The Case of the Meddling Matchmaker
Ever since the incident at the pool, Sherlock Holmes had made it his mission to be aware of John Watson’s whereabouts at every moment. The detective had taken the consulting criminal’s warning seriously - to heart, as it were. The message behind the threat was clear cut: I know what your weakness is. And now you do too. See? It’s right here. Now that Sherlock Holmes was aware he had a heart, it was only logical that he keep track of it at all times. Especially when it was being threatened.
When Sarah called demanding an explanation for John’s absence from work this time, Sherlock understandably panicked.
After seven consecutive text messages sent at three minute intervals, Sherlock did the unthinkable and actually called John. Thankfully for Sherlock’s state of mind, he picked up after the second ring. What he heard, however, was anything but reassuring.
“Sherlock,” John answered, breathing heavily, “listen, now isn’t exactly a great time. I’m a bit busy.”
“Busy?” the detective responded incredulously.
“I shouldn’t be long. I’ll ring you back later, alright? Doctor, get down!” There was a noise, one that Sherlock couldn’t place exactly, but it sounded like some sort of weapons fire . “I have to go. He’s running again. So much running. Worse than you, really.”
The call ended before Sherlock had the chance to ask any questions. He was left staring at his mobile, as if it would somehow be able to give him the answers he needed.
Sherlock pulled the nearest laptop off the coffee table and into his lap. Doctor, John had said. Had he run into a friend from university? An old colleague? A fellow medic on leave from Afghanistan? All Sherlock knew was that the man had some sort of post-graduate degree, probably in medicine, and that he ran a fair amount. It was practically nothing to go on.
Sherlock attempted to hack the CCTV feeds that covered the route John would have taken to work to discover where John had discovered this ‘doctor’ who caused him to deviate from his routine in such a significant manner that he was missing work, running around London, and being shot at. Usually only Sherlock could create those sorts of circumstances. His endeavors were, for a large part, fairly useless, but he did manage to find one out of focus frame with a blurry image of two men and a blue rectangular shape almost out of the shot.
Sherlock knew every inch of every street in London. None of them had ever, in his time living in the city, housed anything that size or that shade.
Before he had time to comprehend much else, the data he was studying disappeared.
“What? No, no, no!” Sherlock needed that frame. He needed it! Someone was gallivanting around London getting his John shot at, and he was going to do his damndest to make it stop.
The phone rang and Sherlock picked it up without a second thought, anticipating another call from John.
“Good Lord, Sherlock. What’ve you managed to get mixed up in now? I turn my back for a few moments and you’ve managed to get yourself involved in trouble not on an international scale, but an intergalactic and interdimensional one. Though really knowing what I do about both you and The Doctor, it was only a matter of time.”
Sherlock said nothing. It was enough for Mycroft.
“Oh dear. It isn’t the both of you, is it? It’s just your Doctor Watson. Though he is the type. Very well. Meet me at my office at once. This isn’t the sort of information that can be imparted over the phone.”
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Sherlock stared at the manila folder in his lap, fingers steepled and pressed firmly against his lips. A man, appearing no more than thirty-years old, stared up at him from the photograph in his lap. His eyes, though, were ancient. They held grief. Centuries of it, if Mycroft was to be believed.
“A Time Lord, you say?” Sherlock asked.
“Yes. Been popping in and out of the Empire for ages. The timeline is somewhat difficult to piece together, being non-liner. Still, I do believe at this point in time he should be traveling with a rather unremarkable couple from Leadworth. A nurse and a kiss-o-gram. They were married a week ago, but given the nature of Time Travel, that means nothing.”
“You said John was the type. What did you mean, precisely?” Sherlock asked, still processing data.
“From the reports we have, the Doctor is a man who prefers to travel with an…entourage. Throughout the years, a number of these…companions or assistants, call them what you will…have been citizens of the United Kingdom. They are all…exceptional in some way. Brave, intelligent, loyal, and slightly broken.”
John Watson to a T, Sherlock thought with a grimace.
“Yes. Sometime today, between seven and eight o’clock in the morning, the Doctor discovered and engaged a hostile alien presence. Dr. Watson was close enough to offer assistance and did so without qualm. He was then rather swept along in the Doctor’s wake, and has remained in his company from that point forward.”
Mycroft leaned again his desk, crossing his legs primly as was his fashion. “I am quite certain that after spending the day exposed to Dr. Watson in his best form, The Doctor will waste little time in extending an invitation to Dr. Watson to join him in his journeys in the TARDIS once the matter has seen through to its conclusion,” Mycroft glanced at his watch. “A circumstance I have no doubt will come to pass within the next quarter hour.”
Mycroft placed his umbrella down on his desk and uncrossed his legs in a gesture Sherlock had come to realize meant he was absolutely serious and sincere in whatever information he was about to impart.
“If you do not wish to lose your doctor, Sherlock, I suggest you retrieve him at once. Or it will be too late.”
Sherlock was out of his brother’s office and hailing a cab before he truly had time to process properly what he had heard. All he knew was he couldn’t be parted from his heart, not so soon after he had discovered it.
Sherlock departed the cab, throwing far too many notes at the cabbie before sprinting off to the corner of the alley where he knew the blue box to be stationed-the TARDIS, if Mycroft was to be trusted. Moments later he was crouched at the keyhole of the police box, lock picks out and at the ready. But they had barely entered the keyhole before the doors swung inwards.
Sherlock froze momentarily as he observed the space before him before quickly filing the information away for processing at a later time. The fact that the box was bigger on the inside was irrelevant when compared with the conversation he was overhearing now.
“So, what do you think, John? You and me. The Doctor and his doctor. John Watson and John Smith.”
“Doctor…that was, by far the most insane thing I’ve ever done,” John said, in that beautiful, breathless voice that meant he was trying not to laugh. Echoing words Sherlock held dear in a voice the detective treasured above all others.
“If you come with me, it won’t be. Not by a longshot.”
“That’s supposed to make me want to come with you?” John asked, and Sherlock could picture the expression on his face. An arched eyebrow, an attempt to look serious that completely failed to cover his obvious amusement.
“You run towards danger, John. And you’re attracted to insanity like a moth to flame. And I,” the unfamiliar voice said triumphantly, “happen to be a madman.”
Sherlock couldn’t take any more of this. He rushed into the strange box before him, feet landing forcefully on the stairs as he climbed up to what he could only assume was the consul. A man, slightly shorter than Sherlock, stood across from John, staring at the detective with deep brown eyes.
“Oh, look at you,” he said, corner of mouth twitching up in a half smile. “Sherlock Holmes, here in my TARDIS.”
“No,” Sherlock said with an anger born of desperation. “You can’t go with him,” he barked at an only mildly surprised John. “You can’t have him,” Sherlock told the Doctor.
“Oh, really?” The Doctor asked, seemingly surprised and clearly amused.
“I won’t let you take him,” Sherlock vowed.
“You won’t let me?” he asked with a pronounced smirk. “I am The Doctor. The Oncoming Storm. Bringer of Darkness. Destroyer of Worlds. No one ‘lets’ me do anything. I make it a policy to surround myself with the very best of humanity. Our good Doctor Watson,” and it was all Sherlock could do not to flinch at the word, at The Doctor’s use of the possessive, “clearly fits the bill.”
Sherlock couldn’t look at John. If he looked at John, and John looked eager…Sherlock would be destroyed.
“I can show him everything. I can take him anywhere-any time, any place. The things I could show him. The things I will show him. And what do you have to offer, hmm? What would make it worth his while to pass up what I’m offering?”
Sherlock took in the bowtie, the tweed suit, and the suspenders, and something within him crumbled. This…Time Lord - he was clever. Probably cleverer than Sherlock. He had all of time and space to offer to Sherlock’s adrenaline addicted doctor. All Sherlock had was a city. The Doctor was good, that much was clear, and values goodness as well. Sherlock might be a great man, but he was only a man. And no one would ever call him good.
“What could you do that I couldn’t do better? What could you possibly give him that I couldn’t?” The Doctor asked, words twisting within Sherlock’s chest painfully.
He looked at John. Looked at his deep blue eyes that somehow managed to look right into Sherlock’s pervious dormant heart. The laugh and worry lines writing his history across his face. He thought of the way he said ‘brilliant’, how Sherlock tried to impress him, how he cared what John thought of him. He thought of the way John smelled of tea and wool and everything else warm and good., the way his lined face smoothed as his chest rose and fell in sleep. His smile, his laugh, his glare, his fierce determination and unwavering loyalty.
And then Sherlock thought about losing it all.
“I love you,” he said simply. “I love you so much it scares me most of the time. The idea of anything happening to you is…unthinkable. But being away from you…I couldn’t bear it, John. Please don’t go. Please. I love you,” he finished weakly, every scrap of emotion having gone into his plea.
John’s face was completely blank. Shock, Sherlock thought with a sense of numb detachment. Or disgust, possibly. Trying to determine the easiest, least hurtful way to confess he wanted nothing to do with a self-proclaimed sociopath, no doubt.
Sherlock Holmes was therefore, for one of the very limited times in his life, completely surprised when John Watson crossed the distance between them in a few determined strides, gripped Sherlock’s face between his hands and pulled him down into a soul-searing kiss.
Later (seconds, minutes, Sherlock didn’t know, didn’t care), John pulled away and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s.
“You,” John said breathlessly, a brilliant, beautiful smile on his face, “are an idiot.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, an equally bright smile growing on his own face, “But so are you.”
“Yeah. But I’m your idiot,” John responded.
Sherlock kissed him again.
“Right!” The Doctor said suddenly. “Well, it’s been a pleasure. But if you wanted to relocate this to a more...ah…appropriate venue than the consul of my TARDIS…”
Sherlock pulled away again, staring at The Doctor speculatively. “Oh!” he said, eyes widening in understanding. “You…you did this on purpose. You provoked me into confessing.” Sherlock wracked his brain for a reasonable explanation and found none. “Why?”
“Amy and Rory are off on their honeymoon. It’s…boring. And it was so fun with Craig and Sofie. So I figured why not give it another go? You know…give significant couples a…nudge in the right direction. Though I meant what I said about…”
Sherlock, in deference to the man’s role in inciting the events that had occurred, did not punch The Doctor as he stormed out of the TARDIS, dragging John behind him. Though it was a near thing.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Detective Inspector Lestrade glanced up from his paperwork as a strange grating noise grew louder and louder, just in time to watch as a police box materialized in the middle of his office. The DI could only stare speechlessly as a young man opened the door and peered out of the box, confused expression replaced by a wide grin.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade!” he crowed. “Just the man I wanted to see.”
“Who the hell are you?” Lestrade asked. Working with Sherlock had certainly built up his tolerance of insanity, but this was too much.
“I’m the Doctor. And you’re G. Lestrade. Tell me, what does the G stand for? I’ve never been able to find out.”
Lestrade opened his mouth to tell him, too shocked to do anything else, when the door to his office was violently thrown open.
“Mycroft?” Lestrade inquired, unable to believe that the elder Holmes was in his office.
“Thank you for your interest, Doctor,” Mycroft Holmes hissed, careful composure eroded more than Lestrade had ever seen in their brief (but memorable, at least for the DI) interactions. “But I can assure you that the situation is well in hand.”
“But…” The Doctor began, looking slightly disappointed.
“The situation is under control; your presence is no longer required. Now, good day Doctor,” Mycroft said, his expression one of barely controlled anger.
The Doctor smirked at the elder Holmes before ducking back into the box, which disappeared as suddenly as it had materialized.
“What,” Lestrade said slowly, “the bloody hell was that?”
Mycroft Holmes turned to Lestrade and smiled. “I’m so sorry for the interruption, Inspector Lestrade. The situation is a fairly complex one. Perhaps you would allow me to explain over dinner?”
Lestrade grinned widely. “Yeah. I’d like that. I’d like that very much.”
When Sarah called demanding an explanation for John’s absence from work this time, Sherlock understandably panicked.
After seven consecutive text messages sent at three minute intervals, Sherlock did the unthinkable and actually called John. Thankfully for Sherlock’s state of mind, he picked up after the second ring. What he heard, however, was anything but reassuring.
“Sherlock,” John answered, breathing heavily, “listen, now isn’t exactly a great time. I’m a bit busy.”
“Busy?” the detective responded incredulously.
“I shouldn’t be long. I’ll ring you back later, alright? Doctor, get down!” There was a noise, one that Sherlock couldn’t place exactly, but it sounded like some sort of weapons fire . “I have to go. He’s running again. So much running. Worse than you, really.”
The call ended before Sherlock had the chance to ask any questions. He was left staring at his mobile, as if it would somehow be able to give him the answers he needed.
Sherlock pulled the nearest laptop off the coffee table and into his lap. Doctor, John had said. Had he run into a friend from university? An old colleague? A fellow medic on leave from Afghanistan? All Sherlock knew was that the man had some sort of post-graduate degree, probably in medicine, and that he ran a fair amount. It was practically nothing to go on.
Sherlock attempted to hack the CCTV feeds that covered the route John would have taken to work to discover where John had discovered this ‘doctor’ who caused him to deviate from his routine in such a significant manner that he was missing work, running around London, and being shot at. Usually only Sherlock could create those sorts of circumstances. His endeavors were, for a large part, fairly useless, but he did manage to find one out of focus frame with a blurry image of two men and a blue rectangular shape almost out of the shot.
Sherlock knew every inch of every street in London. None of them had ever, in his time living in the city, housed anything that size or that shade.
Before he had time to comprehend much else, the data he was studying disappeared.
“What? No, no, no!” Sherlock needed that frame. He needed it! Someone was gallivanting around London getting his John shot at, and he was going to do his damndest to make it stop.
The phone rang and Sherlock picked it up without a second thought, anticipating another call from John.
“Good Lord, Sherlock. What’ve you managed to get mixed up in now? I turn my back for a few moments and you’ve managed to get yourself involved in trouble not on an international scale, but an intergalactic and interdimensional one. Though really knowing what I do about both you and The Doctor, it was only a matter of time.”
Sherlock said nothing. It was enough for Mycroft.
“Oh dear. It isn’t the both of you, is it? It’s just your Doctor Watson. Though he is the type. Very well. Meet me at my office at once. This isn’t the sort of information that can be imparted over the phone.”
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Sherlock stared at the manila folder in his lap, fingers steepled and pressed firmly against his lips. A man, appearing no more than thirty-years old, stared up at him from the photograph in his lap. His eyes, though, were ancient. They held grief. Centuries of it, if Mycroft was to be believed.
“A Time Lord, you say?” Sherlock asked.
“Yes. Been popping in and out of the Empire for ages. The timeline is somewhat difficult to piece together, being non-liner. Still, I do believe at this point in time he should be traveling with a rather unremarkable couple from Leadworth. A nurse and a kiss-o-gram. They were married a week ago, but given the nature of Time Travel, that means nothing.”
“You said John was the type. What did you mean, precisely?” Sherlock asked, still processing data.
“From the reports we have, the Doctor is a man who prefers to travel with an…entourage. Throughout the years, a number of these…companions or assistants, call them what you will…have been citizens of the United Kingdom. They are all…exceptional in some way. Brave, intelligent, loyal, and slightly broken.”
John Watson to a T, Sherlock thought with a grimace.
“Yes. Sometime today, between seven and eight o’clock in the morning, the Doctor discovered and engaged a hostile alien presence. Dr. Watson was close enough to offer assistance and did so without qualm. He was then rather swept along in the Doctor’s wake, and has remained in his company from that point forward.”
Mycroft leaned again his desk, crossing his legs primly as was his fashion. “I am quite certain that after spending the day exposed to Dr. Watson in his best form, The Doctor will waste little time in extending an invitation to Dr. Watson to join him in his journeys in the TARDIS once the matter has seen through to its conclusion,” Mycroft glanced at his watch. “A circumstance I have no doubt will come to pass within the next quarter hour.”
Mycroft placed his umbrella down on his desk and uncrossed his legs in a gesture Sherlock had come to realize meant he was absolutely serious and sincere in whatever information he was about to impart.
“If you do not wish to lose your doctor, Sherlock, I suggest you retrieve him at once. Or it will be too late.”
Sherlock was out of his brother’s office and hailing a cab before he truly had time to process properly what he had heard. All he knew was he couldn’t be parted from his heart, not so soon after he had discovered it.
Sherlock departed the cab, throwing far too many notes at the cabbie before sprinting off to the corner of the alley where he knew the blue box to be stationed-the TARDIS, if Mycroft was to be trusted. Moments later he was crouched at the keyhole of the police box, lock picks out and at the ready. But they had barely entered the keyhole before the doors swung inwards.
Sherlock froze momentarily as he observed the space before him before quickly filing the information away for processing at a later time. The fact that the box was bigger on the inside was irrelevant when compared with the conversation he was overhearing now.
“So, what do you think, John? You and me. The Doctor and his doctor. John Watson and John Smith.”
“Doctor…that was, by far the most insane thing I’ve ever done,” John said, in that beautiful, breathless voice that meant he was trying not to laugh. Echoing words Sherlock held dear in a voice the detective treasured above all others.
“If you come with me, it won’t be. Not by a longshot.”
“That’s supposed to make me want to come with you?” John asked, and Sherlock could picture the expression on his face. An arched eyebrow, an attempt to look serious that completely failed to cover his obvious amusement.
“You run towards danger, John. And you’re attracted to insanity like a moth to flame. And I,” the unfamiliar voice said triumphantly, “happen to be a madman.”
Sherlock couldn’t take any more of this. He rushed into the strange box before him, feet landing forcefully on the stairs as he climbed up to what he could only assume was the consul. A man, slightly shorter than Sherlock, stood across from John, staring at the detective with deep brown eyes.
“Oh, look at you,” he said, corner of mouth twitching up in a half smile. “Sherlock Holmes, here in my TARDIS.”
“No,” Sherlock said with an anger born of desperation. “You can’t go with him,” he barked at an only mildly surprised John. “You can’t have him,” Sherlock told the Doctor.
“Oh, really?” The Doctor asked, seemingly surprised and clearly amused.
“I won’t let you take him,” Sherlock vowed.
“You won’t let me?” he asked with a pronounced smirk. “I am The Doctor. The Oncoming Storm. Bringer of Darkness. Destroyer of Worlds. No one ‘lets’ me do anything. I make it a policy to surround myself with the very best of humanity. Our good Doctor Watson,” and it was all Sherlock could do not to flinch at the word, at The Doctor’s use of the possessive, “clearly fits the bill.”
Sherlock couldn’t look at John. If he looked at John, and John looked eager…Sherlock would be destroyed.
“I can show him everything. I can take him anywhere-any time, any place. The things I could show him. The things I will show him. And what do you have to offer, hmm? What would make it worth his while to pass up what I’m offering?”
Sherlock took in the bowtie, the tweed suit, and the suspenders, and something within him crumbled. This…Time Lord - he was clever. Probably cleverer than Sherlock. He had all of time and space to offer to Sherlock’s adrenaline addicted doctor. All Sherlock had was a city. The Doctor was good, that much was clear, and values goodness as well. Sherlock might be a great man, but he was only a man. And no one would ever call him good.
“What could you do that I couldn’t do better? What could you possibly give him that I couldn’t?” The Doctor asked, words twisting within Sherlock’s chest painfully.
He looked at John. Looked at his deep blue eyes that somehow managed to look right into Sherlock’s pervious dormant heart. The laugh and worry lines writing his history across his face. He thought of the way he said ‘brilliant’, how Sherlock tried to impress him, how he cared what John thought of him. He thought of the way John smelled of tea and wool and everything else warm and good., the way his lined face smoothed as his chest rose and fell in sleep. His smile, his laugh, his glare, his fierce determination and unwavering loyalty.
And then Sherlock thought about losing it all.
“I love you,” he said simply. “I love you so much it scares me most of the time. The idea of anything happening to you is…unthinkable. But being away from you…I couldn’t bear it, John. Please don’t go. Please. I love you,” he finished weakly, every scrap of emotion having gone into his plea.
John’s face was completely blank. Shock, Sherlock thought with a sense of numb detachment. Or disgust, possibly. Trying to determine the easiest, least hurtful way to confess he wanted nothing to do with a self-proclaimed sociopath, no doubt.
Sherlock Holmes was therefore, for one of the very limited times in his life, completely surprised when John Watson crossed the distance between them in a few determined strides, gripped Sherlock’s face between his hands and pulled him down into a soul-searing kiss.
Later (seconds, minutes, Sherlock didn’t know, didn’t care), John pulled away and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s.
“You,” John said breathlessly, a brilliant, beautiful smile on his face, “are an idiot.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, an equally bright smile growing on his own face, “But so are you.”
“Yeah. But I’m your idiot,” John responded.
Sherlock kissed him again.
“Right!” The Doctor said suddenly. “Well, it’s been a pleasure. But if you wanted to relocate this to a more...ah…appropriate venue than the consul of my TARDIS…”
Sherlock pulled away again, staring at The Doctor speculatively. “Oh!” he said, eyes widening in understanding. “You…you did this on purpose. You provoked me into confessing.” Sherlock wracked his brain for a reasonable explanation and found none. “Why?”
“Amy and Rory are off on their honeymoon. It’s…boring. And it was so fun with Craig and Sofie. So I figured why not give it another go? You know…give significant couples a…nudge in the right direction. Though I meant what I said about…”
Sherlock, in deference to the man’s role in inciting the events that had occurred, did not punch The Doctor as he stormed out of the TARDIS, dragging John behind him. Though it was a near thing.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Detective Inspector Lestrade glanced up from his paperwork as a strange grating noise grew louder and louder, just in time to watch as a police box materialized in the middle of his office. The DI could only stare speechlessly as a young man opened the door and peered out of the box, confused expression replaced by a wide grin.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade!” he crowed. “Just the man I wanted to see.”
“Who the hell are you?” Lestrade asked. Working with Sherlock had certainly built up his tolerance of insanity, but this was too much.
“I’m the Doctor. And you’re G. Lestrade. Tell me, what does the G stand for? I’ve never been able to find out.”
Lestrade opened his mouth to tell him, too shocked to do anything else, when the door to his office was violently thrown open.
“Mycroft?” Lestrade inquired, unable to believe that the elder Holmes was in his office.
“Thank you for your interest, Doctor,” Mycroft Holmes hissed, careful composure eroded more than Lestrade had ever seen in their brief (but memorable, at least for the DI) interactions. “But I can assure you that the situation is well in hand.”
“But…” The Doctor began, looking slightly disappointed.
“The situation is under control; your presence is no longer required. Now, good day Doctor,” Mycroft said, his expression one of barely controlled anger.
The Doctor smirked at the elder Holmes before ducking back into the box, which disappeared as suddenly as it had materialized.
“What,” Lestrade said slowly, “the bloody hell was that?”
Mycroft Holmes turned to Lestrade and smiled. “I’m so sorry for the interruption, Inspector Lestrade. The situation is a fairly complex one. Perhaps you would allow me to explain over dinner?”
Lestrade grinned widely. “Yeah. I’d like that. I’d like that very much.”