So, I've had this idea floating around in my head for a while now. I hope y'all like it.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Fault in Our Stars; John Green does. I also do not own Sherlock; all rights go to BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle.

Title: the (reichenbach) fall of our stars

Summary: It is raining when I arrive in London. I spot two fairly short people, one a blonde lady, and the other a scowling man. His face brightens when he sees me, and he escorts his wife towards me. "Hazel? Hazel Grace?" John Watson asks, and my smile drops a fraction, but it comes back bright and strong at the next sentence: "I'm your uncle."

WARNING: Slight AU in this fic, as it's set in a time where Sherlock was never banned from England and called back via Moriarty.


the (reichenbach) fall of our stars

"to a great mind, nothing is little." -Sherlock Holmes.

by Everyone's a Mortal.


I am watching reruns of American Idol when my mother and father stride in, and I groan internally at whatever is to come. They mean well, I know, but there are times and days when I want time alone, just me and my tank, but I rarely ever get what I want, and I have learned to accept that.

"Hey, kid." My father says, smiling at me and sitting on one side of the bed while his wife takes the other. "Whatcha watching?"

"American Idol." I say, like it's obvious, because it is obvious.

"Oh, nice." My mother pats my arm and reaches for the remote, but not before staring at mean old Simon, intently. "He's British, right?"

"Yeah." I respond, rubbing the back of my neck. "Why?"

"Just wondering," my mother says. "England is nice."

"Yeah."

"Every wanted to go there?" Dad asks, and I arch a brow.

"Maybe. Why?"

My parents exchange glances and I groan inwardly again at their cryptic expressions. "We're sending you there for the Summer, sweetheart." Dad gulps, "An uncle of yours lives there."

I sit up so fast that my head spins from lack of oxygen. "I have an uncle?"

"Yes. An uncle and a sister, actually," Says Mom, "John Watson, my brother, that's who we're sending you to. Just for one summer, Hazel. It'll be fun. It's all worked out. You're leaving in two weeks."

"What about money? And the doctors? Treatment?"

My parents smile at me, "Your uncle is a doctor. He's got connections, he'll help us out. Don't worry about the money, Hazel. We've got you." Says Dad.

I sigh, a light resigned sigh that takes a lot of effort. "Why now?" I ask, even though I know and they know I know.

Dad and Mom get up, take turns to kiss my forehead. "You know why, sweetheart." They say, and walk out of the room.

There's an unspoken name that lies between us, that speaks the reasons of why I'm leaving and of why I don't watch tv on the couch anymore.

(That name is Augustus Waters.)

...

The week before I am set to leave, I visit Isaac. His mother opens the door and lets me in, silently. I can hear the video game sounds before I reach his room, and for a second I wonder how a blind man can play video games. Then I remember it's Isaac, and that he's probably failing miserably, but it makes him feel normal, so on he plays.

I open the door and, as greeting, announce, "I'm going to England in a week."

Surprised at the sudden intrusion, Isaac drops his controller, causing enough time for a COM to shoot his avatar and bam, he's dead. "What, for real?" Isaac asks, because he already knows who it is, he can tell by my voice. He feels around for the controller but I hand it to him, sitting down on the spare bean bag that he has saved just for her.

(There used to be three.)

"For real," I confirm, "I'm leaving in a week. For the whole summer. Gonna spend it with some uncle I've never met."

"What if he's a mass murderer?" Isaac asks, and I nod.

"Exactly! What are my parents thinking?"

"What's his name?"

"John Watson."

The controller slips out of Isaac's hands again and the boy turns towards my general direction. "John Watson?"

"Um. Yeah."

"Where does he live?"

"London, why?"

Isaac gets up, grabbing my hand and his metal cane, before stumbling out the door and expertly running down the hall (he knows his house like the back of his hand, which he could once see). "Hey, mom!" He yells, and the quiet woman steps out from the kitchen.

"Yes?" She asks.

"Can you show us John Watson's blog real quick?" His mother pulls out her computer and logs on, quickly typing in an address before glancing at me. "Read it." Isaac commands, once his mother has done the deed and walked back to the kitchen.

So I read, and my mouth drops open because I hadn't made the connection, for some odd reason.

I was related to the John Watson, Sherlock Holmes' best friend. "What the hell?" I murmur, and suddenly I am excited to go to London.

"You better get me an autograph, Lancaster."

"If I have to," I say, and they laugh, stumbling back into Isaac's room to play more video games.

(I think that Gus would've quite liked that afternoon.)

...

It is raining when I arrive in London. The first thing I do is call my parents, because they told me not to worry about how much the phone bill would be. So I call, and they are happy, and when they finally hang up I call Isaac, leave a voicemail because he doesn't answer, and grab my oxygen tank before smiling at the attendants who are helping with my bags.

I wonder for the hundredth time how my parents obtained enough money for this trip, but don't question it any more once I spot two fairly short people, one a blonde lady, and the other a man who wears a scowl.

His face brightens when he sees me, waving, and escorting his wife (Mom told her about his wife) towards me. "Hazel? Hazel Grace?" John Watson asks, and my smile drops a fraction, but it comes back bright and strong at the next sentence: "I'm your uncle."

"Nice to meet you, uncle Watson." I say, and he laughs.

"Just John is fine." He responds.

"Well, then. Nice to meet you, Just John."

John twists his face into a sort of corkscrew look. His wife laughs, "Oh, I like her." She says, and reaches out to hug me. Once the pregnant lady lets go of me, the three pick up my bag and run out to the waiting cab.

The ride back to the couple's apartment is a long one due to traffic, but we converse along the way and it isn't so bad. I like my newfound uncle and his wife (her name's Mary). At the apartment, they show me to my room, and I do my medicine and everything, don't even have to call John. When I'm done, I steps out for dinner. I'm exhausted, but John and Mary warned me about how you have to sync yourself into a new timezone immediately, so I wait until it's nine o'clock in the evening, and then go to sleep.

I dream deeply and intensely about a place that's far and yet not too far. In that place, there is a hotel room where two teenagers lie.

(They are dead and in love.)

...

It's Mary who wakes me up, her swollen belly making it difficult to lean over me. Once she manages to haul me out of bed, I shower and change, looking in the mirror only after I've brushed my teeth. I do my best to comb my hair, then stumble outside, hauling the tank behind me. John is sitting at the table, tapping it impatiently, but he smiles when he sees me. "I've got your Phalanxifor, Hazel. Ready for it?" He asks, and I nod. After I've taken it, John stares at me for a second, like he's seeing me for the first time. "I'd forgotten I had a niece." He says finally.

I feel myself become red in the face, as John shakes his head. "You're going to have a cousin, soon," he murmurs, referring to Mary's baby bump. I smile at him.

"Where are we going?" I ask, because I want to go out, and because John seems to be thinking about something. "Do I get to see London?"

"Not today, Hazel." He responds, looking apologetic. "I have to see a friend of mine."

I try to keep my breathing level, but I'm excited at the thought of meeting Sherlock Holmes. "Can I come?" Looking around the room, I say, "I mean, you can't just leave me in a new city in a different country all alone. Please don't. I'd be a wreck."

John taps his fingers against the table again, but I can see him giving in. He sighs, "Okay. Grab your coat and meet me by the door." I smile, triumphant, and move as fast I can with my tank.

...

"My friend..." John starts, then stops. "He's, um. Special."

I nod, "what's his name?"

My uncle gulps. "Sherlock," says he, "Sherlock Holmes."

There's a pause in the air before I smile, "I've heard of him."

"He's dangerous, you have to be careful around him." Says John. It comes out in a quick breath and he stops for air before continuing: "He's not very... emotional. He'll look at you and read out your life story without knowing even your first name. Be careful, Hazel. Don't let him get to you, mm? Don't let him make you... cry, or anything."

John waits for my response, fidgeting with his seatbelt. When I start to laugh, he looks confused. "Uncle John," I say, trying to study my breath. My chest hurts from laughing. "Do you take me for a sensitive teenaged girl? I'm tougher than I look. You don't know me as well as you think."

He sucks in another breath and I realize my mother probably told him all about Augustus and Amsterdam. "I know you're tough, Hazel."

There's another pause.

"But you don't know Sherlock Holmes."


Alright, so, I don't know if I'll continue this fic; depends on how many reviews and follows/favorites I get.

Let's see... If I get ten reviews, I'll continue this story, so review, review, review!

Thanks for your time.
God bless,
Lyn.