Fic: The Watchman (1/6)
Title: The Watchman (Chapter One)
Fandoms: Sherlock & Doctor Who
Pairings and Characters: Sherlock/John, Eleventh Doctor, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, plus bonus cameos
Rating: PG
Word Count: approx. 3,500 for this bit
Summary: When the Doctor shows up outside of 221B, John finds his loyalties tested-and his entire world turned upside down.
A/N: The Watchman is set just after "The God Complex" in Doctor Who (6x11) and shortly after the pool incident in Sherlock (mid-2x01).
I've been calling this fic the "Wholock Epic," to amuse myself but it actually has six chapters, all already written! I hope to post a chapter every other day-there are some bits at the end I need to iron out, but basically I'm all good to go.
Endless thanks to Ardith Block, aka my lovely friend Emily, who has spent so much time and effort beta-ing this work. Any remaining errors are entirely my own.
Also I am trying British spelling in this fic for the first time! (Is it still super-obvious I'm American? Do you prefer British spelling? Any & all feedback on this issue would be very useful, as I'm debating whether I should go back and convert my previous Sherlock fics to use British spelling or not!)
The Watchman
CHAPTER ONE
"John!"
The day they met the Doctor wasn't the first day John woke to the sound of Sherlock shouting out his name. It also wouldn't be the last.
Every bloody time, though, John bolted straight up in bed and fumbled until he had his fingers wrapped around his SIG-Sauer. That was military training. It was for a good purpose. In theory.
The moment his fingers touched the cool metal John came back to his senses. This wasn't an emergency; it was, well, typical. Sherlock was likely shouting because he was too lazy to cross the room and pick up his phone. Maybe he wanted a cup of tea.
John well knew that if their lives were in danger Sherlock wouldn't have shouted at all. Sherlock would've kept silent, embraced the element of surprise.
John sighed to himself, but at the same time he felt his mouth curving into a smile. Sherlock knew better, of course, but just this once he was lucky enough that his shouting served a useful purpose. Before Sherlock called out, John had been stuck in a nightmare.
It wasn't one of the Afghanistan ones, not nearly that bad, but a nightmare nonetheless. John dreamt about coming home from the war to another life, a life without 221B and its resident madman. He wasn't miserable in the dream, except that he was. It was just like the time before Sherlock-no one would admit anything was wrong, and John kept clamping down a constant, nagging urge to yell at everyone around him.
John didn't bother responding to Sherlock's shouts-for Christ's sake, Sherlock wasn't thirteen and John wasn't his mum-but given the choice between the madman and his old empty flat and a loaded gun, well, John knew which was the good dream and which was the bad one.
"John! John! John!"
Well. Mostly he did.
Then John heard some kind of creaking noise and a crash, one straight after another. It made compelling logic for getting out of bed, he had to admit. Had to make sure Sherlock wasn't setting the kitchen on fire again…or the street? Had the noises come from outside?
Maybe the noises hadn't come from Sherlock at all.
John swallowed. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his pyjamas as he stood and glanced out the window.
What the bloody hell is that-
"John!" Sherlock yelled again. "Come on!"
But John couldn't go and find Sherlock, because John couldn't move at all. There was a blue box lying out on the Baker Street pavement. Just lying there, like a great big present waiting to be unwrapped. Or the world's largest, bluest bomb. Oh God. Sherlock.
Suddenly a man's head popped out of the side of the box.
What?
And Sherlock was still yelling his name. That was a good thing; it meant he hadn't given up to go and investigate on his own just yet. Which-well, this would have to be investigated. John wanted to know everything-the man, the box, the ridiculously early hour of the morning. None of it made the slightest bit of sense.
John found a jumper and a pair of shoes and met Sherlock in the living room. The detective practically flew through the room, his blue dressing gown flapping out behind him like a cloak. John hurried to catch up.
"Sherlock!" John whispered. "Stop shouting, you'll wake Mrs. Hudson!"
Sherlock paused for half a second, just long enough to nod once. "Good," he said. "You'll need breakfast."
John didn't have time to roll his eyes as he ran down the steps behind Sherlock. He did manage to mutter to himself as Sherlock reached the door. It was nothing much, just "Odd start to a morning," but Sherlock glanced back toward John with a smile spread across his face. Funny, John hadn't realized Sherlock was listening. But there it was, Sherlock's brilliant new case smile; his Christmas smile. The one that always made John's breath catch in his throat the tiniest bit.
Based on the size of his smile alone, John half-thought Sherlock deduced the box contained a dead body…The box did seem big enough for two people, just barely. One of those people was certainly alive, but the other…John placed a hand at the small of his back, feeling for the bulge of the gun just as Sherlock unlocked the door to their flat.
John and Sherlock watched the tall, skinny man hop about the police box lying across the pavement. Then the stranger leaned on the box's side and peered down into the open doors. He stood up straight and pulled a glowing green stick (A torch? Must have been a torch…) out of his pocket and waved it around a bit.
So.
Very odd start to a morning, then.
The stranger called over to them. "Hello! Terribly sorry about this, I won't be a minute! No, that's a lie, I'll probably be several minutes. But minutes, what are they? Blink of an eye and they're gone." He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, then opened then even wider than before. "You shouldn't miss any of them-minutes. They're good things. Don't blink. Hah!"
"Hello," he said. Then he walked up to Sherlock and kissed the air around his cheeks. John had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing aloud as the consulting detective's eyes went wide and his entire body tensed up. Sherlock wasn't in any danger of blinking then. But then the stranger did the same to John and he too went tense. He tried not to, though.
John knew he wasn't any good at deductions, but he considered himself pretty good at reading people. This man seemed friendly enough. Very, very strange but friendly. And John lived with one Sherlock Holmes-he was well used to strange.
The stranger gestured over to the box. "This is what happens when you blink. Blink and the gravity filter's thrown out, switch is broken. Knew I should have put in a dimmer. Poor thing, all that Newtonian physics 'getting her down.'"
He leaned toward them with an enthusiastic, conspiratorial smile. Even though John didn't have the slightest idea what the man was on about, he found himself smiling a little in return. "In short, there's only one other person who knows where these TARDIS controls are, and I've been meaning to pay her a visit."
John felt rather than saw the way Sherlock bristled beside him. He glanced up at Sherlock's face and noticed that the dead-body grin had gone away. Sherlock might have seemed a blank slate now to others, but John could tell he was still deducing.
Still deducing, and maybe a little put-out at the fact.
Lucky for the two of them, then, that John didn't mind asking the stupid questions.
"Sorry, mate," John said. "Do we know you from somewhere?"
"No," the stranger and Sherlock said at the same time. Sherlock sounded significantly less pleased about this information.
John licked his lips for a second. Then he edged around the box and into the street until he was able to stand on the free pavement at the base of the box.
The stranger stood next to him, knocking all over the base of the box. Then the man stood back and listed, as if someone would knock back. John listened carefully, but he didn't hear anything.
"John Watson," John said, and held out his hand.
The stranger stopped knocking to shake John's hand emphatically. "Excellent name," the stranger said. "Love that name. I'm the Doctor."
"Ah," John's smile grew more genuine. Finally, something he understood. "Me too."
"What? But you were John Watson! Never met anyone else called 'The Doctor' before." He frowned at John. "I don't think I like it…"
"But I am adoctor. Wait, sorry. You call yourself 'The Doctor?'"
"He doesn't practice medicine," Sherlock said.
"Oh." John looked at the Doctor, confused. "Don't you?"
"I practice lots of things," the Doctor said. He turned back to the box effectively avoiding their gazes.
"He doesn't," Sherlock said from his spot on the steps. "He doesn't do much beside run and occasionally hide. You go by 'the Doctor,' but Doctor isn't a name, it's a title. It's not even an alias. A common title, nearly anonymous. You don't see me attempting to call John 'The Boyfriend.'"
John rolled his eyes. "Oh, now that Sarah's gone, now you can admit she exists."
"I didn't say you were Sarah's boyfriend." John didn't have time to so much as blink at the comment, much less ask Sherlock what he meant by it, before Sherlock continued on.
"No, 'The Doctor' is way of avoiding a name altogether." Though Sherlock addressed his deductions to John, it was clear who his real audience was. "Just like that," he gestured toward the Doctor, whose face screwed up in concentration as he worked, "is a way of avoiding questions about his real face. His old face."
Sherlock stared at the Doctor, who slowly lifted his head to stare at Sherlock. Naturally Sherlock watched right back. "You aren't nearly that young," he concluded.
"Sherlock," John whispered admonishingly. He felt a bit like Mrs. Hudson, scolding his friend, but the fact of the matter was that you didn't go around talking about people's reconstructive surgeries. Or you shouldn't, anyway. If this had been some criminal, or even someone who really deserved it (okay, maybe if it had been Anderson), well, that would be different. John might have understood.
Sometimes John felt like his life was one long countdown to the moment someone snapped and performed a citizen's arrest on Sherlock.
The Doctor spoke in a low, deadly serious voice. "What else do you know about me?"
"I can deduce that you're a good liar," Sherlock said imperiously. "You've even made a career out of it. Kleptomaniac streak in your youth. That's how you got in the habit of running. You aren't from around here. You never stay anywhere long. You've been through battle, through wars, but you've never picked up a med kit or a gun. You think you're noble, you manage to convince other people you are, but I rather disagree."
John glanced between the Doctor and Sherlock and their matching glares. He grimaced, waiting for the explosion.
"Hah!" The Doctor said, and John startled. The Doctor's face creased in what John could only think of as a proudsmile. "It really is you! Fiction does like to get a grip on those fluctuations in time. You know, witches in Shakespeare and all that. Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes! The two of you, you're amazing."
John gawped.
"Oh goody," Sherlock said dryly. "A fan."
John tried to recover. "Spot on," he said. He clapped a hand on the Doctor's arm, mostly so he could keep standing. If this person was what he appeared to be, something like a second Sherlock Holmes…Oh.
God.
"You're almost as good as he is," John managed.
Sherlock scoffed and crossed his arms. "John. He's probably read about me on that ridiculous blog of yours."
Oh. Oh, that was true. Maybe John didn't have to panic at all.
"You're missing the hat, of course," the Doctor continued. "But still, brilliant all the same." He turned to John. "Oh, and you keep a blog. That's awfully modern, awfully clever of you, isn't it?"
"Not terribly," Sherlock muttered. "It's usually highly inaccurate."
"Thank you," John said pointedly. He smiled at the Doctor. Sherlock might have been wrong about the bloke. Must have done. John glanced back to Sherlock. "Some people think it's clever, anyway."
Sherlock finally moved from the steps and stood next to John, brushing their shoulders together. John rolled his eyes even as he smiled. Sherlock needed to work on his apologies, no surprises there, but John got the message all the same.
The Doctor bounced on the balls of his feet. "Deduced by Sherlock Holmes! Don't know how I can top that...I'll have to break River out of prison again just to have a fighting chance. Bother. Well, needs must!" He wandered away from them, poking at the blue box with his torch all over again.
Sherlock leaned over to John, close enough so his lips nearly touched John's ear. "You'll be wanting breakfast," he said softly, just seconds before John's stomach rumbled.
"What about the Doctor?"
"He's not invited," Sherlock said.
"I'd be very good on a case," the Doctor argued. "I'd even bring a hat!"
"No, no cases at the moment. We don't need your help, goodbye." Sherlock said as he pushed John back into the flat.
Of course, the second they entered the building Sherlock rushed off without a glance back at his friend.
John let his head drop against the door and shut his eyes. He wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, between the green-coloured torch and the man that spoke as fast as Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock's sudden, intense animosity toward the Doctor and the many, many deductions that seemed too impossible to be true.
And if that wasn't enough, John now seemed to be hallucinating a faint sort of whooshing sound…
"Odd start to a morning" didn't begin to cover it.
.
.
John tried to ask Sherlock about the man who called himself "The Doctor." More than once, even. John just couldn't stop thinking about all of Sherlock's odd, even confusing deductions. The Doctor didn't seem like a bad person, not really. Odd, certainly. But he hadn't seemed like someone who had evil secrets or a dark past.
And what was all this about the Doctor's "new face"? John was a doctor, an actual physician, and he couldn't see any traces of cosmetic surgery. How could Sherlock tell? He wasn't exactly the expert on such matters…
But then, that was life with Sherlock, wasn't it? In some ways life with Sherlock was just a flood of wonderfully odd conclusions; John simply did his best to keep up with the deluge. He shouldn't be surprised that Sherlock had made confusing deductions.
No, what was really surprising was Sherlock's reaction. That was entirely new.
Because every time John asked about the Doctor, Sherlock pointedly ignored the question and spoke of something else. Sometimes he fell utterly silent and glared stonily at the floor. John couldn't explain the reaction, even to himself. He half-wondered if Sherlock fancied the Doctor, only it was Sherlock, who never fancied anyone.
Eventually he got the message and stopped asking.
In the end, John didn't even get points for his discretion. Eight days after the strange, strange morning he and Sherlock exited 221B, turned the corner towards the park, and walked smack into the Doctor. The Doctor breathed heavily-he seemed to have been running straight towards them.
Sherlock glared directly at John, as if this were somehow all John's fault. John widened his eyes and shook his head slightly at Sherlock. Sherlock was well aware John had no idea what the Doctor was doing here. Wasn't he?
It wasn't as though John had the man's phone number or anything.
Sherlock turned sharply away from John. Oh, he knew. He had to. John would bet anything Sherlock just didn't care.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked the Doctor.
The Doctor gripped Sherlock's crossed arms tightly as his breathing slowed. "I'm sorry," he said. "What did you just say?"
"I won't repeat myself," Sherlock replied.
John licked his lips but gave up and shrugged. "He probably won't," he said. "But really, Doctor, what are you doing here? It's nice to see you again of course…"
"No, no, that's not it at all," the Doctor said.
Sherlock turned to John with a close-lipped, very angry smile.
"No," the Doctor continued, "I was just saying I would need to find River, and you finished deducing me. But that last thing you just said, I need you to repeat that. Word for word."
John wondered if the Doctor had reconsidered and was about to punch Sherlock.
Sherlock uncrossed his arms, so that the Doctor's hands fell from his shoulders. He stared at the Doctor, "I said you aren't noble, despite your own delusions. I was correct," Sherlock said. "Obviously."
"Um," John said, as maybe the sole voice of reason. "Sherlock didn't just say anything. We met you days ago." The Doctor had been running toward them, he looked a bit flushed now. "Mate-are you all right?"
The Doctor shrugged in a gesture eerily reminiscent of Sherlock. "Oh, wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey, that's an everyday problem. You…" He stared at Sherlock; Sherlock stared at the Doctor. They were so close together, actually, that John wouldn't have enough space to sandwich himself in between the two of them if he wanted to.
Not that he wanted to. What? John blinked. Where had that thought even come from?
"…you're something special."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "How so?"
"Well you were nearly correct!"
"Of course," Sherlock said. "You already know my success rate. You've read John's blog." He crinkled his nose up in disgust at the word.
"Oi!" John said.
"No no no, observation doesn't work on me!" the Doctor said.
Sherlock snorted, and the Doctor smirked back.
"No, it's true. See?" the Doctor gestured behind him, and John realized he had somehow missed the blue police box. Maybe he didn't recognize the box because it was upright. Was the Doctor a policeman?
The Doctor finally broke his staring contest with Sherlock, thank God, and walked briskly back towards the box. John and Sherlock followed until the Doctor stopped. The Doctor pointed to the box.
"Tardis," he said. "Observation: funny blue box. Truth? Aha!" The Doctor pulled back the door with all the flourish of a magician and shut the door with a slap half a second later.
John found himself gawping all over again. He wasn't sure what he had seen inside, but it was orange and gleaming and there sure had been a lot of it. It looked like a futuristic nightclub, maybe, or a theatre set. It was that kind of surreal. John wondered if he had made the entire thing up, just imagined it all. A brief hallucination? A daydream? There had to be some solution.
"Bigger on the inside," the Doctor commented.
What did that even mean?
John glanced at Sherlock. His mouth wasn't hanging open like John's had done. Sherlock's eyes were bright, sharp as a pocketknife. John swallowed. That was Sherlock's dead body face, all right.
John was sure he hadn't seen a dead body in the box. But then, he wasn't sure what he'd seen.
"Doctor," the Doctor said, pointing to himself. "Observation: madman with a box. Truth? Well, yes…well! It's not so simple! Doesn't do to make assumptions."
"Deductions," corrected Sherlock.
"I'm sorry," said John.
"Really, John?" Sherlock muttered.
It's true, John had generally stopped apologizing for Sherlock's rudeness, it was about as effective as apologizing for rain anywhere in the British Isles, but there was something in the Doctor's eyes that John recognized, something about the tone of his voice that made John remember a time before he had met a madman to call his own.
Loneliness, John realized with a start. That's what it was.
"I'm sorry, Doctor."
That was Sherlock's voice, saying sorry. Only it wasn't his voice at all. John wondered if he really was hallucinating. Sherlock's voice was sweet as honey. He was shamming-but he couldn't do that, surely? He couldn't sham to someone who'd already seen the real Sherlock Holmes. Of all people, John should know. Impossible to go back.
But that's exactly what Sherlock was trying to do. John watched with a kind of perverse curiosity-this wouldn't work. Couldn't do.
"I appreciate hearing feedback from all fans, even ones with a…what did you call your box?"
"Tardis. That's T-A-R-D-I-S, write it down if you like. The impossible-to-deduce box."
"Mmm. And what's inside it, exactly?"
"Oh, bit of a long story. And I have to be off, places to go and people to save," The Doctor winked. "Oh yes, Sherlock Holmes, I save people. Maybe I'll even save you, one day. I know, I know, it's impossible. But so am I!"
The Doctor slipped inside the police box and slammed the door shut. It was all a bit anticlimactic, really. He didn't even open the door wide enough for them to see the inside again.
"Well," John concluded. "That was-"
"Shut up," Sherlock ordered. The detective stepped back from the box-but didn't turn away-and John, curious, followed suit.
The box made a whooshing sound as it faded in and out of view. John recognized that sound. Last week, when he'd gone inside…he wondered if the blue box had been fading in and out like this back then as well. Fading in and out and then…gone?
Drugs. The Doctor must have fed them drugs somehow. Or John was still asleep and dreaming. Surely.
But then, John couldn't be dreaming. The way Sherlock's face lit up like lightning in a thunderstorm, the way his brows furrowed as he stomped away without a word to John? Well. That was a classic Sherlockian sulk, and all too real.
Chapter Two
Fandoms: Sherlock & Doctor Who
Pairings and Characters: Sherlock/John, Eleventh Doctor, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, plus bonus cameos
Rating: PG
Word Count: approx. 3,500 for this bit
Summary: When the Doctor shows up outside of 221B, John finds his loyalties tested-and his entire world turned upside down.
A/N: The Watchman is set just after "The God Complex" in Doctor Who (6x11) and shortly after the pool incident in Sherlock (mid-2x01).
I've been calling this fic the "Wholock Epic," to amuse myself but it actually has six chapters, all already written! I hope to post a chapter every other day-there are some bits at the end I need to iron out, but basically I'm all good to go.
Endless thanks to Ardith Block, aka my lovely friend Emily, who has spent so much time and effort beta-ing this work. Any remaining errors are entirely my own.
Also I am trying British spelling in this fic for the first time! (Is it still super-obvious I'm American? Do you prefer British spelling? Any & all feedback on this issue would be very useful, as I'm debating whether I should go back and convert my previous Sherlock fics to use British spelling or not!)
The Watchman
CHAPTER ONE
"John!"
The day they met the Doctor wasn't the first day John woke to the sound of Sherlock shouting out his name. It also wouldn't be the last.
Every bloody time, though, John bolted straight up in bed and fumbled until he had his fingers wrapped around his SIG-Sauer. That was military training. It was for a good purpose. In theory.
The moment his fingers touched the cool metal John came back to his senses. This wasn't an emergency; it was, well, typical. Sherlock was likely shouting because he was too lazy to cross the room and pick up his phone. Maybe he wanted a cup of tea.
John well knew that if their lives were in danger Sherlock wouldn't have shouted at all. Sherlock would've kept silent, embraced the element of surprise.
John sighed to himself, but at the same time he felt his mouth curving into a smile. Sherlock knew better, of course, but just this once he was lucky enough that his shouting served a useful purpose. Before Sherlock called out, John had been stuck in a nightmare.
It wasn't one of the Afghanistan ones, not nearly that bad, but a nightmare nonetheless. John dreamt about coming home from the war to another life, a life without 221B and its resident madman. He wasn't miserable in the dream, except that he was. It was just like the time before Sherlock-no one would admit anything was wrong, and John kept clamping down a constant, nagging urge to yell at everyone around him.
John didn't bother responding to Sherlock's shouts-for Christ's sake, Sherlock wasn't thirteen and John wasn't his mum-but given the choice between the madman and his old empty flat and a loaded gun, well, John knew which was the good dream and which was the bad one.
"John! John! John!"
Well. Mostly he did.
Then John heard some kind of creaking noise and a crash, one straight after another. It made compelling logic for getting out of bed, he had to admit. Had to make sure Sherlock wasn't setting the kitchen on fire again…or the street? Had the noises come from outside?
Maybe the noises hadn't come from Sherlock at all.
John swallowed. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his pyjamas as he stood and glanced out the window.
What the bloody hell is that-
"John!" Sherlock yelled again. "Come on!"
But John couldn't go and find Sherlock, because John couldn't move at all. There was a blue box lying out on the Baker Street pavement. Just lying there, like a great big present waiting to be unwrapped. Or the world's largest, bluest bomb. Oh God. Sherlock.
Suddenly a man's head popped out of the side of the box.
What?
And Sherlock was still yelling his name. That was a good thing; it meant he hadn't given up to go and investigate on his own just yet. Which-well, this would have to be investigated. John wanted to know everything-the man, the box, the ridiculously early hour of the morning. None of it made the slightest bit of sense.
John found a jumper and a pair of shoes and met Sherlock in the living room. The detective practically flew through the room, his blue dressing gown flapping out behind him like a cloak. John hurried to catch up.
"Sherlock!" John whispered. "Stop shouting, you'll wake Mrs. Hudson!"
Sherlock paused for half a second, just long enough to nod once. "Good," he said. "You'll need breakfast."
John didn't have time to roll his eyes as he ran down the steps behind Sherlock. He did manage to mutter to himself as Sherlock reached the door. It was nothing much, just "Odd start to a morning," but Sherlock glanced back toward John with a smile spread across his face. Funny, John hadn't realized Sherlock was listening. But there it was, Sherlock's brilliant new case smile; his Christmas smile. The one that always made John's breath catch in his throat the tiniest bit.
Based on the size of his smile alone, John half-thought Sherlock deduced the box contained a dead body…The box did seem big enough for two people, just barely. One of those people was certainly alive, but the other…John placed a hand at the small of his back, feeling for the bulge of the gun just as Sherlock unlocked the door to their flat.
John and Sherlock watched the tall, skinny man hop about the police box lying across the pavement. Then the stranger leaned on the box's side and peered down into the open doors. He stood up straight and pulled a glowing green stick (A torch? Must have been a torch…) out of his pocket and waved it around a bit.
So.
Very odd start to a morning, then.
The stranger called over to them. "Hello! Terribly sorry about this, I won't be a minute! No, that's a lie, I'll probably be several minutes. But minutes, what are they? Blink of an eye and they're gone." He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, then opened then even wider than before. "You shouldn't miss any of them-minutes. They're good things. Don't blink. Hah!"
"Hello," he said. Then he walked up to Sherlock and kissed the air around his cheeks. John had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing aloud as the consulting detective's eyes went wide and his entire body tensed up. Sherlock wasn't in any danger of blinking then. But then the stranger did the same to John and he too went tense. He tried not to, though.
John knew he wasn't any good at deductions, but he considered himself pretty good at reading people. This man seemed friendly enough. Very, very strange but friendly. And John lived with one Sherlock Holmes-he was well used to strange.
The stranger gestured over to the box. "This is what happens when you blink. Blink and the gravity filter's thrown out, switch is broken. Knew I should have put in a dimmer. Poor thing, all that Newtonian physics 'getting her down.'"
He leaned toward them with an enthusiastic, conspiratorial smile. Even though John didn't have the slightest idea what the man was on about, he found himself smiling a little in return. "In short, there's only one other person who knows where these TARDIS controls are, and I've been meaning to pay her a visit."
John felt rather than saw the way Sherlock bristled beside him. He glanced up at Sherlock's face and noticed that the dead-body grin had gone away. Sherlock might have seemed a blank slate now to others, but John could tell he was still deducing.
Still deducing, and maybe a little put-out at the fact.
Lucky for the two of them, then, that John didn't mind asking the stupid questions.
"Sorry, mate," John said. "Do we know you from somewhere?"
"No," the stranger and Sherlock said at the same time. Sherlock sounded significantly less pleased about this information.
John licked his lips for a second. Then he edged around the box and into the street until he was able to stand on the free pavement at the base of the box.
The stranger stood next to him, knocking all over the base of the box. Then the man stood back and listed, as if someone would knock back. John listened carefully, but he didn't hear anything.
"John Watson," John said, and held out his hand.
The stranger stopped knocking to shake John's hand emphatically. "Excellent name," the stranger said. "Love that name. I'm the Doctor."
"Ah," John's smile grew more genuine. Finally, something he understood. "Me too."
"What? But you were John Watson! Never met anyone else called 'The Doctor' before." He frowned at John. "I don't think I like it…"
"But I am adoctor. Wait, sorry. You call yourself 'The Doctor?'"
"He doesn't practice medicine," Sherlock said.
"Oh." John looked at the Doctor, confused. "Don't you?"
"I practice lots of things," the Doctor said. He turned back to the box effectively avoiding their gazes.
"He doesn't," Sherlock said from his spot on the steps. "He doesn't do much beside run and occasionally hide. You go by 'the Doctor,' but Doctor isn't a name, it's a title. It's not even an alias. A common title, nearly anonymous. You don't see me attempting to call John 'The Boyfriend.'"
John rolled his eyes. "Oh, now that Sarah's gone, now you can admit she exists."
"I didn't say you were Sarah's boyfriend." John didn't have time to so much as blink at the comment, much less ask Sherlock what he meant by it, before Sherlock continued on.
"No, 'The Doctor' is way of avoiding a name altogether." Though Sherlock addressed his deductions to John, it was clear who his real audience was. "Just like that," he gestured toward the Doctor, whose face screwed up in concentration as he worked, "is a way of avoiding questions about his real face. His old face."
Sherlock stared at the Doctor, who slowly lifted his head to stare at Sherlock. Naturally Sherlock watched right back. "You aren't nearly that young," he concluded.
"Sherlock," John whispered admonishingly. He felt a bit like Mrs. Hudson, scolding his friend, but the fact of the matter was that you didn't go around talking about people's reconstructive surgeries. Or you shouldn't, anyway. If this had been some criminal, or even someone who really deserved it (okay, maybe if it had been Anderson), well, that would be different. John might have understood.
Sometimes John felt like his life was one long countdown to the moment someone snapped and performed a citizen's arrest on Sherlock.
The Doctor spoke in a low, deadly serious voice. "What else do you know about me?"
"I can deduce that you're a good liar," Sherlock said imperiously. "You've even made a career out of it. Kleptomaniac streak in your youth. That's how you got in the habit of running. You aren't from around here. You never stay anywhere long. You've been through battle, through wars, but you've never picked up a med kit or a gun. You think you're noble, you manage to convince other people you are, but I rather disagree."
John glanced between the Doctor and Sherlock and their matching glares. He grimaced, waiting for the explosion.
"Hah!" The Doctor said, and John startled. The Doctor's face creased in what John could only think of as a proudsmile. "It really is you! Fiction does like to get a grip on those fluctuations in time. You know, witches in Shakespeare and all that. Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes! The two of you, you're amazing."
John gawped.
"Oh goody," Sherlock said dryly. "A fan."
John tried to recover. "Spot on," he said. He clapped a hand on the Doctor's arm, mostly so he could keep standing. If this person was what he appeared to be, something like a second Sherlock Holmes…Oh.
God.
"You're almost as good as he is," John managed.
Sherlock scoffed and crossed his arms. "John. He's probably read about me on that ridiculous blog of yours."
Oh. Oh, that was true. Maybe John didn't have to panic at all.
"You're missing the hat, of course," the Doctor continued. "But still, brilliant all the same." He turned to John. "Oh, and you keep a blog. That's awfully modern, awfully clever of you, isn't it?"
"Not terribly," Sherlock muttered. "It's usually highly inaccurate."
"Thank you," John said pointedly. He smiled at the Doctor. Sherlock might have been wrong about the bloke. Must have done. John glanced back to Sherlock. "Some people think it's clever, anyway."
Sherlock finally moved from the steps and stood next to John, brushing their shoulders together. John rolled his eyes even as he smiled. Sherlock needed to work on his apologies, no surprises there, but John got the message all the same.
The Doctor bounced on the balls of his feet. "Deduced by Sherlock Holmes! Don't know how I can top that...I'll have to break River out of prison again just to have a fighting chance. Bother. Well, needs must!" He wandered away from them, poking at the blue box with his torch all over again.
Sherlock leaned over to John, close enough so his lips nearly touched John's ear. "You'll be wanting breakfast," he said softly, just seconds before John's stomach rumbled.
"What about the Doctor?"
"He's not invited," Sherlock said.
"I'd be very good on a case," the Doctor argued. "I'd even bring a hat!"
"No, no cases at the moment. We don't need your help, goodbye." Sherlock said as he pushed John back into the flat.
Of course, the second they entered the building Sherlock rushed off without a glance back at his friend.
John let his head drop against the door and shut his eyes. He wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, between the green-coloured torch and the man that spoke as fast as Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock's sudden, intense animosity toward the Doctor and the many, many deductions that seemed too impossible to be true.
And if that wasn't enough, John now seemed to be hallucinating a faint sort of whooshing sound…
"Odd start to a morning" didn't begin to cover it.
.
.
John tried to ask Sherlock about the man who called himself "The Doctor." More than once, even. John just couldn't stop thinking about all of Sherlock's odd, even confusing deductions. The Doctor didn't seem like a bad person, not really. Odd, certainly. But he hadn't seemed like someone who had evil secrets or a dark past.
And what was all this about the Doctor's "new face"? John was a doctor, an actual physician, and he couldn't see any traces of cosmetic surgery. How could Sherlock tell? He wasn't exactly the expert on such matters…
But then, that was life with Sherlock, wasn't it? In some ways life with Sherlock was just a flood of wonderfully odd conclusions; John simply did his best to keep up with the deluge. He shouldn't be surprised that Sherlock had made confusing deductions.
No, what was really surprising was Sherlock's reaction. That was entirely new.
Because every time John asked about the Doctor, Sherlock pointedly ignored the question and spoke of something else. Sometimes he fell utterly silent and glared stonily at the floor. John couldn't explain the reaction, even to himself. He half-wondered if Sherlock fancied the Doctor, only it was Sherlock, who never fancied anyone.
Eventually he got the message and stopped asking.
In the end, John didn't even get points for his discretion. Eight days after the strange, strange morning he and Sherlock exited 221B, turned the corner towards the park, and walked smack into the Doctor. The Doctor breathed heavily-he seemed to have been running straight towards them.
Sherlock glared directly at John, as if this were somehow all John's fault. John widened his eyes and shook his head slightly at Sherlock. Sherlock was well aware John had no idea what the Doctor was doing here. Wasn't he?
It wasn't as though John had the man's phone number or anything.
Sherlock turned sharply away from John. Oh, he knew. He had to. John would bet anything Sherlock just didn't care.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked the Doctor.
The Doctor gripped Sherlock's crossed arms tightly as his breathing slowed. "I'm sorry," he said. "What did you just say?"
"I won't repeat myself," Sherlock replied.
John licked his lips but gave up and shrugged. "He probably won't," he said. "But really, Doctor, what are you doing here? It's nice to see you again of course…"
"No, no, that's not it at all," the Doctor said.
Sherlock turned to John with a close-lipped, very angry smile.
"No," the Doctor continued, "I was just saying I would need to find River, and you finished deducing me. But that last thing you just said, I need you to repeat that. Word for word."
John wondered if the Doctor had reconsidered and was about to punch Sherlock.
Sherlock uncrossed his arms, so that the Doctor's hands fell from his shoulders. He stared at the Doctor, "I said you aren't noble, despite your own delusions. I was correct," Sherlock said. "Obviously."
"Um," John said, as maybe the sole voice of reason. "Sherlock didn't just say anything. We met you days ago." The Doctor had been running toward them, he looked a bit flushed now. "Mate-are you all right?"
The Doctor shrugged in a gesture eerily reminiscent of Sherlock. "Oh, wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey, that's an everyday problem. You…" He stared at Sherlock; Sherlock stared at the Doctor. They were so close together, actually, that John wouldn't have enough space to sandwich himself in between the two of them if he wanted to.
Not that he wanted to. What? John blinked. Where had that thought even come from?
"…you're something special."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "How so?"
"Well you were nearly correct!"
"Of course," Sherlock said. "You already know my success rate. You've read John's blog." He crinkled his nose up in disgust at the word.
"Oi!" John said.
"No no no, observation doesn't work on me!" the Doctor said.
Sherlock snorted, and the Doctor smirked back.
"No, it's true. See?" the Doctor gestured behind him, and John realized he had somehow missed the blue police box. Maybe he didn't recognize the box because it was upright. Was the Doctor a policeman?
The Doctor finally broke his staring contest with Sherlock, thank God, and walked briskly back towards the box. John and Sherlock followed until the Doctor stopped. The Doctor pointed to the box.
"Tardis," he said. "Observation: funny blue box. Truth? Aha!" The Doctor pulled back the door with all the flourish of a magician and shut the door with a slap half a second later.
John found himself gawping all over again. He wasn't sure what he had seen inside, but it was orange and gleaming and there sure had been a lot of it. It looked like a futuristic nightclub, maybe, or a theatre set. It was that kind of surreal. John wondered if he had made the entire thing up, just imagined it all. A brief hallucination? A daydream? There had to be some solution.
"Bigger on the inside," the Doctor commented.
What did that even mean?
John glanced at Sherlock. His mouth wasn't hanging open like John's had done. Sherlock's eyes were bright, sharp as a pocketknife. John swallowed. That was Sherlock's dead body face, all right.
John was sure he hadn't seen a dead body in the box. But then, he wasn't sure what he'd seen.
"Doctor," the Doctor said, pointing to himself. "Observation: madman with a box. Truth? Well, yes…well! It's not so simple! Doesn't do to make assumptions."
"Deductions," corrected Sherlock.
"I'm sorry," said John.
"Really, John?" Sherlock muttered.
It's true, John had generally stopped apologizing for Sherlock's rudeness, it was about as effective as apologizing for rain anywhere in the British Isles, but there was something in the Doctor's eyes that John recognized, something about the tone of his voice that made John remember a time before he had met a madman to call his own.
Loneliness, John realized with a start. That's what it was.
"I'm sorry, Doctor."
That was Sherlock's voice, saying sorry. Only it wasn't his voice at all. John wondered if he really was hallucinating. Sherlock's voice was sweet as honey. He was shamming-but he couldn't do that, surely? He couldn't sham to someone who'd already seen the real Sherlock Holmes. Of all people, John should know. Impossible to go back.
But that's exactly what Sherlock was trying to do. John watched with a kind of perverse curiosity-this wouldn't work. Couldn't do.
"I appreciate hearing feedback from all fans, even ones with a…what did you call your box?"
"Tardis. That's T-A-R-D-I-S, write it down if you like. The impossible-to-deduce box."
"Mmm. And what's inside it, exactly?"
"Oh, bit of a long story. And I have to be off, places to go and people to save," The Doctor winked. "Oh yes, Sherlock Holmes, I save people. Maybe I'll even save you, one day. I know, I know, it's impossible. But so am I!"
The Doctor slipped inside the police box and slammed the door shut. It was all a bit anticlimactic, really. He didn't even open the door wide enough for them to see the inside again.
"Well," John concluded. "That was-"
"Shut up," Sherlock ordered. The detective stepped back from the box-but didn't turn away-and John, curious, followed suit.
The box made a whooshing sound as it faded in and out of view. John recognized that sound. Last week, when he'd gone inside…he wondered if the blue box had been fading in and out like this back then as well. Fading in and out and then…gone?
Drugs. The Doctor must have fed them drugs somehow. Or John was still asleep and dreaming. Surely.
But then, John couldn't be dreaming. The way Sherlock's face lit up like lightning in a thunderstorm, the way his brows furrowed as he stomped away without a word to John? Well. That was a classic Sherlockian sulk, and all too real.
Chapter Two