Fic: The Watchman (2/6)
Title: The Watchman (Chapter Two)
Word Count: approx. 4,200 for this bit
A/N: Full author's notes and story info here.
Chapter One
CHAPTER TWO
Sherlock didn't mention the Doctor again. John didn't ask. For the next two weeks they didn't say much beyond what passed for their usual pleasantries. ("We're out of milk, Sherlock!" "John, send a text to Lestrade: Was Christina Henry's microwave brand-new?") They hadn't got any new cases from Lestrade, just little things off the website. John went to the pub with Mike Stamford and took shifts at the clinic, but Sherlock barely left the flat. That was a bit suspicious-John would have expected Sherlock to rail about and put bullet-holes in their wallpaper, but instead John caught Sherlock staring off into space in an odd, unfocused way. Sometimes the man would shush John, urgently, when Sherlock didn't appear to be working on anything at all.
John didn't know what to make of it. Sherlock always seemed put-out between cases, but he usually didn't seem so lost. John was at a loss himself wondering how to help Sherlock out of the mood. Needless to say, neither John nor Sherlock did a very good job of hiding their relief when Lestrade called them up again. This time it was news of a strangling, and Sherlock's telltale grin stretched wide.
John found himself accidentally echoing the expression, but his own grin fell just a touch as they approached the crime scene. There it was, the standard scene: the crime tape, the dead body, Lestrade and his team. But that wasn't all.
"And that," The Doctor said, "is why I owe Casanova a chicken. Two, by his count."
John saw Lestrade trying not to laugh aloud. The DI wasn't doing a terribly good job of it, either. John remembered that feeling: We can't giggle, it's a crime scene. He smiled at the thought. That was his first case.
So it wasn't that John didn't like the Doctor. He certainly seemed like a nice enough bloke, and it was fantastic to see Lestrade laughing, or even holding laughter in, for a change. It wasn't as if John wasn't deeply curious about Doctor's blue box with the orange insides, or his green torch he seemed to use more like a wand than a torch.
On the other hand, since they'd met the Doctor, Sherlock had been as moody as ever, maybe moodier. Odd, really-John would have expected Sherlock to like the man. He seemed a walking mystery just waiting to be solved. John didn't have to look over to see that the dead body smile was all but wiped from Sherlock's face at this point, and to know the disappearance had nothing to do with Anderson (as it usually did).
"This is the Doctor," Lestrade told them. "He's from-"
"MI6!" the Doctor said. Then he leaned in to John. "Oh! I had meant that to be quieter. Wouldn't want to take the secret out of the service, now would we? No. Hm. I don't think we would…"
John nodded, trying not to laugh as well. "So this is a foreign case, then?" He asked instead. "I thought the victim was from Sussex." He wondered if the Doctor really was an agent. That would explain Sherlock's comments, wouldn't it? Maybe his title was just a code name. "The Doctor" didn't sound as good as 007, but John supposed that was the difference between fiction and reality.
"Is he," the Doctor said, not sounding very interested. "But you know, day off. I was bored."
John nodded. "I know that feeling," John said. Even if John didn't get 'bored' in the way Sherlock did, his flatmate had left him well-acquainted with the emotion.
"He's not MI6," Sherlock said.
"You're not really a fun person, are you?" The Doctor said. "Sherlock Holmes, you're supposed to be fun!"
"Says who?" Donovan called out in between making notes about the victim.
"Yes, Sherlock, he is MI6," Lestrade said. "He has the proper ID card and everything."
Sherlock sneered at the Doctor and moved to the body. John wasn't surprised at the reaction. Sherlock turned back to Lestrade. "Yet IDs can easily be faked-"
"His isn't," Lestrade interjected.
"-and we've already met. Hello, 'Doctor.'"
The Doctor gawped at Sherlock and smacked his own head a few times with the flat of his palm. "Oh!" he cried. "Oh, of course! Well no, not that, but maybe…"
"What?" John asked. "Did you have a breakthrough about the case?"
"Yes! Oh. The murder? No! Nothing. Well, it's certainly more than nothing…" The Doctor stared straight at Sherlock and shook his head, as if he were reordering his brain for a moment, before he turned back to John. "I'm on a case with Sherlock Holmes! Blimey. That's fantastic!"
John smiled. "It is, a bit. Better when he isn't moody."
The Doctor nodded. "Still missing the hat, though. The hat was cool."
"What hat?"
But the Doctor was already gone. He ran over to Sherlock and offered the detective a large, old-fashioned magnifying glass. Sherlock shook his head, refusing the gift. Frankly John just wanted to know how the Doctor managed to pull something that large out of his trouser pocket! He continued to wonder at the increasingly odd scene unfolding before him-the Doctor kept trying to give Sherlock the glass and Sherlock kept refusing and turning back to the body. But why did the Doctor keep trying?
Finally Sherlock turned to snap at the Doctor and almost simultaneously the Doctor tucked the magnifying glass into the crook of Sherlock's newly folded arms. Then the Doctor dashed back to John, smiling.
"Partly there," he told John. "It's too bad I forgot the hat!"
"Er. What hat?"
The doctor reached up and gestured to the air around his head. "You know, the one with the…well it had the flaps…but they were…it was cool," he finally sighed. "He's wrong without it!"
John frowned. Sherlock wasn't wrong. Well, not usually. Also, he didn't own any hats.
"Lestrade," Sherlock called out. "Why did you remove the victim's cufflinks?"
Lestrade walked over to John and the Doctor. "I didn't!" he called out to Sherlock.
"Oh!" the Doctor said.
John and Lestrade turned to face the Doctor.
"That's how he…" the Doctor said. "Oh, also, do you smell that? That's very interesting, that smell. It smells like a Hautian boxbloom in springtime but on earth the only thing close is the Amyris. Amyris is beautiful, grows lots of places, but only so many places that would make a scarf. Yes, definitely a scarf that strangled him, just look at him to see that. There's a region in South America where Amyris grows. They make it into perfume. One would think perfume because, well, the victim was killed with a woman's scarf. I'd think a purple one with lots of floofy fringy things. But that region's not particularly good with making perfume...what they are good at is llamas. Big smelly ones that they knit into scarves which only tourists ever buy. So someone who has travelled to Ecuador within, let's see, two months. Strangled means personal crime, doesn't it? And the victim has a ring on, so regular enough contact that she knew he was married. Must have been someone he worked with. Probably left handed. Though when you go to the killer's house, which I think you'll find on Admiral Court, Chelsea, third house on the left, the cat who likes to sleep on that scarf might now be somewhat peevish."
The entire crime scene went silent and very, very still.
"Wow," Lestrade said slowly. "He could give you a run for your money, Sherlock! In fact, I'm pretty sure he just did."
"That's amazing," John added.
"John!" Sherlock said. He sounded scandalized.
"Oh, it was nothing," the Doctor said, smiling widely. "I'm no Sherlock Holmes…"
"Yeah," Donovan said. "You're much nicer. You're actually a human being."
"Well-" the Doctor said.
John turned around to look for Sherlock. He hated hearing those kinds of remarks almost as much as Sherlock did. Not that Sherlock said anything, but John could deduce. Sherlock wasn't inhuman, no matter what anyone said, and he certainly wasn't invulnerable.
He did seem to be invisible, however, just at this moment-or rather, gone. John didn't bother to hide his frown. He couldn't believe it. It had been months since Sherlock had last forgotten him at a crime scene, and it hurt more than John would like to admit to be in the position once more. It was like John had been downgraded-he wasn't sure to what. From Sherlock's actual friend to…well. Something below assistant, apparently.
"John, are you coming?" Lestrade asked.
"Huh?"
"Donovan and I are treating the Doctor to a pint. Saying thank you and all."
The Doctor leaned over to John. "Which one is a pint again?" he whispered.
John groaned. "Oh, God. Don't tell me people delete pints from their mental hard drives." Surely that was relevant information. What about pub brawls? People got murdered in pubs, drinking pints, all the time!
"Delete?" the Doctor asked. "And what's a 'mental hard drive'?"
"Um," John told the Doctor. He turned to Lestrade."I'll join! Yes. Thanks."
Some time away from a sulking Sherlock might be a good idea, actually…maybe even a brilliant one.
.
.
"Blech!"
John watched, amused, as the Doctor spit about half a pint of beer back into his glass. Donovan turned her face away in disgust. Lestrade just smirked from his spot across the booth.
The Doctor turned to John. "I thought you said beer was good!"
"I suppose it's not for everyone," John said. "I think it's good, anyway."
"Blech." The Doctor pouted in a way that was nothing short of endearing. It reminded John a little of Sherlock's sulks, except it was much funnier.
Of course, John had had a few pints himself-everything was funnier now. Not the least of which were the Doctor's stories. They were clearly false, which was only part of the fun. It's not as though the Doctor could actually tell them MI6 business. Instead everything was about aliens and other planets. The Doctor had got so wrapped up in his stories that he'd forgotten his drink until now. John thought about the Doctor's face when he had tried the beer, and Donovan's face, and Lestrade's, and he had to hold back his giggles at the recent memory.
"I would never have guessed you're MI6," Anderson told the Doctor.
John waited patiently for Sherlock's inevitable insult, something about Anderson lack of guessing abilities. It never came.
"What's wrong?" the Doctor asked the silent table.
"Funny," Lestrade said. "I just expected Sherlock say something rude." He chuckled a bit. "He's not even here."
"Oi!"
"Well, no offense meant, Anderson."
"In that case," Donovan said, "why are we still talking about Sherlock? Freak's not even present and he's dominating the discussion." She pointed her finger at everyone. "You're all obsessed, if you ask me."
"Interesting!" the Doctor cried. "Sally, why do you say that?"
"Because you keep talking about Sherlock-bloody-Holmes!"
"No, 'freak.' You called him 'freak.' Is that slang for 'cool' in-" he checked his watch. "2010?"
Donovan nearly choked on her beer. "No," she managed between coughs.
"MI6?" Anderson said. "See, never would have guessed."
Sherlock didn't have to be there, really. John's mind supplied the Idiot! all on its fact, the thought even came to John in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock's.
"Why are you calling him a freak, then? If it's bad? Sherlock Holmes is good," the Doctor said. John watched the man carefully for signs the comment was sarcastic. No. He looked genuinely confused. Just when John thought he couldn't like the Doctor more... "He's very, very good!"
"Now, Doctor, you can't go saying things like that," Donovan said with a wink at the Doctor. "You'll make John jealous."
"Shut up, Donovan," John said. "The Doctor can say what he likes. He's…wise! Besides," he took a sip of his beer. "We're-"
"-not a couple," everyone at the table, except the Doctor, said the words perfectly in time with John. Yes, yes, they'd heard it before. John knew that. He also knew he'd stop saying it when they started listening.
"That's not by choice, though, is it?" Donovan whispered to John.
John rolled his eyes.
When anyone started listening.
"I figure Sherlock's a bit of all right, these days," Lestrade said. "When we met, though. Christ. John, I'm glad you'll never have to see him back then. 'Freak' doesn't really do it justice. He was a bloody mess. Amazing what five years and a friend-" Lestrade gestured to John, who may have grinned a bit, "have done."
John heard a thunk and turned to the source of the noise. The Doctor's pint glass had knocked over. Anderson and Donovan stood up as beer headed their direction.
"Five years," the Doctor muttered. "Oh."
"Doctor-mate," Lestrade said. "Are you all right?"
John didn't understand the fuss. It was just a little spill. Happened all the time.
"Of course!" the Doctor said.
Well then, what was everyone upset about?
"Well," Donovan said eventually. "Let me get some napkins…"
Lestrade stared at the Doctor warily. "Have you been putting away pints while I wasn't looking?"
The Doctor's eyes darted about, like he was hiding something. John nearly giggled at that. As if the Doctor could hide anything from them!
"Loads!" the Doctor insisted. "Yes. I have had a lot of them." He gestured to the pint. "These. Are delicious."
Donovan returned with napkins, and everyone started wiping up the spilled beer. The Doctor turned to John.
"I have to tell you a secret," he said. His forehead was all wrinkled. He seemed worried.
He wasn't Sherlock, obviously, but John gave the man the Holmes smile anyway. It was the one he made when Sherlock deduced something. It was his "Sorry, I'm a bit slow but you're utterly amazing, did you know that? So if you'd just explain…" smile. It worked so well for the Doctor! And Sherlock, too, of course.
"I wasn't entirely honest with you, before," the Doctor whispered to John. "On the case I... kind of cheated. I hadn't meant to cheat. I had to read ahead, I needed to know when to find you. Your blog posts are very handy!"
John patted the Doctor's shoulder. The man seemed to need consoling, even if he wasn't making much sense.
"I haven't blogged about it yet," John said.
"It wasn't really cheating, you know. I could've done it anyway. I'm very clever. Well, I couldn't have now, I can't very well un-know something!" The Doctor sighed. "So. Though I am really very, very clever, this time I read your blog. Also, I could have just asked one of the pigeons. There." He flicked his hands in John's direction, like he was flicking the secret at him. "That's everything."
John watched the Doctor. He didn't look very happy. And what was all that fuss about talking to pigeons?
John giggled.
"What?" the Doctor asked. "Have I got something on my face?"
That reminded John of Sherlock's accusation about the Doctor, about his 'real' 'old face.' John thought about how mad Sherlock had seemed at the Doctor, the Doctor of all people, when the Doctor was just as clever as Sherlock and far nicer, and John collapsed into giggles again. He put his hand out to touch the edge of the table to and steady himself.
"John," the Doctor whispered. He seemed concerned. "I have to ask you something, something very important, something about-"
John's phone beeped. "Sherlock," John said.
"Yes! How did you know?"
John looked down at his phone.
At Bart's. Come immediately. SH
It beeped again, almost immediately.
You're in danger. SH
John scrunched up his nose.
"But John, I need-" the Doctor said.
"We have to go," John said. He pulled at the Doctor's arm. "Come on!"
"John-"
"Ask me on the way!"
John's phone beeped again, but he didn't hear it over saying goodbye to Lestrade and the others.
Get away from the Doctor. NOW. SH
.
.
John and the Doctor found Sherlock arm-deep in experiments. Series of Petri dishes were clustered around him like moons orbiting a sun. Sherlock was clearly working on something, though it didn't look particularly dangerous.
"John, come and look at this dish," Sherlock called out as he approached. Then he looked up and noticed the Doctor was there as well. John could cite the exact moment, because Sherlock's eyes went squinty and his frown deepened. "Oh God, John," Sherlock said. "What have you done?"
"What? I haven't done anything."
"Step back," Sherlock said. He grabbed a syringe from the table and held it in front of him like a knife. "You, Doctor, step away from John. This is full of a fluid that is deadly for your kind."
"His kind?" John said, "Sherlock, what's going on?" He tried to speak slowly, as he approached Sherlock. He didn't want to startle his probably-insane flatmate.
When John reached Sherlock, Sherlock quickly moved his body in front of John's. John peered around Sherlock to check-the Doctor didn't have any weapons pointed at them, or anything.
Sherlock hadn't put down the syringe.
"Who are you working for?" Sherlock asked.
"Sherlock," John whispered. "What is going on?"
"Is it Moriarty?"
John froze. It wasn't. He couldn't. It was the Doctor! The Doctor didn't seem evil. He was working for MI6. Lestrade saw his ID!
"He's an alien, John."
"WHAT?"
"No. Listen, John. It sounds ridiculous. Truly, I'm aware. But it's the only possible explanation! I couldn't solve it, the man didn't make any sense. He wasn't possible, is the problem. Isn't. He isn't possible. Unless I were to open the field of possibilities. But I took samples from his jacket at the crime scene, I've examined the compounds. I have scientific proof he's from outer space. And," he gestured to the syringe, "I've created a poison." He stalked toward the Doctor, brandishing the syringe in his hand. The Doctor backed away as Sherlock stalked closer, until the Doctor hit the edge of a desk and fell flat onto the ground. "Now," Sherlock said as he stood over the Doctor. "Who do you work for?"
John rushed over to the two men. He grabbed Sherlock's wrist and pulled Sherlock around to face him. He stood up as straight as he could and stared into his friend's eyes.
"Okay. Now. I have no idea what's going on-"
"Obviously."
"But you're going to stop this." He slowly took the syringe from Sherlock's hand and placed it on a table. He stared at Sherlock again. He spoke very slowly. "And you're going to tell me what you're on."
Sherlock huffed. "John!"
"You've been acting really odd lately, Sherlock, did you think I wouldn't notice?" John licked his lips. "I think I just didn't want to see it. I didn't want to believe you could-"
"John! I'm clean."
John snorted incredulously, and he felt rather than heard the way the sound ripped from his throat. "You're not! Sherlock Holmes would never, ever try to tell me that this man-" he gestured behind him "-was an alien! Not if you were in your right mind."
Something poked John in the back and he whirled around to find the Doctor, upright and, thank God, totally fine, standing behind him.
"Uh," the Doctor said. "This is a bit embarrassing, isn't it? Um. Sherlock's correct. I'm an alien. Hi?"
John's mouth dropped open. But-he looked perfectly normal!
Sherlock nodded. "Now. Get away from John."
The Doctor took a large step backward. He hit another lab table but steadied himself on the edge. He hopped up on the table and sat on the tabletop. "I'm sorry, John. I probably should have clarified before. I'm not evil, though! Promise."
"What?"
The Doctor shrugged. "Well, you know. I thought 'bigger on the inside' covered it."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're impossible."
"And I told you that as well! Didn't I? I said I was impossible to deduce. You," he pointed at Sherlock, "just weren't listening."
Sherlock didn't react to the accusation, but John could practically see all the thoughts churning through his head. If the Doctor was an alien, if aliens were real, John supposed Sherlock would have an awful lot to think about.
"So the TARDIS is your spaceship," Sherlock said. "'TARDIS' is an acronym, isn't it?"
The Doctor nodded. "Time and Relative Dimension In Space."
"Of course, it's not a spaceship. It's a spaceship and a time machine! Well, of course it is. You have access to near-infinite technology, after all, why not travel in time? No, the question is, why travel in time in a police box from the 1960s?"
"So," John said. "You're not MI6."
Sherlock chuckled. "John. He's not even from this planet!" Sherlock seemed awfully calm considering he just found out the Doctor was an alien…
"Yes," the Doctor said. He leaned forward and whispered, even though they were the only people in the room. "But I really can't say anything more."
Sherlock nodded, but John didn't believe that in any way constituted real compliance. As if Sherlock Holmes could find out aliens existed and then let that information lie. John licked his lips. He wondered if this could possibly end well. He supposed it was good Sherlock wasn't trying to kill the Doctor any more. That was nice.
"Ow!" the Doctor cried out. The Doctor twisted away from them and Sherlock's syringe clattered fell from his side onto the floor. "Uh," the Doctor said. "I just scooted back onto that. Sherlock…Tell me you made an antidote to your very very clever Time Lord poison?"
Sherlock shook his head with a smile. "No."
John rushed to the Doctor's side. "Then make one! We can't kill him!"
"No need," Sherlock said. He picked up the needle as it rolled toward him. He squirted the syringe into his mouth and swallowed. "Saline solution. I was bluffing, John. Honestly. I couldn't very well let an alien kidnap you, could I?"
"Well!" the Doctor said. He hopped off the table. "Now that that's sorted, I'm sure you have more questions."
"I do," Sherlock said.
"But I have to go now! Friends to see, planets to be saved-see, Sherlock Holmes, I do save people every now and then! You understand, don't you? You have your own city to keep safe."
Sherlock nodded.
"But this was fun!" The Doctor hugged each of them, and kissed their cheeks like he had the first time they met. "Maybe we'll do it again sometime! Best of luck Sherlock Holmes. Get a hat! And Doctor John Watson! You two are brilliant. Don't ever, ever, ever change."
He turned and headed toward the door.
"Stagnancy is boring," Sherlock called out after him.
The Doctor whirled around, but he stayed by the door. "Maybe," he said. "Or maybe you have your Watson, and London and crimes to solve! Maybe your 'boring'is underrated!"
The door slammed shut behind him. Sherlock stared at the door, as if by staring alone he could somehow summon the Doctor back.
"What do you think he meant," John asked, "'your' Watson?"
Sherlock turned to him. "Well. I suppose it could be worse. I thought you showed up here with a murderous alien."
"Yeah?"
"Just think. You could have showed up with Anderson."
John looked away from Sherlock, shook his head, and laughed out loud. He just kept laughing. After a few seconds, Sherlock joined in, too.
As far as days with Sherlock went, this one didn't seem so bad after all.
.
.
Even though John trusted Sherlock and believed the Doctor was an alien-or believed it enough, he supposed…even so, it was a lot to take in-and even though he was glad everyone survived what could have been a fatal encounter on multiple accounts, and even though he was very, very glad things were back to normal, he still jumped about twelve feet in the air when he walked into his office at the clinic the next day.
"So I have two hearts," the Doctor said. He sat in John's chair, his feet propped up on the desk. John's stethoscope was placed around his neck, and he seemed to be listening to his heartbeat-well, heartbeats, John supposed, if the Doctor was to be believed.
"Um," John said.
"Not all aliens have two hearts. It's a Time Lord thing. But I can show you, I can offer you definite alien proof! Would you like to hear?"
"Sure," John said. He took the stethoscope from the Doctor's offering hand and put the diaphragm against the Doctor's chest. There is was, the one heart beat.
"Next try on the right," the Doctor said.
John did, and he heard the exact same noise as before.
The Doctor watched and nodded when John's eyes widened. "There! Probably good to get it checked up, it's been ages since anyone's made sure they were both in working order! Now! Two hearts," he gestured down at his chest, "clearly an alien, any chance you have time for tea?"
"I just got in," John said, feeling old and very slow for a moment.
"It's about Sherlock," the Doctor said.
John scribbled a note for Sarah (she'd understand) and then pulled his jacket back on.
"Let's go," he said.
Chapter Three
Word Count: approx. 4,200 for this bit
A/N: Full author's notes and story info here.
Chapter One
CHAPTER TWO
Sherlock didn't mention the Doctor again. John didn't ask. For the next two weeks they didn't say much beyond what passed for their usual pleasantries. ("We're out of milk, Sherlock!" "John, send a text to Lestrade: Was Christina Henry's microwave brand-new?") They hadn't got any new cases from Lestrade, just little things off the website. John went to the pub with Mike Stamford and took shifts at the clinic, but Sherlock barely left the flat. That was a bit suspicious-John would have expected Sherlock to rail about and put bullet-holes in their wallpaper, but instead John caught Sherlock staring off into space in an odd, unfocused way. Sometimes the man would shush John, urgently, when Sherlock didn't appear to be working on anything at all.
John didn't know what to make of it. Sherlock always seemed put-out between cases, but he usually didn't seem so lost. John was at a loss himself wondering how to help Sherlock out of the mood. Needless to say, neither John nor Sherlock did a very good job of hiding their relief when Lestrade called them up again. This time it was news of a strangling, and Sherlock's telltale grin stretched wide.
John found himself accidentally echoing the expression, but his own grin fell just a touch as they approached the crime scene. There it was, the standard scene: the crime tape, the dead body, Lestrade and his team. But that wasn't all.
"And that," The Doctor said, "is why I owe Casanova a chicken. Two, by his count."
John saw Lestrade trying not to laugh aloud. The DI wasn't doing a terribly good job of it, either. John remembered that feeling: We can't giggle, it's a crime scene. He smiled at the thought. That was his first case.
So it wasn't that John didn't like the Doctor. He certainly seemed like a nice enough bloke, and it was fantastic to see Lestrade laughing, or even holding laughter in, for a change. It wasn't as if John wasn't deeply curious about Doctor's blue box with the orange insides, or his green torch he seemed to use more like a wand than a torch.
On the other hand, since they'd met the Doctor, Sherlock had been as moody as ever, maybe moodier. Odd, really-John would have expected Sherlock to like the man. He seemed a walking mystery just waiting to be solved. John didn't have to look over to see that the dead body smile was all but wiped from Sherlock's face at this point, and to know the disappearance had nothing to do with Anderson (as it usually did).
"This is the Doctor," Lestrade told them. "He's from-"
"MI6!" the Doctor said. Then he leaned in to John. "Oh! I had meant that to be quieter. Wouldn't want to take the secret out of the service, now would we? No. Hm. I don't think we would…"
John nodded, trying not to laugh as well. "So this is a foreign case, then?" He asked instead. "I thought the victim was from Sussex." He wondered if the Doctor really was an agent. That would explain Sherlock's comments, wouldn't it? Maybe his title was just a code name. "The Doctor" didn't sound as good as 007, but John supposed that was the difference between fiction and reality.
"Is he," the Doctor said, not sounding very interested. "But you know, day off. I was bored."
John nodded. "I know that feeling," John said. Even if John didn't get 'bored' in the way Sherlock did, his flatmate had left him well-acquainted with the emotion.
"He's not MI6," Sherlock said.
"You're not really a fun person, are you?" The Doctor said. "Sherlock Holmes, you're supposed to be fun!"
"Says who?" Donovan called out in between making notes about the victim.
"Yes, Sherlock, he is MI6," Lestrade said. "He has the proper ID card and everything."
Sherlock sneered at the Doctor and moved to the body. John wasn't surprised at the reaction. Sherlock turned back to Lestrade. "Yet IDs can easily be faked-"
"His isn't," Lestrade interjected.
"-and we've already met. Hello, 'Doctor.'"
The Doctor gawped at Sherlock and smacked his own head a few times with the flat of his palm. "Oh!" he cried. "Oh, of course! Well no, not that, but maybe…"
"What?" John asked. "Did you have a breakthrough about the case?"
"Yes! Oh. The murder? No! Nothing. Well, it's certainly more than nothing…" The Doctor stared straight at Sherlock and shook his head, as if he were reordering his brain for a moment, before he turned back to John. "I'm on a case with Sherlock Holmes! Blimey. That's fantastic!"
John smiled. "It is, a bit. Better when he isn't moody."
The Doctor nodded. "Still missing the hat, though. The hat was cool."
"What hat?"
But the Doctor was already gone. He ran over to Sherlock and offered the detective a large, old-fashioned magnifying glass. Sherlock shook his head, refusing the gift. Frankly John just wanted to know how the Doctor managed to pull something that large out of his trouser pocket! He continued to wonder at the increasingly odd scene unfolding before him-the Doctor kept trying to give Sherlock the glass and Sherlock kept refusing and turning back to the body. But why did the Doctor keep trying?
Finally Sherlock turned to snap at the Doctor and almost simultaneously the Doctor tucked the magnifying glass into the crook of Sherlock's newly folded arms. Then the Doctor dashed back to John, smiling.
"Partly there," he told John. "It's too bad I forgot the hat!"
"Er. What hat?"
The doctor reached up and gestured to the air around his head. "You know, the one with the…well it had the flaps…but they were…it was cool," he finally sighed. "He's wrong without it!"
John frowned. Sherlock wasn't wrong. Well, not usually. Also, he didn't own any hats.
"Lestrade," Sherlock called out. "Why did you remove the victim's cufflinks?"
Lestrade walked over to John and the Doctor. "I didn't!" he called out to Sherlock.
"Oh!" the Doctor said.
John and Lestrade turned to face the Doctor.
"That's how he…" the Doctor said. "Oh, also, do you smell that? That's very interesting, that smell. It smells like a Hautian boxbloom in springtime but on earth the only thing close is the Amyris. Amyris is beautiful, grows lots of places, but only so many places that would make a scarf. Yes, definitely a scarf that strangled him, just look at him to see that. There's a region in South America where Amyris grows. They make it into perfume. One would think perfume because, well, the victim was killed with a woman's scarf. I'd think a purple one with lots of floofy fringy things. But that region's not particularly good with making perfume...what they are good at is llamas. Big smelly ones that they knit into scarves which only tourists ever buy. So someone who has travelled to Ecuador within, let's see, two months. Strangled means personal crime, doesn't it? And the victim has a ring on, so regular enough contact that she knew he was married. Must have been someone he worked with. Probably left handed. Though when you go to the killer's house, which I think you'll find on Admiral Court, Chelsea, third house on the left, the cat who likes to sleep on that scarf might now be somewhat peevish."
The entire crime scene went silent and very, very still.
"Wow," Lestrade said slowly. "He could give you a run for your money, Sherlock! In fact, I'm pretty sure he just did."
"That's amazing," John added.
"John!" Sherlock said. He sounded scandalized.
"Oh, it was nothing," the Doctor said, smiling widely. "I'm no Sherlock Holmes…"
"Yeah," Donovan said. "You're much nicer. You're actually a human being."
"Well-" the Doctor said.
John turned around to look for Sherlock. He hated hearing those kinds of remarks almost as much as Sherlock did. Not that Sherlock said anything, but John could deduce. Sherlock wasn't inhuman, no matter what anyone said, and he certainly wasn't invulnerable.
He did seem to be invisible, however, just at this moment-or rather, gone. John didn't bother to hide his frown. He couldn't believe it. It had been months since Sherlock had last forgotten him at a crime scene, and it hurt more than John would like to admit to be in the position once more. It was like John had been downgraded-he wasn't sure to what. From Sherlock's actual friend to…well. Something below assistant, apparently.
"John, are you coming?" Lestrade asked.
"Huh?"
"Donovan and I are treating the Doctor to a pint. Saying thank you and all."
The Doctor leaned over to John. "Which one is a pint again?" he whispered.
John groaned. "Oh, God. Don't tell me people delete pints from their mental hard drives." Surely that was relevant information. What about pub brawls? People got murdered in pubs, drinking pints, all the time!
"Delete?" the Doctor asked. "And what's a 'mental hard drive'?"
"Um," John told the Doctor. He turned to Lestrade."I'll join! Yes. Thanks."
Some time away from a sulking Sherlock might be a good idea, actually…maybe even a brilliant one.
.
.
"Blech!"
John watched, amused, as the Doctor spit about half a pint of beer back into his glass. Donovan turned her face away in disgust. Lestrade just smirked from his spot across the booth.
The Doctor turned to John. "I thought you said beer was good!"
"I suppose it's not for everyone," John said. "I think it's good, anyway."
"Blech." The Doctor pouted in a way that was nothing short of endearing. It reminded John a little of Sherlock's sulks, except it was much funnier.
Of course, John had had a few pints himself-everything was funnier now. Not the least of which were the Doctor's stories. They were clearly false, which was only part of the fun. It's not as though the Doctor could actually tell them MI6 business. Instead everything was about aliens and other planets. The Doctor had got so wrapped up in his stories that he'd forgotten his drink until now. John thought about the Doctor's face when he had tried the beer, and Donovan's face, and Lestrade's, and he had to hold back his giggles at the recent memory.
"I would never have guessed you're MI6," Anderson told the Doctor.
John waited patiently for Sherlock's inevitable insult, something about Anderson lack of guessing abilities. It never came.
"What's wrong?" the Doctor asked the silent table.
"Funny," Lestrade said. "I just expected Sherlock say something rude." He chuckled a bit. "He's not even here."
"Oi!"
"Well, no offense meant, Anderson."
"In that case," Donovan said, "why are we still talking about Sherlock? Freak's not even present and he's dominating the discussion." She pointed her finger at everyone. "You're all obsessed, if you ask me."
"Interesting!" the Doctor cried. "Sally, why do you say that?"
"Because you keep talking about Sherlock-bloody-Holmes!"
"No, 'freak.' You called him 'freak.' Is that slang for 'cool' in-" he checked his watch. "2010?"
Donovan nearly choked on her beer. "No," she managed between coughs.
"MI6?" Anderson said. "See, never would have guessed."
Sherlock didn't have to be there, really. John's mind supplied the Idiot! all on its fact, the thought even came to John in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock's.
"Why are you calling him a freak, then? If it's bad? Sherlock Holmes is good," the Doctor said. John watched the man carefully for signs the comment was sarcastic. No. He looked genuinely confused. Just when John thought he couldn't like the Doctor more... "He's very, very good!"
"Now, Doctor, you can't go saying things like that," Donovan said with a wink at the Doctor. "You'll make John jealous."
"Shut up, Donovan," John said. "The Doctor can say what he likes. He's…wise! Besides," he took a sip of his beer. "We're-"
"-not a couple," everyone at the table, except the Doctor, said the words perfectly in time with John. Yes, yes, they'd heard it before. John knew that. He also knew he'd stop saying it when they started listening.
"That's not by choice, though, is it?" Donovan whispered to John.
John rolled his eyes.
When anyone started listening.
"I figure Sherlock's a bit of all right, these days," Lestrade said. "When we met, though. Christ. John, I'm glad you'll never have to see him back then. 'Freak' doesn't really do it justice. He was a bloody mess. Amazing what five years and a friend-" Lestrade gestured to John, who may have grinned a bit, "have done."
John heard a thunk and turned to the source of the noise. The Doctor's pint glass had knocked over. Anderson and Donovan stood up as beer headed their direction.
"Five years," the Doctor muttered. "Oh."
"Doctor-mate," Lestrade said. "Are you all right?"
John didn't understand the fuss. It was just a little spill. Happened all the time.
"Of course!" the Doctor said.
Well then, what was everyone upset about?
"Well," Donovan said eventually. "Let me get some napkins…"
Lestrade stared at the Doctor warily. "Have you been putting away pints while I wasn't looking?"
The Doctor's eyes darted about, like he was hiding something. John nearly giggled at that. As if the Doctor could hide anything from them!
"Loads!" the Doctor insisted. "Yes. I have had a lot of them." He gestured to the pint. "These. Are delicious."
Donovan returned with napkins, and everyone started wiping up the spilled beer. The Doctor turned to John.
"I have to tell you a secret," he said. His forehead was all wrinkled. He seemed worried.
He wasn't Sherlock, obviously, but John gave the man the Holmes smile anyway. It was the one he made when Sherlock deduced something. It was his "Sorry, I'm a bit slow but you're utterly amazing, did you know that? So if you'd just explain…" smile. It worked so well for the Doctor! And Sherlock, too, of course.
"I wasn't entirely honest with you, before," the Doctor whispered to John. "On the case I... kind of cheated. I hadn't meant to cheat. I had to read ahead, I needed to know when to find you. Your blog posts are very handy!"
John patted the Doctor's shoulder. The man seemed to need consoling, even if he wasn't making much sense.
"I haven't blogged about it yet," John said.
"It wasn't really cheating, you know. I could've done it anyway. I'm very clever. Well, I couldn't have now, I can't very well un-know something!" The Doctor sighed. "So. Though I am really very, very clever, this time I read your blog. Also, I could have just asked one of the pigeons. There." He flicked his hands in John's direction, like he was flicking the secret at him. "That's everything."
John watched the Doctor. He didn't look very happy. And what was all that fuss about talking to pigeons?
John giggled.
"What?" the Doctor asked. "Have I got something on my face?"
That reminded John of Sherlock's accusation about the Doctor, about his 'real' 'old face.' John thought about how mad Sherlock had seemed at the Doctor, the Doctor of all people, when the Doctor was just as clever as Sherlock and far nicer, and John collapsed into giggles again. He put his hand out to touch the edge of the table to and steady himself.
"John," the Doctor whispered. He seemed concerned. "I have to ask you something, something very important, something about-"
John's phone beeped. "Sherlock," John said.
"Yes! How did you know?"
John looked down at his phone.
At Bart's. Come immediately. SH
It beeped again, almost immediately.
You're in danger. SH
John scrunched up his nose.
"But John, I need-" the Doctor said.
"We have to go," John said. He pulled at the Doctor's arm. "Come on!"
"John-"
"Ask me on the way!"
John's phone beeped again, but he didn't hear it over saying goodbye to Lestrade and the others.
Get away from the Doctor. NOW. SH
.
.
John and the Doctor found Sherlock arm-deep in experiments. Series of Petri dishes were clustered around him like moons orbiting a sun. Sherlock was clearly working on something, though it didn't look particularly dangerous.
"John, come and look at this dish," Sherlock called out as he approached. Then he looked up and noticed the Doctor was there as well. John could cite the exact moment, because Sherlock's eyes went squinty and his frown deepened. "Oh God, John," Sherlock said. "What have you done?"
"What? I haven't done anything."
"Step back," Sherlock said. He grabbed a syringe from the table and held it in front of him like a knife. "You, Doctor, step away from John. This is full of a fluid that is deadly for your kind."
"His kind?" John said, "Sherlock, what's going on?" He tried to speak slowly, as he approached Sherlock. He didn't want to startle his probably-insane flatmate.
When John reached Sherlock, Sherlock quickly moved his body in front of John's. John peered around Sherlock to check-the Doctor didn't have any weapons pointed at them, or anything.
Sherlock hadn't put down the syringe.
"Who are you working for?" Sherlock asked.
"Sherlock," John whispered. "What is going on?"
"Is it Moriarty?"
John froze. It wasn't. He couldn't. It was the Doctor! The Doctor didn't seem evil. He was working for MI6. Lestrade saw his ID!
"He's an alien, John."
"WHAT?"
"No. Listen, John. It sounds ridiculous. Truly, I'm aware. But it's the only possible explanation! I couldn't solve it, the man didn't make any sense. He wasn't possible, is the problem. Isn't. He isn't possible. Unless I were to open the field of possibilities. But I took samples from his jacket at the crime scene, I've examined the compounds. I have scientific proof he's from outer space. And," he gestured to the syringe, "I've created a poison." He stalked toward the Doctor, brandishing the syringe in his hand. The Doctor backed away as Sherlock stalked closer, until the Doctor hit the edge of a desk and fell flat onto the ground. "Now," Sherlock said as he stood over the Doctor. "Who do you work for?"
John rushed over to the two men. He grabbed Sherlock's wrist and pulled Sherlock around to face him. He stood up as straight as he could and stared into his friend's eyes.
"Okay. Now. I have no idea what's going on-"
"Obviously."
"But you're going to stop this." He slowly took the syringe from Sherlock's hand and placed it on a table. He stared at Sherlock again. He spoke very slowly. "And you're going to tell me what you're on."
Sherlock huffed. "John!"
"You've been acting really odd lately, Sherlock, did you think I wouldn't notice?" John licked his lips. "I think I just didn't want to see it. I didn't want to believe you could-"
"John! I'm clean."
John snorted incredulously, and he felt rather than heard the way the sound ripped from his throat. "You're not! Sherlock Holmes would never, ever try to tell me that this man-" he gestured behind him "-was an alien! Not if you were in your right mind."
Something poked John in the back and he whirled around to find the Doctor, upright and, thank God, totally fine, standing behind him.
"Uh," the Doctor said. "This is a bit embarrassing, isn't it? Um. Sherlock's correct. I'm an alien. Hi?"
John's mouth dropped open. But-he looked perfectly normal!
Sherlock nodded. "Now. Get away from John."
The Doctor took a large step backward. He hit another lab table but steadied himself on the edge. He hopped up on the table and sat on the tabletop. "I'm sorry, John. I probably should have clarified before. I'm not evil, though! Promise."
"What?"
The Doctor shrugged. "Well, you know. I thought 'bigger on the inside' covered it."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're impossible."
"And I told you that as well! Didn't I? I said I was impossible to deduce. You," he pointed at Sherlock, "just weren't listening."
Sherlock didn't react to the accusation, but John could practically see all the thoughts churning through his head. If the Doctor was an alien, if aliens were real, John supposed Sherlock would have an awful lot to think about.
"So the TARDIS is your spaceship," Sherlock said. "'TARDIS' is an acronym, isn't it?"
The Doctor nodded. "Time and Relative Dimension In Space."
"Of course, it's not a spaceship. It's a spaceship and a time machine! Well, of course it is. You have access to near-infinite technology, after all, why not travel in time? No, the question is, why travel in time in a police box from the 1960s?"
"So," John said. "You're not MI6."
Sherlock chuckled. "John. He's not even from this planet!" Sherlock seemed awfully calm considering he just found out the Doctor was an alien…
"Yes," the Doctor said. He leaned forward and whispered, even though they were the only people in the room. "But I really can't say anything more."
Sherlock nodded, but John didn't believe that in any way constituted real compliance. As if Sherlock Holmes could find out aliens existed and then let that information lie. John licked his lips. He wondered if this could possibly end well. He supposed it was good Sherlock wasn't trying to kill the Doctor any more. That was nice.
"Ow!" the Doctor cried out. The Doctor twisted away from them and Sherlock's syringe clattered fell from his side onto the floor. "Uh," the Doctor said. "I just scooted back onto that. Sherlock…Tell me you made an antidote to your very very clever Time Lord poison?"
Sherlock shook his head with a smile. "No."
John rushed to the Doctor's side. "Then make one! We can't kill him!"
"No need," Sherlock said. He picked up the needle as it rolled toward him. He squirted the syringe into his mouth and swallowed. "Saline solution. I was bluffing, John. Honestly. I couldn't very well let an alien kidnap you, could I?"
"Well!" the Doctor said. He hopped off the table. "Now that that's sorted, I'm sure you have more questions."
"I do," Sherlock said.
"But I have to go now! Friends to see, planets to be saved-see, Sherlock Holmes, I do save people every now and then! You understand, don't you? You have your own city to keep safe."
Sherlock nodded.
"But this was fun!" The Doctor hugged each of them, and kissed their cheeks like he had the first time they met. "Maybe we'll do it again sometime! Best of luck Sherlock Holmes. Get a hat! And Doctor John Watson! You two are brilliant. Don't ever, ever, ever change."
He turned and headed toward the door.
"Stagnancy is boring," Sherlock called out after him.
The Doctor whirled around, but he stayed by the door. "Maybe," he said. "Or maybe you have your Watson, and London and crimes to solve! Maybe your 'boring'is underrated!"
The door slammed shut behind him. Sherlock stared at the door, as if by staring alone he could somehow summon the Doctor back.
"What do you think he meant," John asked, "'your' Watson?"
Sherlock turned to him. "Well. I suppose it could be worse. I thought you showed up here with a murderous alien."
"Yeah?"
"Just think. You could have showed up with Anderson."
John looked away from Sherlock, shook his head, and laughed out loud. He just kept laughing. After a few seconds, Sherlock joined in, too.
As far as days with Sherlock went, this one didn't seem so bad after all.
.
.
Even though John trusted Sherlock and believed the Doctor was an alien-or believed it enough, he supposed…even so, it was a lot to take in-and even though he was glad everyone survived what could have been a fatal encounter on multiple accounts, and even though he was very, very glad things were back to normal, he still jumped about twelve feet in the air when he walked into his office at the clinic the next day.
"So I have two hearts," the Doctor said. He sat in John's chair, his feet propped up on the desk. John's stethoscope was placed around his neck, and he seemed to be listening to his heartbeat-well, heartbeats, John supposed, if the Doctor was to be believed.
"Um," John said.
"Not all aliens have two hearts. It's a Time Lord thing. But I can show you, I can offer you definite alien proof! Would you like to hear?"
"Sure," John said. He took the stethoscope from the Doctor's offering hand and put the diaphragm against the Doctor's chest. There is was, the one heart beat.
"Next try on the right," the Doctor said.
John did, and he heard the exact same noise as before.
The Doctor watched and nodded when John's eyes widened. "There! Probably good to get it checked up, it's been ages since anyone's made sure they were both in working order! Now! Two hearts," he gestured down at his chest, "clearly an alien, any chance you have time for tea?"
"I just got in," John said, feeling old and very slow for a moment.
"It's about Sherlock," the Doctor said.
John scribbled a note for Sarah (she'd understand) and then pulled his jacket back on.
"Let's go," he said.
Chapter Three