A/N: I promised I'd eventually write you some kind of Lestrade fic ;) This is inspired by, but not in the same universe as, the BBC series 'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to Ashes' (and if you've seen them, you'll know why it's not in the same universe.) As such, it's not a crossover.
The title comes from a 1983 David Bowie song of the same name. It's on Spotify and probably YouTube if you want to check it out.
I need help with this fic! I'm not British and I was a baby in 1983. If you know someone who was alive and kicking in Britain at the time, or you ARE someone who was alive and kicking in Britain at the time, please feel free to FLOOD my inbox with reminisces about everything from politics and current events to fashion, music, social services, cars, societal attitudes, decor and mod cons. The internet and my own memory can only get me so far.
This taking place immediately after Season One, absolutely nothing that happened or was retconned after that is considered canon, including but not limited to characters like Euros. Characterisation is all the way back in Season One, too. At this point in the TV show's canon, Sherlock and John had only known each other for two months and have just encountered Moriarty in person for the first time.
This fic may be updated sporadically, as I'm knee-deep in writing an original crime novel for my PhD. I am eager for help with this too, so if this sounds like something you'd like to read (you don't have to critique it!) please PM me. And, needless to say, encouragement to continue this one in the form of reads, faves, follows and reviews REALLY helps.
Love,
Edhla. xx
Sherlock might have expected the blast to be sound and fury, but John knew better. He knew that an explosion always sounded like silence; that it always looked like darkness. There was silence,
there was darkness,
and then there was nothing.
Nothing but an overcast sky.
Then came the itch of grass on his ears, the bitter smell of weeds and something jutting into his shoulder blades. Unsteadily, John sat up, looking around. He was in a child's playground: a forlorn little set of swings, not three metres away from a pile of industrial waste and a red brick wall separating it from a run of semis on that side of the street. In the other direction, the street ended in a cobblestoned cul-de-sac. On the opposite side of the street was another row of semis, broken here and there by gaps where a house had been demolished. He had no idea where he was, except for an uncomfortable feeling that he was no longer in London. A few feet away, Sherlock was also in the act of sitting up, one hand to his head.
For a long time—perhaps five minutes—the only sounds around them were ordinary suburban ones. Distant traffic. A motorbike being revved out the front of some hidden house around the corner. The subtleties of birdsong. Sherlock rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, taking a deep breath.
"What the hell just happened?" John finally said. "… And why do you look like that…?"
Sherlock stared at him, confused. "Why," he said, "how do I look?"
"… Different." But John could not explain why. Then it hit him: Sherlock's suit was cut differently, the lapels wider, and he was wearing a wide-set blue tie. His hair, too, might have been different, shorter over his ears, but he was in such a state of disarray that it was hard to tell. What he didn't seem to be was injured. How could they have been in a bomb blast at an indoor swimming pool, at midnight, just seconds ago? The memory of the standoff with Moriarty was so vivid John could almost still smell the chlorine. "Sherlock, did we just die?"
"You seem alive enough," Sherlock said, getting up and reaching out to yank John to his feet, "and I refuse to believe that hell is in Bristol."
"Bristol?"
"Yes, Bristol. Don't you recognise the spire of St. Mary Redcliffe?" He pointed to the east, over the roofs of a line of houses, and John saw a gothic church, needle-sharp, outlined against the sky.
"No," he muttered. "I don't recognise the spire of St. Mary Redcliffe." He reached out to wipe sweat off his forehead, and a flash of unfamiliar colour on his sleeve caught his attention. Looking down at himself, he saw that he was wearing a pale grey suit and a wide tie of purple and blue diamonds. He yanked at it and made a helpless little whine of confusion. "Sherlock, five minutes ago we were at a sports centre in Whitechapel with a homicidal maniac threatening us with a sniper and a bomb. Tell me what—"
"Dr. Watson!"
John turned toward the sound, coming from one of the vacant lots on the other side of the street. At the far end of it, bordering more houses, was a rotting board fence with half the panels missing and another pile of household rubbish, interspersed here and there with chickweed and tall grass. Beside it, three police officers in uniform were standing around something, and one was gesturing over his shoulder to him.
"I need to find out what's going on," Sherlock said, beginning to back away. "I'll find you later."
"Wait, what—"
"I'll find you."
"Sherlock, don't—"
The policeman across the street called John again, just as Sherlock darted off in the direction of the corner.
"Sherlock!" John called again. But after taking a step, the ground rushed up to meet him and he wobbled, holding out one hand to balance himself. He'd hit his head, or been given some sort of hallucinatory drug, or something; he couldn't chase after Sherlock in this state. Before he could pull himself together enough to call again, Sherlock had legged it over a low brick wall at the end of the cul-de-sac and disappeared into what might have been a park beyond.
Typical.
From across the street, a bellow: "Dr. Watson, are you coming or what?"
Well, was he coming or what? Sherlock was gone, and he couldn't stand in the middle of a child's playground in God-knew-where all day waiting for him to come back. Taking the plunge, John crossed the street toward the little group of officers, one palm to his aching neck.
He didn't know how to tell a policeman's rank by his uniform, but it was obvious that the man who had hailed him was in charge and meant business. He was middle-aged, fifty or so: a typical plodder, with great slabs of forearms and a moustache that could only be described as 'truculent'. As he turned to him, John could just make out a shiny badge on his coat and the name Brian. Half-glimpsed, his surname could be Stem or Stern. The other two officers were younger, perhaps in their late thirties or early forties: one was holding his helmet under his arm and the breeze was whipping at his sandy-coloured hair; a pleasant-looking sort of person, dough-faced and mild-eyed. The other was a chinless scarecrow of a man with something about him that John was instinctively wary of. Sharp-eyed, like a reptile.
"Sorry." John glanced back across the street, still bewildered. "Where am I…?"
"Nice of you to join us," Stern—definitely Stern, and an Inspector, going by that badge—said, as if he hadn't heard him. He pulled a cigarette out of his coat pocket and, to John's astonishment, put it in his mouth and lit it. "We could've solved ten cases while you were pissing about. Any more from you and you'll be back in bloody Southend handing out little blue pills to clean up the clap, get that?" He pointed to the grass with his cigarette. "Couple of kids found this one an hour ago. Give us your thoughts on it, then."
It had been part of John's training in Afghanistan that soldiers who hesitated were soldiers who died. Keep moving. Keep talking. Do something. Anything. Think about this later.
This was something he knew about. It was something he could handle, as far as handling things went. It was a crime scene, and the stinking mass Stern had just pointed to was a corpse. Or part of a corpse, anyhow. John could see pieces of a tattered, bloodstained t-shirt and a white expanse of what was probably the victim's back, framed by chickweed and brambles. There was no sign of any head, arms, or legs. By the horrific smell, emanating from the torso in waves, it had been there for a long time. Perhaps a couple of weeks.
He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket—not the one he'd had in his pocket when he'd stormed out of Baker Street about a million years ago, but a tartan one which was both vaguely familiar and one he'd never seen before—and covered his nose and mouth, then stepped forward and crouched down beside the body to have a look at what they were dealing with. It was, to put it lightly, not pretty.
"Young boy," he finally said through the handkerchief, "aged between, say, fourteen and sixteen? Eighteen, at a stretch. Caucasian. Well nourished. Seems to have been in good health, but it's hard to tell when—"
"Good health? He's bloody dead," Brian said, which got a snigger out of the others. "So I'm assuming it's another victim of this weirdo we've got on the loose?"
John paused, but only for a second. "Sure," he said. "I mean… uh, the uh, the body's obviously been dumped. But I really can't tell you much more, you're going to have to wait until the SOCOs and forensic crew…" The ground beneath him seemed to heave, and the world spinning off its axis. A sudden wave of nausea yanked at John, and he put one wrist against his mouth and cleared his throat.
What the hell? I'm a bloody doctor, I've never thrown up at a crime scene!
"Sorry," he said when he was finally able. "I feel sort of..."
He heard another snigger from the sharp-faced officer at his left shoulder and decided to ignore it.
There was something amused and triumphant in Stern's expression, too, as if a low opinion of John had just been confirmed. Not quite a smirk, but definitely on its way there. "You gonna make it through this?"
"Probably not, no," John said, seizing the possibility of being able to leave. He needed to be somewhere, anywhere, that wasn't here. He needed to find Sherlock. "Sorry, I just—"
"Oi," Stern said, giving a sharp whistle to someone over John's shoulder. "Pretty Boy, will you take Dr. Watson home?"
Good, John thought, turning around to see who it was. Because I have no idea where 'home' even is—
Another PC in uniform had just stepped out of a green two-door Capri parked on the kerb and was making his way over. He was very young, perhaps still in his teens. Thinner, more tanned, dark-haired, and with a certain meekness in his posture that John had never seen in him before, but there was no doubt as to who on the force they were calling 'Pretty Boy.' He stopped dead at the unexpected command, looking a little affronted. "But I just got here," he protested.
"Yes, and now you're just going. Don't blame me, blame the poor little dear who's got the vapours over here." Brian gave them both a curt wave that was two degrees away from a shove. "Off you go. I'll see you down at Central in an hour, Lestrade. Dr. Watson, I'll be dealing with you tomorrow. Looking forward to it."
Keep moving. Do something. Do anything. John blundered toward the Capri, waiting at the passenger-side door while Lestrade unlocked his own door, got in and leaned across the gearstick to unlock the passenger door. He got in, digging his fingertips into his eyes and taking a deep breath. This is not happening. This is insane. I've died and I've gone to hell and hell is in Bristol, for some reason.
The car around him smelled like cheap vinyl, aftershave and cigarette smoke. The source of this last one was an overflowing ashtray just below the tape deck.
"Sorry," Lestrade said, seeing his disgusted expression and guessing what it meant. "I don't usually have workmates in my car…"
"It's fine, you don't have to—"
But it was too late. Lestrade pulled the ashtray out, opened his door again, and dumped the contents out onto the road, then slotted it back in its place and gave the car door a cheerful slam.
Stern called him by name; and anyway, there's no way that's anyone else, John thought, watching him as he took his helmet off, threw it into the console between them, and dragged his hand through his hair.
Stern's sarcastic nickname mightn't have been kind, but it was apt. The silver hair and slightly haggard, harassed look of his middle age had masculinised Greg Lestrade; without them he was almost girlish, with an oval face and long eyelashes. There was something about him that wasn't so pretty, though—John, ever a doctor, could see that below his left cheekbone was the shadow of a black eye. His left hand, resting on the gearstick, was tattered and callused, as if he worked in manual labour. He drove in silence, until John, desperately trying to think of something to say that wouldn't sound deranged, said, "Does he always talk to people like that?"
"Who?" Lestrade reached out to slap at the tape deck, which was playing something John recognised vaguely from his childhood, but didn't have the energy to try to identify. A David Bowie song… he'd bought a cassette with his pocket money when he was twelve…
"Stern," he said, taking a guess that neither he nor Lestrade would be on a first-name basis with the guy.
At this, Lestrade glanced at him. "You've been the FME on this case for, what, nearly two months, Dr. Watson," he said. "I thought you'd know what he's like by now."
FME: Force Medical Examiner. Ongoing murder case. Right, now we're getting somewhere. Thank Christ I'm not a pathologist. "I meant," he said, "was he like that before I got here, or is it just something he's put on specially for me?"
Lestrade shrugged as he changed lanes. Out the window, the view had become increasingly unsettling. A seemingly ordinary afternoon on the high street, with bag-laden shoppers hurrying up to parked cars and teenagers congregated on the low stone wall of a nineteenth-century church, clutching cigarettes and cans. There was something wrong with how they were dressed, with their hair—John was still too befuddled to work out what. It was only once they'd turned the corner and were back in another tree-lined suburban street that he realised something else: all those people, and he had not seen one of them with a mobile phone.
His own mobile had been confiscated, or possibly destroyed, by Moriarty earlier in the night. Only it was no longer night. It was, by the looks of things, mid-afternoon. On top of everything else, the universe had apparently decided to give him a huge dose of jetlag.
"You sure you're okay, Dr. Watson? You look like you don't even know where you are."
John took a deep breath, looking up at the Victorian semi Lestrade had just stopped in front of. He apparently lived here, in Dalrymple Street, according to the sign three houses down. The house was a deep teal colour, the street door reached by a narrow set of concrete steps.
"Dr. Watson?"
Why's he keep calling me that? John thought, irritated. Hardly anyone called him Dr. Watson. He'd even had patients call him by his first name, and he'd never corrected them. "Yeah," he made himself say, doing his best to sound upbeat. "I'm fine."
"You don't want me to come in with you?"
John did, but he shook his head. The last thing he needed was for Lestrade to realise he didn't even know his own house. "It's fine," he said. "See you tomorrow?"
It was a guess at his work schedule which failed. "Someone'll call and let you know," Lestrade said. "I'm rostered off tomorrow." He did not seem pleased about it.
"Oh." John had the impression if he said any more, he'd get himself into trouble. "Fine. Okay. Well, I'll see you at some point…"
With this he climbed out of the car, shutting the door and turning so that Lestrade couldn't see the look on his face. Only when the Capri had taken off and turned the corner into the next street did he start climbing those concrete steps, pulling an unfamiliar set of keys out of his pocket, hoping he'd followed Lestrade's line of sight correctly and this was the house he'd taken him to, not the one next door.
There was a line of doorbells on the right of the doorway, which was both a blessing and a disappointment—he'd been taken to a flat, not a house, but at least the one he lived in was labelled for him. The hall just inside the street door was dark and cool, smelling of floor polish. He trudged up a narrow flight of steps to the second landing, finding the door of flat D and trying each key in turn until one fitted the lock.
He expected the door to stick—this was not his house, so none of these could be the right key. Instead, the lock flicked over easily, and the door opened with barely a creak, as though it was in constant use. It opened onto a dark, low-eaved sitting room, which reeked of cigarette smoke. Against the far wall was a blockish, beige-coloured sofa, and Sherlock Holmes was sitting on it, a lit cigarette in his mouth.
"Jesus!" John almost slammed the door after himself, then drew a deep breath. "You scared the hell out of me. What—"
"Oh, I've scared the hell out of you? This." Sherlock stood up, picking up a newspaper from the coffee table in front of him and handing it across. "Yesterday's evening paper." He flopped down on the sofa again, as though exhausted with the effort.
John took it, staring blankly at the headline: Thatcher Hints at General Election. A thin panel on the left of the front page included a colour photograph of Prince Charles, with a full head of dark hair and wearing a baby-blue polo jumper, one arm around a flop-haired, smiling Princess Diana. She held a bald, woeful-looking baby on her lap, and the headline proclaimed he was: Our Sweet William! John's gaze shot up to the date just above the by-line: Thursday, March 24, 1983.
"I don't know what you're playing at," he said, trying to stop the tremor in his voice, "but this isn't funny and it's got to stop."
"I'm not playing at anything," Sherlock said grimly, taking another drag of his cigarette. "And if I could stop it, I would."
"You're not seriously suggesting we've gone back in time. If this is 1983, Sherlock, I should be able to go out to Portsmouth right now and find me, sitting the eleven-plus at St John's and wondering whether my dad was going to kill me if I failed. But apparently I'm going to pass, or did pass, or something, because I'm still a doctor."
"Yes, I know," Sherlock said.
John rolled his eyes. "Of course. You know everything. How did you know?"
"I found your address by looking you up in the white pages. You're listed as Dr. J.H. Watson."
"I don't even know what station I'm supposed to be working out of. Apparently, I'm the FME for… whichever station those officers who were across the street from where we… were… work out of..." Aware that he was almost gibbering now, he took a deep breath and went to the window. The room was cold, but he pushed up the sash, letting a flood of fresh air into the room. "They all seemed to know me, but I've never seen any of them before. Except one. Greg Lestrade just drove me home."
Sherlock got out of his seat. "Sorry, what?"
"Lestrade."
"Yes, I know who he is," Sherlock said acidly. "I was commenting on what he's doing here with us."
"Yeah, that's the thing, I don't think he's here with us. He looks like he's not even old enough to shave yet, and he's acting like it's 1983 and nothing weird's just happened."
"Did he recognise you?"
"From the future? Of course he didn't. But he seems to think we've been working together for months, and he keeps calling me 'Dr. Watson'."
Sherlock shook his head. "It explains why we're in Bristol," he said. "Lestrade's first post was there. Here."
"So you're saying we are in—"
"We're not in the past, John; it's impossible. If time was linear and we were in the past, Lestrade would also have recognised you in the future. And as you so correctly pointed out, if we were really in 1983, we'd both currently exist in two places at once. I'd be six years old and at school in Hertford."
"So you're going along with time travel being real, but it's multiple dimensions that's tripped you up?"
"The opposite." Sherlock reached out to stub his cigarette out in the ashtray that sat on the coffee table, his hands shaking so badly that he could hardly make them accomplish the task. Then he picked up a packet of cigarettes that sat beside the ashtray, gesturing with them. "By the way, you'll be interested to know that these were sitting on the coffee table. You smoke."
"I do not smoke," John protested. "I've never smoked."
"Precisely. So this must be a parallel reality in which you do."
"Jesus, my head hurts." John buried his face in his hands, thinking this through. "If, Sherlock," he said through his fingers, "if it was 1983, or some sort of... I dunno... parallel reality... and I was picking a place to live, it wouldn't be here. Why here?" He dropped his hands to his sides and looked around. The place was not a far cry from 221B Baker Street, in terms of its age, interior decoration and overall feel. Beiges, browns and oranges, with cream accents. A dingy little one-bedroom flat, occupying only part of the top floor of the building: in the far corner, the roof sloped almost down to the floor. There was a kitchenette at one end of the room, barely big enough for a stove and refrigerator, and beyond it, a half-open door that led to a green-tiled bathroom. Another door, between the sofa and the window, was closed; apparently it led to a bedroom. There was a red-shaded lamp on a stand to one side of the armchair, a record player under the window, and a tiny, curve-screened television on a wooden stand in the opposite corner. Other than this, there seemed to be very little in the room—not even a book case. Not too much like Baker Street, then, with its piles of stuff strewn everywhere. Sherlock's stuff. If he lived here, John thought, where did Sherlock live?
"I think," Sherlock said, "you live in a place like this because you're a doctor who's just returned injured from a war." He threw a small shining object to him, and John automatically caught it. "This was on the coffee table when I came in, only a few minutes before you did. We need to search the flat."
John looked down. In his hand was a glinting service medal, sea-green stripes between two white and then two blue stripes. He felt himself drop, rather than sit, on the sofa; then he turned the medal on its side to read the initials and rank transcribed on it. "Sherlock," he said, "this is the South Atlantic Medal. It was given to British personnel who served in the Falklands."
"And it's inscribed with your initials."
"They're not my initials. I've seen this before, but it's not mine. It's my dad's."
