Two Great Men
"How long do you planning on staying here, Sherlock?" A tall man in a long black coat, who had been previously preoccupied with thoughts of his mourning friends, whirled upon hearing the name. The edges of his coat flared up behind him, giving even his startled turn a hint of drama, which fitted well on the graveyard's stage. The reason for this solemn man's agitation was, of course, no one was supposed to know he was alive.
Instead of finding John or Mycroft behind him, as he had half-feared/half-hoped, his eyes fell upon a young man dressed in an old man's clothes. The face was a good one, with a strong chin and calculating eyes, but it hardly fit him. If anything, his apparent youth, contrasted with his world-weary eyes and bearing, struck a cord of unexplainable fear in Sherlock. He quickly stuck that fear inside a box, buried that box under his mind palace, and then created a new mind palace to replace the old one, since the old one had been promptly scheduled for an explosive demolition.
A gun shot its way out of Sherlock's sleeve. He kept it trained on the smiling head of the deceptively innocuous being before him. The stranger didn't even flinch. Not even a trace of fear or surprise could be found.
"Who are you? What are you?" Sherlock growled. He kept his voice low for fear someone may hear him, even though the sun had gone down a full hour ago.
"Oh, that's unusual. Already with the "what"? What gave me away my "what" may I ask?"
"You can ask whatever you like, but I may not answer. However, you will listen to me. If you so much as breathe a word of my presence here to anyone, I will end you."
I'll burn you. I'll burn the HEART out of you.
It was just the chilling night air that had almost spurred Sherlock to shudder. He suppressed the shudder as best he could. Surely, it had been indiscernible to human eyes, merely a slight tightening of the muscles. So why did he feel that the stranger before him had seen it?
"You humans", the being replied, with an all encompassing wave of his hand, "always so arrogant." That struck a cord. Maybe it was his tone or his bearing, but Sherlock couldn't believe that someone who was so obviously used to condescension had just called him arrogant.
"So you don't consider yourself a human? Is that why you dress for attention?" A slight narrowing of the eyes on the baby face let him know he was on the right track. "At first, I thought you dressed in a manner which would best allow you to attract children." This was met with blank incomprehension, and Sherlock caught himself wondering whether he had overestimated the man's intelligence. "So you could abduct them." He watched the strange man absorb this new information. As what Sherlock was trying to say dawned on him, his eyes flashed from brown, like murky water, to dark green, to light blue, before finally settling on a stormy and electrifying deep mix of blue, green, and violet.
"Harm a child?" Sherlock observed the rise of his voice and straightening of his posture with interest, even as he mentally noted that his gun arm was getting tired. "I would never! I would rather blow up a thousand suns than harm a child."
"I imagine blowing up a thousand suns might harm many children, if you blow up the wrong ones."
A stricken look came over the young looking face. Not for first time in the life, Sherlock regretted saying something he shouldn't have. He never meant, never wanted, to hurt those who got close to him. It just seemed to happen. It was better then if no one got close.
"Yes, I imagine it might." His eyes flickered nervously at the sky as though searching for the sun, which was strange. First, it was nighttime, and therefore, no sun to be found. And second, careless words alone could never blow up a sun.
"Tell me, what should I call you?" The words tumbled out in a friendlier tone than the young detective would have liked.
"Put the gun down and I will." Without a second thought, the arm holding the gun fell harmlessly to Sherlock's side. "Shouldn't you put the safety on?"
"It's safe enough. Now, what should I call you?"
"Doctor."
Sherlock blinked.
"Okay."
The Doctor blinked.
"That's it? Just 'Okay'."
"Would you prefer I called you something else? I can only assume that Doctor is what you wish for me to address by, since that is the title you have given. It could be an alias, or a name, but I am interested in neither. I am, however, interested in you."
"Shall we trade then? Information for information?" The Doctor seemed pleased by this turn of events, especially since a gun was no longer being pointed at his forehead. Now they were just two intelligent men talking at night in a graveyard. And just imagine it, he was talking to Sherlock Holmes! Young, real, and living in the 21st century.
"Alright, I'll go first." Sherlock said.
The Doctor acquiesced with a slight, enthusiastic nod of his head.
"Are you human?," Sherlock queried.
"No."
"Can you prove that?"
"Yes."
"Well then do so!"
Awfully impatient this one, thought the Doctor. He held out his hand for the young detective to hold, and was met with a quizzically raised eyebrow.
"Take my pulse," the Doctor explained. Instantly, he felt two rough hands grab his wrist.
"Fascinating! Two pulses. Two hearts… Is there anything else?"
"Shoot me, and I'll regenerate into a completely different person before your very eyes," he said without thought, as he gingerly rubbed his wrist. A wide grin spread across Sherlock's features as he prepared to shoot the strangely dressed alien before him, but the alien panicked.
"I didn't mean shoot me now!" The Doctor shouted, while motioning for Sherlock to put his gun down.
"Can I shoot you later then?"
"No! Would you let me shoot you to ascertain your humanity?"
"Perhaps I would, but you hate guns. You can barely stand the sight of this one. Bad experience?"
"It that your second question?"
Was that his second question? How many questions would he have? How much did he want to know? Well, the answer was everything, wasn't it? Because he could never know everything. And if he never knew everything, if there was always another problem left for him to solve, than he would never be… bored.
STAYING ALIVE! SO BORING, ISN'T IT?!
The desire to shake the thought off like a wet dog struck him again, but he ignored it.
"I'll answer your question regardless." The Doctor continued.
How long had he been silent?
"My fear of guns is not due to a bad experience, rather it is due to a fear of myself. I don't need a gun to steal lives and ravage planets. Just this," he gestured to his brain. "The reason for why I dress in such a nonsensical fashion is this: I hate seeing the fear I feel towards myself reflected in the eyes of those I love. Or those I wish to love me."
"You wish to be loved by everyone, but have you ever loved anyone?"
Rage consumed the Doctor's heart as his hands clutched spasmodically at a pair of women's reading glasses in his front pocket.
"Of course, I have loved! I have loved more deeply than a human like you would ever know", dark eyes glittered dangerously in the lantern light, but Sherlock wasn't afraid this time. "I loved Amy. And Rory. And Donna. And Mickey. And Rose. And Susan. I loved them all, but all of them left me."
"Those names… Years ago, people started going missing for stretches of time."
"There is a version of me in this universe?"
"Shut up, I'm talking. And stop gaping, you're not stupid and I know you aren't so stop trying to look it. Don't argue or I'll be forced to have you to turn around while I speak."
The Doctor shut his mouth and fumed silently.
"Years ago, people started going missing for stretches of time", he continued. "Some of them never came back. Are you telling me you are responsible for that?"
"Yes, but it's not as though I offer them candy and say, 'Come with me on my magic flying spaceship'.
"Don't you? All those people you tempt into flying with you on whatever you use, did you actually warn them that they might never come back? Or did you say, 'do you want to go on an adventure'?"
A wince and a violent shudder told Sherlock he'd hit a nerve.
"It's their choice to come with me. It's their choice to put their life in my hands."
"Is that what you tell yourself when you fail them?"
"No! It's what I tell myself every time I'm about to trick a new one!"
"So you admit it's a trick! They believe in you. They expect you to protect them, but you've already given up on them before they've even entered your damn ship!"
"Exactly! That's why I need to find someone who cannot die. Someone I don't have to protect!"
"People die! That's what they DO!" Sherlock countered.
"The Universe owes me!" The Doctor howled, his face demented by pain and a hint of madness. "It owes me, and it will OBEY me!" He stopped abruptly, whole body tensing with a realization even Sherlock couldn't have guessed in his current state.
"That's not how the Universe works! It doesn't say 'thank you'. It doesn't reward good deeds, and it doesn't take orders from lonely old men!" Again, the Doctor physically confirmed what Sherlock had only suspected. So he truly wasn't as young as he looked. Although he didn't usually research alien sightings, he'd probably be doing a lot of research when he got back to the apartment he had bought under a false name.
Now that Sherlock knew that loss and fear were this man's (for he was man, despite his planetary origins) weaknesses, he could step on his open wounds. Already the man was bleeding and it was exhilarating. Bleed more. Feel more pain.
The man with the bow tie seemed to have brought his breathing under control somewhat, though he seemed a little startled. However, Sherlock wasn't prepared for his question.
"Why do you want me to do, then?"
For once, Sherlock was silent. Several years seemed to carve themselves into the face he had once thought of as young.
"It's my turn now." The Doctor said, his voice hoarse. "Who have you lost?"
"All of my friends." Sherlock answered, it came naturally, as though the words had been waiting there on the tip of his tongue. Suddenly young again, the Doctor tried to crane his neck so he could get a better glimpse at the marble gravestone he'd seen his (former?) favorite detective staring at earlier. "Don't look at the gravestone." Shadows deepened the lines on the Doctor's face, making his grim smile seem truly fearsome.
"Sound advice. If only everyone listened to it."
"Was that how you lost her?" Sherlock asked, without much tact.
"The answer is yes. However, I believe it's my turn to ask questions."
Sherlock nodded his head minutely in acknowledgment. It was the closest thing to an apology the Doctor figured he was ever going to get.
"Are your friends dead?"
"No."
"Well, than who is?"
Surely Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be standing in a graveyard if someone weren't dead. Unless… he was grave digging!
"I am."
Two words, simply and plainly spoken, broke through the Doctor's thoughts. They mirrored the thoughts he had never expressed, not even to those closest to him. If he had told River or Amy how dead he sometimes felt inside, they would have tried to comfort him or told him to cheer up. River might have even slapped him. But he didn't want to be comforted, or slapped; he wanted someone to just accept it. Accept that sometimes a man can only lose so much before the world no longer feels like a beautiful place, before food tastes like ash, and the dreamless bliss of eternal rest seems like a much better alternative to facing his reflection in the mirror.
It was for this reason that he wouldn't comfort the boy. He wasn't going say something pithy like, "I've seen dead people and you're not dead."
"Maybe you are." He said instead. "Maybe you're dead now. But one of the great things about living is: you can always come back to life!" Mildly confused, the Doctor wondered where those words had come from.
The young boy, for he was a young boy despite his great intelligence, stared off into the distance. There was a blank look in his eyes that the Doctor disliked. He disliked it greatly.
"A long time ago, I was on the side of the angels. It wasn't a side I had chosen, but when you have angels by your side what other side can you be on?"
In his mind's eye, the Doctor thought he saw one of the stone angels at the very edge of his vision turn to face Sherlock. The stone angel was a small child… and it was smiling.
...
"But now the angels are-"
The Doctor leapt to cover his mouth with one hand, while surreptitiously grabbing his sonic screwdriver with other. Before Sherlock could tear his hand away, the Doctor whispered furiously, "Don't blink. There are monsters here who will kill you if you do." Something wet and slimy ran its way up and down the hand he was using to cover Sherlock's face. He recoiled as though the boy had bitten him.
"Ew. Gross!" Merely wiping his hand on his pants would never rid him of the grossness. Sherlock was sporting a strangely satisfied smile.
"Mycroft would also try to shut me up with that method, but I know his weakness."
"Let me guess, your brother hates germs.
"Yes he does!"
"I'm glad you're enjoying your momentary triumph but as we are currently in mortal danger, please put away your smugness and concentrate on leaving this graveyard alive. My Tardis is parked right outside. We just have to get in it and go."
"I can't just turn it off!" Sherlock said, indignant, before continuing, "You said that if I blinked they would be able to kill us, right? So basically, we have to be viewing them at all times. As this seems to have more to do with sight than whether or not you blink, please tell me you parked your spaceship under a lamp."
The Doctor looked at him dubiously, "Um, sorry?"
"Say that again, and I will turn the safety off on my gun. Then I will shoot you. For science."
"Wait, the saftey's been on this whole time?"
"Why would I point a gun at my foot if the safety wasn't on?" He stated it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"Your priorities are screwed up! What about my forehead? My forehead?!"
"It's slightly larger than normal," Sherlock deadpanned.
"No! Was it on when it was pointed at my head?"
A high pitched giggle echoed a few steps behind Sherlock. It came again, closer than before.
"…Not sure"
"How can you not be sure?"
"I don't remember trivial details."
"Whether or not I was in mortal danger is NOT a trivial detail!"
Little by little, with every blink the two made, the angels drew closer to their prey. It was so easy. Despite being aware of their existence, the two seemed so distracted by each that eating their potential would be almost disappointingly easy. Most of the Weeping Angels liked it better when their prey was afraid. Just as a stone child was about to touch Sherlock, a monstrous grin distorting its angelic face, and more conventional Angel was about to grab the Doctor's jacket, the two men simultaneously closed their eyes, and tackled each other to the ground.
For a while, the Doctor dreaded the thought of opening his eyes, but Sherlock started to wriggle in his grasp.
"If you don't let go soon, the colonists are going to talk."
The Doctor's eyes snapped open, and he stood with a start, which led to him bumping his head rather sharply on the Weeping Angel's arm. He leapt back, tripping over the child before landing roughly on his bum. It was with a feeling of relieved disbelief that he realized their plan had worked. The two Weeping Angels were forever frozen in time.
Despite suspecting what he would find, he glanced over at Sherlock. The boy was staring at him with glittering mischief in his eyes, and an amused smirk.
"I told you 'I can't just turn it off'."
It was amazing how they'd thought of the same strategy. They were very similar, in personality, intelligence, and tragedy. That similarity had probably saved their current lives.
"Do you want to destroy them?" Sherlock asked, lazily gesturing at the Angels as he lay back to watch the stars.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"I've tried." The despair in the Doctor's voice filled the very air they breathed.
"Do you hate them?"
"Yes."
"Because they are monsters?"
"In part, yes."
"And you're not?"
"I know I'm a monster." The Doctor said, a tone of finality in his voice. He laid back to watch the stars, and wondered how long it had been since he had thought of them as beautiful.
"Maybe. Maybe you're a monster and I'm dead." Sherlock mused.
Turning over on his side slightly, the Doctor queried, "Would you like to come with me? Be my companion?" Sherlock snorted.
"You mean keep you entertained until you find your immortal toy? No thanks. As interesting as being with you is, I would not give my brain or my life for that time. Also, I'm tired. I cared about people, and they were taken from me. Maybe I'm not as strong as you, but I don't think I could take losing someone I cared about again. I'd rather be alone. And you're suicidal." The Doctor made a sound as if to protest. "No, don't deny it. You parked your ship in a dark spot because you wanted to die, but I screwed up your scheme."
"I was hoping you would leave before the sun went down." The Doctor sheepishly admitted.
"You don't have to die, but if you'd like to be less of a monster-"
The Doctor felt his attention rise.
"Be honest with your companion. Tell her she may die on your adventure, or worse. Tell her she may never see her home or family again. Tell her how, sometimes, you can't always keep your promises. There may even come a time when she screams out your name, but you won't hear her, or you will, but you won't save her. And lastly, tell her how hard it is for you to love. You're not human, but for a friend or someone who cares for you, I doubt it's easy to remember that."
"I'd rather they forgot." Who knew honesty could hurt two hearts so much?
"But you don't want to give up the power only you have." Sherlock could understand this of course. If he gave up about a 100 IQ points, he'd be able to speak with Anderson as an equal. Not that he'd ever want to speak to Anderson. "I had these friends who accepted me. They treated me like an equal. They taught me how to care."
Dark, intelligent eyes glanced at Sherlock, and he was suddenly very aware that he was speaking to an alien.
"Are you happy? Are you happy that you care now?"
"Caring gave my enemies a weakness to use against me, but I could not have known happiness without them. I'm not happy that I care. I'm happy that there was once a time when I cared. There was once a time when I was happy, and I will treasure that time, but that time is over now."
The Doctor stood up and brushed his pants off. It wasn't time for the sun to rise yet, but he was confident that it would. For now, there were only millions of balls of glittering gas and rock in the sky. That wasn't so bad.
As he passed the Weeping Angels, he entertained a momentary urge to draw funny pictures on their faces, but decided against it.
"Goodbye, Sherlock. I hope we meet again."
"I'd prefer we didn't actually. Statues never attacked me before I met you, you see."
The Doctor rolled his eyes.
"Humans. Always blaming me."
As the man with his freshly straightened bow tie was about to reach the gate, he heard, "And make sure you don't invite any more kids to your ship with promises of candy or adventure!"
His breathe rushed out in a frustrated huff, "That is not what I-" The image of a young Scottish girl with red hair and freckles popped into his head. But that was justified, he assured himself. Totally doesn't count.
He looked back at Sherlock in time to see the boy glaring suspiciously at his person… before he turned and started booking it towards the relative safety of the Tardis.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed this story. In case you didn't realize, it takes place a few hours after Watson leaves Sherlock's grave, and after the Snowmen in Doctor Who. There were a few things I wanted to include but didn't in the end. 1) Part of the reason Sherlock is so hostile to the Doctor is he reminds him of Moriarty. 2) Sherlock was supposed to say this, "He thinks I overestimate him, but he underestimates himself far more." And lastly, please review. Thank you
Review Response:
Sundapple: Thank you so much for such a nice review, and I definitely appreciate your criticisms. When I was writing this, I didn't exactly have a written out plan, though I am thinking of trying that in the future. The Doctor being slightly suicidal (he didn't actually think he'd lose to the Angels) was something I used to answer the question, "Why did he park the Tardis in a dark spot?". It also helped when I had to explain why Sherlock didn't want to be a companion. Of course, it's more than just the danger or the possibility of being faced with new loss that kept Sherlock from flying in the Tardis. In fact, he'd love to go, but he'd never leave Molly, John, and Mrs. Hudson to fend for themselves.
Lastly, why angels? Originally, they weren't going to be in here, but then Sherlock had to go and say "angel" in a graveyard. With the Doctor, that's like tempting fate. If the conversation had continued as it was going... It would have been interesting.