A/N: Merry Christmas Blackadder VII! Hope you enjoy this little ficlet, and that you don't mind me referencing a few of your own stories.

Disclaimer: I own the rights to neither Doctor Who nor the Sharpe series.

Sharpe's Encounter

The scent of gunpowder lingered in the air, a bitter odour remaining from the aftermath of the battle. The final shots had been fired many hours previously, but a light breeze had carried the smoke north, not quite strong enough to disperse it completely. Sharpe felt the scent fill his nose as he walked through the streets of Waterloo, a village few miles from the battlefield itself. He was heading to the stables to collect a horse for the ride back to Normandy that Harper, with his new experience of horse trading, had procured for him.

As he entered the stable, Sharpe was feeling content. News of John Rossendale's death had reached him, which was perhaps one thing to be pleased about, although unfortunately so had the news that he died bankrupt, rendering the banknote he had given Sharpe worthless. Still, Napoleon had been defeated for good this time and Sharpe's service in the army was no longer required, meaning he'd soon be on his way back to Lucille.

That was the thought that caused him to smile as he found the horse that had been bought earlier, but as he began to saddle it up, he happened to glance towards the stable entrance where he spotted another figure standing. Sharpe would have taken no notice of the man if it weren't for the fact that the sight of him triggered a memory - from India, many years ago - and Sharpe thought for a moment that he recognised him. The man in question was wearing rather peculiar apparel – a plain short brown jacket and pantaloons, which perhaps would not have been so strange had he not added the red neck tie fastened in a bow or the bearskin cap on his head. Sharpe also noticed he was clutching a pair of black boots and was looking about himself rather anxiously.

The man's air of eccentricity certainly reminded Sharpe of the man he had known several years ago, yet it couldn't be the same person. For if it were, then he hadn't aged a day. Still, Sharpe had addressed the man before he could stop himself, wondering if this could possibly be his long lost friend from all that time ago. "Doctor?"

Sharpe had sounded somewhat incredulous and still wasn't sure that this was even the same person, yet at the sound of his voice, the man turned to face him and a huge grin of recognition spread across his face. "Sharpe? Is that you?" the Doctor said, strolling towards him.

Not quite able to believe this was actually him, Sharpe nodded. "Aye, it's me. Never imagined I'd see you again, Doctor, although I can't say I'm displeased. You don't look a day older."

The Doctor gave a sheepish grin. "Well, time is kind to me. Sometimes, at least. It's very good to see you too, Sharpe. Still serving in His Majesty's Army, I see?" He gave Sharpe a playful punch on the shoulder.

Sharpe looked bemused. "Not anymore, as of today. If Boney's defeated for good then I'm done with the army."

"I'm glad to hear it. I should think this will be the last trouble Napoleon causes."

The Doctor gave him a knowing look which Sharpe didn't quite understand, but from what he remembered, the Doctor often did things Sharpe didn't quite understand. "What about Amy?" Sharpe asked, "How is she?"

At those words, the Doctor's face fell slightly, but he quickly tried covering it up. "She's…she's not with me anymore," he said sadly, but before Sharpe could fear the worst he added, "She's living with her husband now, in America."

"Husband?" Sharpe didn't know why that word should surprise him; of course a girl like Amy would have found a husband in the many years since Sharpe had known her, but he'd blurted it out in surprise without thinking. Then he thought of Lucille, even as he remembered the affection he'd once held for Amy, and as he contemplated that they now both were able to settle down in their own lives, he felt happy for her. "Well, he's a lucky man," Sharpe said with a genuine smile.

"He is…" the Doctor said, a sad look again entering his eyes, but then a much more business-like expression replaced it as he tried to change the subject. "Look, Sharpe, since you're here I was wondering if you could help me out. Do you by any chance know where I could find the Duke of Wellington? It's been bad enough trying to fix history after that Edmund Blackadder went and messed things up, swanning around in that homemade time machine. It's all very well not parking it right on top of the Duke, but now I really must get Wellington's boots back to him," – the Doctor brandished the pair of black boots he was holding – "Turns out they're much more important to the course of history than I realised."

Rather befuddled as to what the Doctor was talking about, Sharpe shook his head apologetically. "I wouldn't know where he is. I've not had any dealings with him since the battle ended."

"Ah," said the Doctor, looking rather anxious again. "Well, I'm sure Clara's had some luck tracking him down. Perhaps I should go find her and see. I'm really sorry Sharpe, but I must dash. This is all rather important."

He was beginning to shuffle back towards the stable entrance now, hopping from foot to foot with a sense of urgency. Sharpe still didn't know what was going on, but he knew enough that when the Doctor said something was important, it usually was. "Of course, Doctor, but just one question," Sharpe said before he'd had chance to leave.

The Doctor gave him a nod to prompt him, wondering what the soldier was going to ask. He must surely want an explanation for all the things he'd witnessed in the Doctor's company, and the Doctor was concerned that he didn't have time to give them.

"What's that thing on your head?"

The question prompted confusion for a moment, then the Doctor glanced up at the hat he was wearing. "Oh, this? I wear a bearskin cap now, bearskin caps are… Well, actually they're not cool. Quite the opposite, but a chap from the Foot Guards gave it to me after he nicked it from a French Grenadier, so I couldn't say no."

Sharpe gave him a slightly puzzled but amused look. "I'm not sure that look will catch on."

"You might be surprised," came the reply. "I really am sorry, Sharpe, but I must go." He was at the entrance now, and Sharpe realised this was going to be farewell again. He didn't want the Doctor to leave, especially not so suddenly when there were still so many questions he wanted to ask, but he didn't think even he had the power to make the Doctor stay when he had somewhere to go.

"Goodbye then, Doctor," he said instead.

"Goodbye, Sharpe," the Doctor replied, before hastily turning and dashing away. Sharpe thought that would be the end of it, but the sense of disappointment barely had chance to settle on him before the Doctor's head popped up to peer around the stable doorway again. "And Sharpe? Merry Christmas."

Again, the Doctor was saying stuff that Sharpe thought no-one but a madman would understand. "It's June, Doctor."

"Right. Of course it is. But just in case I don't see you again before then, Merry Christmas." And with that, he'd disappeared once more.

Sharpe stood staring after him in bemusement for a couple of moments longer, feeling the disappointment settle on him that that extraordinary man had disappeared just as suddenly as he'd reappeared. But then he went back to saddling the horse, considering the Doctor's final words and feeling a definite sense that he'd be seeing the Doctor again.