literally nothing I could do.”
“There certainly was, you made it more complicated,” snorted John, trying to lighten the mood a little.
Sherlock huffed through his nose, a small grin quirking his lips. “Body language among the Jorthans is similar enough to humans that I thought perhaps I could put enough cats among the pigeons to make them think of things other than me,” he said. “I'm not sure if that slowed the proceedings more or just made them more eager to kill me for my silence.”
“Possibly both,” agreed John.
“So...I wanted to thank you,” Sherlock said. He still looked uncomfortable, though, and John had the distinct impression he was missing something.
“You're welcome?” he said hesitantly.
“Oh, this is impossible,” Sherlock burst out, and suddenly John had a lapful of Sherlock pressed up against him and was being kissed quite thoroughly.
“Mmph!” John half-protested, but his arms tightened almost without him realising it, and while part of him was still beyond shocked, it was dwindling rapidly in the onslaught of lips and tongue and surprisingly warm body draped across his front. At some point in his checkered past, Sherlock had learned to be an excellent kisser, and John spared a brief second to be grateful to whoever had been so brilliant a teacher, because it was possibly the most mindblowing kiss John had had in a very long time, and when had Sherlock's hands gotten inside his dressing gown?
The next several minutes did not involve much thinking at all. Dressing gowns were abandoned, draped on the sofa and the floor, pyjamas and pants strewn through the hall to Sherlock's bedroom, and they had tumbled into the neatly-made sleigh bed with hands and mouths absolutely everywhere. Sherlock must have been thinking of this for a bit, or perhaps he simply took care of himself here, because when John fumbled in the bedside drawer for something to speed their progress he found a small bottle of lube. With only minor spillage on the sheets he got enough of it on his hand and their cocks to grip them both without too much friction, and with Sherlock's enthusiastic help they both achieved orgasm with a gasp, and a cry, and Sherlock's teeth in John's good shoulder.
John came back to himself when Sherlock's hand eased from their softening cocks, and fumbled for something to wipe them off with. He came up with a sock that had been kicked off next to the bed, checked it briefly to be sure it was his (and probably mostly clean) before cleaning up the sticky mess between them. Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at John, who wearily tossed the sock back onto the floor and flopped back on the bed with a breathless chuckle. “Bit overboard for a thank you, really,” he panted.
“Well. Breakfast was perhaps too much,” Sherlock mused.
John swatted him with a pillow. “Not that, you ponce. I hope that wasn't just a thank you, though; I'd quite like to try again in less of a tearing great hurry.”
“Not exactly. I'd been thinking of it for some time, but hadn't fully planned out how to tell you.” Sherlock looked briefly annoyed. “Can't say that was precisely the way I'd thought of going about it.”
“You're barely socially functional, I'm unsurprised you hadn't a suave plan of seduction laid out,” smiled John. “Besides,” he reached up and stroked Sherlock's face, “this is more you, anyway. Works for me.”
“I can be suave!” Sherlock protested.
John laughed. “Yes, but I'd rather have you, without any of the disguises.”
“Good, because that would get boring quickly,” Sherlock admitted.
“Can't have that,” John breathed, and pulled him down for another kiss.