Fic: Something Remembered, part 4 - Sherlock/Doctor Who
Title: Something Remembered
Fandom: Sherlock/Doctor Who
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: none
Spoilers: Through The Great Game for Sherlock and The Big Bang for Doctor Who
Disclaimer: Do I look like I own any of this? Because, sadly, I don't.
Warnings: violence
Summary: When John is kidnapped, he starts to remember something.
Author's Notes: written for the sherlockbbc-fic kink meme. Also, my first attempt at writing for Sherlock.
Previous Parts: Part One, Part Two, Part Three
It was the smell that told John in no uncertain terms that he was in a hospital before he even opened his eyes. He groaned quietly, then hissed in pain when his neck protested as he tried to turn his head.
"John, are you actually conscious this time, or are you just moving about in your sleep again?"
He couldn't help but chuckle at the impatience in Sherlock's voice as he opened his eyes. "I'm awake, Sherlock."
"But are you coherent?" Sherlock was perched in the chair by the bed, feet tucked under him and hands resting on his upraised knees. He was also staring at John as if he thought that John was going to suddenly disappear.
John blinked, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose and then staring for a moment at the bandaging around his wrist. "What are you talking about, Sherlock?"
Sherlock waved John's question away with one hand, gaze never leaving John's face. "What does Bad Wolf mean, John?"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Bad Wolf. It was the last thing you said before you passed out at the warehouse." Sherlock practically threw himself out of the chair and began pacing rapidly around the room. "You seemed relatively aware when you first regained consciousness, then you began to fade out before collapsing completely. Right after saying the words Bad Wolf. Now what does it mean?"
John frowned, wincing at the sudden ache in his head. He felt like he ought to know what the words meant, like the answer was an itch at the edge of his brain, but the harder he tried to remember the more fiercely his head hurt. For an instant there was a faint memory of golden light, but it slipped away with a sudden burst of pain.
He moaned, eyes tightly shut. "I don't know, Sherlock. And my head is killing me."
Sherlock huffed in obvious annoyance, but was apparently willing to let the matter drop, at least for the moment. The chair squeaked slightly as he flopped back down in it, and then he reached forward to awkwardly pat John's arm. "All right. We'll discuss it later."
With Sherlock falling silent, John took the chance to review his own condition. His neck was still sore, his head ached and both of his wrists were tightly bandaged. The memories of his kidnapping were decidedly fuzzy, and considering what little he did remember and the most likely way he got into his present condition, John thought that was probably for the best.
He was just starting to doze off when Sherlock pushed himself forward in his chair and grabbed John's elbow. "There is one other thing I'm curious about, John. What is a Pandorica?"
The sudden roaring in his ears drowned out any other sound in the room and in the back of his mind he knew he was beginning to hyperventilate. What he didn't know was why.
Sherlock's hands suddenly clamped down on John's upper arms, and he pulled until John was sitting up. "Breathe, John. Breathe."
After a long moment John managed to get his breathing back under control and lay back on the bed. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't know why that happened."
"Interesting. And the word I asked you about, do you know what it means?"
John shuddered reflexively, even though Sherlock hadn't said the word again and he had no idea what it meant. "No, not a clue. But for some reason, it absolutely terrifies me."
Sherlock leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. "Well, this is a pretty puzzle."
John rolled his eyes, but even he had to admit that it was all rather odd. "Are you quite finished inducing panic attacks now, Sherlock? I'm quite tired and would really like to get a bit of sleep."
"All right, all right." Sherlock absently waved one hand in John's general direction, his attention focused on something only he could see. "But if you suddenly remember anything you must tell me immediately. And don't sleep too long, or they won't let you out of here tomorrow. And I refuse to deal with Mycroft alone."
John sighed as he closed his eyes. He had almost forgotten that he'd promised to go home with Sherlock for Christmas. After Sherlock had learned that John's only plans consisted of take-away and bad movies in the flat he had been determined that John would not be staying alone in London for the holidays. Especially not with all of the strange things that happened in London on Christmas.
"You sure you don't want to just stay in this year and watch crap telly with me, Sherlock? You wouldn't have to deal with Mycroft that way."
Sherlock snorted. "If it were up to me, yes. But Mummy insists that we never stay in London over Christmas. She always has, even before the so-called aliens began making appearances."
There was no more use arguing. What Mummy Holmes wanted, she got. And she wanted them home for Christmas.
Next Part
Fandom: Sherlock/Doctor Who
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: none
Spoilers: Through The Great Game for Sherlock and The Big Bang for Doctor Who
Disclaimer: Do I look like I own any of this? Because, sadly, I don't.
Warnings: violence
Summary: When John is kidnapped, he starts to remember something.
Author's Notes: written for the sherlockbbc-fic kink meme. Also, my first attempt at writing for Sherlock.
Previous Parts: Part One, Part Two, Part Three
It was the smell that told John in no uncertain terms that he was in a hospital before he even opened his eyes. He groaned quietly, then hissed in pain when his neck protested as he tried to turn his head.
"John, are you actually conscious this time, or are you just moving about in your sleep again?"
He couldn't help but chuckle at the impatience in Sherlock's voice as he opened his eyes. "I'm awake, Sherlock."
"But are you coherent?" Sherlock was perched in the chair by the bed, feet tucked under him and hands resting on his upraised knees. He was also staring at John as if he thought that John was going to suddenly disappear.
John blinked, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose and then staring for a moment at the bandaging around his wrist. "What are you talking about, Sherlock?"
Sherlock waved John's question away with one hand, gaze never leaving John's face. "What does Bad Wolf mean, John?"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Bad Wolf. It was the last thing you said before you passed out at the warehouse." Sherlock practically threw himself out of the chair and began pacing rapidly around the room. "You seemed relatively aware when you first regained consciousness, then you began to fade out before collapsing completely. Right after saying the words Bad Wolf. Now what does it mean?"
John frowned, wincing at the sudden ache in his head. He felt like he ought to know what the words meant, like the answer was an itch at the edge of his brain, but the harder he tried to remember the more fiercely his head hurt. For an instant there was a faint memory of golden light, but it slipped away with a sudden burst of pain.
He moaned, eyes tightly shut. "I don't know, Sherlock. And my head is killing me."
Sherlock huffed in obvious annoyance, but was apparently willing to let the matter drop, at least for the moment. The chair squeaked slightly as he flopped back down in it, and then he reached forward to awkwardly pat John's arm. "All right. We'll discuss it later."
With Sherlock falling silent, John took the chance to review his own condition. His neck was still sore, his head ached and both of his wrists were tightly bandaged. The memories of his kidnapping were decidedly fuzzy, and considering what little he did remember and the most likely way he got into his present condition, John thought that was probably for the best.
He was just starting to doze off when Sherlock pushed himself forward in his chair and grabbed John's elbow. "There is one other thing I'm curious about, John. What is a Pandorica?"
The sudden roaring in his ears drowned out any other sound in the room and in the back of his mind he knew he was beginning to hyperventilate. What he didn't know was why.
Sherlock's hands suddenly clamped down on John's upper arms, and he pulled until John was sitting up. "Breathe, John. Breathe."
After a long moment John managed to get his breathing back under control and lay back on the bed. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't know why that happened."
"Interesting. And the word I asked you about, do you know what it means?"
John shuddered reflexively, even though Sherlock hadn't said the word again and he had no idea what it meant. "No, not a clue. But for some reason, it absolutely terrifies me."
Sherlock leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. "Well, this is a pretty puzzle."
John rolled his eyes, but even he had to admit that it was all rather odd. "Are you quite finished inducing panic attacks now, Sherlock? I'm quite tired and would really like to get a bit of sleep."
"All right, all right." Sherlock absently waved one hand in John's general direction, his attention focused on something only he could see. "But if you suddenly remember anything you must tell me immediately. And don't sleep too long, or they won't let you out of here tomorrow. And I refuse to deal with Mycroft alone."
John sighed as he closed his eyes. He had almost forgotten that he'd promised to go home with Sherlock for Christmas. After Sherlock had learned that John's only plans consisted of take-away and bad movies in the flat he had been determined that John would not be staying alone in London for the holidays. Especially not with all of the strange things that happened in London on Christmas.
"You sure you don't want to just stay in this year and watch crap telly with me, Sherlock? You wouldn't have to deal with Mycroft that way."
Sherlock snorted. "If it were up to me, yes. But Mummy insists that we never stay in London over Christmas. She always has, even before the so-called aliens began making appearances."
There was no more use arguing. What Mummy Holmes wanted, she got. And she wanted them home for Christmas.
Next Part