Disclaimer: Neither Sherlock or Doctor Who belongs to me. If they did, Wholock would be real.
A/N: My first attempt at a crossover, so I hope it's not too bad (and my first try at writing John). Post-Reichenbach, so if you don't like John being sad, this probably isn't for you. Saying that, this isn't an angst-fest or anything. It's way more light hearted than that. Also, if you hadn't already guessed, SPOILERS for Sherlock and Doctor Who up until their respective most recent episodes (The Reichenbach Fall and The Doctor, the Widow and the Wardrobe).
John woke up on the wrong day, on the wrong side of the bed. The cold wasteland, with its white expanse dipping and surging before his blurry eyes. Rays of light glared at him through the gap in the curtains. That meant he was up late. His brain processed this fact, then banished it away to be ignored for now. One more thing could be wrong. His fingers slowly traced the line of the shadow running along the sheet as he avoided facing the truth that would swallow him up if he let it. Slowly, he moved his head enough that he could see the clock face, unfamiliar as it was from this angle. Nine-thirteen. The second hand and his soft breathing played out a quiet symphony whilst he lay there in the stillness of the morning, enveloped by the safety of a simple duvet. Once it was cast off, so would the illusion be. It couldn't last forever.
He closed his eyes. Immediately, a barrage of images hit him, as if they had been lurking in the darkness for him to succumb to the temptation to give up, give in. Of course they had been. They always were. Falling, falling, everyone was falling. Three years had passed, three bloody years, and still he couldn't sleep like a normal person. The nightmares that threatened to invade his waking moments kept him tossing and turning, bolting upright and screaming in the middle of the night. Mrs Hudson was resigned to them now, not even commenting the next day but merely looking even more sympathetic than usual.
Reality? Yes. He blinked and peered around the room, still refusing to get up. Interesting viewpoint, this. He knew that he must have had a pretty nasty dream to have moved this far from his usual straight as a pole position on the right side of the bed. No need to take up more space than necessary. Instead, he was sprawled diagonally across his bed, head not quite touching the left pillow. Flashes of running and shouting ran through his mind, the remnants of a lost nightmare.
People thought he should have moved out; he knew that. It was clear from their faces, their awkward postures when they came to visit, the few that did. Living in an atmosphere of pain. John couldn't leave. One thousand and ninety three days later and he still woke up in their flat in Baker Street. He still expected to hear the sounds of agitated pacing as Sherlock pondered over a case or wished desperately for one. The detective's possessions had been tidied, but they were still there, waiting for the day that he could give them up. He doubted that day would come. Mycroft didn't want them. He'd been the only person who hadn't condemned John's decision to stay put. Probably just because it meant he could keep the same surveillance measures in place.
Nobody would know what day it was; the surgery wouldn't put two and two together and realise where he was. His appearances at work were sporadic, but somehow, miraculously, he still had a place there when he did turn up. They appreciated having somebody else to take the load, maybe. Noticed that he was a shell, a wandering lost soul looking for solace, and accepted his absences. He didn't have to go out today. There was food and milk in the fridge, if he remembered to eat. Finally, he understood how Sherlock felt, too engrossed in a case to worry about pesky little human needs, although it wasn't a case taking up his attention.
Finally, he lifted his head, embraced reality, and got out of bed. He wasn't a teenage girl, so he couldn't spend a day in bed with tissues and a tub of ice cream, no matter how appealing that might be. Automatically he walked to Sherlock's room and, without thinking about what he was doing, went to the wardrobe where the line of dusty clothes sat and pulled out the old, familiar dressing gown. That would do. Carefully, almost reverently, he slipped his arms into the sleeves. Today he needed a reminder of his friend.
John shuffled into the sitting room. The silk dressing gown felt incongruous: he shouldn't be wearing it, especially not with his worn pyjama bottoms and faded t-shirt. Channelling Sherlock, he sprawled on the sofa and stared at the wall. He could stay like this all day maybe. Deduce everything that could be deduced about that bit of wallpaper. The action was long gone from his life, but the skills were still there, wishing desperately to be put to use.
The doorbell rang. Mrs Hudson could get it, he decided as he pondered over whether the light scarlet stain that was barely visible on the wall was human or animal blood. Either was fairly likely. A second ring. She must have gone out. It was unlikely to be her at the door though, as Mrs Hudson wouldn't forget her key. Probably a tradesman or something. Anyone he knew would have rang or texted first. Or assumed he had actually gone to work. By the third time the bell sounded, his interest was piqued. Three rings. Who would try that hard? Whoever it was had held their finger down on the button for a couple of seconds each time. Determination, maybe, or someone who wasn't quite sure of bell etiquette.
He descended the stairs, taking no effort to rush, as anybody who had bothered to ring three times surely wouldn't be going anywhere quickly. Sunlight flooded into the dark hallway. A strangely dressed man stood on the top step, grinning wildly. John took in the tweed jacket, patterned shirt and bow tie. It seemed this man probably wasn't sure of fashion etiquette either.
"John Watson? Doctor John Watson?" asked the man excitedly. John was starting to realise that there was something off about him, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on.
"Yes?" he replied guardedly. Today wasn't the day for nutty, potentially dangerous strangers.
"I'm the Doctor. I need your help."
