Empty Spaces - fic (1/1)
Title: Empty Spaces
Rating: PG
Summary: Doctor Who/Sherlock (BBC version) crossover. Amy Pond hires Sherlock Holmes to help her remember something… only she doesn’t exactly know what she’s forgotten. Set in series 1 of Sherlock and an alternate ending of The Big Bang.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who isn't mine, no copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: School has gotten grueling, which is why I've fallen so far behind my writing. However, I've had this idea saved on my computer for a while, and after that last episode of Sherlock yesterday, I just had to finish it. I don't think I've gotten Sherlock or John exactly right--I had trouble writing them. So this fic isn't everything I wanted it to be, but I decided to post it anyway!
1
She walks in one day, headstrong and determined, and says, straight out, “I want to hire you.”
Sherlock casts her a disparaging look, glancing slightly over to John to gauge his reaction. He has no doubt John will want him to accept, something or other about money and needing to pay rent. He never pays any attention to that anyway.
“Why?” he answers abruptly, sweeping his cool eyes over her.
She has vibrant red hair, the kind he knows most women would pay thousands to have, and a rather short skirt. Sherlock turns his head again to see if John has noticed, and sees him studiously ignoring the girl’s long legs, or trying to.
Predictable.
She has her arms crossed defiantly, but her courageous attitude seems to deflate slightly at the question. She glances down, twisting her hands, and then looks back up at them. “I need help remembering something.”
“That’s not a case,” he tells her. “There are plenty of techniques to aid memory. Go to a specialist.”
She tosses him a look, seemingly both sarcastic and frustrated. “It’s not that… there’s something I’ve forgotten. Someone? There’s…” she lets out a breath, closing her eyes. “There’s a space in my head, something I’m missing. My life doesn’t make any sense.”
Sherlock takes the case, if only because John shoots him a look that asks him if he really wants to have his credit card declined at the Chip and PIN machine again.
2
Amy jerks awake, gasping. Her fingers clench around the fabric of the sofa-sofa? She props herself up on her elbows to discover she’s fallen asleep in Sherlock and John’s flat. The sound of typing interrupts her thoughts, and she turns her head to see Sherlock typing on John’s computer, fully concentrated on his writing. The light plays across his dark hair, the messiest she’s seen of him yet.
He doesn’t bother turning his head, just continues typing. “Do you have chronic nightmares?”
She pulls a blanket around her, shifting into a comfortable position. “You’re blunt. No.”
He swivels around on the chair suddenly, blue eyes analyzing her quickly. He sees circles underneath her eyes; her hair is unkempt and messy. Of course, one must account that she was just sleeping haphazardly on their sofa.
“How many psychiatrists?” he asks.
Her eyes drift down to her hands again. He catalogs the movement in the second before she answers. “A few,” Amy replies, before she meets his gaze again challengingly. “Gonna drop the case now that you think I’m crazy?”
He meets her eyes steadily. “Contrary to your rash conclusions, Amelia-“
Amelia.
Very few people call her by her first name. Her aunt, sometimes. Her parents when they’re angry. And someone else?
If the consulting detective notices her reaction, he doesn’t say anything. (He does notice. What did you think, John, that I was out of practice? Oh, never.)
“-knowing that you’ve gone to psychiatrists, is another thing I can add to your file.” He turns back to John’s computer, already typing again. His voice is even when he adds without looking back at her, “I would recommend you get some sleep.”
He doesn’t feel the need to mention to her that in the moments before she woke up fully, her lips formed a word.
Doctor.
3
John finds her one night, glancing out the window of his and Sherlock’s flat, aimlessly twisting a piece of red hair around her finger. When she sees him she shifts slightly, but otherwise makes no move to get up from her seat.
“He went off on some tangent,” Amy says quietly, pensively, and John knows she’s talking about Sherlock.
“He tends to do that,” he replies, fond exasperation slipping through his voice, one corner of his mouth tilting upward into a faint smile.
She stares out the window again, resting her chin in slim fingers. Her gaze is directed at the sky, which John notices is rather dark, more of a purple-black color, like spilled ink.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, feeling that he should talk. He hasn’t really gotten to know Amy, between being wrapped up in work and making sure Sherlock doesn’t put any more body parts in the fridge to startle Mrs. Hudson.
She furrows her brow, shrugging. “It’s dark. There aren’t any stars.”
He glances at her then, startled, mouth slightly open. “There have never been any stars,” he says slowly.
She blinks, shaking her head in bemusement. Her red hair darkens to copper in the light of the lamp in their living room. It casts shadows across the planes of her face. “My aunt said that to me when I was a kid.” She continues to face the window but tells him wistfully, “There are stars in my dreams.”
John continues to stare at her, and thinks, somehow, he might be seeing her a bit more clearly.
Amy Pond is heartbroken; she just doesn’t know it.
4
Sherlock decides on one of his whims that they are going to play a game. John is already wary, though Amy only raises her eyebrows in curiosity.
“I am going to say a word, you will reply with the first word you think of in relation to that,” he commands, settling into his armchair, fingers laced together in front of him.
“And exactly how will this help?” she asks, grumpy and tired. He already knows she didn’t get enough sleep last night. The circles underneath her eyes are evident, as well as the fact that John has offered her coffee twice since she arrived at their flat this morning.
Sherlock smiles, the type of smile that makes it plainly clear that he’s not going to share his plans with mere mortals. John bemoans the fact that he’s become familiar with that smile, while Amy tosses him one of her infamous looks.
“Boat,” he says randomly.
“Sea.”
“Kettle?”
“Pot.”
They go on in this manner for quite a while until he says, “Blue.”
She replies instantly, “Box.”
Oh. Oh. Now this is interesting. When he mentions a color, there is a large statistical probability that she’ll respond with a familiar object of that color. Thus, there is a large possibility she should respond with something such as ‘the sky’ or another common blue object. But ‘box’?
Well now.
Sherlock’s lips curve into another smile.
5
One morning, John and Sherlock find a note in their kitchen.
Dear Sherlock and John,
Remember that word game we played a while back? It’s funny, I can’t remember exactly when, but it wasn’t too long ago. And ever since I said that word, box, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, you know. Blue box.
And I remembered. Oh, he’s a clever, clever man, my Doctor. (Just don’t tell him I said that.) He hurled himself into the end of time, and told me that I didn’t need him anymore. Always had such a way with words. I digress. He knew I could remember him, that I could bring back the days we never had together. I did, with the help of you two. It just took a little longer than expected, I suppose.
So… thank you. Thank you very much.
Love, Amy.
P.S. I made him promise to take me to Rio in the 51st century, so that’s where we’re going. Maybe later we’ll pop into your flat for a bit. Who knows? Look for a blue box and man wearing a bow tie, since he won’t get rid of the old thing.
Rating: PG
Summary: Doctor Who/Sherlock (BBC version) crossover. Amy Pond hires Sherlock Holmes to help her remember something… only she doesn’t exactly know what she’s forgotten. Set in series 1 of Sherlock and an alternate ending of The Big Bang.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who isn't mine, no copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: School has gotten grueling, which is why I've fallen so far behind my writing. However, I've had this idea saved on my computer for a while, and after that last episode of Sherlock yesterday, I just had to finish it. I don't think I've gotten Sherlock or John exactly right--I had trouble writing them. So this fic isn't everything I wanted it to be, but I decided to post it anyway!
1
She walks in one day, headstrong and determined, and says, straight out, “I want to hire you.”
Sherlock casts her a disparaging look, glancing slightly over to John to gauge his reaction. He has no doubt John will want him to accept, something or other about money and needing to pay rent. He never pays any attention to that anyway.
“Why?” he answers abruptly, sweeping his cool eyes over her.
She has vibrant red hair, the kind he knows most women would pay thousands to have, and a rather short skirt. Sherlock turns his head again to see if John has noticed, and sees him studiously ignoring the girl’s long legs, or trying to.
Predictable.
She has her arms crossed defiantly, but her courageous attitude seems to deflate slightly at the question. She glances down, twisting her hands, and then looks back up at them. “I need help remembering something.”
“That’s not a case,” he tells her. “There are plenty of techniques to aid memory. Go to a specialist.”
She tosses him a look, seemingly both sarcastic and frustrated. “It’s not that… there’s something I’ve forgotten. Someone? There’s…” she lets out a breath, closing her eyes. “There’s a space in my head, something I’m missing. My life doesn’t make any sense.”
Sherlock takes the case, if only because John shoots him a look that asks him if he really wants to have his credit card declined at the Chip and PIN machine again.
2
Amy jerks awake, gasping. Her fingers clench around the fabric of the sofa-sofa? She props herself up on her elbows to discover she’s fallen asleep in Sherlock and John’s flat. The sound of typing interrupts her thoughts, and she turns her head to see Sherlock typing on John’s computer, fully concentrated on his writing. The light plays across his dark hair, the messiest she’s seen of him yet.
He doesn’t bother turning his head, just continues typing. “Do you have chronic nightmares?”
She pulls a blanket around her, shifting into a comfortable position. “You’re blunt. No.”
He swivels around on the chair suddenly, blue eyes analyzing her quickly. He sees circles underneath her eyes; her hair is unkempt and messy. Of course, one must account that she was just sleeping haphazardly on their sofa.
“How many psychiatrists?” he asks.
Her eyes drift down to her hands again. He catalogs the movement in the second before she answers. “A few,” Amy replies, before she meets his gaze again challengingly. “Gonna drop the case now that you think I’m crazy?”
He meets her eyes steadily. “Contrary to your rash conclusions, Amelia-“
Amelia.
Very few people call her by her first name. Her aunt, sometimes. Her parents when they’re angry. And someone else?
If the consulting detective notices her reaction, he doesn’t say anything. (He does notice. What did you think, John, that I was out of practice? Oh, never.)
“-knowing that you’ve gone to psychiatrists, is another thing I can add to your file.” He turns back to John’s computer, already typing again. His voice is even when he adds without looking back at her, “I would recommend you get some sleep.”
He doesn’t feel the need to mention to her that in the moments before she woke up fully, her lips formed a word.
Doctor.
3
John finds her one night, glancing out the window of his and Sherlock’s flat, aimlessly twisting a piece of red hair around her finger. When she sees him she shifts slightly, but otherwise makes no move to get up from her seat.
“He went off on some tangent,” Amy says quietly, pensively, and John knows she’s talking about Sherlock.
“He tends to do that,” he replies, fond exasperation slipping through his voice, one corner of his mouth tilting upward into a faint smile.
She stares out the window again, resting her chin in slim fingers. Her gaze is directed at the sky, which John notices is rather dark, more of a purple-black color, like spilled ink.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, feeling that he should talk. He hasn’t really gotten to know Amy, between being wrapped up in work and making sure Sherlock doesn’t put any more body parts in the fridge to startle Mrs. Hudson.
She furrows her brow, shrugging. “It’s dark. There aren’t any stars.”
He glances at her then, startled, mouth slightly open. “There have never been any stars,” he says slowly.
She blinks, shaking her head in bemusement. Her red hair darkens to copper in the light of the lamp in their living room. It casts shadows across the planes of her face. “My aunt said that to me when I was a kid.” She continues to face the window but tells him wistfully, “There are stars in my dreams.”
John continues to stare at her, and thinks, somehow, he might be seeing her a bit more clearly.
Amy Pond is heartbroken; she just doesn’t know it.
4
Sherlock decides on one of his whims that they are going to play a game. John is already wary, though Amy only raises her eyebrows in curiosity.
“I am going to say a word, you will reply with the first word you think of in relation to that,” he commands, settling into his armchair, fingers laced together in front of him.
“And exactly how will this help?” she asks, grumpy and tired. He already knows she didn’t get enough sleep last night. The circles underneath her eyes are evident, as well as the fact that John has offered her coffee twice since she arrived at their flat this morning.
Sherlock smiles, the type of smile that makes it plainly clear that he’s not going to share his plans with mere mortals. John bemoans the fact that he’s become familiar with that smile, while Amy tosses him one of her infamous looks.
“Boat,” he says randomly.
“Sea.”
“Kettle?”
“Pot.”
They go on in this manner for quite a while until he says, “Blue.”
She replies instantly, “Box.”
Oh. Oh. Now this is interesting. When he mentions a color, there is a large statistical probability that she’ll respond with a familiar object of that color. Thus, there is a large possibility she should respond with something such as ‘the sky’ or another common blue object. But ‘box’?
Well now.
Sherlock’s lips curve into another smile.
5
One morning, John and Sherlock find a note in their kitchen.
Dear Sherlock and John,
Remember that word game we played a while back? It’s funny, I can’t remember exactly when, but it wasn’t too long ago. And ever since I said that word, box, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, you know. Blue box.
And I remembered. Oh, he’s a clever, clever man, my Doctor. (Just don’t tell him I said that.) He hurled himself into the end of time, and told me that I didn’t need him anymore. Always had such a way with words. I digress. He knew I could remember him, that I could bring back the days we never had together. I did, with the help of you two. It just took a little longer than expected, I suppose.
So… thank you. Thank you very much.
Love, Amy.
P.S. I made him promise to take me to Rio in the 51st century, so that’s where we’re going. Maybe later we’ll pop into your flat for a bit. Who knows? Look for a blue box and man wearing a bow tie, since he won’t get rid of the old thing.