As Fate Will Have It

by InspireTheFire

The crime of the century shocks the nation and baffles detectives everywhere. An usual incident leads to a meeting that only the Fates could have orchestrated. Detectives, mysteries, aliens and a new and threatening villainous duo riddle not just the world, but the universe. How will Sherlock and his new friend face such dire situations? Together, of course.

A Sherlock Doctor Who Crossover

by InspireTheFire

Chapter 1

Secrets

Everything was calm. Peaceful. Lovely. For once London didn't seem to be borderline chaos and everything was just still. No cabs beeped, no angry couples reprimanded each other in the middle of the night, and the weather was more than ideal, a comfortable temperature, and not a cloud hovered over the passive city. The few waning, yellow lights that still blinked out of the tall windows of the businesses and private residences contrasted the deep, inky indigo color of the night sky. A night like this was especially rare, and London's people were taking advantage of it. Families cuddled on the couch in amiable silence, just simply being with each other. Loving couples snuggled into each other's warm arms and stared at their great city. Even the inhabitants who worked the late or night shifts were grateful for their beautiful and serene surroundings. Everything was perfect. Nothing would surely happen that night.

The full moon's soft glowing rays floated into a small bedroom in a flat, outlining a snoring lone figure sprawled out on a small bed. The muscled figure twitched slightly and rolled over, stretching languidly. The room was still and quiet. Suddenly, a blue light flashed from on top of a night stand beside the twin bed and a mobile began to ring furiously. The figure jerked awake and, as though it had done this routine a thousand times, snatched the mobile and answered the call without looking at the caller ID.

"What the hell has he done this time?" The man yawned tiredly, sitting up and rummaging his hands along the floor, searching for his house slippers.

"Mr. Lestrade, we need you to come in, immediately, no delays," the voice on the other end sounded frantic and panicky, and completely ignored the question. Greg Lestrade's tired eyes locked onto his alarm clock; 2:23 am.

"Alright, alright, fine. Whatever this is it better be damn well worth losing my only night for some time off."

"I know, and I'm terribly, sorry, sir, but this absolutely cannot be ignored under any circumstances. We need all of Scotland Yard and we've notified the government and SOCA and anyone else who can help. Call me when you're on your way and I'll update you. Try not to turn on the news or the radio for a while, either."

"…Bloody hell… seriously, what did he do?"

The line ended and the mobile beeped monotonously. Greg Lestrade was already dressed in his work clothes (which consisted of nothing more than a comfortable pastel colored flannel, a dark grey coat, and black trousers) and racing through his small, untidy flat, grabbing his keys, pistol, and whatever else he figured he would need. He grumbled and checked his silvery grey hair in a mirror. His eyes stared hopelessly tired back at him. He was starting to seriously doubt that the call had anything to do with Sherlock Holmes at all.

Saturdays were Lestrade's one day off from work the entire week. He worked a busy and demanding job at Scotland Yard as a Detective Inspector, and by the end of the week he was completely knackered. Of course he was used to getting called in late at night; his occupation usually consisted of sporadic hours, but it usually was about his favourite consulting detective being a general nuisance and antagonist. Sherlock, the pest beforehand mentioned, had only been given permission to work with a few of the Inspectors, so when he 'accidently' turned up at a crime scene (and that suspiciously happened more than a few times) it was Lestrade's job to force the stubborn genius to leave. It's not like he minded all that much; he had been working with Sherlock Holmes for about five years and ever since that interestingly calm army doctor, John Watson, showed up, Sherlock behaved better. He was sincerely appreciative of Sherlock's help, but also rather enjoyed Sherlock looking like a kicked puppy, sadistic as it may sound. It was a nice change from the detective's usual demanding, dictatorial self.

The Detective Inspector double checked his pockets and coat for the third time and rushed to his door. He paused momentarily as if to brace himself for the world outside and sighed heavily and uneasily; as his hand reached for the doorknob, he accidently knocked over a picture frame from a nearby end table. Ungracefully he swooped down to pick it up, and he felt a sharp, twisting pain constrict his heart and chest as he stared at the broken photograph of his wife. Or, he should say, ex-wife. Damn him: Sherlock. Why did he always have to be so bloody right? Lestrade huffed and quickly put the cracked frame down, the front of it facing the floor, caged his emotions, and plastered an emotionless façade on his face. He nearly sprinted out of his flat and down the shabby metal stairs to the ground level and to his car. He whipped out his mobile.

"What. The. Bloody. Hell. Is. Happening?"

"You might want to take a seat, or maybe get a cigarette."

Greg Lestrade rubbed his thumbs into his eyes and breathed heavily while sitting in his car parked outside Scotland Yard. He couldn't believe that this was actually happening. Biting the inside of his lip, he hurried out of his car into the vitalizing winter air and slammed the door closed without bothering to properly lock it. He would need it again in a minute anyway.

The Detective Inspector braced himself for the chaos ripping its way through the police headquarters. From outside he could already see people dashing to and fro in front of the windows, he could hear people shouting and telephones ringing, and he could feel the nearly tangible panic in the air. He reached to push open the heavy double doors leading inside when they suddenly flew open in front of him before he had the chance to.

"Greg! God, it took you long enough. Get in here now!"

"Nice to see you too, Sally" Lestrade muttered and followed the insufferable woman inside and to his own office.

"This place has gone completely barmy," Lestrade remarked to Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, pointing out the people running frantically around. She merely rolled her eyes.

"What did you expect? A party and cake? Seriously, Lestrade, this is possibly the greatest crime of the century. You could act a little more concerned."

"Well technically I'm not even supposed to be here…"

"Don't. You know we need you here. Kyle ran the details by you, yeah?"

Lestrade nodded solemnly, remembering the car ride over here. Kyle Sparks, the new intern, had been completely hysterical giving him the information over mobiles. She couldn't be blamed though; everyone had pretty much lost their marbles.

Sally shrugged her shoulders and accepted his nod as a suitable answer.

"I wonder if we'll be able to keep the press out of this. You know that all hell would break loose if word about this slipped out."

Lestrade snorted. "Of course they're going to hound the living crap out of all of us; whenever there's something that they can't know about, it immediately turns into another Roswell. They'll suspect government cover-up, terrorist conspiracies, even aliens for God's sake."

"Well, let's just hope we can come up with a damn good reason for this. It's not exactly like we can just go to the place without being seen, it's not very secluded."

"We'll let the other coppers handle directing traffic, order a blockade. We'll use force if we have to, but I doubt pedestrians will be curious enough to risk getting arrested." Greg thumbed the bottom of his desk. "Kyle said that… they, would be there. Can you confirm this?"

"If they're not there already I'd be surprised."

The Detective Inspector groaned. "Because they'll definitely help to squash suspicion. If there's not enough talk already about this, they'll just make it even worse! Damn it. I can't stand that bunch. It's all secrets and mystery and aloofness with them. But thanks to Her Majesty, we have to put up with them. Get someone to call them, we need to make sure they fully understand our conditions and expectations for this. They may be the great and mighty Torchwood, but they sure as hell aren't going to botch this up with their outlandish interferences."

"Perhaps we might need them this time."

"Oh, you have got to joking."

"No! Hear me out. You heard the first reports, this is not your typical… whatever this is, and I don't see how it is humanly possible. This is the cleanest job I've ever seen in my 13 years. Now I'm not some gullible fool with a colorful imagination, but we don't have many explanations at our disposal right now."

Greg stared Sally in the eyes with reprimand. Everyone's completely losing it. I'm probably next. He collected himself, took a deep breath, and stood up.

"We'll be leaving in about three minutes, get the team ready and in the cars," Lestrade sighed and waved Sally out of his office. She began to leave but faltered, and instead walked back over to Lestrade's desk and loomed over him.

"You're not going to phone him, are you? We've already got enough freaks on this case," Her voice was laced with dread. Lestrade didn't answer. Donovan grew impatient.

"You know that this is just what he wants, you giving in to his every little whim and flight of fancy. He'll be damned curious about this one, and curiosity is dangerous to us all, but mostly with him. He could care less about whether or not this will send our entire country to hell and back again. But if you let him on this case, there's nothing to stop him from popping up at all the other ones. He's already an arrogant bastard, don't encourage him."

"And what if I do?"

The nasally voiced woman shook her head. "I really don't think it's necessary. We've got our best people on this, we don't need him condescending everyone. He'll want his alone time with the scene, slow us down, and give us that smug look that says 'I'm so much smarter than everyone, how can they not figure out the obvious?' Or…" Her voice trailed momentarily.

"Or what?"

"It's all about finding ways to not be bored, with him, and you know what? Maybe this time he's finally had it. Maybe if we invite him, we'll just be letting him boast about his cleverness while we try to figure this out. Don't look at me like that, you know he's more than capable of this."

"Are you screwing with me, Sergeant? Are you seriously suggesting you think he did it?" Greg was incredulous.

"I'm not saying he did it, all I'm saying is who else could it have been? No traces of forced entry, no marks, fingerprints, not even a bloody bit of pocket lint! The entire place was sweeped. Our criminals are good, but they're not that good." Her hands rested on her hips and she shrugged. Lestrade stroked his chin and cheeks thoughtfully then glanced at his mobile.

"We need him-"His quiet voice was cut short by the venomous stare of his second in command. She huffed and whipped around and flew out of the office, ordering their team together vehemently. With a stalling sigh, Lestrade picked up his mobile and put it to his ear.

"I'll be at the flat in fifteen."

"John? Why are you bac-"Sherlock Holmes ran his eyes over his flat mate and smugly grinned, "Oh. Another 'successful' night with Sarah, it would seem."

"Piss off." Army doctor John Watson shot the consulting detective a venomous glare as he flung himself face-first on the sofa. Sherlock watched him curiously from his chair, his hands positioned under his chin in his trademark 'shut up I'm thinking' way. This wasn't the first time John had been sent home empty handed at nearly 2:00 in the morning, and Sherlock was always grateful for an opportunity to test his deductions.

"John, perhaps if you didn't tell the woman you're propositioning for sex with that you saw your ex-girlfriend earlier that day she'd be more open to the suggestion. And I would recommend not eating at a Mexican restaurant beforehand, either. You know what it does to your digestive system." Sherlock sounded completely disinterested. John looked up from the sofa, completely baffled and exasperated.

"Okay, one-"he held up a finger "-I was not 'propositioning' her for sex. I don't want this relationship to be a one-night thing… well, I didn't want it to be. And two, I don't really want to know how you deduced all that, so save me the sermon, Spock."

Sherlock smiled fondly. But his short, blonde doctor wasn't going to get off that easily; he had left the poor detective alone all night with nothing to do but wait for his mercury and severed ears experiment to fester for 48 hours with no company. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't listen to him explain the fundaments of electron configuration (Why doesn't everyone know this? It's essential knowledge!) or the difference between a cadaver and a corpse (Yes, of course there's a difference! Don't be daft.). Oh no, John Watson wouldn't get off that easily.

"Well-"

"Here we go…"

"It's ridiculously obvious. Aside from your apparent sexually frustrated demeanor and presence at 221B when you should be staying over for one your rendezvous with one of your numerous romantic attempts, between the snappy retorts, that God-awful scent of a bean and cheese fajita lurking around you like an atmosphere of its own, your clearly ruffled collar and the untucked hem of your shirt, that wonderfully etched outline of a hand across your right cheek, that crumpled receipt in your pants pocket, and your left hand, there really isn't too much to go on. Oh, and don't forget to pay off that speeding ticket and delete your text messages; that is rather embarrassing. Don't look so exposed, John, you know you can't hide anything from me. Now shall I expound upon those observations or would you rather go make us some tea?"

Dr. Watson sat up and his mood seemed to elevate as he listened to his dark haired friend display his deductive reasoning. Even if it was at his own expense, John found Sherlock's talent utterly amazing and brilliant. Sighing, he patted his knees with his palms and then hoisted himself from the sofa with a newfound energy. Sherlock's eyes were glued to him but John ignored him and stalked over to the kitchen to make that tea. He silently pulled two mugs from the kitchen cabinet and began to prepare the tea, making sure Sherlock had two sugars as always.

Sherlock accepted the tea from John and wrapped his long, pale fingers around the warm cup. John sat across from him and they sipped their teas in comfortable silence before John set his down and folded his arms.

"You're secretly pleased."

"Oh? About what?"

"That I don't have a girlfriend anymore."

"And why would that be?"

"Well now I don't have any excuse for not being your substitute skull. I'll be free to accompany you on your cases."

"Well don't you already join me on my cases?"

"Not all of them."

"Impossible. You're always there. You've always been there."

John opened his mouth but he didn't speak, the implications of Sherlock's comment rattling him. He spoke to Molly about this before; about Sherlock still speaking as though John was always there to praise him for his brilliant deductions. It didn't surprise him though, Sherlock was notorious for talking to inanimate objects and things that weren't really there. But he still couldn't understand why the genius ever needed him in the first place. John felt truly honoured to know this man so well when billions of people had no idea he even existed. Nonetheless he brushed the comment aside.

"So what's the newest case? Anything on the website?"

"Nothing whatsoever. People are getting duller every minute, John. Just look out the window! No crimes, no murders, not even an old lady getting robbed. It's hateful. My faith in the criminal community's intelligence and intuition is starting to seriously falter every passing moment."

"Maybe Lestrade will have something."

"No luck. I've already phoned him four times in the last hour. He hasn't picked up." Sherlock sighed audibly and unfolded his long legs. He was still wearing his blue pajamas. He hadn't left the flat all day.

"Right. Well, today's been disappointing for both of us then. 'Night Sherlock." John got up and took their mugs to the sink, then dragged his feet up the stairs to his bedroom. Finally he was going to get some much-needed sleep. Unlike his flat mate, he couldn't function on three hours of sleep every night. And sleep sounded marvelous right now. The doctor was just about to climb the last stair when a firm hand gripped him by the shoulder, spun him around, and nearly pulled him back downstairs.

"It's a miracle, John! Oh never let it be said that Sherlock Holmes doesn't believe in supernatural intervention. Yes! Oh it's like Ireland all over again. Come now! Get your jacket back on!" John stared bewildered at his ecstatic friend, so different from the mellow man he had been just mere seconds ago. Sherlock was nearly quivering with excitement, his blue eyes wide and bright and a mobile pressed up against his ear.

"Of course, Detective Inspector! We'll be waiting. Now would you like to tell me what the case is about? A serial killer? Unexplainable mass hysteria? A childhood monster rampaging through London? Please not another kidnapping, the last one was so dreadfully dull."

John couldn't hear the voice on the other end, but judging from Sherlock's irritated expression, the Inspector was not giving away any details. Sherlock huffed and ended the call vehemently, then looked at John for a long time before twirling away, throwing his coat on and wrapping his scarf around his throat.

"I'm assuming I'm coming, too, then."

"Of course, John. I would be lost without you."

John smiled inwardly and the pair spent the next five minutes or so brainstorming what this new case might be. As soon as John suggested 'jam outage', Lestrade's footsteps bounded up the stairs and the good Inspector himself burst into their flat, panting and motioning for them to hurry up.

"Why the secrecy, Detective Inspector? Surely if this was something of a national importance they would have sent someone better qualified."

Greg Lestrade just shook his head and gesticulated, searching for the right words and still trying to catch his breath. He was just about to make a snide comment about Sherlock's pajamas still on under his coat when a cold, condescending voice filled the room.

"Hello, Dr. Watson, Detective Inspector… dear brother."

"Mycroft Holmes."

"Please, Lestrade, spare me the formalities. I'm here strictly to speak with my brother and give him some friendly… advice." The man, Mycroft, twirled his umbrella and rested the pointed end on his brother's shoulder with a smug smirk. Sherlock scoffed and batted it away with the back of his hand.

"Before you warn me not to botch this up and put your credibility at stake, dear brother-"Sherlock spat, "-you must know that anything the government has tried to keep secret, I already know it, or I will soon find out."

The tall detective crossed his arms and squared his shoulders, defying his older, heftier brother. John and Greg exchanged worried glances; if one Holmes brother wasn't bewildering enough, both of them together was simply a living nightmare. It all boiled down to some ridiculous family argument, apparently, as Sherlock had told John.

"Don't be so quick to make such ignorant remarks, Sherlock, we wouldn't want you choking on your words later. I've merely come to remind you to behave. One of our more… secret organizations will be investigating this incident, and I don't want you getting involved with them, let alone on their bad side."

"You sound like Mummy warning me not to get mixed up in the 'wrong crowd'."

"If that's how you wish to put it, then yes, Sherly." Mycroft's face contorted into a sly smile. "These people are not exactly what you would call friendly. One wrong move and they'll have you locked up, or maybe even brainwashed."

John spoke up. "Brainwashing? That's just something they tell you to make you stay loyal to your side, it's not actually possible."

"Oh? Is that just so?" Mycroft's tone was so condescending that John blushed faintly. Sherlock seemed agitated and he was clenching his jaw rhythmically.

"Never underestimate the power of some so called memory altering drugs, John. Do you remember the story of Walter Robinson, the news reporter? Had a nasty habit of sticking his nose into places where it didn't belong. That was certainly taken care of. They told the public he had quit his job to 'pursue a solitary life for personal nirvana'."

"Oh my God. You're not kidding." Greg voiced everyone's silent opinions. Well, everyone except Sherlock.

"Which is your supposed reason for trying to keep me away from. You know I won't be able to resist such a deliciously novel mystery as Torchwood. They're practically swimming in conspiracies, secret projects, and extra-terrestrial rumours. No, it's impossible to pass up. But your reasons can't be just to keep my mind the way it is, safe from the calamity of brainwashing. No, there's something else, something more." Sherlock's hand mimicked a steeple under his chin and his eyes squinted as though he knew a secret that no one else did.

Silence filled the cluttered living space as the four men stared at one another, some defiantly, some confusedly. John shifted his weight to his right foot and coughed into his hand. The Holmes brothers seemed to be battling it out in some psychic verbal debate. Greg began bouncing on his toes, glancing at his watch; they couldn't waste any more time with this, they needed to be hitting the London streets and heading to the crime scene.

"As much fun as it is to be watching you two verbally abuse each other, there does happen to be a crime scene waiting for us, and I would very much like to get to it as soon as humanly possible."

The two brothers seemed to snap out of some trance and they nodded in defeated agreement. Mycroft slowly spun around on his heel and began the descent down the stairs to street level below. Sherlock nearly growled and looked at Lestrade. "I need the details. Sooner rather than later would be immensely helpful."

The Detective Inspector seemed to hesitate. "I'll tell you in the car. Never know who might be eavesdropping in when one is in the flat of Sherlock Holmes. But I can tell you that if you mess this up in any shape, form, or fashion, I will personally see you to your grave. This is not the time to be your usual arrogant self. Our whole nation depends on it." With his last words, Greg exhaled shakily. The future of our entire nation is resting on the shoulders of a mad man. Brilliant.

The grey haired man bounded down the stairs, leaving John and Sherlock behind to ponder their rather amusing situation. "Well, no time to waste! It seems our people need us, John." Sherlock clapped his hands together and strolled down the stairs with John trailing close behind. The army doctor frowned; something about this whole ordeal seemed off to him. Call it a soldier's instinct, but he didn't like the thought of Mycroft so willingly, albeit warningly, let his younger brother onto the scene of a crime of national importance. He made a note inside his head to watch Sherlock extra close tonight.

The pair cruised out the front door of their quaint abode. Mrs. Hudson, their landlady, was nowhere to be seen, although Sherlock made the obvious assumption that she was asleep safely in bed. Greg motioned to them from inside a parked police car, and Sherlock and John slipped into the back seat, a million questions on their mind and ready to be answered.

"It's already painfully obvious that this involves Her Majesty's Treasury, our nation's funds, and the current whereabouts of a few seemingly important but expendable government members, but do tell me, what is this really about, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock's deep voice resonated from the back seat. John's eyes widened considerably, and he felt something hitch in his throat. The car sped off towards their destination, carrying quite the conversation.

A few blocks away, a man in a suit and clutching an umbrella shifting nervously in a jet black, inconspicuous car. He ran a hand along his right leg and watched as his brother was taken away in a police car. "What have I gotten him into, Anthea?"

A woman with dark brown hair, dressed in an elegant but simple sand colored dress, looked up from her mobile and stared at her boss in the eyes. "It's not your fault, Mycroft. I know you feel responsible for everything that happens to him, but this was not your doing. You warned him, did what you felt was right, and there's no fault in that. The Fates alone will determine how this turns out, for all of us, not just your brother. Just relax while you can."

Mycroft sighed, calmed by his assistant's words, but still edgy. He rubbed his temple. "And what if he shows up?"

"Pray that they never meet. Until then, we have a crime of the century to solve."

Hello everyone! Welcome to whatever the heck I decide to name this! This is definitely my longest fanfiction yet, and I do hope to continue it! I hope you enjoyed chapter uno, maybe stick around and I might be able to get more chapters up (although they will most likely not be as long as this one). Please note that there are, in all probability, numerous mistakes concerning British government, Torchwood, how policemen work, etc. I do not live in the UK, so I'm going purely off of internet knowledge. Because of that, I may mention real life places, such as HM Treasury, but please do not assume that I understand how it works, and instead perceive it as an AU London. After all, there will be aliens (SPOILERS) and such, so I can bend the truth however I so please. *evilly twists moustache* I do hope you enjoy this, and leave a comment! I love reviews and comments more than a whole bag of gummi bears. :D Until next time. Stay classy fan fiction readers!