For three doctors, the line between conscious and dreams is becoming more blurred every day. When the Doctor falls ill, Amy and Rory are left to the mercy of the TARDIS to find their doctor a savior. John is becoming ever the more distracted, and Sherlock is left to consult his hesitant brother for help. A certain gamma radiation expert is having trouble returning to himself after post-Hulk transformations, and Tony Stark is concerned.
The sky was a dull grey, drizzling lightly over the flat of 221B Baker Street, and cast a rather dreary blanket over those who were present. Sherlock didn't mind of course, as he was lying on the worn couch in complete silence, contemplating ever little thing that crossed his incredible mind. Light blue eyes flittered open as the unmistakable sound of a door closing and muffled footsteps reached his ears. He internally sighed, as it obviously was John home from his shopping. They were running low on South American spices and chili peppers that John was so eager to involve into their supper. He had taken up a local cooking class rather lately, and insisted on using every mealtime to his advantage and practice his amateur skills.
However it was quite obvious he was only taking the class to gain the interest of the nice Hispanic lady that ran the class, as his constantly burning assignments indicated he was barely paying attention to the actual instructions. This infuriated Sherlock, as the near always present smoke clogged up his nostrils with the unpleasant odor, which in turn distracted him from actually thinking. He listened carefully as Johns footsteps slowed to a halt inside their kitchen area as he started putting away their various foods and items. A moment of hesitation turned to three, and then four. Sherlock was mildly irked when John had altogether stopped putting away their groceries.
"John, if you're confused as to where to store the milk, most house owners would not suggest leaving it unrefrigerated for up to three to four hours." He grumbled. When he scarcely received a response, save for a small grunt, he let lose a long, exaggerated sigh and sat up.
" Now really, what's taking so long? Had another row with the machine again, did you?" Not even bothering to fix his robe, the detective strode out into the kitchen. John stood slightly hunched, eyes vacant and glassy. Unblinking and staring, the doctors breathing had sped up slightly. This had Sherlock concerned.
"John." He tried to rouse the man by saying his name. His lack of response sent a shiver of anticipation through the blue eyed detective. This was wrong, not right. John is never usually distracted, nor does he daydream much. His years as a military Captain has kept his mind alert at all times, always aware of his surroundings. This was very unusual, and had Sherlock franticly shifting through his eyes for any explanation. He began to deduce. Scuffs on his lower pant legs suggested he had kept bumping and rubbing into the stairwell on his way up. Residue of egg yolk on part of his jumper and fingers; he had dropped a carton of eggs at the store, and hastily tried to correct the mistake. Hands shaky and uncoordinated. Marks on his trainers pointed to a run over toe at the market from the shopping carts. Eyes wide open and unfocused, meaning he was alert, yet seeing something else other than their homely flat. Yet they were red rimmed and heavy with exhaustion, he was not sleeping properly for the past few days. Couldn't have been longer than a week, or he would have noticed the signs sooner.
" Sherlock?" Said man was interrupted from his deductions from the raspy voice of his blogger. Johns eyes were wide, his chest still heaving, as if he had recently run a marathon. John blinked repeatedly, as if trying to clear his vision from some unexpected interruption, and clenched the counter top for stability. Sherlock immediately rounded on him.
"Yes? Having trouble? Of course you are, you're a mess." He frowned. A bubble of concern arose in his chest, and he felt the need to take care of his doctor, his friend.
"Something is wrong John." He voiced. John seemed to snap out of his odd dilemma as his name was said. Quickly composing himself the best he could, the doctor fumbled with the milk and started putting it away.
" What? Nothing is wrong, everything's fine. Perhaps you're over-thinking things." He let out a chuckle, as if nothing had occurred in the past, tense few minutes.
" I do not "over-think", I observe, infer, eliminate the impossibilities and elaborate." Sherlock hastily explained, as though he had to explain this many times over. Which of course, he did. As John continued to put away the groceries, Sherlock re-analyzed him. Hands were still, breathing returned to normal, tired and dreary eyes no longer wide and terrified, though more droopy and exhausted.
"You very well do over-deduce, then. I suspect you're just getting upset over nothing. Spend less time in your mind palace, perhaps." He shrugged the rest of the conversation off, inspecting his chili peppers for blemishes. Sherlock was about to argue the point further, when his mobile rang from the table in the living room.
"John. My Phone. Get it." He commanded, as if it was far too much a task for him to walk out and get it himself. John rolled his eyes and headed out there.
"You could get it yourself like normal people do, tosser."
" Please, normal people are boring and uninformative most of the time." He sighed.
John tossed the mobile to Sherlock, who caught it and answered it all in one smooth transition.
"Yes, Lestrade? Yes…No, not that I've herd of. Will do, Inspector." He hung up and threw his mobile, where it rested on the counter. Quickly, he ran to his room and proceeded to get dressed. John paused in putting up the eggs, which rested on the counter as Sherlock hastily threw on his coat. Clearing his throat, the good doctor indicated that, yes he was still here, and expecting an explanation for his friends sudden interest in proper clothes.
"Sherlock, any reason you've decided to be an active member of society and get dressed today? What did Greg need?" Sherlock never paused, throwing his shirt on half hazardly.
" Lestrade informed me of a triple murder, happening at the same time, in exactly the same way!" He informed happily, nearly skipping with joy. John abandoned the eggs and went to get on his own coat, while looking at the murder-happy man, very confused.
"Yes, sorry, but why is this good news? That's probably a level three." The skip in Sherlock's step indicated a level nine at least, by Johns standards. Sherlock was halfway out the door when he responded, and his doctor hurried to keep pace with the skinny, tall man.
"Because, Watson, they all occurred at once on different continents!"
Amy kicked her feet up on the TARDIS main console, careful to mind any of the flickering buttons and whizzy knobs and doo-hickeys. God, she was bored. Really bored. Impossibly bored. Bored as balls. With a groan of discontent she called out to her husband, who sat across from her with a puzzle book in hand.
"Rory, how can you not be drooling over the pounds and pounds of excitement pouring down on us this fine afternoon?" She questioned sarcastically. Said husband looked up from his book, fiddling with his pen.
"Well, it's not as if we don't have anything to do." He lamely held up his word search with a half grin. Amy groaned.
"How thrilling. All of time and space to go through, all the time in the world, and our ever awake navigator decided to take a nap." She started fiddling with her hair, sneaking a mischievous grin towards her companion.
"We could always take a little nap ourselves." Rory's ears turned scarlet and he let out a huff of annoyance.
"No thanks, I seem to recall us getting plenty of rest last night. And the night before. It won't do much good for us to oversleep." He cleared his throat. "Besides, the Doctor seemed like he was pretty rung out yesterday." Amy frowned. Now that she though of it, the Time Lord in question did return slumped and less energetic than he usually was. The always hyper, drunk giraffe of a man always seemed to be happy and excited about every little thing and it unnerved her to see him so…worn.
Last night was stressful for her and Rory, and everyone involved. The day before, they had inspected a believed to be abandoned castle from the mid-evil times. The dark and musty smell was overpowering, and they wandered around the hallways for what seemed an eternity. Oddly enough, all the picture frames seemed empty of any life, besides their backgrounds. However, Amy loudly informed them that she had to use the restroom, and left two stuttering men searching for their spaceship, or the nearest bathroom.
Long story short, when Rory shouted a brief hello to check on her, a few sinks moved, a few secret chambers found, and a few giant serpents crossed their paths. Being chased back to the TARDIS by supposed ghosts didn't help either. The doctor had closed the TARDIS doors with a wild smile, and threw himself unto the console while turning knobs and pulling levers vigorously. Amy could just barely hearing him swear under his breath, and things slipped out such as: "Unbelievable…Made-up, fantasy…Old girl…space-time mental barriers." And other things. The Doctor seemed so hesitant to leave, but declared it necessary, even though Amy insisted on checking the rest of the castle out.
"Far too dangerous, too much of a risk of being exposed, messing with books and Alternate dimensions." She pleaded more on the subject, but eventually gave up. Stubborn-Arse Time Lords. However, the cheery man had stumbled off the bed last night, looking so worn and old; it startled her. To see him so alien to her. It was a harsh reminder to her that her raggedy Doctor might not always sleep the same time they do.
" Should we check up on him?" Rory suggested. Amy blinked, and shoved last nights adventures to the back of her mind. Nodding she got up from her seat and headed towards the hallway. Rory got up as well and followed her until they both stopped and look at each other.
"Errrm… Do you happen to know where his room is?" Amy asked Rory. Rory shrugged.
"I'm not sure he has an actual room. I just visualize him finding a couch or hammock and taking a nap there." Rory took lead and they headed down the hallway together, his nursly instincts kicking in. As they made their way down the hall, a whimpering, pathetic groan reached their ears. They paused for a moment until the adrenaline kicked in, and they hurried their pace from where the sound originated. It wasn't long before they found themselves in the doorway of a small, but cozy room. It was short of space, as everything in it seemed to be covered in bananas or banana goods. Banana bean bags, lamps, furniture, drapes and curtains. The curtains were very odd indeed, as there was no actual sun beaming though the window, but the slightly glowing light of the time vortex beaming through. Banana's and their peels littered the floors, providing a hazardous obstacle course for them to maneuver around d to get to the shriveled lump of Time Lord deposited in a banana shaped hammock.
"What's this here, then?" Amy gaped at the scene, speaking up sternly towards the slumped doctor. Said doctor didn't reply. Rory crept forward, carefully avoiding all banana paraphernalia and laid his hand on the Doctors forehead. Eyes widening, he retracted his hand with a hiss.
"Amy, he's burning up. He's definitely got a fever." He said. Amy frowned and hurried over to her husbands side, nearly slipping on a rouge fruit peel.
"Damn banana's. What do you mean he's got a fever? He's a Time Lord, his body and biology's completely different from ours, right?" She asked. Her Scottish accent flared up and became more pronounced as she became more concerned. She bent down so her flaming hair was nearly hovering above the Doctors face, so she could get a closer look.
"How should I know, he's an alien. He might have a bright yellow liver for all I know." Rory replied, eyebrows furrowed in concern. Upon closer inspection of the girraf-Time Lord, what he saw was discerning. His eyes were half lidded and glassy with fever, unfocused and irritate. Deep shadows lay under his eyes and his forehead glistened with sticky sweat. Shivers racked his body, though he seemed too weak to make a grab at the banana printed blanket a mere three feet away from him. He might have been mumbling something under his breath, if a throaty and wet cough didn't vibrate through his heaving chest every minute. His hair and clothes were soaked in sweat, and his chest rose and fell with short and staggering breaths. He looked terrible. Amy and Rory shared a glance, both coming to the same, horrible conclusion: Their Doctor was ill.
The wind whipped against Thor's cheeks as he plummeted over fifty feet down to catch the quickly shrinking scruffy man. He sped up as he realized the rate he was going at, and the rate their friend was falling. In the nick of time, it seemed, the god of thunder had caught his friend around the waist, and was hauling him in his arms towards safer ground. It wasn't unusual for Doctor Banner to wind up unconscious after a rather unexpected transformation, so when he returned to his smaller form, someone was sure to catch him whenever he reverted back.
The blond god gently landed by Steve, and laid the doctor carefully at his feet, his bushy eyebrows scrunched together. The Captain looked up and crouched down to the man, using his shield to protect Bruce in his vulnerable form.
"Report Thor!" He barked, eyes flashing from the battlefield to his friends instantly. Thor hovered over Bruce, Mjolnir affront.
"I'm afraid friend Bruce has reverted, and though there are no visible injuries I can spot, he has me concerned." Thor didn't elaborate on the subject, though he spun his hammer and readied himself for battle again. "He is under your protection, Captain. Have at three!" He called out and jumped back into the fray. This of course, left Steve to stand watch over the scientist as more and more Doombots poured out from every nook and cranny.
Recently, Doctor Victor Von Doom had been unleashing an onslaught of Doombots all over New York. Though this usually wasn't any more than a persistent annoyance to the Avengers, they hadn't one ounce of rest or pause in the army for eight hours straight. Hawkeye ran out of arrows, and had to resort to removing old one from defeated enemies and reuse them. Clint insisted through the com. that this was his way of being a healthy citizen and promoting recycling. Natasha glared at him.
Iron Man suddenly landed next to Clint, nearly blowing him off the roof with his landing repulsors.
"Hey Iron ass, you seem to be cavorting around us commoners lately, so I figure it must be important." Clint smirked and notched another arrow. He let it fly without even looking as he turned to the impressive technology-enhanced suit.
"That's right, Legolas. I figured there's not enough me to go around, so you'll have to take turns." He replied through the suits stereo systems. Clint could hear the cocky smirk through his metal faceplate. "I'm going to try and send out an electromagnet to short-circuit these guys, but I can't get close enough without the risk of them damaging the feed. You got any quick flight arrows left?" Tony inquired. Clint aimed three at the suit at once and Tony backed away slightly.
"Choose your pick." He insisted. Tony ejected a small object with wires and beeping buttons from the suit, and welded it to the back of the arrow. Hopefully, it was small enough not to mess with the aerodynamics.
"There we go. Now just shoot this sonovabitch right over the horde, and I'll activate the waves of electricity that'll bring these bad boys to their knees. " Tony flew away after that, and continued to fire ammo off at the robots quickly surrounding them. Clint rolled his eyes and notched the arrow.
"I know where to aim, asshole, I'm Hawkeye." Clint grumbled.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetie." Tony helpfully replied through the com. feed.
Not too long after that, Clint fired the arrow right above the densest horde, and an invisible shockwave pulsed out of the tiny device. All around, Doombots fell like puppets that got their strings cut, lying limp and inactive at their feet.
" Iron Man, your help would have been much appreciated five minutes ago." Black Widow's voice sounded through the coms. You could practically hear the venom in her voice that seemed to live up to her name. Any man with common sense and self perseverance would have bowed at her feet, begging her to forgive them and she viciously skinned them alive. But this is Tony Stark we're talking about. Majoring D- in common sense, and A+ in assholery.
"I was busy five minutes ago." Tony huffed. He gave Clint a lift, and they were soaring, flying down to the rest of the Avengers gathered below. If you listened carefully, you could hear Tony becoming a mama bird carrying her young down from its nest. But no, neither Clint nor Stark accept such nancy cat comparisons to their downwards flight. It had to be a manly and testosterone filled flight. Birds of prey Tag-teaming up on a bunch of innocent little squirrels. Yea. Manly.
"So how's mister mean, not-so-green fighting machine doing?" Tony asked, lifting his faceplate up and searching for Bruce. His eyes landed on the doctor and the Captain crouched down beside him in concern. He quickly kneeled next to Steve.
"He's still unconscious…" Steve pointed out the obvious, eyes swirling in concern for his tea-loving teammate. Careful, he picked up Bruce and deposited him in Iron Man's waiting arms. Bruce's head lolled to the side, but made no movement otherwise. "Take him to the tower, try and wake him for a while and let him rest up." He stated. In the past, Bruce might have taken a few extra hours to come to, but he had been progressively getting better at staying alert( if abet disoriented.)after Hulk-outs. However, this time he'd been completely unresponsive at all, which worried Steve.
"Aye-Aye Capsicle." Tony replied and blasted off towards Stark Tower, slowly with Bruce in tow. Thor, Clint, and Natasha approached Steve.
"S.H.I.E.L.D just reported in, they'll be handling clean-up this time." Informed Natasha, wiping oil from a scarily long knife with chilling familiarity. "Fury wants up cleaned up and spiffy for some important official from the British government by tomorrow evening. " Her eyes followed the trail of smoke left by Iron Man, and noticed Steve glaring at it in concern. Clint must have noticed it as well, and Natasha elbowed him in the ribs, signaling him to talk.
"Don't worry about Banner, Cap. He's a tough one, and it's not like the Hulk would let anything happen to him. He's probably just worn out. The guy barely sleeps." He said. Steve blinked and looked away, scanning the rest of his team for injuries as well. Natasha had a slowly bleeding cut across her forehead and a few bruises, but she barely acted as if it was bothering her. Clint wasn't too bad, though he suspected some bad bruises where he nearly got blasted in the side. Thor, as always, seemed fine.
"I suggest we all enjoy a merry rest before the marrow arises. I suspect it will bear great importance if Nicholas has summoned us all." Thor announced. They shared a look with each other before agreeing, and all headed back to the tower; Steve riding his motor bike, Natasha and Clint through S.H.I.E.L.D monitored vehicles, and Thor by flying.
Nick sighed as he hung up with the embodiment of the British government. Mycroft Holmes was a manipulative little bastard, though Fury admired that trait in him, it infuriated him to no end. The pompous son of a bitch had insisted on bringing what he called "One of the most accurate detectives in all of London, probably the world" to S.H.I.L.D headquarters. Fury could care less about this Sherlock mother fucker, but recent events had convinced him otherwise. It seemed that the detective's blogger, Captain John Hamish Watson, a doctor, had mysteriously disappeared for two weeks after his discharge from his Afghanistan post in the queens' army. No sight of him anywhere, no records, nothing. Suddenly this little shit showed up and rents a flat with this Sherlock person.
Fury frowned and flipped through his top secret files on the Avengers initiative, finding the exact same date, for two weeks, Doctor Brian Bruce Banner had also disappeared, with no input from the S.H.I.E.L.D agents assigned to watch him. That terrible security breach had him yelling for a few good hours, desperate to get a track of him again. When they accounted him present one more, Fury noticed he seemed a little more haggard and worn, a few more grey hairs had arisen. However, he seemed more chipper than he once was which set Fury on edge that day. It breezed by after a while, but Banner's and Watson's cases were eerily similar. His phone suddenly rang again, and he groaned in annoyance.
"Listen here, mister British Government, I already told you I'd schedule an appointment with your fucking detective." The voice that replied was not the uptight and pompous, cake-loving bastard he'd grown to know, but rather a smooth, American accented one.
"Well, whoever his name is, I'd be happy to take him off your hands. Sounds like a plan." The voice said. Fury's eyes narrowed, and he grit out into the phone.
"And who the hell is this speaking?"
"I understand you have a few Captains of your own I'd like to speak to, if that's alright. Army buddies, you know." The voice replied. Fury rolled his eyes.
"And who would you be representing to make an appointment?" He inquired.
"Captain Jack Harkness of Torchwood, at your service."