Down the Rabbit Hole Sherlock/John 2/2
Title: Down the Rabbit Hole
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG Pre-slash, perhaps? Or Gen, depending on your goggles....
Warnings: Madness this way lies :) Also, just a bit of cussing.
Length: 8600 words
Disclaimer: I don't own Alice and Wonderland or Sherlock BBC, but occasionally I take them out like toys and play with them...
Summary:
"Who, are you?”
“John Watson. My name is John Watson.”
“Hello John Watson. But I didn't ask for your name, I asked: who, are you?”
“I'm afraid that I don't really understand the question.”
Original Prompt HERE
Back To Chapter One
John doesn't have very many belongings. When his mother died, he went off to university with only the bare minimum of belongings, and when he went to war, donated his clothing to charity, his textbooks to his school, and packed up a couple boxes of mementos and asked Harry to hold onto them.
He hasn't needed them so far, so he feels no need to retrieve them.
He gathers his gun from the desk drawer, and tucks it in the back of us jeans under the lovely off-white cuddly jumper Harry bought him, and sweeps everything else into his pack. Razor, toothbrush, toothpaste, underthings, laptop. He makes sure Harry's phone is safely in his pocket, locks up the room, and treads down the stairs.
He hates these stairs. Each one requires that he place the cane carefully on the step, lean on it, swing his good leg down, then drag his bad leg after. It takes even longer with his pack on his back off-balancing him.
At the front desk, he slides the key across the counter to the uninterested clerk.
John clears his throat. “Here,” he offers, giving it a final nudge. “I won't need this anymore.”
The man blinks at him over his paperback, bored, and says “You paid up for a coupla months, mate. Want that back?”
“No,” John replies with a faint smile. “I won't need it.”
He hobbles to the door, pauses, then turns back. “Do you know where I can find a post office?”
~~
“It's sure to be boring, but I'll ask anyways,” Sherlock says as he sits at the table while an old woman, presumably Mrs. Hudson, putters around the kitchen. “What is your name?”
“It is,” John says. “Boring, anyways. Very boring. You wouldn't like to know.”
Sherlock smiles slowly. “Oh, but I would. Not everyone attracts the attention of the Cheshire cat. That makes you interesting.”
The cat laughs from his shoulder, which he is apparently leaning over. John startles back, and the cat materializes out of thin air.
“There's no fooling you, is there, Sherlock?”
The tall man smiles just as toothily as the cat. “No, never.”
“Well, lad.” The cat rolls over and smacks his head with the tip of his tail.
John steps back and wrinkles his nose.
“Tell him your name.”
“John,” he clears his throat. “John Watson, pleasure.”
Sherlock grins, fleeting and bright. “Perfect, absolutely perfect. Such an ordinary name for such an ordinary boy. But you're not that ordinary, are you?”
“My mum likes to think so,” John replies quickly.
The cat laughs, and Sherlock startles.
“He got you there, Sherlock! He sure did!”
“Yes,” the man smiles slowly, and gestures at the table. “Please, have a seat.”
“Tea's ready!” Mrs. Hudson chirrups.
“Oh goody!” exclaims the Cheshire cat. “Is there a cup for me as well?”
“You can have Mycroft's,” Sherlock offers. “I don't allow him to have tea with us anymore anyways.”
“Brilliant.” The cat drifts down to the chair across from Sherlock. “Will you join us, John?”
Nodding hesitantly, he does.
~~
“This pension is for you, John,” his caseworker says earnestly. “We worked really hard to get you this.”
“Yes,” John scowls. “I know. But Harry needs it more than I do.”
“I just can't give it to your sister, John. Not while you're still alive and in need of it.”
John leans back, considering. “Could we put in a clause, then? In case something happens to me, it goes to her?”
“Well...Normally it would go to your parents...” he ventures.
“Perfect,” John replies with a short smile. “My parents are dead, and my next of kin is Harry. Write it up, will you? Chop, chop, I have other errands to do today and I want this signed as fast as possible.”
The man sighs. “Well, at least you know what you want,” he says, resigned.
“Yes, yes I think I do.”
~~
Sherlock has absolutely no manners, or social skills, but John finds himself in awe anyways. He lights up when he talks, gesturing wildly and flinging sugar in the air when he has forgotten that he holds the sugar spoon, and John can't get enough of watching him.
He and the Cheshire cat talk so fast, that John almost wonders whether they are speaking a new language. For a while, they entertain him. Then he raises his cool cup to his lips, sipping the tea that he had forgotten, and frowns.
“What? What is it? Why are you frowning?” Sherlock demands.
“Well,” John replies slowly. “It's about Harry.”
“Your brother? What about him?”
“Well, Harry's why I'm down here in the first place. Harry was following a white rabbit, and I was following. Then we both fell down the rabbit hole.”
John sets down the tea cup, laces his fingers together, and lowers his gaze. “We got separated a while ago, but I'm certain that Harry's still down here.”
Sherlock eyes him like an interesting specimen for a long moment, taking in all of his details, but pauses when John raises his eyes to Sherlock's. It feels like he is gazing right through him, but he courageously looks on, worried sick about his sister.
“Yes,” Sherlock shoves away from the table so fast that the chair screeches on the floor. Without a care, he steps right up on top of it and crunches across the tea settings. “Why didn't you say so? You need to get your Harry, and get him out of here, right away.”
John scrambles out of his chair to avoid the mad man tramping across the table, and glares at the laughing Cheshire cat.
“Sherlock! You're acting absurd!”
He pauses, foot above the tea-pot, then calmly steps right down on top of it. The tea gushes onto the tablecloth, but Sherlock only has eyes for the cat.
“Yes, yes I am. Why should I go gallivanting about on a wild goose chase when I have a perfectly good bloodhound right at my disposal?”
“Bloodhound?” the cat says humorously, spinning about and observing the room. “I don't see a bloodhound anywhere.”
“I mean you, you twit.”
“Ah,” the cat rolls on his back as I watch on. “And what would I get in return for this,” he purrs, “Favor?”
“Anything you like.”
“Your favorite scarf, perhaps?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then why,” he rumbles, “Should I help you?”
“Very well,” Sherlock sighs. “Take it and begone with you.” He looks away from both of them. “Both of you.”
The cat winks out of existence, then reappears with a soft blue scarf twined around him several times, purring smugly. “Come along, John Watson. It's time to go.”
“Yes,” Sherlock mutters. “Time to go.”
The cat circles behind John and corrals him to the door, but squirming, he tries to keep Sherlock within sight. “Thank you, I can't thank you enough.”
Sherlock flaps his hands. “Don't. Don't bother. Just go.”
“I'll come back,” John promises. “To see you.”
“No you won't,” the man mutters. “They never do.”
Once they are outside, the cat locks eyes with him. “This will be disorienting,” he warns slowly. “But it will be quicker if I get you close to your sister this way.” He blinks slowly, and Sherlock's cottage fades away as if it never were. What follows is a mad chase through the Queen's gardens, and a desperate rescue attempt.
“John! John, you came,” Harry cries onto his shoulder. “I thought you would never come.”
He holds her close, until she pulls back, looks up, then reaches hesitant fingers to his temple.
“John,” she whispers, the Cheshire cat looking on. “You're bleeding.”
He blinks once, twice, then his eyes fall shut for good, Harry's voice ringing in his ears.
“John!”
John wakes on a gurney in an ambulance, his mum's pale face and Harry's worried one floating above him.
He never mentions the world beneath the rabbit hole.
~~
Determined, John hobbles across the courtyard at the beginning of the park. His pack is lighter without his laptop, and he hopes Harry will take the phone back and keep it. She'll never forgive him for the letter he sent her, he'll wager, but at this moment, he doesn't care.
“John?” a man calls out. “John Watson? Is that you?”
John turns, and eyes the pudgy man striding towards him. “Yes?”
“Don't you remember me? We studied together. Stamford? Mike Stamford?”
“Oh,” John says. He remembers him. “Yes, hullo.”
“How are you? I heard you got shot, what happened?”
“I got shot,” John replies flatly. “Look, I have to go, I have somewhere to be.”
“Nonsense, old friend! You have time to join me for a cup of coffee, at the least!” He lays a hand on John's right arm and he grips his cane rather tightly, resenting the presumption.
“No,” he replies, pulling away from the grabby man firmly. “I really cannot stay. I hope you have a good like, Stamford.” He turns and strides away. “I'm sorry!” he calls out over his shoulder.
If he was to turn around, he would see Mike, puzzled, holding onto the cane that he had forgotten, and watching as John strides confidently away.
~~
“Boring, absolutely boring. I give you a five for dismount.”
~~
“You could go back to the forest and try again. It won't be attempted homicide if you're aware of it and trip anyways. Might do better if you try again.”
~~
“I know plenty about you. I know that you are 15, no, 14, and that you have a younger brother whom you mostly dislike, but love dearly anyways.”
~~
“Perfect, absolutely perfect. Such an ordinary name for such an ordinary boy. But you're not that ordinary, are you?”
~~
John tightens the straps on his bag, hikes up his courage, and leaves the paved path for the still wild woods. It's just like he remembers from when he was a child, but everything seems smaller and much less scary.
Not much compares to snipers hunting you in the dark in a country where you can't understand what anyone is saying.
Things might look smaller, but John hasn't grown that much since he was 14. He is small for a man, he knows this, and he wonders what the scarecrow man will have to say about that.
“Probably boring,” he mutters. “Or unimportant. Those seemed to be his favorite phrases.”
He's here, in the woods where Harry found the rabbit hole, now what?
He stops, turns in a full circle, then sighs.
“Great,” he murmurs. “Now I'm lost.”
“Lost?” a voice chirps by his shoe. “You can't be lost! We're going to be late! We can't afford to be lost.”
John looks down, blinks, then blinks again. “Are you the white rabbit, then?”
“Sure am,” the rabbit bobs his head up and down. “I've got a pocket watch, too.”
He raises it up, and John politely bends over to peer at it. “You sure do,” he says. “And a very nice one at that.”
All of the numbers are flipped over, literally, and are all on the wrong sides of the face. But he figures the rabbit knows how to read it well enough. “How much time do we have?”
The rabbit, in his waistcoat, and he can't believe Harry forgot to mention that part, taps the glass, holds the ticking instrument up to his ear, then shrieks.
“None! None! We have no time!” He yanks on John's trouser leg urgently. “Come, come! We must go, hurry!”
John waves expansively. “Well, lead the way then.”
“I will do, Sir,” the rabbit bobs his head. “Will do indeedy.”
For a rabbit that believes that they have run out of time, and unless John was mistaken, the clock hands were running backwards anyways, he leads them at a rather unhurried pace. John is able to keep up with the rabbit in the blue waistcoat without any difficulties. While walking, even.
“Say,” he begins. “You're a white rabbit, why don't you have pink eyes?”
“Because,” the rabbit sniffs. “Just because I am white, does not mean that I am albino.” He twitches his nose over his shoulder at John. “Are you albino?”
“No,” John replies, suitably chastened. “No, I am not.”
“Then why accuse anyone else of being it? Doesn't make sense, does it? Oh, we're here.”
The rabbit hole, on the other hand, looks no smaller than it did when he was 14. In fact, it looks larger.
The rabbit preens. “We've made some improvements. No more chucking ourselves down the hole and hoping that gravity will grant us mercy. Too many things float in there, and they are a hazard for the unwary faller.” He looks John up and down, pocketing his pocket watch. “Didn't you smack your head on the rocking chair?”
“Yes,” John says. “Yes, I did. I got a concussion.”
The rabbit tsks. “I'd been telling them for years that needed to change. Years! But never worry,” he steps inside. “We now have stairs. Come along, duck under, you'll fit once inside.”
He slides his feet in first, wriggles around onto his belly, then pulls his whole body in. Sure enough, there is a spiral set of stairs circling all around the well for as far as the eye can see.
“It takes a long time though,” the rabbit says apologetically. “So I'm afraid we're going to have to take the fast method.”
“What fast method?”
The rabbit lays his hand on the wall, then all of the stairs are gone, leaving a smooth and glassy surface behind. Before he can find the breath to protest, his feet have slipped out form beneath him and he's sliding down the flat stairs like it's a kiddy slide.
It's exhilarating, it's exciting, it's exactly what he's been looking for.
At the bottom, they shoot off the slide and across the same checkered floor John woke up on so many years ago. Same round room, same infuriating door on the wall. John heaves himself to his feet, groaning, and reaches for the door.
“Ah, ah!” the rabbit warns. “We're not going that way. That's for visitors only. Wouldn't you like a quicker way?”
John turns, watching the rabbit adjust his waistcoat and pat down his fur anxiously.
“Yes,” John says. “I would like a quicker way, though I'm not in a rush.”
“Excellent, because I have no idea where you are going, but I have rather a trek to the queen's castle.”
John nods. “Yes, I imagine that you do.”
He gather that the rabbit is smiling at him as it scurries into the shadows. He doesn't know how he knows this, but he does.
“Come along,” it beckons, so he follows.
He knows that the room is round, that the walls are smooth. But when he follows the rabbit, the shadows go on forever, reaching, and next thing he knows he's alone in the forest.
It's light in the forest. He knows that it's the same place, but it just seems happier, like a major even occurred in his absence. He looks around curiously at the vines and tropical trees living right next to pine trees and smiles wryly.
He wonders what Sherlock would think if he knew that in and of itself isn't logical in the real world.
His pack in still on his back, luckily enough, and his jumper is still intact, which is even better, so he tucks his hands in his pockets and strolls through the forest. The birds seem less menacing this time, and more cheerful, curious.
A toucan flutters down to a branch near him and peers into his face, so he obligingly pauses and allows its inspection. He holds very still when it leans forward and combs through his hair with its large striped beak, and smiles when it settles as though it is entirely satisfied.
“Do you know where I can find the Cheshire cat?” he asks politely. “We met once upon a time, you see, and I am looking for him.”
It fixes one beady eye on him, tilts its head, then shakes it.
“Right then,” he smiles. “That's all right. I have all the time in the world.”
“Reeeaallly,” a voice purrs from behind him. “I'm so...flattered. Whatever did I do to earn this?”
Unsurprised, John turns with a grin. “Figures that it only takes someone speaking your name to catch your attention, old chap.”
The cat whirls into existence right in front of him so that they are pressing nose to nose, and John laughs.
The cat smiles back. “Oh, no,” it rumbles. “It is true that I can hear my name called anywhere in these woods, but Sherlock was telling the truth when he said that I only appear for someone special.”
“Am I still special then, Cheshire cat?” He rests his weight on one leg, sinking into a relaxed stance, and banters with the cat.
He grins. “I should think you are, you have returned after all.”
“Have I? Are you sure?”
The cat laughs. “Bravo! Bravo,” he rolls onto his back. “Have you figured out who you are, yet?”
“I'm John,” he responds promptly. “John Watson who looks ordinary, but isn't.”
The cat nods, “That sounds good enough for me.” Then his face shifts into a serious expression, seeming rather out of place with his electric blue fur, but matches frighteningly well with is sharp teeth. “You're here to see Sherlock, I presume. Don't be offended when I refuse to take you to him, he can't handle another special person leaving him, although he did call the last one dull.”
“Cheshire,” John reassures. “It's...fine. All fine. You have no need to worry.”
The cat looks him up and down, takes in his acceptance and the rucksack on his back, and blinks languorously.
“Well, well, well,” he purrs, rolling to his feet. “What a surprise, yes, what a surprise. Come along then, he's been waiting for you for years.”
“Thought he didn't think I'd return?” he asks as he follows the cat.
“He didn't,” he is fixed with a very cat-like stare. “But that doesn't stop him from waiting.”
~~
“John! It's almost time for school!”
“Just a minute, mum!”
John shoves his feet into his sneakers, lazily shoving the laces under the tongues and yanking his socks back up. He picks up the book he was reading and scans a line one last time before closing the book and hiding it under his bed.
“Sometimes,” he murmurs as he grabs his pack and slings it over his shoulder, “I think of as many as seven impossible things before breakfast.”
~~
“Sherlock!” the Cheshire cat cats out as he runs through the air towards the cottage. John follows at a more sedate pace, looking around the grove. It's lush, and green, but the kind of growth that comes after a long drought and lots of death.
He wonders idly if Sherlock will look any older than the last time he met him. They should be almost the same age by now, if not.
“Sherlock I've brought someone with me!”
A small explosion rocks the house and purple smoke belches out of one of the many chimneys.
John does a double take, laughing at the ridiculous little house.
“Who needs seven chimneys?”
“Why,” the cat answers, “Sherlock does!”
“Of course,”
“Cheshire!” Sherlock bellows. “You've interrupted a very vital experiment! You have exactly one minute to vacate my property before I skin you and use your fur for a hat!”
John clears his throat, taking the cat's pointed stare as 'it's now or never.'
“Can I watch?” he yells from a safe distance. “His pelt is such a lovely blue.”
There is silence, then several crashes. One sounds like the kitchen table being overturned as the sound of tinkling china reaches his ears.
“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson shrieks. “Calm down, lad!”
“Out of the way, woman!” he bellows. “Cheshire? Who do you have? Who is that?”
Sherlock bursts out of the door, the door flying out so hard that it impacts against the wall and bounces back halfway. His hair is swept to one side, singed and smoking, his button up shirt not done up at all, and his slacks have burns and ash all over them. He's barefoot, but after a very still pause, he strides straight across the lawn towards John.
“No,” he breaths. “You aren't little anymore.”
John smiles. “No, I'm not.”
Never one to abide by social niceties, Sherlock walks straight up to John and stands nose to nose with him. John holds his ground, holding onto his shoulder strap with one hand. The wild man takes a step back, looks John up and down, then slowly smiles.
“I was wrong.”
John blinks, not expecting that. “I'm sorry?”
Sherlock flies forward, clasping John in a hug so suddenly that John has the breath knocked out of him. It's a tight hug, and his arms are pinned so that he can't reciprocate, but it's warm, and alive.
“I said you wouldn't come back,” Sherlock breathes. “You came back, though. You came back.”
“Yes,” John agrees. “I came back.”
“I've never been wrong before,” he mumbles against John's neck.
“Not true,” he responds with a laugh.
Happy moment over, Sherlock pulls back with a scowl. “What? What do you mean?”
“Harry,” John says slowly and with great pleasure. “Is short for Harriet.”
Sherlock's face drops into great despair.
“Oh, no!” he cries. “There's always one teeny little thing!”
Vaguely, John is aware of the Cheshire cat drifting into the house and the murmur of Mrs. Hudson speaking with him, but he's soaking in the very welcome sight of Sherlock, his very own mad, mad, man.
“You haven't aged,” John notes.
“No.” Sherlock stares straight into his eyes, aware of everything. “And neither will you.” He frowns and looks away, hands uncharacteristically twisting in his shirtsleeves. “If you stay, that is.”
“Only if you want me to,” John replies. “You're a brilliant man, and I've always known that. I'm just...John.”
Sherlock smiles, reaching out to touch John's face as though he isn't certain that he's really there. “You'll never just be John, to me.” He whirls, all aflutter in excitement again. “Now come! You need to get rid of that bag, and I need to get dressed, and we're off on a case!”
“A case?” John asks, amused, following after the mad barefooted man.
“Yes, a case! Are you deaf John? The white rabbit is missing a waistcoat, and I blame Mycroft.”
“You always blame Mycroft,” the Cheshire cat says as they pass through the kitchen.
“That's because it's always Mycroft's fault. Well, John?” Sherlock pauses on the stairs, his toes curling into the wood. “You interested?”
“Depends on what this case involves,” he leans against the wall nonchalantly, pretending that he doesn't notice the humor in Sherlock's eyes.
“Might be dangerous.”
“Really.”
“Yes. Would you like to come, John?”
“Oh God yes.”
~~
Harry,
I love you like I've loved no other, Harriet. You're my sister, and you always will be. Get yourself to a doctor, your eyes are starting to tinge with jaundice, I'm worried about your liver. Quit drinking and Clara will take you back. You've got a vicious circle going on right now. She left you because of your drinking, so you started drinking more because she was gone, and now you're killing yourself.
Do yourself a favor, and let yourself have happiness.
And Harry? Thanks. For asking me that question. I'm sorry I have to go away, but I can't be who I am in London, or anywhere where he's not. He's as mad as a hatter, but he thinks I'm special, and I think he's special, and I think it will all work out.
Just in case you haven't figured it out, I went off to find the white rabbit.
Love, John
P.s. Wait a while and report me as missing. I've written in a clause so that you'll get my pension. Have a happy life, little sister.
FIN
On to the Sequel thingy--> Mad As A Hatter
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG Pre-slash, perhaps? Or Gen, depending on your goggles....
Warnings: Madness this way lies :) Also, just a bit of cussing.
Length: 8600 words
Disclaimer: I don't own Alice and Wonderland or Sherlock BBC, but occasionally I take them out like toys and play with them...
Summary:
"Who, are you?”
“John Watson. My name is John Watson.”
“Hello John Watson. But I didn't ask for your name, I asked: who, are you?”
“I'm afraid that I don't really understand the question.”
Original Prompt HERE
Back To Chapter One
John doesn't have very many belongings. When his mother died, he went off to university with only the bare minimum of belongings, and when he went to war, donated his clothing to charity, his textbooks to his school, and packed up a couple boxes of mementos and asked Harry to hold onto them.
He hasn't needed them so far, so he feels no need to retrieve them.
He gathers his gun from the desk drawer, and tucks it in the back of us jeans under the lovely off-white cuddly jumper Harry bought him, and sweeps everything else into his pack. Razor, toothbrush, toothpaste, underthings, laptop. He makes sure Harry's phone is safely in his pocket, locks up the room, and treads down the stairs.
He hates these stairs. Each one requires that he place the cane carefully on the step, lean on it, swing his good leg down, then drag his bad leg after. It takes even longer with his pack on his back off-balancing him.
At the front desk, he slides the key across the counter to the uninterested clerk.
John clears his throat. “Here,” he offers, giving it a final nudge. “I won't need this anymore.”
The man blinks at him over his paperback, bored, and says “You paid up for a coupla months, mate. Want that back?”
“No,” John replies with a faint smile. “I won't need it.”
He hobbles to the door, pauses, then turns back. “Do you know where I can find a post office?”
~~
“It's sure to be boring, but I'll ask anyways,” Sherlock says as he sits at the table while an old woman, presumably Mrs. Hudson, putters around the kitchen. “What is your name?”
“It is,” John says. “Boring, anyways. Very boring. You wouldn't like to know.”
Sherlock smiles slowly. “Oh, but I would. Not everyone attracts the attention of the Cheshire cat. That makes you interesting.”
The cat laughs from his shoulder, which he is apparently leaning over. John startles back, and the cat materializes out of thin air.
“There's no fooling you, is there, Sherlock?”
The tall man smiles just as toothily as the cat. “No, never.”
“Well, lad.” The cat rolls over and smacks his head with the tip of his tail.
John steps back and wrinkles his nose.
“Tell him your name.”
“John,” he clears his throat. “John Watson, pleasure.”
Sherlock grins, fleeting and bright. “Perfect, absolutely perfect. Such an ordinary name for such an ordinary boy. But you're not that ordinary, are you?”
“My mum likes to think so,” John replies quickly.
The cat laughs, and Sherlock startles.
“He got you there, Sherlock! He sure did!”
“Yes,” the man smiles slowly, and gestures at the table. “Please, have a seat.”
“Tea's ready!” Mrs. Hudson chirrups.
“Oh goody!” exclaims the Cheshire cat. “Is there a cup for me as well?”
“You can have Mycroft's,” Sherlock offers. “I don't allow him to have tea with us anymore anyways.”
“Brilliant.” The cat drifts down to the chair across from Sherlock. “Will you join us, John?”
Nodding hesitantly, he does.
~~
“This pension is for you, John,” his caseworker says earnestly. “We worked really hard to get you this.”
“Yes,” John scowls. “I know. But Harry needs it more than I do.”
“I just can't give it to your sister, John. Not while you're still alive and in need of it.”
John leans back, considering. “Could we put in a clause, then? In case something happens to me, it goes to her?”
“Well...Normally it would go to your parents...” he ventures.
“Perfect,” John replies with a short smile. “My parents are dead, and my next of kin is Harry. Write it up, will you? Chop, chop, I have other errands to do today and I want this signed as fast as possible.”
The man sighs. “Well, at least you know what you want,” he says, resigned.
“Yes, yes I think I do.”
~~
Sherlock has absolutely no manners, or social skills, but John finds himself in awe anyways. He lights up when he talks, gesturing wildly and flinging sugar in the air when he has forgotten that he holds the sugar spoon, and John can't get enough of watching him.
He and the Cheshire cat talk so fast, that John almost wonders whether they are speaking a new language. For a while, they entertain him. Then he raises his cool cup to his lips, sipping the tea that he had forgotten, and frowns.
“What? What is it? Why are you frowning?” Sherlock demands.
“Well,” John replies slowly. “It's about Harry.”
“Your brother? What about him?”
“Well, Harry's why I'm down here in the first place. Harry was following a white rabbit, and I was following. Then we both fell down the rabbit hole.”
John sets down the tea cup, laces his fingers together, and lowers his gaze. “We got separated a while ago, but I'm certain that Harry's still down here.”
Sherlock eyes him like an interesting specimen for a long moment, taking in all of his details, but pauses when John raises his eyes to Sherlock's. It feels like he is gazing right through him, but he courageously looks on, worried sick about his sister.
“Yes,” Sherlock shoves away from the table so fast that the chair screeches on the floor. Without a care, he steps right up on top of it and crunches across the tea settings. “Why didn't you say so? You need to get your Harry, and get him out of here, right away.”
John scrambles out of his chair to avoid the mad man tramping across the table, and glares at the laughing Cheshire cat.
“Sherlock! You're acting absurd!”
He pauses, foot above the tea-pot, then calmly steps right down on top of it. The tea gushes onto the tablecloth, but Sherlock only has eyes for the cat.
“Yes, yes I am. Why should I go gallivanting about on a wild goose chase when I have a perfectly good bloodhound right at my disposal?”
“Bloodhound?” the cat says humorously, spinning about and observing the room. “I don't see a bloodhound anywhere.”
“I mean you, you twit.”
“Ah,” the cat rolls on his back as I watch on. “And what would I get in return for this,” he purrs, “Favor?”
“Anything you like.”
“Your favorite scarf, perhaps?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then why,” he rumbles, “Should I help you?”
“Very well,” Sherlock sighs. “Take it and begone with you.” He looks away from both of them. “Both of you.”
The cat winks out of existence, then reappears with a soft blue scarf twined around him several times, purring smugly. “Come along, John Watson. It's time to go.”
“Yes,” Sherlock mutters. “Time to go.”
The cat circles behind John and corrals him to the door, but squirming, he tries to keep Sherlock within sight. “Thank you, I can't thank you enough.”
Sherlock flaps his hands. “Don't. Don't bother. Just go.”
“I'll come back,” John promises. “To see you.”
“No you won't,” the man mutters. “They never do.”
Once they are outside, the cat locks eyes with him. “This will be disorienting,” he warns slowly. “But it will be quicker if I get you close to your sister this way.” He blinks slowly, and Sherlock's cottage fades away as if it never were. What follows is a mad chase through the Queen's gardens, and a desperate rescue attempt.
“John! John, you came,” Harry cries onto his shoulder. “I thought you would never come.”
He holds her close, until she pulls back, looks up, then reaches hesitant fingers to his temple.
“John,” she whispers, the Cheshire cat looking on. “You're bleeding.”
He blinks once, twice, then his eyes fall shut for good, Harry's voice ringing in his ears.
“John!”
John wakes on a gurney in an ambulance, his mum's pale face and Harry's worried one floating above him.
He never mentions the world beneath the rabbit hole.
~~
Determined, John hobbles across the courtyard at the beginning of the park. His pack is lighter without his laptop, and he hopes Harry will take the phone back and keep it. She'll never forgive him for the letter he sent her, he'll wager, but at this moment, he doesn't care.
“John?” a man calls out. “John Watson? Is that you?”
John turns, and eyes the pudgy man striding towards him. “Yes?”
“Don't you remember me? We studied together. Stamford? Mike Stamford?”
“Oh,” John says. He remembers him. “Yes, hullo.”
“How are you? I heard you got shot, what happened?”
“I got shot,” John replies flatly. “Look, I have to go, I have somewhere to be.”
“Nonsense, old friend! You have time to join me for a cup of coffee, at the least!” He lays a hand on John's right arm and he grips his cane rather tightly, resenting the presumption.
“No,” he replies, pulling away from the grabby man firmly. “I really cannot stay. I hope you have a good like, Stamford.” He turns and strides away. “I'm sorry!” he calls out over his shoulder.
If he was to turn around, he would see Mike, puzzled, holding onto the cane that he had forgotten, and watching as John strides confidently away.
~~
“Boring, absolutely boring. I give you a five for dismount.”
~~
“You could go back to the forest and try again. It won't be attempted homicide if you're aware of it and trip anyways. Might do better if you try again.”
~~
“I know plenty about you. I know that you are 15, no, 14, and that you have a younger brother whom you mostly dislike, but love dearly anyways.”
~~
“Perfect, absolutely perfect. Such an ordinary name for such an ordinary boy. But you're not that ordinary, are you?”
~~
John tightens the straps on his bag, hikes up his courage, and leaves the paved path for the still wild woods. It's just like he remembers from when he was a child, but everything seems smaller and much less scary.
Not much compares to snipers hunting you in the dark in a country where you can't understand what anyone is saying.
Things might look smaller, but John hasn't grown that much since he was 14. He is small for a man, he knows this, and he wonders what the scarecrow man will have to say about that.
“Probably boring,” he mutters. “Or unimportant. Those seemed to be his favorite phrases.”
He's here, in the woods where Harry found the rabbit hole, now what?
He stops, turns in a full circle, then sighs.
“Great,” he murmurs. “Now I'm lost.”
“Lost?” a voice chirps by his shoe. “You can't be lost! We're going to be late! We can't afford to be lost.”
John looks down, blinks, then blinks again. “Are you the white rabbit, then?”
“Sure am,” the rabbit bobs his head up and down. “I've got a pocket watch, too.”
He raises it up, and John politely bends over to peer at it. “You sure do,” he says. “And a very nice one at that.”
All of the numbers are flipped over, literally, and are all on the wrong sides of the face. But he figures the rabbit knows how to read it well enough. “How much time do we have?”
The rabbit, in his waistcoat, and he can't believe Harry forgot to mention that part, taps the glass, holds the ticking instrument up to his ear, then shrieks.
“None! None! We have no time!” He yanks on John's trouser leg urgently. “Come, come! We must go, hurry!”
John waves expansively. “Well, lead the way then.”
“I will do, Sir,” the rabbit bobs his head. “Will do indeedy.”
For a rabbit that believes that they have run out of time, and unless John was mistaken, the clock hands were running backwards anyways, he leads them at a rather unhurried pace. John is able to keep up with the rabbit in the blue waistcoat without any difficulties. While walking, even.
“Say,” he begins. “You're a white rabbit, why don't you have pink eyes?”
“Because,” the rabbit sniffs. “Just because I am white, does not mean that I am albino.” He twitches his nose over his shoulder at John. “Are you albino?”
“No,” John replies, suitably chastened. “No, I am not.”
“Then why accuse anyone else of being it? Doesn't make sense, does it? Oh, we're here.”
The rabbit hole, on the other hand, looks no smaller than it did when he was 14. In fact, it looks larger.
The rabbit preens. “We've made some improvements. No more chucking ourselves down the hole and hoping that gravity will grant us mercy. Too many things float in there, and they are a hazard for the unwary faller.” He looks John up and down, pocketing his pocket watch. “Didn't you smack your head on the rocking chair?”
“Yes,” John says. “Yes, I did. I got a concussion.”
The rabbit tsks. “I'd been telling them for years that needed to change. Years! But never worry,” he steps inside. “We now have stairs. Come along, duck under, you'll fit once inside.”
He slides his feet in first, wriggles around onto his belly, then pulls his whole body in. Sure enough, there is a spiral set of stairs circling all around the well for as far as the eye can see.
“It takes a long time though,” the rabbit says apologetically. “So I'm afraid we're going to have to take the fast method.”
“What fast method?”
The rabbit lays his hand on the wall, then all of the stairs are gone, leaving a smooth and glassy surface behind. Before he can find the breath to protest, his feet have slipped out form beneath him and he's sliding down the flat stairs like it's a kiddy slide.
It's exhilarating, it's exciting, it's exactly what he's been looking for.
At the bottom, they shoot off the slide and across the same checkered floor John woke up on so many years ago. Same round room, same infuriating door on the wall. John heaves himself to his feet, groaning, and reaches for the door.
“Ah, ah!” the rabbit warns. “We're not going that way. That's for visitors only. Wouldn't you like a quicker way?”
John turns, watching the rabbit adjust his waistcoat and pat down his fur anxiously.
“Yes,” John says. “I would like a quicker way, though I'm not in a rush.”
“Excellent, because I have no idea where you are going, but I have rather a trek to the queen's castle.”
John nods. “Yes, I imagine that you do.”
He gather that the rabbit is smiling at him as it scurries into the shadows. He doesn't know how he knows this, but he does.
“Come along,” it beckons, so he follows.
He knows that the room is round, that the walls are smooth. But when he follows the rabbit, the shadows go on forever, reaching, and next thing he knows he's alone in the forest.
It's light in the forest. He knows that it's the same place, but it just seems happier, like a major even occurred in his absence. He looks around curiously at the vines and tropical trees living right next to pine trees and smiles wryly.
He wonders what Sherlock would think if he knew that in and of itself isn't logical in the real world.
His pack in still on his back, luckily enough, and his jumper is still intact, which is even better, so he tucks his hands in his pockets and strolls through the forest. The birds seem less menacing this time, and more cheerful, curious.
A toucan flutters down to a branch near him and peers into his face, so he obligingly pauses and allows its inspection. He holds very still when it leans forward and combs through his hair with its large striped beak, and smiles when it settles as though it is entirely satisfied.
“Do you know where I can find the Cheshire cat?” he asks politely. “We met once upon a time, you see, and I am looking for him.”
It fixes one beady eye on him, tilts its head, then shakes it.
“Right then,” he smiles. “That's all right. I have all the time in the world.”
“Reeeaallly,” a voice purrs from behind him. “I'm so...flattered. Whatever did I do to earn this?”
Unsurprised, John turns with a grin. “Figures that it only takes someone speaking your name to catch your attention, old chap.”
The cat whirls into existence right in front of him so that they are pressing nose to nose, and John laughs.
The cat smiles back. “Oh, no,” it rumbles. “It is true that I can hear my name called anywhere in these woods, but Sherlock was telling the truth when he said that I only appear for someone special.”
“Am I still special then, Cheshire cat?” He rests his weight on one leg, sinking into a relaxed stance, and banters with the cat.
He grins. “I should think you are, you have returned after all.”
“Have I? Are you sure?”
The cat laughs. “Bravo! Bravo,” he rolls onto his back. “Have you figured out who you are, yet?”
“I'm John,” he responds promptly. “John Watson who looks ordinary, but isn't.”
The cat nods, “That sounds good enough for me.” Then his face shifts into a serious expression, seeming rather out of place with his electric blue fur, but matches frighteningly well with is sharp teeth. “You're here to see Sherlock, I presume. Don't be offended when I refuse to take you to him, he can't handle another special person leaving him, although he did call the last one dull.”
“Cheshire,” John reassures. “It's...fine. All fine. You have no need to worry.”
The cat looks him up and down, takes in his acceptance and the rucksack on his back, and blinks languorously.
“Well, well, well,” he purrs, rolling to his feet. “What a surprise, yes, what a surprise. Come along then, he's been waiting for you for years.”
“Thought he didn't think I'd return?” he asks as he follows the cat.
“He didn't,” he is fixed with a very cat-like stare. “But that doesn't stop him from waiting.”
~~
“John! It's almost time for school!”
“Just a minute, mum!”
John shoves his feet into his sneakers, lazily shoving the laces under the tongues and yanking his socks back up. He picks up the book he was reading and scans a line one last time before closing the book and hiding it under his bed.
“Sometimes,” he murmurs as he grabs his pack and slings it over his shoulder, “I think of as many as seven impossible things before breakfast.”
~~
“Sherlock!” the Cheshire cat cats out as he runs through the air towards the cottage. John follows at a more sedate pace, looking around the grove. It's lush, and green, but the kind of growth that comes after a long drought and lots of death.
He wonders idly if Sherlock will look any older than the last time he met him. They should be almost the same age by now, if not.
“Sherlock I've brought someone with me!”
A small explosion rocks the house and purple smoke belches out of one of the many chimneys.
John does a double take, laughing at the ridiculous little house.
“Who needs seven chimneys?”
“Why,” the cat answers, “Sherlock does!”
“Of course,”
“Cheshire!” Sherlock bellows. “You've interrupted a very vital experiment! You have exactly one minute to vacate my property before I skin you and use your fur for a hat!”
John clears his throat, taking the cat's pointed stare as 'it's now or never.'
“Can I watch?” he yells from a safe distance. “His pelt is such a lovely blue.”
There is silence, then several crashes. One sounds like the kitchen table being overturned as the sound of tinkling china reaches his ears.
“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson shrieks. “Calm down, lad!”
“Out of the way, woman!” he bellows. “Cheshire? Who do you have? Who is that?”
Sherlock bursts out of the door, the door flying out so hard that it impacts against the wall and bounces back halfway. His hair is swept to one side, singed and smoking, his button up shirt not done up at all, and his slacks have burns and ash all over them. He's barefoot, but after a very still pause, he strides straight across the lawn towards John.
“No,” he breaths. “You aren't little anymore.”
John smiles. “No, I'm not.”
Never one to abide by social niceties, Sherlock walks straight up to John and stands nose to nose with him. John holds his ground, holding onto his shoulder strap with one hand. The wild man takes a step back, looks John up and down, then slowly smiles.
“I was wrong.”
John blinks, not expecting that. “I'm sorry?”
Sherlock flies forward, clasping John in a hug so suddenly that John has the breath knocked out of him. It's a tight hug, and his arms are pinned so that he can't reciprocate, but it's warm, and alive.
“I said you wouldn't come back,” Sherlock breathes. “You came back, though. You came back.”
“Yes,” John agrees. “I came back.”
“I've never been wrong before,” he mumbles against John's neck.
“Not true,” he responds with a laugh.
Happy moment over, Sherlock pulls back with a scowl. “What? What do you mean?”
“Harry,” John says slowly and with great pleasure. “Is short for Harriet.”
Sherlock's face drops into great despair.
“Oh, no!” he cries. “There's always one teeny little thing!”
Vaguely, John is aware of the Cheshire cat drifting into the house and the murmur of Mrs. Hudson speaking with him, but he's soaking in the very welcome sight of Sherlock, his very own mad, mad, man.
“You haven't aged,” John notes.
“No.” Sherlock stares straight into his eyes, aware of everything. “And neither will you.” He frowns and looks away, hands uncharacteristically twisting in his shirtsleeves. “If you stay, that is.”
“Only if you want me to,” John replies. “You're a brilliant man, and I've always known that. I'm just...John.”
Sherlock smiles, reaching out to touch John's face as though he isn't certain that he's really there. “You'll never just be John, to me.” He whirls, all aflutter in excitement again. “Now come! You need to get rid of that bag, and I need to get dressed, and we're off on a case!”
“A case?” John asks, amused, following after the mad barefooted man.
“Yes, a case! Are you deaf John? The white rabbit is missing a waistcoat, and I blame Mycroft.”
“You always blame Mycroft,” the Cheshire cat says as they pass through the kitchen.
“That's because it's always Mycroft's fault. Well, John?” Sherlock pauses on the stairs, his toes curling into the wood. “You interested?”
“Depends on what this case involves,” he leans against the wall nonchalantly, pretending that he doesn't notice the humor in Sherlock's eyes.
“Might be dangerous.”
“Really.”
“Yes. Would you like to come, John?”
“Oh God yes.”
~~
Harry,
I love you like I've loved no other, Harriet. You're my sister, and you always will be. Get yourself to a doctor, your eyes are starting to tinge with jaundice, I'm worried about your liver. Quit drinking and Clara will take you back. You've got a vicious circle going on right now. She left you because of your drinking, so you started drinking more because she was gone, and now you're killing yourself.
Do yourself a favor, and let yourself have happiness.
And Harry? Thanks. For asking me that question. I'm sorry I have to go away, but I can't be who I am in London, or anywhere where he's not. He's as mad as a hatter, but he thinks I'm special, and I think he's special, and I think it will all work out.
Just in case you haven't figured it out, I went off to find the white rabbit.
Love, John
P.s. Wait a while and report me as missing. I've written in a clause so that you'll get my pension. Have a happy life, little sister.
FIN
On to the Sequel thingy--> Mad As A Hatter