Sherlock was bored.
Well, he was staring at the ceiling – of course he was bored. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. No cases, no excitement. So in his boredom, Sherlock had resorted to studying the design on the crown moldings above him.
John had left a while ago. Mentioned something about the one with the eyebrows. Samantha? Sharron? No, no, no, was it Karen? Sherlock sighed in exasperation. It didn't matter – they were all the same to him.
In a passing thought, it occurred to Sherlock that he should probably find something to do until John got home, before any objects in the flat fell victim to one of his more devastating behaviors. So he started to weigh his options in hopes of finding something even remotely interesting to do.
Laptop: in his room, right where it didn't need to be at that moment.
Nicotine patches: useless, unless he had something to think about. Which he didn't.
Gun: deemed "too destructive", apparently. John had left his pistol in the care of Mrs. Hudson, who wouldn't let Sherlock venture anywhere near it. (When Sherlock had inquired about it, John's justification was that he was 'saving the walls along with the rent', or some similar nonsense.)
John's laptop: hidden. Sherlock knew where it probably was – being used as a coaster on John's side table – but again, he didn't want to leave the room he was currently occupying.
Experiments were out of the question as well. John was quite shaken by the last one he had unfortunately stumbled upon, and he had said, quite firmly indeed, that he didn't want that to find any more 'vulgar' experimentations anywhere in the flat ever again 'because, for goodness' sake, I live here, too'.
Maybe he could find something to read? Sherlock's eyes wandered up and down the bookshelves, over to the cluttered desk, drifting from there to the messy floor. There was nothing. Well, nothing of consequence. Nothing that hadn't been read or tossed aside already. Just boring book after boring book after–
Sherlock's attention snapped to a hard-back lying on the floor.
Interesting.
It was definitely not a boring book. No, not dull at all. It was very… odd. In fact, Sherlock was sure that it hadn't been lying there the day before. He had never seen that book ever before, in his flat or otherwise.
He jumped off of the sofa and grabbed at it, desperately hoping it would prove to be important for some reason, or even just a good read.
But when he turned it right-side up, he froze, his eyes hovering on the title. He flipped through the book, examining its contents. Anger bubbled up inside of him.
Well, that's… aggravating.
He closed the book and studied its cover. The author's name didn't ring any bells, but that didn't mean a pen name wasn't used, and Sherlock had a feeling he knew exactly who was the guilty culprit.
~oOo~
A few hours later, well into the afternoon, the front door downstairs opened. Sherlock's eyes tore from the book that he was immersed in, listening carefully to every creak in the floorboard as a pair of feet made their way up the stairs. After deducing who it was, he seemed to lose interest and looked back to the book.
"How long did you think it would take me to find it, John?" Sherlock mumbled as the medic stepped into the room.
John looked from Sherlock to around the flat curiously with lips pursed, probably trying to figure out what his flat-mate was talking about. "What?"
"Hiding it in plain sight? Not exactly your best scheme."
"Wait, what are we talking about?"
"The book!" Sherlock stood up and tossed the hard-back to John, who just barely managed to catch it. The detective paced the floor as he waited for an explanation.
John fumbled with the book and clumsily flipped it over, revealing its cover. His eyebrows drew together. "Um… Sherlock? What is this?"
"Please refrain from acting like you've never seen it before," Sherlock continued. "I know you better than that."
"No, Sherlock, seriously. What is this?"
"I don't know, Sir," he emphasized the title. Sherlock then turned sharply to John and glared at him with distain. "You tell me."
John's eyebrows furrowed even more. But after a moment, he glanced at the cover again, where it dawned on him. He looked up with widened eyes. "Whoa, hold on. You don't think that I wrote this? That I'm this 'Sir Arthur Conan Doyle' bloke, do you?"
"Well, who else could've done it? You've already written them up on your blog. And now you're… you're , what, planning on getting published?" Sherlock scoffed before gaining a more disappointed air. "You didn't even ask my permission," he huffed.
"Wha-? No!" John seemed taken aback as if he, too, was trying to make sense of it all. He flipped through the pages, his eyes skimming rapidly as he tried to sort through his confusion.
"Sherlock Holmes: A Study in Scarlet? What the…?"
He flipped to yet another page.
"Sherlock Holmes: The Five Orange Pips? Sherlock Holmes: A Scandal in… What's this, Bohemia?" He shook his head, a hint of a bemused smile tugging at his lips. "This is ridiculous." John looked up from the book only to see that the skeptical expression on Sherlock's face hadn't faltered. "But I didn't write it."
Sulking with suspicion, Sherlock whisked his dressing gown around before plopping back down onto the couch again.
"Come on, I didn't, I swear!" With book in hand, John marched over to where Sherlock lay, moping. He flipped open to a random page and held it out for Sherlock to see. "Look at it. Read it. That's not me. That's not how I write." He turned the page, giving Sherlock more evidence. "This is all Victorian and… impressive. I can't write like that."
Intrigued, Sherlock grabbed the book out of John's hand and continued reading.
"Although it's odd," John continued as he made his way towards his favorite chair. "That book looks… old. And well-read, too."
"Yes…" Sherlock felt the torn, yellow-stained pages between his fingers before turning back to the worn, leather binding. Peering over the book at John, he conferred quizzically, "And you've never seen it before?"
"Nope."
This instilled a slow nod from the detective, who turned his attention to the book once again. He regarded it with disgust.
"Then it's probably a prank. Someone just trying to be clever. There are plenty of ways to 'age' paper and leather to make them appear older than they actually are."
He tossed it aside, deeming it unworthy of his time. Just like that, it was no longer a problem.
But John couldn't help but look at the book, which now lay on the floor, and sigh. Mumbling something about 'cleaning services, I'm not a bloody maid', he got himself out of the chair and wobbled over to pick it up. Sherlock may have brushed it aside as a simple practical joke, but John couldn't help but think that his friend's reasoning wasn't completely sound.
Not to mention that it was a book, an interesting one at that. Which meant there was something to do. He flipped to the first page and dove straight into 'Sherlock Holmes: a Study in Scarlet'.
A stillness quickly settled over the flat, where it remained for quite some time. Sherlock thought about goodness knows what, and John read.
And the more he read, the more impressed he became. It was brilliant – albeit unsettling – how the author wrote all of their cases in another era, where they strangely didn't seem too out-of-place. And although the author's true intentions behind writing such a novel baffled John, he still couldn't help but feel a bit… flattered. Someone had clearly put a lot of time and effort into the book.
He became engulfed in the world that was Victorian-era Sherlock Holmes. He read of deduction. He read of casework. He read of houskeeper Mrs. Hudson and an Inspector Lestrade. He read of a pipe and a magnifying glass and a deerstalker – a deerstalker – and of a wonderful adventure in a time well gone.
John was very reluctant to return to the real world. The case was just getting interesting, and goodness, he knew how it ended and he was still literally on the edge of his seat. But the real world would not be kept waiting.
The doorbell rang.
Sherlock and John looked up at one another.
"A client?"
"Didn't sound like it. Too ecstatic."
John began to stand up out of his chair. "Might be for me, then-"
"It isn't."
John froze and glanced at his flat mate. With lips pursed, he plopped back down into the chair. "Then it's for you, right? Who is it?"
"Don't know. Don't care."
The doorbell sounded again. And again.
"Seems urgent."
"Hardly." This was said with an air of finality that had John clenching his jaw in exasperation.
It rang one last long, irritating tone. Sherlock didn't even seem to notice.
"Oh, for God's sake…" John muttered. "I'll get it, shall I?"
And with that, he made his way downstairs and opened the front door, where the not-so-patient visitor was waiting.
But before he could inquire about formalities and such, John was put to silence by the odd sight of the man. There were stripes and suspenders and tweed everywhere, with a bowtie thrown into the mix. And his face flaunted a beaming smile that made John feel extremely uncomfortable with whatever odd situation he found himself in.
"Ah, hello!" Said the eccentric man. "Sorry to bother you. You are…?"
"Um…" John was even more startled by the blunt question. Isn't the one who opens the door supposed to ask for a name first, not the other way around? The soldier shifted awkwardly from one foot to another before responding, "John… John Watson. Can I help you?"
At the mention of the name, the man's already present grin grew until in encompassed his entire face and form. He pointed at John and let out a giggle as if he had just heard a joke that only he understood.
"Yes, yes, Doctor John Watson, glad to meet you!" He enthusiastically offered a hand, which John shook out of habit (not to mention confusion). "Really, this is just wonderful, twenty-first Century and everything. Now that is rather exciting!"
As he was saying all of this, the man looked curiously over John's shoulder into the flat, and then gawked a bit at his surroundings, seemingly intrigued by the buses and cabs that were driving by. After nodding to himself, he looked back at John. Cocking his head one way, his eyes focused on John's other hand that was straight at his side.
"Ooh look, what's that you've got there?"
Now John was rather dazed – the stranger had been talking so quickly, and the soldier hadn't been able to get a word in edge-wise. So it was unsurprising that, for the first time, John noticed that he had carried the book down with him to answer the door.
"It's, ah… It's a book…?" He lifted it up and examined it before switching his attention back to the stranger. "I'm sorry… Do I know you?"
"Oh, no, of course not. But that's quite rude of me, isn't it? I haven't even introduced myself!" In the midst of his rambling, the stranger pulled a wallet out of his jacket pocket and held up a business card. "I'm the Doctor. And before you ask, yes, it's just 'The Doctor', nothing else." He pocketed the wallet hurriedly and studied what he could see of the book in John's hand. "Ah, yes. And that would be mine!"
The man, this Doctor, quite rudely seized the book out of John's grip. From impulse, John arms shot after it, but the man swatted his hands away.
"Hey, hold on, don't get so clingy!" The Doctor scolded. "Wouldn't want to lose a first edition," He went on to explain, showing John the inside of the cover. "An autographed one, no less. It's priceless. Had to ask him myself!"
He scrunched his eyebrows and squinted his eyes. And for the first time, John saw a squiggle of a name scratched on the title page that was held up to him.
"Wait, it's yours?"
"Yup!" The Doctor rocked from his heels to his toes and proudly snapped his suspenders. "Although, sorry about all of this. Bit of a mix-up, actually. The TARDIS just got a bit confused – not the first time this has happened, and probably won't be the last. Now here we are, safe and with no loss of power, which is a relief! But the library kind of… imploded in the process," The man flinched before shaking his head before continuing. "Terrible business, rifts. At least I know how to fix it this time."
John just stood there, gaping. He frankly hadn't understood a thing the man said, and he couldn't help but ask, "Sorry… A what?"
"Oh, no, no, sorry," The man took the book and hit himself on the forehead with it. He waved his other hand in front of his face as if trying to whack away a fly. "Just forget all of that, it's not important…" After placing the book under his armpit, he looked curiously at John. "Where are you two at, anyways?"
John was still at a loss for words and wasn't quite sure what was meant by that comment, and the only response the stranger got was a rather unflattering cod-like expression.
The Doctor went on to explain, "What case are you on?"
"Um, we returned a stolen painting just last week."
The grin returned. "Really? That's brilliant. Which one?"
"Turner's The Falls of the Reichenbach, I think it was."
The man's smile faltered. There was an uncomfortable silence, as if he wasn't quite sure of what he had heard. He spoke slowly, deliberately. "'Reichenbach', you said?"
John nodded. The Doctor tried to recover his smile, but it came across much more pitying than a normal smile would.
"Er, yes. The Reichenbach Falls. I… I see."
He then open and closed his mouth a few times, as if he wanted to say something but wasn't sure if he should. He must've convinced himself, for he finally began.
"I don't know if this will help you or not. I don't know how different these strand of events will be from what I've read, considering how different the settings and eras are. But I do know that sometimes, when something disappears, it might not be gone forever. Just… keep that in mind."
There was a depth to his words, a sadness in his face, as if there was still far more he wanted to say. But he didn't add anything else.
John just stared at him, not sure about how to respond to such a cryptic message. But because of the emotion behind the Doctor's eyes, he knew that it must have been a significant sort of message.
The Doctor nodded, shattering the eerie moment. "Right. Well… I best be off, then." He took the soldier's hand in his own and shook it warmly. "Pleasure meeting you, Doctor Captain John Watson!"
"Pleasure," John said hesitantly. With the events that transpired, he couldn't exactly say if it had necessarily been pleasant or not.
The Doctor began walking down the steps before turning around, looking at John, and giggling to himself one last time. Then the man walked away, leaving a very confused army doctor in his wake.
John just stood on the steps for a few minutes, watching him go. Then, an odd sound penetrated the air. That particular noise didn't sound right slicing through the London atmosphere as it did. And then… nothing. Nothing but the cars on the street and the other sounds of mundane city life. There was not any evidence that anything odd had happened at 221B Baker Street that afternoon.
Something brought him back to his senses, and when John fully recovered from his slight shock, he entered the building and shut the door behind him. He then carefully made his way back up to the flat.
"Who was it?" A voice from the couch inquired when the medic re-entered the room.
John shook his head.
"I have absolutely no idea."