Author's Note: I do not own Sherlock or Doctor Who
The boxes were stacked upon one another without regard to the precarious foundation of rotting wood. Dust swirled in the breeze drafting from a cracked window, several insects crawling lazily across the pane. I could hear the pattering of footsteps on the floor below, hesitating at the start of the stairwell, debating their own desire to ascend. Questioning the sanity of their will.
A completely valid concern.
Sherlock was in a practically vegetative state, sprawled listlessly across the charred remains of the couch.
I was a time bomb. An explosive sensitive to the gentlest touch. Volatile, and ready to erupt.
If you came within ten feet of 221b, you could smell the smoke. Know the aftermath of a horrid disaster. Feel the hundreds of memories curling and falling with a lick of flame.
There had been a fire.
It was not caused by the numerous experiments carried out by one of its inhabitants. Not by the oven, carelessly left on by the forgetful landlady. Not by the lighters spirited away by the friend concerned for his companion's health. (that's me)
It was done by the simplest, most obvious, blatantly mundane thing ever encountered by the flatmates and their dearest landlady. Electrical fire. The lamps had been on all night due to a rather pressing case involving a missing child.
"The insurance money had better be good," Sherlock intoned quietly from his place on the sofa.
"Darn right." I agreed.
"It won't be enough to repair the flat though…" the detective spoke with a melancholic note.
"No," I growled, tugging at the hem of my jumper in annoyance.
"What're we going to do?" he said this more to himself than to me, "I'm sorry John." Is Sherlock Holmes apologizing!?
"What for?"
"Everything, the case, the lamps, everything."
"Don't be, mate. We'll pull through it, we'll find a flat somewhere else, we'll still solve crimes, it'll be fine."
"Don't lie to yourself, we're broke, we've nothing. Nothing but the clothes on our backs," Sherlock sighed and threw his arm over his eyes.
"Perhaps you could maybe ask Mycroft…"
"John you and I both know that that possibility is completely off the table. Going to my brother for help would be a final surrender into this oblivion," he laughed humorlessly.
"That was a bit dramatic, even for you."
"Whatever." There was a timid knocking at the door, and Lestrade took an even more timid step into the room. He was fingering a small light pink slip of paper.
"Yes Greg?" I asked, with perhaps just a tad too much malice.
"It's just, um, well, sorry about, well," he gestured to the room, "about the place, I, uh, Mycroft is, er, here, and he wants to speak you both."
"Why would Mycroft want to speak with us?" Sherlock snapped, shooting off the couch and into the burnt kitchen. I sighed and recrossed my legs, and gestured for Lestrade to continue.
"He wanted to discuss compensation from the warehouse the lamps were purchased, as they did carry a fault, and that, um, he is worried," he ran a hand through his graying hair, "Everyone is." With that, the Detective Inspector left the blackened shell of the place I called home.
Mary had stopped by with a change of clothes for me she had purchased, well, Mrs. Hudson had given them to me, but I knew Mary had bought them. The woman still cared, even after I moved out to go live with my sociopathic detective best friend that blows up the kitchen and keeps feet in the crisper as a pastime.
"John?" Sherlock asked, his voice breathy with uncharacteristic uncertainty.
"Yeah Sherlock?" I replied, swiveling my head to better see him.
"Should we take up Mycroft's offer?"
"It's your flat, your brother, I'm not of much importance in this decision," Sherlock fixed me in a scalding glare.
"Of course you're important, it's our flat, it's our problem, Mycroft is practically our mother!" the raven haired man insisted, kaleidoscope eyes begging for- something.
"Okay, okay, in my opinion, it would be a good idea to accept Mycroft's money," I paused at the sight of Sherlock's face, which was crumpled into a rather nasty frown, "but, you can still have a say in the matter, let's just go down and see him, yeah?"
"Fine John, we will go see him, but only because it was your idea," he gave a petulant huff and stood to his full height, looking instantly put together and perfect in his dressy trousers and bloody skin-tight purple button up.
"Good, I don't think you've moved since yesterday."
"About right, though, you have been in that chair since yesterday as well," he pointed out.
"Well that is because I slept in it, and it is only nine in the morning, you, my friend slept on the couch for two nights, and only got up yesterday at six AM to check on your violin."
"Ugh, same difference John."
"Rather weak argument, don't you think?" all I got in response was an eye roll and a head shake. We descended the stairs to be met with one of Mycroft's patented disdainful smirks.
"It lives," he muttered, pinning Sherlock in a judgmental stare.
"Shut up Mycroft, go stick your nose in someone else's business," the detective muttered, crossing his arms. The elder Holmes just gave a long suffering sigh and looked down at his useless umbrella.
"Yes Mycroft?" I said, breaking through the somewhat tense silence.
"Now, I am willing to lend a hand after this," he waved his umbrella at the upstairs, "disaster. I can lend you a sum of money to sufficiently pay for everything necessary while 221b is being repaired."
"Why would we ever want your money? Will we have to send you quarterly reports on our mental and physical health?" Sherlock scowled at his brother, the purple bags lining the underneath of his eyes made him all the more menacing, "Oh wait, what was I thinking! We wouldn't have to tell you BECAUSE THE ENTIRE FLAT WOULD BE DECKED OUT IN SECURITY CAMERAS!" Even Mycroft looked a bit surprised at his outburst, shooting me a concerned look that I returned.
"Sherlock, mate, calm down alright?" I frowned at my friend's obvious discomfort. Mrs. Hudson stuck her head out from the kitchen.
"You alright dears?" she asked, dishwashing soap dripping off gloved fingers. I simply nodded, waving a hand at her, before laying it on Sherlock's shoulder.
"God John, I'm fine!" he spat, pulling away from my touch.
"My offer still stands…" Mycroft injected, decidedly eager to get back on subject. I gave Sherlock a pleading look, silently asking for permission I didn't need. He jerked his chin in subtle response.
"Yeah, okay Mycroft, we'll take it, no strings attached?" I agreed.
"Lovely. Rest assured that a flat will be found for you before the day is out," and with that, the British government strolled from 221b, swinging his brolly and humming an eerie tune.
"And good riddance," Sherlock murmured, already climbing the stairs back up to the flat.
"Hey," I called after him, "Pack up all of your, er, remaining things, I've no intention of making your brother wait."
"Very well."
I jogged up the stairs and up again into my room to search for anything salvageable. I found a few pens, three books, a slightly charred pair of jeans, and, and a fob watch. I picked the little trinket up, turning it over in my hands. One side was covered in a strange circular design, and the other blissfully blank. It, it hissed at me, sweet golden light peeked from inside, and strange, muffled voices whispered all around me. I was seized with the sudden urge to click it open, to find whatever was hiding inside of it. Inhaling deeply, I pressed my thumb over the latch, and the watch sprung open.
Whadaya think?