I wrote this back before season 3 of Sherlock came out. It was supposed to be a lot longer with multiple chapters, but I never finished it. I just found this on the depths of my computer. So I fixed it up a bit and I'm posting it here to be adopted.
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There was no other plan. Thirteen original ideas when he went up on that roof; eight ways to escape, five different outcomes. Sherlock had predicted that Moriarty would do this, perhaps, but the chances of him killing himself up there were slim.
He wished he had put more competence in those odds.
His blessed plans and ideas blew away in the dust as he looked to the bloody body of this man. At least he was dead, Sherlock could be thankful for that. So what now? He was down to two options. Go downstairs? Kill three people, possibly traumatize countless others? All so that he could survive to solve more crimes for another day. He didn't want to do that though, if John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade were killed, he would be alone once again. That was hard enough to deal with the first time. Mycroft wouldn't ever leave him alone about it. So what, he was a sociopath, not a compete psychopath. So Moriarty just happened to target the people he cared about.
The bastard.
He turned thinking, spiraling, a myriad of thoughts propelling at every 100th of a second. No. No. No. That won't work. Red flags, sirens…none of the ideas worked. None.
Except one.
He took a step up on the ledge. The wind whipping through his curly hair. This was it then.
A taxi cab. A fair haired man stepped out, mid 30's. Even from the distance, his face was warming to Sherlock's plummeting hope. At least he was still safe. He came toward the building, phone to his ear.
"Sherlock, are you okay?" The detective heard the voice in his ear, distorted from the phone.
"Turn around and walk back the way you came." His tone scared him as it was demanding. He had never demanded John before. Never any need to.
"No, I'm coming in." It was just like the doctor to argue.
"Just. Do as I ask." Was his voice wavering? It wasn't supposed to do that. He added, "Please."
The doctor obeyed, turning around. "Where?"
"Stop there."
"Sherlock."
"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."
"Oh god." So he figured it out. John really had been with the detective for long time, he deduced what was happening. Sherlock was proud of his blogger.
He found himself breathless, uncharacteristically weak. "I— I— I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this."
"What's going on?" John was calm, but Sherlock could hear the fear in his voice. If what John had deduced was true, then surely, Sherlock Holmes could fix it.
No one told Sherlock that.
"An apology." He paused. "It's all true."
"What?" He asked sharply, slightly angry.
"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."
John stood slack jawed for a moment, digesting this information. It was a lie, wasn't it? "Why are you saying this?"
It took Sherlock even longer to answer. His mouth pulled tightly downward as his eyes welled up with tears. Tears? Sadness? This was foreign, but none the less genuine. "I'm a fake."
No. "Sherlock—"
John listened in pained frustration as his friend uttered through his phone, "the newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes."
The doctor's breaths quickened as his heart beat on. "Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met—the first time we met—you knew all about my sister, right?" He had to prove Sherlock wrong, maybe he would snap out of this egotistically delusion.
"Nobody could be that clever." He saw the smile.
"You could."
Sherlock blurted a sorrow-filled laugh, appreciative of John's confidence.
He shook his head, unbelieving the lie that he was about to say. "I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Its just a magic trick."
"No. Alright, stop it now." John had enough of Sherlock's melodramatics, and headed toward the building again.
"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move." He ordered again.
John amended. "Alright." He held a hand up in surrender.
Sherlock reached a hand out for his friend. "Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"
Were those tears dripping from Sherlock's face? "Do what?" Although he knew.
Then, the detective's voice became strangely calm. He exhaled deeply and then, "this phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."
"Leave a note when?"
"Goodbye, John."
"No. Don't—"
Words had ended, but the conversation went on. They stared at each other, 100 feet apart, yet as if seeing the other for the first time. Sherlock lowered his phone and ended the call, then tossed the device to the roof.
"No, SHERLOCK!" John's voice carried over the wind to reach him. Desperation screamed volumes at the detective as he spread his arms, leaned forward and fell.
It was slower then he imagined, reaching the ground. Granted, to Watson, it probably seemed so much faster. The air screeching in his ears, the breath leaving his lungs. Shock taking over his body, a slow descent to a cruel death. His eyes slid shut.
Goodbye, John…
SWISH.
Sherlock laid on his face, eyes still closed, as he pondered for a moment. He didn't expect to hear a sound when he landed, but definitely not 'Swish'. Maybe 'Splat' or 'Crack', considering he was to hit the cement from a seven story drop, but not 'Swish'.
Come to think of it, the fall hadn't really hurt. He didn't hurt. But then again, he was dead. He wasn't supposed to feel pain in death right? He focused on his senses. What did he see? Well, nothing, of course. He was face first in the dirt.
Wait, dirt. And…grass? Long soft grass. That was strange, definitely not cement. What else? Birds. There were birds singing, and…a roar, some sort of animal. Definitely something not native to England. And the smell of garlic, a plant not natural to England.
Sherlock pushed off the ground and sat on his haunches. He pursed his lips as he looked around. Trees, clear blue sky, greenery and foliage, all things that were not present when he fell.
When he fell. Sherlock out right laughed. "Oh yes, I'm dead!" He smiled. Then, this thought went through his head. According to his theories, there was no life after death, so if by sitting in a field in a heavenly setting told him anything, it's that he could be wrong about that…if indeed he was wrong. Then there was the fact that if he was wrong, he was in the incorrect place. He was aware of the requirements in most religions to get to the place called heaven, and as far as he knew, he didn't meet them.
"God?" He asked, standing up and looking to the sky. "When is the trap door going to open? Because I've really had enough falling for one day."
No answer.
Sherlock twitched his nose. "Maybe I'm not dead." He scrounged around his pocket and found a small knife, then pricked his finger. There was a twinge of pain and a drop of blood.
"Not dead. So, what's next?" He asked himself.
There was rustling in the bushes.
"Is someone there?" Sherlock asked warily.
A young man emerged, looked about age twenty. "Uh, hi. I thought I heard someone out here…" He said.
"Oh good, someone to talk to." The detective came closer and realized the boy was missing a leg, he needn't bring it up thought. "Right, where am I exactly?"
"You're standing in the middle of a garlic grove." He stated with a shrug. "More specifically, on the east side of Raven's point." He narrowed his eyes. "I don't believe I've seen you around before."
"I don't believe you would have…" Sherlock's attention wasn't solely on the boy as he saw a black blur dash behind him. "Uh…" He wrote it off as a trick of the light. "Raven's point, how far away from London is that?"
"London? I've never heard of it."
"Well, its…wait, you've never heard of London? It's one of the largest cities in the world!"
"Is it apart of the Roman empire? Because you are FAR from there."
Roman empire, right. This kid was on some sort of hallucinogen. If he had some, Sherlock wanted it. "Okay, wise guy, then what country am I in? Where am I?!"
"This is the Isle of Berk." The kid raised his hands in defense.
Again, the black shadow moved, coming closer.
"Berk. Okay, anyway I could get to a phone or computer?"
"Fone?" The boy parroted.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "A teenager that's never heard of a phone, that's funny."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand."
Sherlock mapped the boy out first, then sighed. "You're obviously a rugged kid, tend to live off the land, like some sort of bumpkin. You live recklessly, possibly an orphan, I favor a runaway, and a thief. A homeless, deranged bumpkin, that's what I'm dealing with."
"Excuse me? No!"
"Alright, pretending I believe you, AND that I could possibly be wrong, is there someone else I could talk to? The police maybe?"
"My dad's the chief."
"Chief," Sherlock repeated, "Like, police chief?"
"No, like Chief of our tribe."
A giant lightbulb seem to go off in Sherlock's mind. THAT'S why he was dressed like that! That's why there were no phones! "What year is it?"
"Uh…the 47th year of Stoick the Vast."
"That is not remotely helpful."
The boy shrugged. "Sorry. I really would like to help. Why don't you come back with me to the village and we'll see if we can't figure something out?"
Sherlock wasn't listening as this new information rolled around in his head. He raised his hands to his head and closed his eyes. Either he had hit the ground and was currently in a hospital dreaming this all up, or when he fell he found himself in some sort of wormhole, transporting him into the past. Then again, when he pricked himself earlier, he had ruled out the possibility of being dead and being asleep. "When you've ruled out the possible, whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be true."
"What?"
The detective turned to the boy. "The name is Sherlock Holmes, Consulting detective."
"Uh, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, nice to meet you."
Sherlock grinned. "Your parents named you Hiccup? What, do you have a brother named Flatulence?"
The boy didn't waver. "Funny, it's tradition to name the runt of the tribe 'Hiccup'. There's a very adorable sheep that bares the same name."
"I just find it humorous to meet someone with a more ridiculous name then 'Sherlock'."
"It's not that odd. Names around here get pretty weird. Vikings think that the uglier the name, the more threatening the person will be."
Sherlock stopped him by holding up a hand. "Vikings?"
"Yeah, that's what everyone in the archipelago is…" Hiccup looked the man over. "I'm sorry for assuming…but I guess you really aren't from around here…your clothes and accent say enough."
"Why thank you." He droned. Again, he mapped the kid out, but got different answers this time, given new information. Then, his attention shifted. A huge black lizard came out of the brush. It's great green eyes stared him down.
Oh great, I'm hallucinating, he thought. Don't mention the dragon. This kid already thinks you're strange, don't give him a reason not to trust you.
"What a magnificent dragon..." He blurted.
Brilliant.
"Oh, Toothless? Yeah, he's pretty amazing."
"So you can see him?"
"Of course, he's my dragon."
Dragon… "Can I touch him?"
"It's all up to him." He peered over to see Toothless with ears back, eyes narrow. "Do you have any weapons on you?"
"Ah!" He pulled the gun out of the back of his pants. "Smart dragon, isn't he? Here, hold this." And he tossed the black metal to Hiccup.
"What is it? It has the trigger of a cross bow…"
"And if you want to live, you won't pull it." He warned, approaching the now docile dragon. "What a very interesting creature…" He ran his hand over the black scales, digesting the flow of data. "Black scales used for night camouflage, thick skin to resist fire and weapons, bat like wings that allow for fast flight and diving…a tail for steering, but hello…a replica tail…" He pulled out his magnifying glass and looked closer. "The remnants of the previous fin are still present, seemingly torn off, maybe by another dragon in a fight, but more likely ripped by a bola, as suggested by lack of any other scars from scraps with other dragons. You, Hiccup, were the one to knock it off, not throwing the bola yourself, as you're much too small, but you built a canon and shot down this wonderful beast to prove you were just like the rest of the vikings. But when it came time to kill the beast, you felt pity on it and cared for it instead. Then you made it a replica tail fin so it could fly again, but you made a fin that only you could operate so you were able to train it. And you call him Toothless because he has retractable teeth. Am I wrong?"
Hiccup stood silent for a moment. "No…you're right…that's amazing."
That was amazing.
You think so?
Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite... extraordinary.
That's not what people normally say.
What do people normally say?
"Piss off!"
"I know." He grinned. Sherlock was scared. Not of the dragon, no. Not even for being in a foreign place with the prospect of being sent to some sort of alternate dimension. He was scared because he was happy and excited. He had just committed suicide, right in front of John. Moriarty shot himself in the head. All this, and he was like a little schoolboy, petting a dragon.
"Are you alright Sherlock?" Hiccup asked touching his arm in concern.
"Hmm?" The detective glanced over. "Fine, what makes you say that?"
"Well, you're crying…and shaking awfully bad…"
Sherlock clapped once. "That would be the shock taking over. I should have expected that, after jumping off a building into another dimension. A dragon! This is wonderful, Hiccup. You have no idea how wonderful this is! Everybody wins!"
"I really don't know what you're talking about…"
"Of course not." Suddenly, Sherlock dropped to his knees. He cupped his hands around his mouth and was breathing hard. "Hiccup, I'm going to tell you something very important and confidential, don't repeat it to anyone."
Hiccup knelt next to the man. "Of course, what do you need?"
You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right. I'm not okay.
Tell me what's wrong.
Molly, I think I'm going to die.
What do you need?
If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?
What do you need?
You.
"Hiccup, I'm going into shock. I've just had a very traumatic, life threatening experience." He glanced at the boy' metal leg. "I take it you know plenty about traumatic experiences."
"A bit."
"I…I need a place to calm down. To think, do you think you could help?"
"Toothless and I could take you into the village, the back way, so no one will see. Maybe a nice cup of tea by the fire?"
Sherlock nodded and stood up. "Yes, that sounds…nice."
Toothless nudged the detective, sniffing him. Hiccup explained, "it might take him a little to get used to you. He doesn't fair well to strangers."
Sherlock smiled and scratched the dragon's snout. "Aw, he's just like me."
"If you'd rather not walk, I could get Toothless to carry you."
"No, that's quite alright. I'm fine to walk…although, before my time here is done, I should like to go for a ride."
"Of course, whenever you're up to it. Maybe we could see to it of getting you your own dragon."
The man chuckled. "Fantastic."
Yes, this land of Berk would be exciting, and a maybe he would finally cure his boredom.
Once his shock went away, that is.
It wasn't quite sunset when they came into the village. Hiccup led Sherlock to the long house on the top of the hill, the Haddock home. Inside, Stoick was absent, leaving just the fire and something cooking on it.
Sherlock surveyed the furniture, choosing a fine looking rocking chair and placed it by the fire. He removed his coat and scarf, draping them on the back of the chair. He sat down, resting his feet on the fireplace and then took in the room. Axes, swords, shields, knives…everything that could kill a man in his sleep. And he was in the house without the masters permission.
Lovely.
"Oh," Hiccup noticed his gaze. "Uh, don't worry about those. They're just decoration now. Used to be dragon hunting tools, but we don't hunt them anymore."
"I see." Sherlock said as Toothless laid at his owner's feet.
"Here's your tea…and your, uh…" He handed him a cup and his gun.
"It's a gun, and frankly, I don't even want to look at it right now." He tossed it under his chair.
"Hungry? Looks like dad's making some Súrsaðir hrútspungar."
Sherlock ran the term through his library, but came up dry. "I'm unfamiliar with the dish, what is it?"
"Oh, it's great! Lamb testicles boiled in stomach acid, then pickled."
While any other person may have turned up their nose, Sherlock, the man who kept a severed head in his fridge just replied with, "Sounds delicious."
Stoick entered just a moment later. "Oh, what a day." He huffed. "The twins had me all over the island. They took it upon themselves to shave profanity into the sheep's wool at Bucket's. They're almost impossible to catch on that damned Zippleback. Then there was the domestic dispute over at Ghastbug's…uh, will the trouble never cease?"
"Trouble?" Wondered aloud the detective.
Stoick jumped at the foreign voice and snatched an axe off the wall. "AYE YE THINK YA CAN JES COMMANDEER ME HOUSE BUT I TWILL LOP YER HEAD FROM YA SHOULDERS!"
"Dad, manners. This a guest."
The large viking lowered his weapon and sighed, finally taking in the thin man's appearance. "I apologize. It's been quite the day."
"Understandable." Sherlock spoke, his hands folded at his chin. He tried to read the man, but all he got was, "VIKING, CHIEF, HICCUP'S FATHER, DO NOT ANGER."
"Dad, this is Sherlock, Sherlock, this is my dad, Stoick the Vast."
How a man that huge could have an offspring so tiny, the world may never know. "Nice to meet you." The englishman entertained a smile.
"Well, it's not very often that we get a new fella 'round here! Welcome!" His voice was booming as he clapped Sherlock on the back, hard.
"Yes, well, it's not like me to travel."
The man took a seat, Hiccup getting him a mug of mead. "Where are you from, if yea don't mind me asking?"
"An island, much like here, called England." You'll discover it in a few years. He smirked.
"Aye, never heard of it. Must have come a long way to get here. How'd you come? I didn't get any reports of any boats."
Sherlock cleverly told the truth, wrapped up in a lie. "I don't rightly know. I was at home, and just…blacked out." He shrugged. He was quite the actor, even convinced himself.
"Well, you're welcome to stay as long as you'd like." Stoick laughed.
Sherlock smirked for a second and then continued to drink his tea.
"Hiccup, I need to speak with you in private, upstairs?" The chief commanded.
The detective hid an eye roll as the two went upstairs. When they started their conversation, he could mostly hear all of it. Hiccup was at least trying to be quiet, but Stoick was just too loud.
"Are you sure about this man?"
"Not completely, but I think he needs our help."
"This won't be another Heather incident, will it?"
"I don't think so…he…" There was a long pause. "I think there's something wrong with his head."
"Like bucket?"
"Sort of…he was talking about strange things like 'fones' and 'competers'. He asked me what year it was…"
"You don't think he's mad, do you?"
"Could be, but Toothless seemed to trust him. I'll introduce him to Astrid, she's good at those kinds of things."
Stoick laughed. "Astrid's good at bein' jealous of other girls. She was just waitin' for the chance to distrust Heather."
"Well, I trust Astrid's judgement." Then he sighed. "Try to give Sherlock a break, he's gone through a bit."
The detective could be thankful the boy didn't give away everything, but managed to defend him as well.
So, no internet. No phones. No technology. No way to contact John or Mycroft. What was he going to do? As he raised the tea mug up to his face, and caught sight of his hand. It was still shaking. Maybe he would take Mrs. Hudson's advice and take a vacation. He peered over to the Dragon on the floor.
Yeah, vacation.
Stoick came down from the loft first. "I'll go over to Gobber's and see if we can't arrange a place for you to stay, Sherlock."
"Thank you." Replied the detective.
Before he left, he looked at Toothless. "Now, don't burn down the house!" He laughed.
The dragon groaned and turned his back.
After the chief left, Hiccup took a seat up by the fire. "He tells that joke all the time. Thinks it's hilarious, but it's not."
"Who's Heather?" Sherlock questioned, ignoring the comment.
"Oh…uh, you heard that huh?"
"I hear everything, don't be embarrassed."
"That man has to work on controlling his voice…" He coughed. "Heather was a girl who 'washed up' on our shores and asked for refuge. We brought her into the clan, but my friend Astrid was suspicious. Everyone wrote it off as jealousy, but it turns out the Heather was a spy for one of our enemies to gain intel on us."
"Bummer." He sipped his tea. "So what makes you think I'm not a spy as well?"
"Alvin already has the book of dragons. While it contains information on dragons, they are much too heartless to use practical application. So, if you were going to kidnap me, you would have done it by now, in the woods. And my dad has seen your face now."
"What if I'm buttering you up, and I'll train Toothless under the table, then we'll all fly together to…where ever these brutes are."
"That's always a possibility."
"So why trust me?"
"Why trust anyone?"
Why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend.
I don't have "friends"!
No. Wonder why?
"Friends?" It was a question, meant to be an statement.
Hiccup smiled. "Until otherwise proven guilty."
Sherlock smirked back. Usually he didn't like kids, especially teens, but this was proving to be a different sort of case. "I think I'll try some of that…Surs…sirisder…lamb testicles."
"Alright." He bowled up servings for both of them, and then brought a basket of fish in for Toothless. While the dragon ate, the teen leaned against his back.
"So, what is a…what did you call it, consulting detective?"
I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job.
What does that mean?
It means whenever the police are out of their depth - which is always - they consult me.
The police don't consult amateurs.
"Your father was talking about the sheep wool incident. Well, back where I'm from, if you didn't know who committed the crime, you would bring me in, and I would figure out when, how, why, and who did a crime. Although, it was usually something much more drastic then sheep vandalism."
"Such as?"
"Murder was my favorite. I love it when people get killed, especially when someone clever does it. It's so interesting! But I also do things as disappearances, and theft. There was the case of Bluebell, the vanishing glow in the dark, rabbit. Tragic."
Hiccup was wide eyed for a moment, but only just. "Well, you certainly are good at your job."
"Well, I have to be. I'm the only one in the world."
"And you do this all alone?"
You're right. I don't have friends. I just have one.
"Yep." He pulled himself closer to the fire, still shaking. "Oh come now, it's been at least an hour."
"Do you want a blanket?"
Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me.
Yeah, it's for shock.
I'm not in shock.
"No thank you, I'm fine." He took a bite of the dish, but said nothing. He hadn't eaten anything all day, so this strange, albeit disgusting meal, was welcomed in his stomach. "So, any sort of need of that around here?"
"Well, mysterious things to happen. But it's usually dragon related. If you'd like to get involved, we can train you."
"And what about you? Do you solve these puzzles by yourself?"
"Well, no, there's some others at the academy. Fishlegs and Astrid are the only ones smart enough to do anything. Even then, I do most of the grunt work."
"It gets pretty nasty out there, does it?"
You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor.
Yes.
Any good?
Very good.
Seen a lot of injuries, then?... violent deaths?
Yes.
Bit of trouble, too, I bet.
Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime... far too much.
Want to see some more?
Oh, God yes.
"At times. When dealing with the Berserkers and Outcasts, yes. Definitely."
"Beautiful."
"How long do you think you'll stay?"
"Now, there's the problem. I have no idea how to get back, and…" He leaned closer. "I have another piece of confidential information."
Hiccup urged him to go on.
"I'm supposed to be dead."
"Hmm, that does seem to be problematic. Well, you're welcome here anyways."
"May take awhile to assimilate." He shrugged.
"I wouldn't worry to much about that. I've been here for twenty years, and I still haven't assimilated."
Sherlock fully laughed at loud. "This will be fun."