Sherlock/Life on Mars - fic and art - Public Domain, 12
Title - Public Domain
Author - laurab1
Characters - Sherlock, John, Sam, Gene, Phyllis, Chris
Rating - PG-13 aka 12
Length - 1220 words
Spoilers - all of Life on Mars, S1 of Sherlock
Summary - Sherlock and John end up Manchester, and it’s 1973
Disclaimer - Alas, none of these people are mine. This version of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC et al. Sherlock Holmes as created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is in the public domain. The LoM crew belong to Kudos and the Beeb.
Feedback is loved and appreciated :) Enjoy!
A/N - A little meta in this, I think. And some things nicked from Doctor Who ;) Comes before, and also incorporates some ideas from To Add Insult to Injury
ETA 24/10/10 - now includes fanart!
Public Domain
by Laura
There are parallel worlds, cracks in the fabric of the universe, rifts in space and time. So, of course, it could follow that if someone falls into a coma as a result of a road traffic accident in one world, something could possibly send them sideways in reality, backwards in time.
And to a place where they do not exist, other than in the pages of books, where they are simply stories, much loved, and much read.
***
Sherlock remembers the car knocking them down. There’s a whole section of time that’s been deleted, after that. Then he woke up again, John beside him, both of them lying on waste ground. The car he could see told him that, somehow, they were no longer in 2010.
They didn’t appear to be in London, either.
“Sherlock?” John asks, waking up, eyes going to the car, and then him. “What the hell happened?”
“Alice’s rabbit hole,” Sherlock mutters, hoping that’s adequate enough. If what he thinks has happened has actually happened, he doesn’t have the knowledge of temporal physics to explain it properly. He pulls himself to his feet, and then John.
“What?”
“We appear to be in another place, and another time, John.”
That earns him two fingers on his wrist, checking his pulse, and a look in his eyes.
Clearly finding nothing more amiss than usual, John says, “You’re completely bloody serious.”
“Of course,” Sherlock replies.
John looks away, and then back at him. “Right. How?”
“Haven’t the foggiest.”
“That’s so terribly reassuring. Year, then?”
“No idea about that, either. I do, however, know where we are,” he says, walking over to the car, and pointing at the sign indicating a road that will be soon start to be constructed. “Manchester.”
“I suppose the game is on then, is it, Sherlock?”
“Very much so. Come on, John,” he says, walking away from the car, and off the waste ground.
***
“Bloody hell,” Sam says, and finishes his bacon sandwich.
The two men who have just walked past him are wearing clothes from his time, he realises, screwing up the paper and putting it in a bin. The shorter one quite clearly called the taller one Sherlock, and not as a nickname. Sherlock then called the shorter man John, and that wasn’t as a nickname, either.
How on earth could people who weren’t real end up here?
But Sam knows, without a doubt, that there will be nameplates bearing “Sherlock Holmes” and “Dr John Watson” in CID. Whether this will make the Guv happy, or completely piss him off, is another matter entirely. Now they’ve stopped, turned around, and seem to be heading for him.
“I don’t suppose you could tell us where the police station is, could you?” John Watson asks.
“I’ll take you there myself,” Sam replies, so steadily he surprises even himself, holding out a hand for the doctor to shake. “DI Sam Tyler.”
***
“Look as his clothes, Sherlock,” John says. “He’s not comfortable in them, though he’s pretending he is. Saw it all the time, lads newly in desert camouflage, instead of the green uniforms they were used to.”
Sherlock’s impressed. But, of course, he’s deduced even more. “Yes, you’re right. Now, are you also saying that CID policeman is out of his own time as well, John?”
John nods. “Yes, Sherlock. Shall we go and talk to him, then?”
So they walk back, and Sherlock listens as John asks where the police station is. They end up with a personal escort, and Sherlock is certain that Sam Tyler is more than a DI in whenever he’s come here from.
***
The police station is not vastly different to Scotland Yard; massive, grey, concrete monstrosity. Sam exchanges a few words with the miserable looking WPC at the desk, informing her that they’re with him.
“You better get up there bloody quick, boss.”
“Trouble, Phyllis?”
“The Guv wants to know why he’s been sent nameplates of people who --"
Sam cuts her off, saying, “Gentlemen, come with me, please. CID.”
***
“Tyler! My office, now!” is what greets him, as soon as they step through the doors. Sam turns to the two men, watches them take in 1973. “Chris,” he says, turning back to the room.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Could you get these two gentlemen some tea, please?”
“Okay, boss,” Chris replies, coming over to join them.
Sam whispers to him, “Don’t ask their names, all right?”
Chris looks wary at this instruction, but Sam knows he will follow it. “Boss,” he replies, with a vague salute.
While Chris takes Holmes and Watson to the canteen, Sam takes his life in his hands, and enters the lion’s den, shutting the door behind him.
“Is this a bloody joke, Tyler?” Gene asks, brandishing the expected nameplates. Ah, the blame is on him, as usual.
“A cosmic one, apparently, Guv,” Sam replies, even though he doesn’t think Gene will get that. He sits down. “I brought them here; Chris has just taken them to the canteen.”
“And neither of them need the men in white coats calling, do they?”
“Not really.” He debates adding the rest, but they do need to acknowledge it, because this is bloody weird. Sam takes a breath, and says, “Well, no more than it was written that they might possibly have needed psychiatric help.”
Gene nods in reply. “So, I’ve got a pair of bloody stories in my station then, have I, Tyler?”
“That would certainly appear to be the case. And they’re dressed like they’re from London, I think,” Sam says. They’re not, they’re dressed like they’re from my time, he thinks.
“How the hell did that happen?” Gene asks, leaning back in his chair, and taking a drag of his cigarette.
“I really have no idea, Guv. I’d make use of them, though, if it were up to me. We’re still stuck on that case with the missing kids, aren’t we? Why don’t we ask the consulting detective and his army doctor assistant what they think?”
“Can’t do any harm, I suppose, Sam.” Gene finishes his cigarette, and stubs it out in the ash tray. He hands over the nameplates. “Go and put these on some desks, then.”
“Guv,” Sam replies, rising from his chair, and leaving Gene’s office.
***
He has… a place to sit, Sherlock notes, when DC Chris Skelton brings them back to CID. They both do. A glance at John, who shrugs at him, then takes the seat at the desk with his name on it. Sherlock does the same. And then there’s an overweight blond man striding out of his office: the Guv, DCI Gene Hunt, DC Skelton had told them. Glass of whisky in one hand, photos in the other. Stopping at Sherlock’s desk, he puts the pictures on it.
Some Dutch courage, and he says, “Right, then, Holmes, Dr John Watson, I don’t care how you ended up in my station, ‘cause I thought you were stories. No, I bloody know you are. Now, let’s see some of that gay-boy science that’s even better than Tyler’s, and tell me what the hell this bastard’s done with these kids.”
“Guv!” D(C)I Sam Tyler, from two thousand and something chastises, before using that head in hand gesture John is so very fond of.
But the game is on, and Sherlock deletes the rest.
-end-
Author - laurab1
Characters - Sherlock, John, Sam, Gene, Phyllis, Chris
Rating - PG-13 aka 12
Length - 1220 words
Spoilers - all of Life on Mars, S1 of Sherlock
Summary - Sherlock and John end up Manchester, and it’s 1973
Disclaimer - Alas, none of these people are mine. This version of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC et al. Sherlock Holmes as created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is in the public domain. The LoM crew belong to Kudos and the Beeb.
Feedback is loved and appreciated :) Enjoy!
A/N - A little meta in this, I think. And some things nicked from Doctor Who ;) Comes before, and also incorporates some ideas from To Add Insult to Injury
ETA 24/10/10 - now includes fanart!
Public Domain
by Laura
There are parallel worlds, cracks in the fabric of the universe, rifts in space and time. So, of course, it could follow that if someone falls into a coma as a result of a road traffic accident in one world, something could possibly send them sideways in reality, backwards in time.
And to a place where they do not exist, other than in the pages of books, where they are simply stories, much loved, and much read.
***
Sherlock remembers the car knocking them down. There’s a whole section of time that’s been deleted, after that. Then he woke up again, John beside him, both of them lying on waste ground. The car he could see told him that, somehow, they were no longer in 2010.
They didn’t appear to be in London, either.
“Sherlock?” John asks, waking up, eyes going to the car, and then him. “What the hell happened?”
“Alice’s rabbit hole,” Sherlock mutters, hoping that’s adequate enough. If what he thinks has happened has actually happened, he doesn’t have the knowledge of temporal physics to explain it properly. He pulls himself to his feet, and then John.
“What?”
“We appear to be in another place, and another time, John.”
That earns him two fingers on his wrist, checking his pulse, and a look in his eyes.
Clearly finding nothing more amiss than usual, John says, “You’re completely bloody serious.”
“Of course,” Sherlock replies.
John looks away, and then back at him. “Right. How?”
“Haven’t the foggiest.”
“That’s so terribly reassuring. Year, then?”
“No idea about that, either. I do, however, know where we are,” he says, walking over to the car, and pointing at the sign indicating a road that will be soon start to be constructed. “Manchester.”
“I suppose the game is on then, is it, Sherlock?”
“Very much so. Come on, John,” he says, walking away from the car, and off the waste ground.
***
“Bloody hell,” Sam says, and finishes his bacon sandwich.
The two men who have just walked past him are wearing clothes from his time, he realises, screwing up the paper and putting it in a bin. The shorter one quite clearly called the taller one Sherlock, and not as a nickname. Sherlock then called the shorter man John, and that wasn’t as a nickname, either.
How on earth could people who weren’t real end up here?
But Sam knows, without a doubt, that there will be nameplates bearing “Sherlock Holmes” and “Dr John Watson” in CID. Whether this will make the Guv happy, or completely piss him off, is another matter entirely. Now they’ve stopped, turned around, and seem to be heading for him.
“I don’t suppose you could tell us where the police station is, could you?” John Watson asks.
“I’ll take you there myself,” Sam replies, so steadily he surprises even himself, holding out a hand for the doctor to shake. “DI Sam Tyler.”
***
“Look as his clothes, Sherlock,” John says. “He’s not comfortable in them, though he’s pretending he is. Saw it all the time, lads newly in desert camouflage, instead of the green uniforms they were used to.”
Sherlock’s impressed. But, of course, he’s deduced even more. “Yes, you’re right. Now, are you also saying that CID policeman is out of his own time as well, John?”
John nods. “Yes, Sherlock. Shall we go and talk to him, then?”
So they walk back, and Sherlock listens as John asks where the police station is. They end up with a personal escort, and Sherlock is certain that Sam Tyler is more than a DI in whenever he’s come here from.
***
The police station is not vastly different to Scotland Yard; massive, grey, concrete monstrosity. Sam exchanges a few words with the miserable looking WPC at the desk, informing her that they’re with him.
“You better get up there bloody quick, boss.”
“Trouble, Phyllis?”
“The Guv wants to know why he’s been sent nameplates of people who --"
Sam cuts her off, saying, “Gentlemen, come with me, please. CID.”
***
“Tyler! My office, now!” is what greets him, as soon as they step through the doors. Sam turns to the two men, watches them take in 1973. “Chris,” he says, turning back to the room.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Could you get these two gentlemen some tea, please?”
“Okay, boss,” Chris replies, coming over to join them.
Sam whispers to him, “Don’t ask their names, all right?”
Chris looks wary at this instruction, but Sam knows he will follow it. “Boss,” he replies, with a vague salute.
While Chris takes Holmes and Watson to the canteen, Sam takes his life in his hands, and enters the lion’s den, shutting the door behind him.
“Is this a bloody joke, Tyler?” Gene asks, brandishing the expected nameplates. Ah, the blame is on him, as usual.
“A cosmic one, apparently, Guv,” Sam replies, even though he doesn’t think Gene will get that. He sits down. “I brought them here; Chris has just taken them to the canteen.”
“And neither of them need the men in white coats calling, do they?”
“Not really.” He debates adding the rest, but they do need to acknowledge it, because this is bloody weird. Sam takes a breath, and says, “Well, no more than it was written that they might possibly have needed psychiatric help.”
Gene nods in reply. “So, I’ve got a pair of bloody stories in my station then, have I, Tyler?”
“That would certainly appear to be the case. And they’re dressed like they’re from London, I think,” Sam says. They’re not, they’re dressed like they’re from my time, he thinks.
“How the hell did that happen?” Gene asks, leaning back in his chair, and taking a drag of his cigarette.
“I really have no idea, Guv. I’d make use of them, though, if it were up to me. We’re still stuck on that case with the missing kids, aren’t we? Why don’t we ask the consulting detective and his army doctor assistant what they think?”
“Can’t do any harm, I suppose, Sam.” Gene finishes his cigarette, and stubs it out in the ash tray. He hands over the nameplates. “Go and put these on some desks, then.”
“Guv,” Sam replies, rising from his chair, and leaving Gene’s office.
***
He has… a place to sit, Sherlock notes, when DC Chris Skelton brings them back to CID. They both do. A glance at John, who shrugs at him, then takes the seat at the desk with his name on it. Sherlock does the same. And then there’s an overweight blond man striding out of his office: the Guv, DCI Gene Hunt, DC Skelton had told them. Glass of whisky in one hand, photos in the other. Stopping at Sherlock’s desk, he puts the pictures on it.
Some Dutch courage, and he says, “Right, then, Holmes, Dr John Watson, I don’t care how you ended up in my station, ‘cause I thought you were stories. No, I bloody know you are. Now, let’s see some of that gay-boy science that’s even better than Tyler’s, and tell me what the hell this bastard’s done with these kids.”
“Guv!” D(C)I Sam Tyler, from two thousand and something chastises, before using that head in hand gesture John is so very fond of.
But the game is on, and Sherlock deletes the rest.
-end-