Sherlock/Doctor Who fic: Patience Was Never His Strong Suit, Ch. 4
Title: Patience Was Never His Strong Suit
Fandom: Sherlock/Doctor Who
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Assumes knowledge of the most current seasons of both shows.
Sherlock Characters: Sherlock, Mycroft, John, Lestrade, and the Yarders
Doctor Who Characters: Ian/Barbara, Eleven, Amy/Rory
Summary: “As we learn about each other, so we learn about ourselves.”
Disclaimer: I own neither Sherlock nor Doctor Who; all rights belong to their respective owners.
Thank you to my wonderful Betas, susako and infinityuphigh, for all their help. All remaining mistakes and inconsistencies are my own.
A/N: This chapter contains a reference to The Sarah Jane Adventures episode "The Death of the Doctor"... Basically I didn't like "the rumor" regarding Ian and Barbara, so I decided to keep it as such, but I didn't want to ignore it, either, since it's now technically out there as part of canon in the Whoniverse. Hope this all makes sense...
Chapter 1: Laying the Foundation
Chapter 2: Finding One's Place
Chapter 3: Dealing with Loss
Chapter 4: Setting Priorities:
Sherlock and John arrived at the chemists, which served as the location of the crime scene. As they entered through the police tape, they passed by Sgt. Donovan, who said, “Doesn’t look like we’ll be needing you after all, Freak.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sherlock asked her. Sally just shrugged at him. “Come on, John,” he said to his flatmate, and they walked onwards until they spotted Lestrade standing with three strangers, the corpse lying on the opposite end of the room.
“I don’t know who you think you are Dr. Smith-” Lestrade was saying to one of the trio.
“Just ‘the Doctor’ is fine,” the man interjected. He was lanky and wore a tweed coat and bowtie. Highly intelligent, Sherlock observed, he hides behind clothes that detract from his youthful appearance in order for his mind to be taken more seriously. He considers himself to be an outsider, and even prides himself over it, though, at the same time, he desperately wants to fit in. He carries a heavy burden which serves to distance him from his friends, but tries to conceal his feelings by consuming himself in other priorities. Sherlock, though he could not exactly place why, was completely fascinated and could have spent hours studying this strange man.
“Well, whoever you are,” Lestrade continued, obviously without the same appreciation as Sherlock was feeling, “this is my case, so I don’t care what sort of papers you have-”
“Inspector?” Sherlock finally said to announce his presence.
“And I already have my expert,” Lestrade declared to the man in the bowtie. “So I won’t need another consult. He’s a right genius with this sort of thing.”
“Really?” the man said, turning to Sherlock with a glint in his eye that denoted a mixture of both fascination and amusement. “It’s always nice to meet another genius; I can get starved for company sometimes.”
“Oi,” exclaimed his female colleague in a Scottish accent, obviously offended by the remark.
“That’s not what I meant,” the man said in apology. He turned back to Sherlock. “So with whom do I have the honor of speaking?”
“Sherlock Holmes,” said the consulting detective. “And this is Dr. John Watson.” They all shook hands. “And you?”
“I’m the Doctor,” said the bowtied man. “And these are the Ponds- Amy and Rory.”
“What, just the Doctor?” John queried, cursed with the need to ask the mundane and the obvious.
“Exactly,” he replied.
“That’s ridiculous,” John scoffed. “Surely you have a proper name? People don’t actually call you that?”
“Of course they do,” said the Doctor. “Practically everybody. Sometimes I have other names, though, like John Smith or The Oncoming Storm. In school, they called me Theta Sigma. Oh, and a girl I used to travel with liked to refer to me as Professor, still not quite clear as to why... Tell me, are you prejudiced against people with unique names?”
“Given who I choose to associate myself with,” said John. “I’d say no.”
Sherlock only frowned, the way he usually did right before figuring out a complex puzzle.
“Now,” said the Doctor, rubbing his hands together. “We’ve got a dead body.” He bent down to better inspect the man. “Judging by the gashes along his back, I’d say he was done in by a Pelhpoid. What a Pelhpoid is doing in this part of the universe is what we need to figure out... Right, so...” He reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small device a bit larger than a pen, scanning it over the corpse- possibly sending off sonic wavelengths, Sherlock theorized. “This man’s been dead for nearly two hours, meaning the Pelhpoid could be anywhere, probably hiding, probably scared of this strange environment; meaning we’re going to have to lure it to us... Okay, I’m going to need something shiny, a pair of binoculars... and a fez.”
“Hold on right there,” Lestrade said angrily.
“Yes?” said the Doctor.
“What on God’s green earth are you talking about?” he asked.
“In a word, Inspector,” said the Doctor, eyes shining bright. “Aliens.”
There was a burst of laughter, and all eyes turned to Anderson. “Aliens?” he repeated. “If you’re serious, then you’re an even greater nutter than him,” he said, pointing to Sherlock.
“I believe him,” said Sherlock, his brow furrowed in thought.
“You see what I mean,” said Anderson.
“You do?” John asked, turning to his flatmate in surprise.
He brought his hands together to his lips, and said, “But I have a question for you, Doctor.”
“Which is?”
“Did Mycroft put you up to this?” he inquired.
“Who’s Mycroft?” asked the Doctor.
“Be honest,” said Sherlock. “He’s the only one who knows and who’s also petty enough to stoop to such a horrible prank. Because if he is behind this, then I may have to kill him, and it would be too much of an effort than I’m willing to exert... Admit it. It’s the plunger incident all over again.”
“I assure you I’m not lying,” said the Doctor.
“So,” said Sherlock, eying the Doctor, trying to attain as much information from his appearance and mannerisms as possible in one long glance. “You’re purporting that you really are the Doctor? The one with the blue police box?”
The Doctor’s eyes widened and he suddenly stood up straighter, clasping his hands behind his back as he edged closer to the consulting detective. “Have we met before?” he asked, peering towards Sherlock, as though the Doctor was searching for an answer written in his face. “Or will we meet? All this traveling through time does get confusing when it comes to meeting new people.”
“No,” answered Sherlock, bitterly. “We haven’t.” Without a word, Sherlock gave a slight smile that did anything but denote happiness, then, out of nowhere, punched the Doctor in the face, sending him to the ground.
“Sherlock!” yelled John. “What are you doing?”
“He upset my Mum,” Sherlock explained, brushing off imaginary dust from the front of his shirt.
Everyone gasped in horror and admonished Sherlock, while Rory helped to pick the Doctor up, checking the area of contact which was already starting to bruise. Only Amy asked, “Doctor, what did you do to this man’s poor mother?”
“Me?” responded the Doctor, ready to defend himself. “How should I know? I don’t even know who he is.”
“I’ll give you a hint if you’d like,” said Sherlock.
“I would appreciate it, yes,” admitted the Doctor.
“I’m actually quite curious myself as to how this originated,” said Sherlock. “But there’s a strange rumor concerning my parents that both of them currently work as professors at Cambridge and that neither of them has aged a day since 1965. That is, of course, preposterous on so many levels. My father has been dead for the past eighteen years, and, while my mother has aged gracefully, the operative word there is that she has indeed aged.” A few years ago, his mother informed him of a woman who had contacted her. She was purportedly an old friend of the Doctor’s as well, and had done research on some of his former traveling companions. Barbara laughed as she told the remarkable story over to her son, and Sherlock had always remained curious as to the rumor’s origination. He assumed that if anyone could enlighten him, it would be the Doctor.
“Huh,” said the Doctor. “I don’t think I’m familiar with that one. I did, however, used to know someone at Cambridge who fit that description, but he was a a Time Lord seeking to live out the remainder of his final regeneration in peace and quiet. Professor Chronotis. He also may have been a secretly escaped criminal, though I’ve never been clear on that matter.
“But getting back to the issue at hand,” he continued, raising both of his hands for emphasis. “Let’s take a look at the essentials with which we’ve been provided: we have the Sixties, a man and a woman, and they’re both working as teachers. That could only be...” The Doctor paused, a wide smile across his face. “Of course, look at you!” He stretched his arms out, looking as though he was about ready to initiate a hug. “Who else could you be? You’ve got your Mum’s cheekbones and your Dad’s initial scorn towards me.” He turned to his two companions. “Can you two believe it? Do you know who this is?”
“Go on,” said Amy, crossing her arms. “Tell us then.”
“This is Ian and Barbara’s son,” he told them, clapping Sherlock on the back, much to the consulting detective’s annoyance. “Barbara Wright and Ian Chesterton were the first humans aboard my TARDIS. Boy, that was the beginning of an era! They married soon after they left me, you know, back in 1965.” He moved between Amy and Rory, clasping their shoulders, exclaiming cheerfully, “See, yours wasn’t the first budding romance in the TARDIS.” He turned back to Sherlock. “Your parents- they were a handful. Mind you, the stories I could tell.”
“So what did you do to upset her?” asked Rory.
The Doctor thought for a moment, and then froze, saying a soft, “Oh.”
“You told her you were dying,” said Sherlock.
“I was,” said the Doctor in a soft tone. “I did.”
“And?” asked Sherlock, his patience wearing thin.
“I can’t predict everything,” said the Doctor, reaching his hands out to Sherlock, but stopping in the air midway. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have told her.”
“There,” Lestrade interrupted. “He apologized. Let’s move on to the investigation now.” He motioned for everyone to follow him, though no one did. He never in a million years would have pictured Sherlock at the center of an emotional outburst at a crime scene (the cause of- yes, but the source of- no), and that evoked great discomfort within him. He looked to John, who only stared in silent amazement.
“That’s not what made her cry,” said Sherlock, ignoring Lestrade.
“Pardon?” asked the Doctor.
“Why did you have to tell her about Susan?” Sherlock asked angrily. “She was perfectly happy in her ignorance.”
“You’d prefer she didn’t know?” questioned the Doctor.
“Yes,” said Sherlock. When he learned that the Doctor had lost his entire people in a war, all Sherlock could think about was the fate of the man’s granddaughter: the peculiar girl who never quite fit in, but was still able to find a place where she belonged. What distressed him even more, however, was knowing how close Susan and his mother had once been, almost like the daughter she never had. Just as the worst sound for parents is to hear their child’s tears; similarly, Sherlock observed that the worst sound for children is to witness the anguish of their parents. Although he himself could no longer be considered a child, it still pained him to see his mother in such a state.
“And exclude her from the right to mourn? The one person who would grieve just as hard as I have? Why should I bear the weight alone?”
“Because it broke her heart,” said Sherlock.
“And you think mine are intact?” said the Doctor. Sherlock recognized that the Doctor must be feeling his own deep sorrow at the loss of his granddaughter, but Sherlock could not feel anything but rage toward the man who affected his Mum in such a way, despite the realization that his mother had erroneously mourned over her younger son for three years after his own false suicide. She, and all those whom he knew, had quickly forgiven Sherlock, but he understood the emotional toll he had caused in hurting them in such a way. Perhaps his outrage toward the death of Barbara’s non-daughter was Sherlock’s way of trying to make it up to her? He couldn’t decide, but determined to examine the issue further at a time when he could analyze his thoughts more rationally.
“I stopped caring about you a long time ago, Doctor,” declared Sherlock.
“I’m sorry,” said the Doctor. “I’m sorry I ever had that great of an impact on you.”
Sherlock laughed derisively. “She was right...”
“What?” asked the Doctor.
“Everything becomes complicated when you’re involved,” he answered.
“You make it seem like we hated each other,” said the Doctor. “On the contrary, we became very good friends. We both learned a lot from each other and learned to grow as people. If I hadn’t met your parents... who knows where I’d be now.”
“That’s supposed to make up for things?” said Sherlock.
“No,” said the Doctor. “But I have a feeling that I know what will...” He grinned and flexed his hands at his sides to show his excitement with his sudden idea. “Would you like to see it?”
“See what?” asked Sherlock, suspiciously.
“The TARDIS,” he answered.
Sherlock’s eyes went wide. Ever since he was a boy, he dreamed of this opportunity. Too many emotions were running through his body, making him unable to decide how to deal with them rationally at the moment, and that scared him deeply
“Come along then,” the Doctor smiled, turning around and starting to walk. Sherlock followed.
“Sherlock,” said John, a mixture of both confusion and irritation in his voice, “where are you going? You’re in the middle of an investigation.”
“It’s a corpse; it’ll keep til I get back.”
“But-”
“John,” said Sherlock, turning back around to face his friend, “This comes first.”
“Don’t I get a say in any of this?” asked Lestrade in an exasperated tone.
“No,” replied Sherlock. “This is something I need to do. Look, I’ll even let you have Anderson muck about until I return.”
Lestrade rolled his eyes at that, but said, “Fine,” in a way that made clear it was anything but. “Just be quick about it.”
“Thank you, Inspector,” said the Doctor. “Won’t be but a moment.” He then stepped past Sherlock and through the doorway. Sherlock immediately followed. John exchanged glances with the Doctor’s two companions before all three left to follow their friends.
John was dumbstruck; Sherlock, not so much. “Hmm,” he said, a pensive expression on his face as he stood inside the TARDIS’ main console room.
“What?” questioned the Doctor.
“It’s nothing,” said Sherlock. “It’s just... I always thought it would be bigger.”
“Bigger?” exclaimed John.
“You don’t have anything else to say, then?” inquired the Doctor, leaning against the railing surrounding the console. “Nothing along the lines of, say... ‘I’m sorry for my previous violence’ or ‘Wow, Doctor. Thanks for teaching me a valuable lesson in forgiving other people’?”
“Who says I forgive you?” said Sherlock in an even tone.
“Alright, then,” said the Doctor. He paused for a moment, his brow furrowing as he thought. “You know, your parents and I didn’t start out as friends. We had to build our relationship through mutual understanding and respect. I accused them and threatened them, but, little by little, they taught me to trust. They helped me to become the man I am today, and I shall always be grateful to them.”
“They sound like really good people,” said Amy, stepping forward, trying to help.
“Oh,” said the Doctor. “The best.”
“Tell us about them,” said Rory, joining his wife, the beginnings of an idea forming in his head.
Sherlock frowned, and turned to walk away, but John grabbed his wrist. He paused, but didn’t face the others, instead staring down at his shoes. When John understood that his flatmate would stay and listen, he let go, and Sherlock’s hands immediately found his own coat pockets.
“Go on then,” John said to the Doctor.
The Doctor nodded and pushed himself away from the railing and moved over to the console, also opting for lack of eye contact.
“When I was young,” said the Doctor, “I appeared to be very old, but that was just a mask I wore in order to seem more important and imposing. But I’ve come to realize, looking back, how inexperienced I was and how much I still had to learn.
“I didn’t always trust people,” he continued. “I had good reason, but that hardly matters now. What does matter was that, once, I was afraid. Whether irrational or not, I took my fears out on the people I cared about, on innocent people who didn’t deserve any malice. Your parents, Sherlock-” At the mention of his name, the consulting detective lifted his head , but still did not turn around. “Just happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Coincidence? Fate? I honestly don’t know. What I do know, however, are the lessons they taught me about honesty, bravery, compassion, and, most of all, trust.”
Sherlock finally turned around. He looked to John first for... strength? Support? Reassurance? He then glanced over to Amy and Rory before finally settling on the Doctor.
“As we learn about each other,” said Sherlock, meeting the Doctor’s gaze, “so we learn about ourselves.”
The Doctor smiled broadly, remembering a conversation from very long ago. “That’s right.”
“I grew up listening to stories about you,” said Sherlock. “Tales of adventure and brilliance and heroism, and, at the same time, being warned to keep you a secret, about the troubles you bring, that seem to follow you wherever you go like a curse. My life seemed so boring in comparison... I wanted to meet you more than anything; I wanted to be you. But then you died, and I finally saw the destruction you leave behind.” He had so much he still wanted to say, but, as he thought more about it and as the Doctor’s words seeped in, he felt the malice was no longer worth the effort. It was as though his entire mind gave one long sigh of resignation.
“I was right about Susan, though,” the Doctor replied, solemnly. It had been something he had been trying to convince himself of for a very long time.
“You probably were,” Sherlock conceded.
“Who’s Susan exactly?” asked Rory.
“A story for another time,” said the Doctor, his eyes silently pleading for him to drop the subject.
Rory took the cue and turned to John instead. “So how’d you wind up with him then?” he asked, indicating Sherlock.
“I needed a flatmate,” said John. “It sort of just happened. What about you?”
“People do unexpected things for love,” he explained.
Amy tenderly turned toward her husband and grabbed his jaw in her hand, saying, “You’d follow me anywhere, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course,” he answered, warranting a kiss on his cheek before Amy let go of him.
“Right,” said the Doctor, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, his voice much more upbeat and excited than a few moments ago. “Enough of this mush. We’ve still got an alien to catch.”
“You said something before about shiny objects?” asked Sherlock, who seemed content enough to return to the case at hand.
“Pelhpoid...” said the Doctor. “I’m sure of it. They’re attracted to shiny things. We can lure it into a trap.”
“I understand,” said Sherlock. “And I assume the binoculars would be to observe the alien from a distance?”
“Correct,” said the Doctor.
“And what was the fez for?” he asked.
“Fezzes are cool,” said the Doctor.
“That is yet to be determined,” said Amy, making her way toward the door. Before opening it, she turned back to the others, saying, “Shall we, boys?”
Chapter 5