AN: This started out as a silly little drabble for my fellow Wholock fan friend who enjoys Johnlock a little too much. It grew a little. Vicious little thing! No slash, but pretty strong Johnlock vibes. This takes place before the Fall in Sherlock, but after the Scandal. After Torchwood, but before the Doctor regenerates in Doctor Who from 10 to 11? I really don't know. :P
The basic premise is: "What would Captain Jack, Mr. Hit-on-everything-on-two-legs-and-then-some, react to Sherlock Holmes, the 'virgin?'" (It's DW and Sherlock, by the way, because I've not actually watched Torchwood. Oops.)
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, or Doctor Who, or Torchwood. If I did, well, we'd already have Season 3 and the Ponds wouldn't be leaving. But I don't, so Moffat gets to keep holding that over our heads. MOFFAT! *shakes fist*
Anyway,
On with the story! :)
Blue and red gore stained the otherwise pristine carpet of the luxurious flat.
From the splatter pattern on the wall, something-or someone, he frowned-had been very brutally stabbed, repeatedly stabbed too, maybe 20 times?
Twenty-three, Sherlock corrected himself with a wry smile. Then dragged out the window, and the tracks told him of something (not wearing any sort of clothing; he ruled out person) that weighed close to half a ton. The murderer, he thought as he decided the blue gunk was some sort of odd (nonhuman) blood, must have been inhumanly strong. Impossibly strong.
There were no signs of any sort of toss out the window. No scrapes or gore?
So where was the body…?
The far door opened and Sherlock didn't look up from the gunk on the carpet, from which he carefully pried away a sample for further analysis.
"Whoever he is, John, tell him to go away," he said, then more to himself, "It's not my bloody fault the Yard can't keep people out."
"He won't go away, Sherlock," John called and Sherlock sealed up the sample, pulling himself up sharply.
Expecting some paparazzi or other sort, Sherlock was confounded by the conundrum of a man who stood before him A brilliant, perfect conundrum.
Clothes were too new and far, far too old. Age patterns impossible.
Oh, yes. Today was Christmas and Easter and Birthdays all wrapped into one day!
He nearly leapt into the air. Murders and mystery men!
The mystery man in question saw Sherlock deducing him and strode over, mistaking the detective's searching gaze for… something else. His face lit up in (what regular people would call) a charming smile and offered his hand to Sherlock, tilted head and relaxed legs screaming, "Let's have sex!"
His right eye fluttered in a slight wink.
"Hello, there. Captain Jack Harkness at your service."
Sherlock shook his hand for John's sake (always telling him to be polite; humph, geniuses don't need manners) and noted the man's hands were very callused; he was used to handling large firearms.
"Sherlock Holmes."
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to tell you to leave the crime scene, Mr. Holmes. Orders from higher up," the man said appeasingly, still maintaining that flirtatious tone.
"Torchwood or UNIT?"
The man blanched.
"How did you know-"
"I'm the world's only consulting detective. Child's play," he said, scoffing.
The captain's look of shock shifted to one of great curiosity.
"World's only? Care to demonstrate?" Jack said invitingly, with about six different levels of subtext.
"Oh, you are good!" Sherlock said, "How long does it take you to get them to bed, Captain?"
"I-"
"Don't play innocent with me, time traveller," Sherlock snapped and waited for the words to sink in. The man stood slackjawed. John sighed, muttering, "Here we go again…" with fingertips massaging his temples as Sherlock launched vindictively into his deduction. He smirked at his target.
"You're not right, Jack Harkness. Your clothes are like new, but they should be at least 70 years old. But you aren't from the '40s, are you? You're somewhere from the far future, judging by your… tastes (you'd go at it with anything that moves)… and inflections and even though you have an American accent, it's not of any part of modern America and you aren't faking either. You are at least a hundred, but you only have a few gray hairs and show few of the regular aging signs, and those you do show are distorted. And don't even get me started on the weapon training.
"How shall I conclude? You're a time-traveller from the far future who has lived through the last seven decades. You're immortal and affiliated with the group Torchwood,"-a calculated pause-"at least you were; from your face I'd say most of your unit is dead. Oh, and you die a lot."
Jack and John both stood stiffly, but the captain recovered first.
"Wow, they're right about you. You are clever!" he exclaimed. "Cold, but clever."
Jack no longer kept the teasing tone in his voice. It was drained, professional, but impressed, Sherlock noted with satisfaction.
"I suppose you know what that is, then," said Jack, pointing to the bloody mess.
"Two alien life forms masquerading as humans had a domestic and one murdered the other and beamed the body up. A rather messy clean up job."
"Aliens. Got to love 'em," Jack said, suddenly cheeky again.
"You do," Sherlock pointed out and Jack's grin grew bigger.
"True," he said.
"Now, for the love of everything-" Sherlock grinned, or whatever it was the sociopath was doing with his face, "-could you and lovely Doctor Watson here vacate the crime scene? The captain needs to do clean-up and track down.
"My own Doctor asked me specially," he added with a grin.
John looked at him, still slightly overwhelmed by "immortal, time travel, alien domestics, etc." then pulled back in embarrassment.
"Oh, uh, um, I'm not his doctor," he stammered. Sherlock looked at him like, Of course you are, John. John stared back.
"Not like that," he said aloud.
Jack chortled.
"Of course not," he said with a wink and maneuvered John out the door after Sherlock.
"You've got a good thing going for you, detective, doctor. Don't let it get away," Jack called after the pair as they strode away, a thoughtful, distant look in his slowly aging eyes.
Sherlock laughed at John's bright red face.
"Fancy him?"
As he set up his extraction and clean-up equipment, Jack couldn't help but think of the detective and his army doctor.
"Make yours last while mine couldn't," he said wistfully, the laughter of the brilliant, cold man echoing through his mind, turning into more familiar tones he would never hear again.
Please review! I hope you liked it! :)