Sherlock/Doctor Who fic: Patience Was Never His Strong Suit, Ch. 3
Title: Patience Was Never His Strong Suit
Fandom: Sherlock/Doctor Who
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Assumes knowledge of the most current seasons of both shows.
Sherlock Characters: Sherlock, Mycroft, John, Lestrade, and the Yarders
Doctor Who Characters: Ian/Barbara, Eleven, Amy/Rory
Summary: “As we learn about each other, so we learn about ourselves.”
Disclaimer: I own neither Sherlock nor Doctor Who; all rights belong to their respective owners.
Thank you to my wonderful Betas, susako and infinityuphigh, for all their help. All remaining mistakes and inconsistencies are my own.
Chapter 1: Laying the Foundation
Chapter 2: Finding One's Place
Chapter 3: Dealing with Loss:
John was currently out running errands, leaving Sherlock alone to work on his experiments in peace and quiet in the kitchen. He was just recording the results of mixing different acids with skin tissue when his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. Sherlock glanced at the caller ID and immediately picked up. “Mum?” he asked into the receiver, a worried expression in his voice. She never called around this time. “Is everything alright?”
He could hear the unmistakable sound of sobbing coming from the other end. “He came to see me,” she said, gasping slightly as she spoke. “He came to say goodbye.”
“Who?” questioned Sherlock. “What happened?”
“The Doctor,” she explained, the words coming a bit easier as the tears began to subside. “He looked completely different, so young and tall, but it was him.”
“He came to see you?” asked Sherlock, trying to understand the situation.
“He told me that he wanted to say goodbye,” she revealed. “And to thank me for being there at the start of it all.” She took a deep breath, and Sherlock realized that the tears had begun again. “Could you please come over?”
She sounded so alone. The only other time she had been like this was when Dad died. She was always so strong, and he hated hearing her sound so defeated.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Later, when John returned to the flat, there was no sign of Sherlock, and a small divot had begun to form on the tabletop due to the abandoned acids.
When Sherlock stepped through the threshold of his mum’s flat, he noticed she had mostly recomposed herself, except for a slight reddish tint around her eyes. She poured them both some tea and sat down at the kitchen table, beckoning her son to join her.
“Start at the beginning,” commanded Sherlock.
“Well,” Barbara began, “it all started earlier today when I heard that sound, the one I hadn’t heard in years. I honestly thought I had been imagining things, but then I looked and it was there; the TARDIS was sitting right outside my home as though it had always been. He was already knocking at the door before the shock wore off.
“Only the man standing there looked nothing like the Doctor,” she continued. “He explained it was called ‘Regeneration,’ something he could do to ward off death. But he looked like a completely new person!”
“What does that mean?” asked Sherlock.
“He looked nothing like the man I used to know, but it was definitely the same person. Oh goodness! If your father had been here, he wouldn’t have believed a word of it, even with the Doctor standing right in front of him and explaining it.”
“I believe you,” said Sherlock. And he did.
She leaned over to tenderly hold his hand, saying, “I know you do, Sweetie. I wish he had stayed long enough for you to meet him, but he said he was in a hurry.”
“He was pressed for time?” asked Sherlock, smiling slightly at his own joke.
“Sherlock, he’s dying.”
Sherlock frowned, unsure of how to answer.
“But he told me how grateful he was,” she continued. “How your Dad and I helped him to become the man he is now: to stop being afraid of his own actions, to fight against the unjust, and to understand that some things can be changed for the better. Now, how we managed to do all that, I’ll never know, but, in some way, it’s comforting to think that Ian and I could have such a large impact on another person like that, especially when it was so long ago.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” responded Sherlock. “You’re one of the most worthy women I’ve ever known.”
“Thank you, Sherlock,” she said, showing him a smile.
They talked the rest of the afternoon about the Doctor’s visit, but the whole time Sherlock never mentioned the disappointment that now lay heavily inside him, knowing that another one of the few strong influences in his life was gone forever.
It was three months after the whole Irene Adler affair, enough time for wounds, both external and internal, to heal. Life had by now resumed its normal course for the boys of Baker Street, if one could ever actually use the term normal around them. Sherlock was lounging on the sofa, and John was sitting in his armchair trying very hard to seem like he was reading the paper, though he was actually engrossed in thought, as Sherlock was able to deduce by the way John stole glances at him every half minute or so and also by the way he obliviously chewed at his bottom lip.
“Well?” Sherlock finally queried.
“’Well’ what?” asked John.
“You wanted to ask about something that’s been on your mind,” said Sherlock.
John sighed audibly, then mumbled, “Of course you-” before catching himself and instead just going for it. “Before things took an unexpected turn,” he began again. “During that whole business with Moriarty, you said that heroes don’t exist...”
“And?” said Sherlock.
“I was just wondering if you really meant it, is all,” explained John. “I mean, to say something like that, you must have been hurt once, right? Who was it? Your dad?”
“My-?” Sherlock started, suddenly sitting up. “Oh, for god’s sake, John! I didn’t realize your medical degree was in psychiatry.”
“I just thought-”
“Well, don’t,” snapped Sherlock. “You’re not any good at it.” He then plopped back into a lying position and rolled himself over so he was facing the back of the sofa.
“Seriously,” said John, an angry tone in his voice. “We’re playing this game again?” There was a moment of silence before John spoke again. “Well pardon me for trying to get you to open up a little. I mean, you’ve never exactly been an open book, but ever since everything with Irene Adler, you’ve been even more closed off than before. I was just hoping you’d talk to me.” He stood up from the armchair and moved to walk away towards his bedroom. “I see now that was a huge mistake.”
Sherlock listened to John’s footsteps as he ascended the stairs and then his door slammed shut. Once he was assured John was locked up in his room stewing in anger, Sherlock then rolled around to face the quiet flat.
Why was John so worked up about a conversation that took place months ago? How was it any of his business, anyway? So what if there are no heroes in the world, at least the way John means them? Brave, honest, pure of heart... They only exist in fairytales: the stalwart knight slays the ferocious dragon. Real life doesn’t work that way, and someone will always let you down.
A few minutes later, John emerged from his room. “Don’t mind me,” he said with his voice still tense. “I’m going out. Don’t know when I’ll be back.”
He was just out the door when Sherlock, facing up towards the ceiling, said, “My Dad and I got along quite well, actually.”
“I’m sorry,” said John, turning to his flatmate in confusion. “What?”
“You insinuated earlier that my father had caused a deeply traumatic childhood experience,” Sherlock explained. “That’s incorrect.”
John slowly moved to sit in the armchair near Sherlock. “Oh?” he questioned, not wanting to say any more lest he break the spell.
“He was a very practical man,” said Sherlock. “He governed his beliefs through logic and facts, and always had troubling accepting things he couldn’t understand. But that never stopped him from wanting to learn, to see what the others saw. And he always accepted me for who I was, faults and all. He always encouraged, but never pushed.”
“He sounds like he was a good man,” said John.
“When he died,” Sherlock continued, “I took it very hard. I won’t go into specifics, though, as that period of my life is one I’m not very proud of.”
“No,” said John. “Of course.”
Just then, Sherlock’s phone began to vibrate, distracting the two from their thoughts. “Sherlock,” he spoke into his mobile. After a long pause, he said, “Right. We’ll meet you there,” then hung up.
“That was Lestrade,” Sherlock announced. “He has a case.”
“Right then,” said John. “Let’s go.”
Being closer to the door, John went down the stairs first with Sherlock close behind him, deep in thought. What Sherlock would have liked to say as well, but couldn’t, was that his father also had a penchant for running around and having adventures with a Doctor, now leading Sherlock to wonder if such a trait could be inherited. But, as they both stepped into the cab, Sherlock knew that concept would have to wait for another day.
Sherlock sat in the chair directly across from his brother, cradling his beloved violin close to him as he held the bow in his hand. He wore a sullen expression on his face and had a deep purple bruise shading his left eye.
“It’s amusing, dear brother,” said Mycroft, “that you seem to be carrying on a family tradition: Grandad had been MIA for six months during the War, Mum and Dad accidentally skipped two years traveling with the Doctor, and now you’ve been miraculously resurrected from the dead after three years. Are we soon to expect your long-lost offspring to come knocking at your door?”
Sherlock said nothing, but a hint of a snarl formed on his lips.
It was then that John entered the flat, carrying a bag of groceries, which he went to place on the kitchen table on the other end from Sherlock’s chemistry set. “Mycroft,” he said coolly to the man.
“John,” he replied. “Always a pleasure.” He then stood up, clutching his umbrella. “Tell me, what does it feel like to accomplish what so many others have only dreamed of doing?” He glanced at Sherlock’s black eye, then turned back to John and smiled. “Well, I must be off. Work to do, you know.”
Sherlock fiercely moved his bow across the instrument, creating a harsh screech.
“If you do that every time your brother comes to visit you,” said John once Mycroft was gone, “one of the strings will probably snap and hit you in the face.”
Sherlock remained silent, but stood up and flounced to his bedroom, slamming his door shut.
John stared at the closed door and smiled to himself. “It’s good to have you back, Sherlock.”
Chapter 4