I was going to write this as an essay. Then I realized it would be a stupid essay.
I went back to look for the fic formatting I used to use, only to realize I never had fic formatting. XD;
Title: But Abberline Was Clearly An Idiot
Fandom: Sherlock/Doctor Who/Moffat's Writing Speed Is The Bottleneck
Characters: The Doctor, Amy, Rory, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson
Spoilers: through DW S05E13 and Sherlock S01E03
Rating: G
Wordcount: ~575 words
"How," John said, once Rory had glared daggers at Sherlock and taken off after his fuming spouse, "did you know about the child psychologist?"
"How did I know about your therapist?" Sherlock stared down the street, eyes narrowed; not, John thought, at the young and good-looking human couple. He made no attempt to wipe off the water. "And that's psychologists, John, plural. That remark Mr. Pond made earlier: 'make believe games', he said - quoted - and yet, here they are. Adults react badly to children who insist on telling improbable - but not impossible - truths."
"Is that the voice of experience speaking, now?" No answer, which was evocative. "How many psychologists have you bitten, Sherlock?"
The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "Just desserts, I assure you," he said.
***
Worrisomely - for humanity - it got spikier after that.
There was Moriarty turning out to be an actual long-necked lizard from an unpronounceable planetary system (that bit with the nebula should have been a clue. At least, if you were Sherlock, and the field of astronomy had finally earned a terabyte allotment on your hard drive).
Then there was the Doctor ripping John a new one for shooting the lizard.
Then there was the spiel that set Sherlock off on, fury clipping his words and turning each deduction to an unerringly aimed blade: sharpened, serrated, hooked at the end. He hadn't needed to use words like 'hypocrite'.
It was all very territorial; embarrassingly so.
Then the Master had--
--happened.
Again.
("Again? What do you mean, again?")
"So. Your home planet didn't go in much for child psychology, I'm guessing," John panted, leaning one arm against the wall for support. Two years of Sherlock and he was in the best shape of his life, counting Afghanistan, but that had been altogether too many corridors.
He hoped Sherlock and the Ponds would destroy the impinging sub-lunar nano-vortex field before they destroyed each other. It was a vague hope, but he'd won on long shots before.
The Doctor ignored him and rubbed his hands together, pacing up and down in a tight ellipse. Eyes a bit wide under the ridiculous floppy hair; altogether too pleased. Definitely not bored. What was the matter with these people? Why was this John Watson's life?
"Think," the Doctor said. "Think think think think. Why the Master? Why here? It's not a coincidence, something's off about the whole situation. Amy Pond, Holmesian - until last week, who knows about now - universe streaming through her brain back into its proper place, understandable mistake, just a blip, would have happened with any other Conan Doyle fan. But why not Victorian England? Why 2010? Unless - oh! Ohhhhh! The differential in time energy - if you could harness that somehow, turn it aside---"
John let his head fall back against the wall.
He didn't need to know, he decided.
He really, really didn't need to know.
***
Of course things got sorted, eventually.
Mycroft Holmes even took his finger off Torchwood's speed dial button.
***
"One trip. One. And if you're about to say 'Whitechapel, August 30th, 1888', then no, absolutely not, out of the question, it's a fixed point, pick another."
Amy and Rory looked corresponding degrees of fascinated and worried. John glanced at Sherlock's expression and had to restrain himself from laughing.
"I hear Betelgeuse's crime rate spikes this time of year," he offered. Sherlock snarled at him.
Title: But Abberline Was Clearly An Idiot
Fandom: Sherlock/Doctor Who/Moffat's Writing Speed Is The Bottleneck
Characters: The Doctor, Amy, Rory, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson
Spoilers: through DW S05E13 and Sherlock S01E03
Rating: G
Wordcount: ~575 words
"How," John said, once Rory had glared daggers at Sherlock and taken off after his fuming spouse, "did you know about the child psychologist?"
"How did I know about your therapist?" Sherlock stared down the street, eyes narrowed; not, John thought, at the young and good-looking human couple. He made no attempt to wipe off the water. "And that's psychologists, John, plural. That remark Mr. Pond made earlier: 'make believe games', he said - quoted - and yet, here they are. Adults react badly to children who insist on telling improbable - but not impossible - truths."
"Is that the voice of experience speaking, now?" No answer, which was evocative. "How many psychologists have you bitten, Sherlock?"
The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "Just desserts, I assure you," he said.
***
Worrisomely - for humanity - it got spikier after that.
There was Moriarty turning out to be an actual long-necked lizard from an unpronounceable planetary system (that bit with the nebula should have been a clue. At least, if you were Sherlock, and the field of astronomy had finally earned a terabyte allotment on your hard drive).
Then there was the Doctor ripping John a new one for shooting the lizard.
Then there was the spiel that set Sherlock off on, fury clipping his words and turning each deduction to an unerringly aimed blade: sharpened, serrated, hooked at the end. He hadn't needed to use words like 'hypocrite'.
It was all very territorial; embarrassingly so.
Then the Master had--
--happened.
Again.
("Again? What do you mean, again?")
"So. Your home planet didn't go in much for child psychology, I'm guessing," John panted, leaning one arm against the wall for support. Two years of Sherlock and he was in the best shape of his life, counting Afghanistan, but that had been altogether too many corridors.
He hoped Sherlock and the Ponds would destroy the impinging sub-lunar nano-vortex field before they destroyed each other. It was a vague hope, but he'd won on long shots before.
The Doctor ignored him and rubbed his hands together, pacing up and down in a tight ellipse. Eyes a bit wide under the ridiculous floppy hair; altogether too pleased. Definitely not bored. What was the matter with these people? Why was this John Watson's life?
"Think," the Doctor said. "Think think think think. Why the Master? Why here? It's not a coincidence, something's off about the whole situation. Amy Pond, Holmesian - until last week, who knows about now - universe streaming through her brain back into its proper place, understandable mistake, just a blip, would have happened with any other Conan Doyle fan. But why not Victorian England? Why 2010? Unless - oh! Ohhhhh! The differential in time energy - if you could harness that somehow, turn it aside---"
John let his head fall back against the wall.
He didn't need to know, he decided.
He really, really didn't need to know.
***
Of course things got sorted, eventually.
Mycroft Holmes even took his finger off Torchwood's speed dial button.
***
"One trip. One. And if you're about to say 'Whitechapel, August 30th, 1888', then no, absolutely not, out of the question, it's a fixed point, pick another."
Amy and Rory looked corresponding degrees of fascinated and worried. John glanced at Sherlock's expression and had to restrain himself from laughing.
"I hear Betelgeuse's crime rate spikes this time of year," he offered. Sherlock snarled at him.