So this is a prompt from the ever-lovely SammyKatz. She asked for this awhile back, and I'm just now finding the time to dedicate to it's awesomeness. Anyway, I hope she enjoys this, as is the case with all of you. :)
I do not own anything! All characters and are owned by the BBC/creators of mentioned characters.
Enjoy!
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"What?" his curt voice broke out, almost with a harsh irritability behind it.
"I said, maybe it wasn't the husband. I mean, he seemed genuinely distraught when he came in to identify her body. He couldn't even manage to give me an absolute 'yes' for five minutes." she shrugged her shoulders, looking up at him from her side of the shared work station.
"People are inherently good liars." Sherlock responded. She sighed, before standing and walking around to be beside him.
"Look at the evidence, Sherlock. The husband has rheumatoid arthritis in both hands. He can't possibly have held the knife firmly enough to stab his wife twenty times. It had to be someone else." Molly ended her own list of reasons why she felt Mr. Suthers was innocent. They had been arguing the points for the past thirty minutes, before Molly was finally able to make a point valid enough, forcing Sherlock to do the impossible, admit he was wrong. Of course, backing the detective into such a defensive corner only seemed likely, and Molly soon found herself at the end of a barrage of disdainful and cruel deductions from his lips.
"And tell me, Molly, do your insurmountable observational skills and knowledge also allow you to see the fact that the husband was also cheating on his wife? Or the fact that he was stealing money from her trust fund to pay for his secret alcohol addiction? While he may not have killed her himself, the motive speaks volumes higher as to the likelihood that he hired someone to do the dirty work for him. Obviously, you have figured these variables into your reasoning why Mr. Suthers is innocent. You must have, or you wouldn't have bothered to argue the point in the first place. No? Honestly, why don't you go back to your little corner in the lab and let me work in peace? We both know it's the smarter option, and you so desperately want to be smart, don't you? So just shut up, and go away." Sherlock had finished his tirade, immediately regretting the last of his bitter words. He'd expected her to rush out in tears, or at least slap him across his cheek. However, he did not expect her to do as he commanded. Silently, Molly made her way to the door, and pushed it open. He looked up when he saw her hesitate, before mumbling something, and finally stepping through the swinging door. She'd not intended for him to hear her, he was sure, but he had anyway.
"Okay. If that's what you want. Maybe it is time to leave." Sherlock didn't quite understand the meaning behind her heavily burdened reply, but he would come to learn soon enough.
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No sooner had he stepped through the door to 221B, and he was already being scolded by his very cross flatmate.
"You git! You've really done it now. I just got off the phone with Mary, who said she ran into Molly at Bart's. She was crying her eyes out, apparently something about you calling her stupid and telling her to bugger off. Why do you have to be so terrible to her? All because she tries to help, and she figured out a tiny detail to a case that's been bugging you for weeks now." John yelled at the quiet man currently reclined on the sofa. When Sherlock gave no reply, John tossed his arms up in defeat, before stalking to the door.
"Fine. Fine, you be a git if you want. Just don't be surprised when that girl is gone from your life, because you'll be the one who drove her away. I'm meeting up with Mary to see if we can mend some of the damage you've done this time." The army doctor grabbed his coat, before barreling down the staircase and out the front door. Sherlock sighed out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, before he closed his eyes and entered his mind palace for some much needed organized thinking.
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"I'm sure he didn't mean it like that. You know how he gets." Mary said, trying to soothe her friend. Molly sniffled, before sighing out and shaking her head.
"He doesn't 'get' that way. He's always like that, and that won't ever change. In all the potential universes, I'd bet he's the only Sherlock Holmes who treats his pathologist this badly." Molly bit down on her lip a bit, before she stood and paced in front of her sofa. Mary looked on, her concern growing for the distressed woman.
"You've been watching too many of those sci-fi shows again. Come on, I know he's a git, but you know he doesn't mean any of what he says." This seemed to stop the pathologist in her tracks, before she collapsed onto the floor. Her muffled words were missed by the blond nurse, who was now leaning over in her seat to hear her better.
"What?"
"I said, then why does he say the things he says? All the time. After...even after everything, and I still obviously mean nothing to him." Molly's soft and desperate tone wavered with her second bout of tears. Mary frowned deeply, before she rushed to Molly's side and pulled her into a hug. With a free hand, she pulled out her phone, sending a text to John to warn him not to come.
'Why not? - JW' Came the response. Mary's frown grew to a scowl of contempt as she sent another message.
'You're going back home and knocking some sense into that arsehole. She thinks she's nothing to him. -Mary'
John read over the text a few times. Partly to comprehend what it actually said, but mostly to build up the reserve of absolute rage to unleash on his moronic best friend.
"I'm sorry. Could you turn around and take me back? There's been a change of plans." John asked the cabbie, before he sat back in his seat. He decided to send off two separate messages. The first, to his girlfriend.
'Tell Molly I'm fixing it. Remind her that she counts. I'll see you tonight. - JW'
The second was sent as a warning, a command, to the git himself.
'Stay where you are. We need to have a talk. Don't you dare run away from this, either. - JW'
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Sherlock walked out of the corridor of his mind palace to emerge back into reality. However, upon opening his eyes, he realized something was definitely wrong with his surroundings. It looked similar to his own living room of the flat. It was even cluttered to the extent that his was, complete with a skull on the mantle, and a jack knife holding his post in place. The one thing that was unusual – utterly odd being the grandest of understatements, was the curly haired man squatting directly in front of him, light blue eyes meeting his own.
"Ah, you're finally awake. Wonderful. We can begin. Tea?" He spoke, his voice a regal tone, mixed with the slightest hint of sarcastic indifference. Sherlock looked around the room, his eyes resting on the silver tray on the floor. The small ceramic pot let out a slow stream of evaporation from its spout. The matching cups sat on either side, leaving just enough space for a small sugar bowl to sit on the last free space of the tray. Sherlock returned his gaze to the wild haired man, who was awaiting his answer.
"Um, yes. Thank you." he said in a tired voice. The other man nodded his head, before turning and filling the cups carefully.
"You obviously have questions." he said as he brought one of the cups around to offer to Sherlock.
"Yes. First of all, where am I? The walls seem to be the same dimensions as my own flat, but the paper is different, as are the shelves and the mason work around the fireplace. What is the address of this place?" Sherlock asked as he sat up, taking a sip of the tea. The man across from his smiled knowingly, before quirking a brow.
"You already know the answer to that. Better still, you know who lives here, and by extension, who I am. So...?" he motioned for Sherlock to state his deductions, or rather, his theories. After another brief glance around the room, Sherlock slowly began.
"This is still 221B, though it is somehow different, reflecting an older time. Based on the setting, I would say that it's still my flat. My violin is by the window, along with my skull placed on the mantle. But my coat and scarf are gone. What have you done with them?" his fingers pointed out each item, as he declared their locations. However, as he noticed his own coat and scarf missing, the detective took note of another coat in its place. This one, while still a charcoal color, was much shorter. Beside it hung another coat, this one even shorter, a black leather material that hardly fit the assumed aging of the rest of the items around him. Sherlock looked around, searching for his own Bel Staff. He returned his gaze to the other man, who was scratching at the stubble on his chin.
"Oh, come now, you know where the clues lead." he said with a sigh. Sherlock's mind was churning, yet refusing to believe the conclusion it kept arriving at.
"But...that's impossible." Sherlock whispered.
"Once you eliminate the impossible, no matter how improbable..." the scruffed man spoke.
"...Must be true." Sherlock finished with him, his eyes growing wide as he looked up at him.
"You're..." he managed to gasp out.
"Yes, I'm Sherlock Holmes, as are you." the man said with a grin. Sherlock's gaze widened further, and he set his teacup down with a shaking hand. Holmes stood, his hand reaching to the small table behind him and grabbing a leather switch. A riding crop. As he stood, he slowly took to pacing, only occasionally looking Sherlock's way.
"As I said before, you obviously have questions. However, I feel I cannot explain accurately the circumstances and reasons why you are here. Let me go and fetch the Doctor." Holmes held up a hand, signifying that he'd only be a moment. So, as he quickly left the room, Sherlock waited.
'How could John be better at explaining this than...myself?' he wondered to himself. He heard the sound of his counterpart returning, and a second set of footsteps following behind. Sherlock's sights set to the doorway, his mind anticipating what this John Watson might look like. He had imagined someone with similar attire to the Holmes character. So, it came as a great shock to him when he found himself gazing at a tall, lithe man with hardly any hair atop his head, a slightly larger nose, and unusually large ears. This man was definitely out of place, just as he was. As if knowing Sherlock's oncoming question, the man spoke.
"Hello Sherlock. I'm the Doctor." The flashing smile he gave was met with an unsure arched brow.
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Well there you have it. Chapter one is done! Finally! Lol. Anyway, I hope you will all enjoy this story as it continues, and please feel free to leave feedback/reviews/favorites/follows...because I very much enjoy hearing from you all. :D Thank you so much, and to my dear SammyKatz...HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Hope you like this story, considering it's for you. ;) Alright, laters!
