Heyo! Fluffy here. Surprisingly, this is my first solo FanFic on this account. Queue betas, but a good 95% of this is pure Fluffy brainpower. Now it's a real shame that I can only list this as a crossover between two fandoms, because along with Sherlock and Doctor Who, you'll see there's a fair amount of Supernatural, Marvel, Merlin, and a couple others (EDIT 4/10/18: Those others include Hamilton, Dan and Phil, and Jacksepticeye. The Marvel boys are Loki, Thor, and Spider-Man. Yes, it does sound like a lot, but hey, Infinity War is gonna pull it off, right?). That does seem like a lot, but I like to think I'm competent enough to juggle all of them. But you can be the judge of that.
You'll soon see which universe this takes place in. Or not. Muahahaha.
Feedback is appreciated! Constructive criticism is also encouraged, even if it's a question about a plot inconsistency or a small grammatical error. Enjoy!
Chapter 1
It was dark. That was the first thing he realized. He blinked his eyes to make sure they were open, but the blackness remained. The second thing that he found out was that he was trapped. Well, not trapped per se, but definitely confined. His legs were pressed up against his chest, for any attempt to move them would just result in them bumping against a wall. Reaching above him, he felt his hand hit the low ceiling, one that he would hit his head against if he tried sitting up. He was in a box.
That's when the panic began to settle in. Adrenaline surged through his veins, and despite his kicking, the wall remained firm. He took a deep breath to calm himself. He'd been in situations like this before. First thing's first: reality check.
My name is John Hamish Watson. I was an army doctor in Afghanistan. My wife's name is Mary, and we're expecting a baby girl. My best friend is Sherlock Holmes.
John would have facepalmed if his elbow could maneuver. The idiot Sherlock Holmes. Was this some kind of experiment?
John frowned. Sherlock was in the middle of investigating the Moriarty issue; he only messed with John's tea when he was bored and had nothing to do. He was still investigating, right? Was it still Thursday? The last thing he remembered, he had been on the phone with Sherlock regarding the criminal mastermind's "return," two days after his five-minute banishment. John furrowed his eyebrows. He didn't remember anything after that. . .
"Sherlock?" He tried to call, but his voice came out a strained whisper. How long had he not used it?
John cleared his throat. "Sherlock!?" he tried again, louder.
He wasn't sure whether he would be more relieved or furious if he heard a response, but he didn't have to ponder the question long.
"John? Is that you, John Watson?"
John's heart thudded in relief upon hearing the muffled reply. "Sherlock? Where are you? What the bloody hell is going on? Why am I in a box?"
The floor shifted below him. "We're on a boat," Sherlock responded with a pause. "And I believe I am under you. Also in a box," he added dryly.
"But why?"
"Haven't the slightest. What's the last thing you remember?"
"Talking on the phone with you," John answered. "What about you?"
"Same thing. John, I need you to shift around, and look for a hole in your crate. Any source of light."
John shifted to his back, and almost winced when he saw the light that came through the hole his side was previously pressed up against. He tried to move to get his face closer to the hole, rocking the crate and making loud creaking noises in the process. When he finally looked through the hole, he relayed his observations to Sherlock.
"You're right. We're definitely on a boat. There's a. . . I see a railing, and the ocean. I think I see. . . There might be land in the distance. We're going towards it. Oh, and there's other crates too. Somewhere between ten and-"
John broke off. A low moan sounded beside him, seeming to come from behind his left wall.
"Ten and what?" Sherlock prompted.
"Shut up and listen," John snapped.
The left wall jerked, and the moan came again. "Hello?" John said slowly. "Is anyone there?"
"Ahhhhhgg. . ."
John frowned. "Hello?"
From below him, John heard Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. "John, our current situation needs to be assessed much more than some ship turbulence you may be experie-"
The wall jerked again, but much more violently, followed by a confused, "What the hell-? Dean? Dean!? Cas!"
"John, apparently I was wrong," Sherlock began. "It's not turbulence; you have a neighbor. And ask him, if he would be so kind, to shut up! I can't hear myself think."
The wall abruptly stopped moving. "Excuse me?" the voice asked, seemingly offended. "Who are you?"
"American?" Sherlock commented. "Mid thirties? Co-workers and or close friends/family members who go by the name of Dean and Cas? Works for law enforcement, perhaps? Interesting," he mused.
The other voice was silent. "And you are?"
"Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective," he announced, voice smug. "The other one—that's John. He's a short army doctor with an unhealthy tendency to draw in psychopaths and state the obvious."
The strange voice gave a short huff of laughter. "Right. I'm Superman. I save people for a living and wear a red cape."
John could practically hear Sherlock frowning as he deciphered the sarcasm.
"I'm sorry, did I did say something amusing?"
"Nevermind," the mysterious American replied. "What do you want with me?"
"You?" Sherlock scoffed. "I want nothing from nobody. Unless- John, how likely is it that Mrs. Hudson would be here? I could go for a cup of tea."
John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock," he warned.
"Fine. You are in a box. I am in a box. John is in a box. There are other boxes; contents which I am not sure of, but at this point I would not be surprised if it were people. We are all on a boat. We are heading to a strange distant land. Can your brain process that?"
"Sherlock."
John heard a low, frustrated groan from below him. "Answer me this, Superman," Sherlock demanded. "What's the last thing you remember?"
The American hesitated. "You're right. I am in law enforcement. FBI. My partner—Dean—we had just wrapped up a case, and we were at a bar around eleven PM. I remember- I remember closing the bar door, to exit, then I. . ." he trailed off. "Then I woke up here."
"Hello? Is anybody out there? Doctor!?" John's reply died on his lips when he heard the new voice. It was a woman's, and definitely British. It seemed to come from the wall to John's right.
"Do you need a doctor? Are you injured?" John called back.
"No- I- not that kind of doctor," the woman stuttered. "But what the bloody-"
"Donna?" a distant voice yelled in response.
"DOCTOR!" John flinched at the volume of her voice. In response, John heard footsteps thudding across the deck, until they stopped right next to him.
"Donna? Hold on, this may take a while to get the nails out. . ."
"Take your time. Don't mind me, rotting away in here!" Donna responded scathingly.
A high-pitched buzzing noise resonated through John's crate, and he heard the small clang of the nails as they unattached from the box and fell to the ship's floor. After the fourth clang, the ceiling was lifted away. John instinctively brought his hand to his eyes to block the sudden sunlight, but quickly removed it when he noticed the stranger standing next to the crate.
He wore a brown pinstripe shirt and pants, covered by a long light brown trenchcoat. His eyes were a chocolate-brown. His shoes were red sandshoes, and his brown hair, for lack of a better word, was very sticky-uppy.
"Oh," the stranger pursed his lips as John pushed himself to his feet. "Wrong crate."
The banging from the crate next to him only confirmed his statement, along with the exasperated repeats of "Doctor."
John noticed the man pull a small, thin silver device from one of his many pockets and begin to point it at the nails on Donna's box. He took little note of it, however, as he pushed away his old crate and began to work at the nails on Sherlock's.
Sherlock and Donna sat up at the same time, and cast each other a quick glance before getting out. Donna was a rather ordinary looking woman, aside from her ginger hair. Sherlock brushed off his dark overcoat, and inhaled deeply.
"Definitely the ocean," he stated. Sherlock then dashed over to the boat's railing and leaned over, frowning.
"What is it?" John wondered.
"This ship we're on," Sherlock said, "it has no name. No flag, either. Nothing obvious to indicate where it came from. As of now, all I know for sure about it is that it's some kind of small freighter ship."
Sherlock spun around to face the trenchcoated man. "Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective," he said, holding out his hand. The trenchcoated man raised an eyebrow, but shook Sherlock's hand in a firm grip.
"Sherlock Holmes, eh? I'm the Doctor. I'm- well, I do lots of different things. This is my companion, Donna Noble," the Doctor introduced himself, and gestured to Donna.
"The Doctor, hmm? Oh, right!" Sherlock pointed at John. "That's John Watson. He blogs my life because-"
John cleared his throat. "I can introduce myself, thanks," he said curtly. "John Watson, former soldier." He held out his hand, which the Doctor shook.
"Um, hello? Anyone mind getting me out of this thing?" a muffled voice called.
John whipped around, suddenly remembering his crate neighbor, Superman. The Doctor was quicker though, pulling out the strange silver device and holding it against the nails. Wait- is it glowing blue?
The nails fell out, and the lid was pushed off from the inside. The American quickly stood up, clearly eager to get out of the confined box. Though he didn't exactly give off a Superman vibe, he was super tall. Roughly a foot taller than John, and if he weren't, well, John, he'd probably be intimidated. His hair was long and brown, parted down the middle.
"Thanks," he said with a nod.
"That device," Sherlock began, pointing to the silver object in the Doctor's hand. "What is it, exactly?"
"Oh, just a thing I picked up with my. . . other things."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but didn't push it. For now.
"Sorry for interrupting," Donna broke in, "but do any of you have any idea what the bloody hell is going on!?"
Sherlock and John exchanged a glance. As much of a genius Sherlock was, he couldn't have gathered enough information about the situation to figure out why they were here, or even how to begin with.
"It seems most likely that we have been drugged," Sherlock concluded. "Unless you remember how you arrived here. Doctor? Donna?" Sherlock turned towards the companions.
They briefly looked at each other before simultaneously shaking their heads.
Superman cleared his throat. "Let's split up, and look around. We'll see if we can find anything helpful. But first, we should open these other crates." He gestured to the other crates tied to the floor, surrounding their former ones. "Perhaps we're not the only people who were in those things. Or maybe there'll be supplies."
"You do that," Sherlock told him. "But I have other interests. After all, this is a ship, but there's no Captain's Quarters I can see." He paused dramatically, making sure their attention was all on him. Sherlock opened his mouth, but the Doctor beat him to it.
"So who's piloting it?"
So how'd I do?