This is a collection of multi-fandome drabbles that are really too short to go as their own fanfiction.
Category: Doctor Who x Sherlock
Title: Apples
Summary: What if Amy was Moriarty's daughter? Inspired by a tumblr post about how Amy's dad used to write on apples.
Rating: T
Note: Rory doesn't know who Amy's dad is.
"Dad, I'm going out!" Amy called over her shoulder.
"What? Where?" The voice drifted through the house reaching the young, ginger woman about to step out the front door. Pattering footsteps thumped down the corridor a figure almost skidding past her. He straightened, slicked back, black hair slightly ruffled.
"Why would you want to do that?"
She rolled her eyes "What go out? I told you I had a date with Rory."
"Rory?"
"My fiancé."
He snapped his fingers "Ah, the nurse."
"Yes, the nurse"
He nodded a goofy look on his face "Well I'm in the middle of something important so I can't come baby sit…"
"Dad!"
"… So I trust you have your gun?"
"Yes, yes. Can I go now?"
He gestured to his cheek and she lent up and gave it a kiss. "Bye dad!"
Once she was gone he turned back heading down the hallway where he had came, looking around fugitively he pressed a button; a section of the wall swinging forward. The room was brightly lit and he swaggered over to the table in the centre. He stared down at the shining jewels in the tray, selecting one carefully; he held it up to the light.
"It's time to meet your doom Sherlock Holmes" Moriarty smirked at the shining diamond.
Yesterday, authorities were baffled by the simultaneous brake into to three of the highest security buildings in England. Jim Moriarty was caught red handed by Detective Inspector Greg Lest…
Amy stared at the paper in shock, Rory patting her on the back awkwardly
"Amy, what's wrong?"
She shook her head and forced a smile on her face "Nothing."
Two years since she had see her father, and yet she still held onto the hope he was fine. It was the day before her wedding, when there was a knock on the door. She cautiously opened it to reveal two men one with frizzy, brown hair and a scarf and the other one short with blond hair.
"Are you Amy?" He held out a picture. It was a photo graph of a single, incomplete bloody message:
'Amel...'
An obviously dead hand lay next to it. She recognized it, of course she would; she would recognize her father's hand anywhere. For the first time in so long she broke down crying.
When the Doctor came that night she hadn't left out of nerves, but more so because of the fact that her father would never attend her wedding, never hug her or ask her to kiss his cheek again.