Title: Time and Time Again
Parings: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson. You can imply an established relationship if you squint.
Warnings: Cross references to original works as well as to other fan fictions, some obvious others not. Technically this is set in a crossover series but there is no direct cross in this piece.
Disclaimer: The original Sherlock Holmes tales belong to the estate of Arthur Conan Doyle. Gatiss and Moffit and company own the rights for Sherlock. I've borrowed the characters and settings for my own and the reader's amusement. I claim no rights. I make no profit.
Time and Time Again
My head hurt, my thigh felt like it was on fire and there was this annoying rhythmic beeping just at the edge of audibility. I took a deep breath and the smell of disinfectant registered through the headache. Oh. I recognized that beeping. It was a heart monitor, I was in hospital then. I opened my eyes expecting to see a general ward but what I saw was one of the nicest single hospital rooms that I'd ever had the privilege of being in. I turned my head and had to close my eyes again momentarily to fight the dizziness that the movement engendered. When I opened them again what I saw told me exactly why I was in a swanky private room.
Sherlock Holmes was sitting in what looked like a chair that was at least quasi-comfortable with his hands in their usual steepled position under his chin. He was looking intently at me with all of his considerable intellect engaged. Normally this made people nervous. I, however, seemed to be immune to it. After a moment he let out his breath in the soft "ha" that usually accompanied the end of a chain of deductions. I merely waited for the inevitable.
"You are no longer hallucinating," he stated it as fact.
I hadn't been aware I had been hallucinating. The last thing I clearly remembered was fighting with a serial killer we had been chasing who had grabbed Sherlock. We'd been interviewing friends of the latest victim when Sherlock had suddenly acquired the final piece of information that allowed him to solve the case. He'd stopped asking a question in mid-sentence and took off leaving me to make a quick apology and charge after him. To make a long story short we had ended up interrupting the murderer stalking his next victim. The perpetrator, one Peter Fredericks, fled leading us on quite a chase. We'd almost caught up with him on the Westminster bridge when our killer had suddenly reversed directions. For once Sherlock hadn't anticipated the man's movements and he found himself grappling with a madman. I joined the fray and managed to pull the man off Sherlock. My memories of what happened next were sparse.
"Uh, what happened?" I managed to croak out. My mouth and throat were awfully dry.
Sherlock unfolded himself from the chair and poured me a glass of water from the nearby carafe. He then moved over to the bed and adjusted it so I could sit enough to drink. I was extremely surprised. It was rather considerate and somewhat out of character for him to do such a thing. This was the man who couldn't be bothered to fish his own mobile out of his pocket. I looked at him quizzically.
"Mr. Fredericks managed to stab you and throw you off the bridge. You hit your head on the railing as you went over."
Well that explained the headache as well as the thigh pain.
"By the time you got here you'd lost quite a bit of blood. That, along with the water you aspirated and the abnormal reaction to either one of the antibiotics or the anesthesia resulted in high fever complete with hallucinations."
"What were the drugs?"
"They are all in your chart. I made a copy that you can peruse at your leisure."
That was good, although I didn't think I'd take a look just yet. Knowing the uniformly awful penmanship of my fellow physicians I didn't think that attempting to decipher someone else's writing would make my head feel any better. Hallucinations were not uncommon during an adverse drug reaction as well as being a side effect of fever. I thought back a moment. I didn't recall anything specific. In fact, everything after my jumping into the fight was fragmentary. The flash of a knife, my punch connecting, a knee in my gut, pain, falling, cold. After that everything was fuzzy. I remembered voices but not what they said. Emotions; contrition, fear, relief, annoyance and concern often mixed together.
"So what did I hallucinate? Did I tell you?" I was almost afraid to ask.
Sherlock looked down at me with an odd expression on his face, "You were quite talkative. First you apologized profusely for stealing a cup from me. Then you proceeded to lecture me about how said cup wasn't mine in the first place so it was only right that you steal it back for the rightful owners. You were quite eloquent."
"OK." I didn't know quite how to respond to that.
"The next time you were conscious you talked about the Cloaca Maxima, the ancient roman sewer system. You had some very choice things to say about it with quite a few Latin obscenities. You even swore by both Mithras and Apollo."
"But I've never been to Rome and my Latin is mostly medical terms," was all I could think to say.
"It was interesting. You also called me both Cornelius and Celatus. I suspect it was the influence of those awful novels you were reading a few weeks ago. The ones that were a combination of insipid mystery, half-baked thriller and a travel guide. I deleted the name. Something about mythical religious creatures.
I thought for a moment, "Angels and Demons?"
"Ah, yes. Now I'll need to delete the name again."
"So did I say anything else?"
"Yes. We ended up having a discussion about the differences in presentation of symptoms in snakebite victims. You had a good deal to say about the disposition and coloring of Russell's Vipers as well as the Common Krait. However, you didn't seem to think that the toxicity of the venom would cause convulsions and death within minutes unless the venom went straight into the bloodstream."
That wasn't unusual. I had dealt with snakebite including a fatality or two while serving in Afghanistan. Obviously there was something I was missing. Sherlock wouldn't have recounted the conversation otherwise.
"So, what lead you to conclude I was hallucinating during this exchange?" I asked.
"Your syntax and terminology primarily," he replied. "Your language seemed to be consistent with the common parlance of the late Victorian period and you called me Arthur."
"I really have no idea where any of that came from. Anything else?" This was very strange. Apparently my subconscious mind retained a whole host things. Well at least I hadn't been thrown into a flashback or had a panic attack. Now if just my dreaming mind would do the same I'd be in good shape.
"Just two more," he smiled down at me. "You told me that I was the only actor of your acquaintance who used an Oscar as a paperweight."
"And?"
"You then praised my cleverness at hiding cryogenically preserved bodies in weapons ordnance."
I realized where those last two came from. Several people, myself included, had remarked upon the uncanny resemblance between Sherlock and a particular actor who recently had made a name for himself playing eccentrics and complex villains. I wasn't about to let on to Sherlock that I thought he was at least as good looking as the actor. Time to change the subject.
"Oh, did you manage to subdue Fredericks?"
"No." Sherlock admitted looking somewhat sour.
There was a chuckle from the doorway. I looked over and saw Mycroft standing there leaning on his omnipresent umbrella.
"Are you going to explain why, brother dear, or shall I?"
If looks could kill Mycroft would have been severely injured if not dead from the glare Sherlock shot at him.
"He was too busy diving into the Thames after you to apprehend the murderer."
Sherlock muttered something I couldn't quite hear.
"The yard got a tip Mr. Fredericks was hiding in a little used utility closet in Victoria Station. Lestrade found him expertly tied up and rather worse for wear less than eight hours after my brother failed to knock him out before going after you," Mycroft continued.
This time I heard Sherlock's mutter, "A 58% chance of survival was completely unacceptable."
"All's well that ends well," Mycroft either hadn't heard Sherlock's grumble or was choosing to ignore it. "The doctors will be along shortly. I suspect they will want to keep you another night to make sure you don't have any additional adverse reactions to your medications but otherwise you should make a full recovery and be back to normal within a week or two."
I suspected that Mycroft had bullied the doctors into releasing that information despite the patient confidentiality regulations. The man was persistent and tended to use his considerable authority to meddle in Sherlock's and by extension my life.
"Thank you Mycroft," I said. My tone was sarcastic. I also realized that my headache had increased threefold in the last few minutes. Not surprising, Mycroft was seriously bad for my blood pressure.
Sherlock picked up on it. "Goodbye Mycroft," he said dismissively. "You can go now that you've chastised me and caused Watson's headache to get worse." Sherlock moved away from my bed and advanced on his brother.
Mycroft retreated out the door with Sherlock hot on his heels. With both the Holmes brothers out of the room it felt a bit empty. Not for long. Sherlock returned only a few minutes later a strange expression on his face.
"It seems," he started without preface, "that Mycroft is not the only person taking interest in our affairs."
"Oh?"
"I will have to confirm it but I suspect that my little brother Quentin had a hand in Fredricks' presence in that storage closet. I doubt Mycroft will be able to find out. He seems to be having difficulties getting unofficial information out of MI6 these days." Sherlock grinned at me.
"So how are you going to confirm it?"
"Simple my dear Watson, I'm going to ask."
Author's Note: So I was writing along minding my own business and this plot bunny jumped out of the woods and attacked. It jumped into my 2.5 Holmes' setting and refused to move. Bonus internet points if you can figure out all the cross references to both the original works and fan fiction. *Edited to correct a typo*
Once again I'll paraphrase the Bard:
If this writer has offended,
Think but this and all is mended.
That you have but tarried here,
While each chapter did appear,
And these words upon this theme,
Are of no import, only my dream.
It has been an honor to share my dream with you.
K2N2
Additional Notes: The cross references/inspirations are as follows:
Stealing a cup = Martin Freeman as Bilbo Baggins in the Hobbit. Benedict Cumberbatch is Smaug.
Ancient Roman sewer system = SPQR series by hoc_voluerunt (Only available on AO3).
Cornelius/Celatus = same series as the sewer system.
Angels and Demons is by Dan Brown and is a prequel to The Da Vinchi Code.
Discussion of snakes and snakebite symptoms = The Adventure of the Speckled Band by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (mopedblue was correct).
Arthur = Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was accused by several of his contemporaries of being the real inspiration for Sherlock.
Oscar as paperweight = Performance in a Leading Role by Mad_Lori located both on this site and AO3 (Good job menono1011).
Cryogenically preserved bodies = Benedict Cumberbatch as Kahn in Star Trek: Into Darkness.
Resemblance to actor = Should be obvious.
("If you didn't get the last one I weep for the gene pool!" "Shut up Sherlock...don't insult the readers.")