The Time Traveler's Doctor
Title: The Time Traveler’s Doctor (Chapter One)
Author: Krista or smilesawakeyou
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Sherlock/John (eventually)
Rating: G (later R or higher if I can be bothered)
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes (the proper one) belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the newest rendition of Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and The Time Traveler’s Wife belongs to Audrey Niffenegger. I’m sure they all have a bit more money than me so please don’t sue. However, I’m also sure that if they ever became aware of this little project, they may be prone to rolling in their graves (or beds, where appropriate) due to my maiming of their characters/ideas/basic premises.
Author's Notes: Some of the details concerning time travel are different from Niffenegger’s book. This is also the first fic I’ve written in, oh, two years. So be patient. With me, not with the posting. I plan on doing that quite a bit. Also, this was a one-shot that transformed into some sort of multi-chaptered monster so we’ll just call it a WIP until I decide to end it.
Length: 1320
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and the curious case of becoming unstuck in time.
The Time Traveler’s Doctor
John Hamish Watson was 4 years old and thought that the battle raging before him was going quite well.
The men marched forward, all ready to die, all ready to fight, and John paused to raise a pudgy hand to stifle a yawn. Mum had gone in to fetch some juice - Harry was meant to be watching him but instead went off to talk to Stephanie about boys or something. Girls were so weird sometimes. John didn’t get why they always wanted to whisper and giggle so much - not when there were much more exciting things going on like sand and army men and a tiny toy tank that had been Da’s when he was John’s age.
The sandpit he was in was slightly wet from the rain earlier that day and the sky was still a steely grey, the wind occasionally whipping the branches of the small trees that surrounded the little park. It would be a good day to storm Normandy. He wasn’t entirely sure how one stormed something, but he saw it on the telly program Da was watching, so it must be something soldiers do.
John was fairly engrossed in imagining soldiers killing Nazis (Nazis, of course, were the bad guys - in Da’s words they “did a lot of bad things” so of course they were the bad guys) when he heard a small cough behind him. Turning, he found a large looming figure dressed in black standing against the sky. His hair was dark and was whipped by the wind not unlike the small branches of the trees and his eyes mirrored the color of the clouds. John frowned at him and his large coat. John would’ve liked to have a coat like that some day. Then he also could look tall and almost (but not quite) scary.
“Hello,” said the man, his head tilting. “You must be what I can only assume is a very small version of John Watson… if that jumper is anything to go by.”
John tugged at the sandy wool of his sleeve and wanted to protest - he wasn’t small he was normal - but didn’t. It would only occur to him later, when he’s much older and tried to remember the details, that he should have found it odd that a strange man spotted him and knew him by name because of his jumper of all things. For now, John remembered that Mum had said don’t speak to strangers and, even though he knew deep down in a way he couldn’t understand that the man was not remotely dangerous (at least not to him), he trusted his Mum enough to follow her orders. So he just stared at the man a moment longer before frowning all the more and turning back to his army men.
The man moved to crouch next to the sandpit. John continued to ignore him.
“Ah, ever the skeptic,” he said, watching John play and pay him no mind. There was something almost like a smile on his face. “Glad to see you perfected that facial expression at an early age.” He tilted his head when John didn’t respond. “Interesting. Are you always this quiet or is just because you don’t know me yet?”
John blinked and gave him a side-long look. He was pretty sure this man was crazy. Not bad crazy, just mental. Though he was less mental than the lady that stood at the corner near the Tesco’s and smelled like the toilet of the gym where John played football. This man was just normal crazy. Crazy and in a big coat. He was pretty sure he’d seen men like that in Da’s telly programs as well.
“Are you playing war?” the tall man asked. “How portending.”
John gave him a look. The man returned it before rolling his eyes.
“No, I’m not very well going to tell you what it means. You’ll just have to look it up.” He then wrinkled his nose. “Or do you even know how to read yet? It’s so difficult to tell with normally progressing childhood development.” He smirked. “I could read by the time I was twenty months.”
John had nothing to say to that. Besides, his army men were waiting and he was beginning to forget their mission. Something to do with storms.
“Best be off,” the man said at last, standing. John gazed up at him. One day he was going to be that tall and Harry would never win at wrestling again. “Your mother’s most likely due to be back any second now and we musn’t let her have kittens due to me harassing the youth.” He patted his pockets and paused, looking down at John. “I’m Sherlock, by the way. I guess this is the first time you meet me. Pity. The conversation could have gone better. Children,” he remarked, sighing, “there’s so little they’re good for.”
John’s attention was drawn away from the man when he heard his mother shout from the direction of their house. He looked toward her as she marched up to him.
“John, are you by yourself? Where’s your sister? Where’s Harry?” She looked hassled and worried.
“No, I wasn’t. There was...” He glanced to where the man had stood, empty air now the only thing occupying the space. His brow furrowed and he dropped his gaze back to his army men. They looked small and plastic and the sand felt grainy and irritating on his skin. “Never mind.”
His mother stood him up, putting a carton of juice in his hand as she placed a coat on his shoulders, pulling his arms through the sleeves and doing up the buttons. John would ask her tomorrow if he could get one of the long coats, like the one Sherlock wore. She would give him an odd look and tell him that his current coat was just fine, thank you, and who in the world was Sherlock? John would fall silent because, really, he didn’t know.
It was all for the best, though. He’d discover that those sorts of coats didn’t suit him anyway.
Years later, John would be sitting in his chair, reading a novel (pity Michael Crichton had died - John always enjoyed his vengeful writing style) when Sherlock suddenly seemed to appear out of thin air. Of course, he didn’t actually seem to - there was no seeming about it. One moment there was nothing, the next there he was. They looked at each other for a moment before he sat, staring at the switched-off telly and pointedly not looking at John.
“Tea?” John asked in a voice that was nothing if not casual, getting to his feet. Sherlock merely nodded.
John dawdled about in the kitchen, listening to Sherlock run his fingers over the violin strings without playing them, a small hum and hiss filling the air as the pads of his fingers danced up the neck. It was comforting. It was familiar. It was home and he was back and John’s hands were steady from the relief of it.
“Strange,” Sherlock said after a moment, over the sound of the kettle shrieking. “You’re quite the serious child. Were, rather.”
John brought him his tea and sat, switching on the evening news. Basking in the domesticity.
“Yes,” he replied at last, sipping at his own cup. “And you could have explained what portending meant. Took me ages to get someone to tell me the proper meaning.”
Sherlock smiled though it didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “I gave you the gift of discovery.”
John just rolled his eyes and looked back to the news. They sat in silence again until he broke it, almost without meaning to.
“I would’ve listened, you know,” he said, with more feeling than the sentiment should have necessitated. “Had you told me. I would have remembered.”
Sherlock smiled again and this time there was no attempt at mirth.
“I know.”
End note: So far this look like it will be at least 10 chapters (though it'll most likely be more) which I will post over the course of a few weeks. I started this about a year ago as a one-shot but recently had a surge of writing urges.If you like it, let me know! Positive feedback just feeds the fires of me actually finishing this.
Author: Krista or smilesawakeyou
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Sherlock/John (eventually)
Rating: G (later R or higher if I can be bothered)
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes (the proper one) belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the newest rendition of Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and The Time Traveler’s Wife belongs to Audrey Niffenegger. I’m sure they all have a bit more money than me so please don’t sue. However, I’m also sure that if they ever became aware of this little project, they may be prone to rolling in their graves (or beds, where appropriate) due to my maiming of their characters/ideas/basic premises.
Author's Notes: Some of the details concerning time travel are different from Niffenegger’s book. This is also the first fic I’ve written in, oh, two years. So be patient. With me, not with the posting. I plan on doing that quite a bit. Also, this was a one-shot that transformed into some sort of multi-chaptered monster so we’ll just call it a WIP until I decide to end it.
Length: 1320
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and the curious case of becoming unstuck in time.
The Time Traveler’s Doctor
John Hamish Watson was 4 years old and thought that the battle raging before him was going quite well.
The men marched forward, all ready to die, all ready to fight, and John paused to raise a pudgy hand to stifle a yawn. Mum had gone in to fetch some juice - Harry was meant to be watching him but instead went off to talk to Stephanie about boys or something. Girls were so weird sometimes. John didn’t get why they always wanted to whisper and giggle so much - not when there were much more exciting things going on like sand and army men and a tiny toy tank that had been Da’s when he was John’s age.
The sandpit he was in was slightly wet from the rain earlier that day and the sky was still a steely grey, the wind occasionally whipping the branches of the small trees that surrounded the little park. It would be a good day to storm Normandy. He wasn’t entirely sure how one stormed something, but he saw it on the telly program Da was watching, so it must be something soldiers do.
John was fairly engrossed in imagining soldiers killing Nazis (Nazis, of course, were the bad guys - in Da’s words they “did a lot of bad things” so of course they were the bad guys) when he heard a small cough behind him. Turning, he found a large looming figure dressed in black standing against the sky. His hair was dark and was whipped by the wind not unlike the small branches of the trees and his eyes mirrored the color of the clouds. John frowned at him and his large coat. John would’ve liked to have a coat like that some day. Then he also could look tall and almost (but not quite) scary.
“Hello,” said the man, his head tilting. “You must be what I can only assume is a very small version of John Watson… if that jumper is anything to go by.”
John tugged at the sandy wool of his sleeve and wanted to protest - he wasn’t small he was normal - but didn’t. It would only occur to him later, when he’s much older and tried to remember the details, that he should have found it odd that a strange man spotted him and knew him by name because of his jumper of all things. For now, John remembered that Mum had said don’t speak to strangers and, even though he knew deep down in a way he couldn’t understand that the man was not remotely dangerous (at least not to him), he trusted his Mum enough to follow her orders. So he just stared at the man a moment longer before frowning all the more and turning back to his army men.
The man moved to crouch next to the sandpit. John continued to ignore him.
“Ah, ever the skeptic,” he said, watching John play and pay him no mind. There was something almost like a smile on his face. “Glad to see you perfected that facial expression at an early age.” He tilted his head when John didn’t respond. “Interesting. Are you always this quiet or is just because you don’t know me yet?”
John blinked and gave him a side-long look. He was pretty sure this man was crazy. Not bad crazy, just mental. Though he was less mental than the lady that stood at the corner near the Tesco’s and smelled like the toilet of the gym where John played football. This man was just normal crazy. Crazy and in a big coat. He was pretty sure he’d seen men like that in Da’s telly programs as well.
“Are you playing war?” the tall man asked. “How portending.”
John gave him a look. The man returned it before rolling his eyes.
“No, I’m not very well going to tell you what it means. You’ll just have to look it up.” He then wrinkled his nose. “Or do you even know how to read yet? It’s so difficult to tell with normally progressing childhood development.” He smirked. “I could read by the time I was twenty months.”
John had nothing to say to that. Besides, his army men were waiting and he was beginning to forget their mission. Something to do with storms.
“Best be off,” the man said at last, standing. John gazed up at him. One day he was going to be that tall and Harry would never win at wrestling again. “Your mother’s most likely due to be back any second now and we musn’t let her have kittens due to me harassing the youth.” He patted his pockets and paused, looking down at John. “I’m Sherlock, by the way. I guess this is the first time you meet me. Pity. The conversation could have gone better. Children,” he remarked, sighing, “there’s so little they’re good for.”
John’s attention was drawn away from the man when he heard his mother shout from the direction of their house. He looked toward her as she marched up to him.
“John, are you by yourself? Where’s your sister? Where’s Harry?” She looked hassled and worried.
“No, I wasn’t. There was...” He glanced to where the man had stood, empty air now the only thing occupying the space. His brow furrowed and he dropped his gaze back to his army men. They looked small and plastic and the sand felt grainy and irritating on his skin. “Never mind.”
His mother stood him up, putting a carton of juice in his hand as she placed a coat on his shoulders, pulling his arms through the sleeves and doing up the buttons. John would ask her tomorrow if he could get one of the long coats, like the one Sherlock wore. She would give him an odd look and tell him that his current coat was just fine, thank you, and who in the world was Sherlock? John would fall silent because, really, he didn’t know.
It was all for the best, though. He’d discover that those sorts of coats didn’t suit him anyway.
Years later, John would be sitting in his chair, reading a novel (pity Michael Crichton had died - John always enjoyed his vengeful writing style) when Sherlock suddenly seemed to appear out of thin air. Of course, he didn’t actually seem to - there was no seeming about it. One moment there was nothing, the next there he was. They looked at each other for a moment before he sat, staring at the switched-off telly and pointedly not looking at John.
“Tea?” John asked in a voice that was nothing if not casual, getting to his feet. Sherlock merely nodded.
John dawdled about in the kitchen, listening to Sherlock run his fingers over the violin strings without playing them, a small hum and hiss filling the air as the pads of his fingers danced up the neck. It was comforting. It was familiar. It was home and he was back and John’s hands were steady from the relief of it.
“Strange,” Sherlock said after a moment, over the sound of the kettle shrieking. “You’re quite the serious child. Were, rather.”
John brought him his tea and sat, switching on the evening news. Basking in the domesticity.
“Yes,” he replied at last, sipping at his own cup. “And you could have explained what portending meant. Took me ages to get someone to tell me the proper meaning.”
Sherlock smiled though it didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “I gave you the gift of discovery.”
John just rolled his eyes and looked back to the news. They sat in silence again until he broke it, almost without meaning to.
“I would’ve listened, you know,” he said, with more feeling than the sentiment should have necessitated. “Had you told me. I would have remembered.”
Sherlock smiled again and this time there was no attempt at mirth.
“I know.”
End note: So far this look like it will be at least 10 chapters (though it'll most likely be more) which I will post over the course of a few weeks. I started this about a year ago as a one-shot but recently had a surge of writing urges.If you like it, let me know! Positive feedback just feeds the fires of me actually finishing this.