A/N: Because I really don't know what deep, dark hole my mind lurks in during the night. That and I haven't done a crossover in so long. Torchwood/DW/Sherlock. Most likely going to be a two-shot, the next chapter being an alternate ending. Please enjoy!

Sadder Things

"Did you hear? About the detective who fell from St. Barts?"

Captain Jack Harkness spun around in seconds, gun torn from its holster and ready to fire. It wasn't every night that he was confronted with random strangers in the middle of an abandoned parking lot, but it happened often enough for him to be well prepared. But what he was faced with was not what he expected. He expected a thug or alien or something…not friendly that required negative reinforcement. That was in his job description after all; no one usually wanted him around for anything else.

What he got instead was a young man - and an attractive man at that - wearing a ridiculous tweed jacket, suspenders, and a bowtie, staring him right in the eyes. His glinted like obsidian due to the shadows he was immersed in as they steadily read Jack's ice blue ones.

"Well? Did you hear?"the man's deep voice repeated, and brought Jack back to the present.

He questioned exactly why the man was there in the first place. Jack wasn't the kind of person people just stopped to chat with…well, that wasn't exactly true. He could be charming and charismatic and funny, but during times like now, when he was on the prowl for alien activity, he was downright cold, uncaring, and fairly intimidating.

But this man didn't look the least bit afraid. He didn't even seem to register the handgun aimed at his forehead. Not one blink, like the gun bored him. Like it was expected.

But the man didn't seem like much of a risk either. Jack was sure he could take down that scrawny frame in less than two seconds if he had to. Might as well keep company as he waited for the rest of the Torchwood team to arrive, no matter how strange. So, he answered the man, acting as casual as one could be in the situation.

"Yeah, everyone's heard of Sherlock Holmes. Why?"

Jack was still holding his gun at attention when the man moved, shifting his body so that the light fell across his drastic cheekbones. Jack was astonished to see how old he looked, not physically but just in the way he carried himself – like he bore too much weight on his shoulders for far too long.

Too much guilt.

And for a moment, with all that age in his bones, the man reminded him of his friend long-gone. But that was impossible. He knew that the Doctor, or at least the Doctor he had known, had left. He knew the moment he saw the impossible man in that hellhole of a bar looking as devastated and resigned as ever.

The young man in front of him wasn't the Doctor. He was just some lost bloke in a funny suit without anywhere to be. Probably buggered out of his mind as well…

"Do you think it's true, what they said about him?" the man inquired, his voice still low and unwavering.

Jack was now starting to get where this man was getting at. So, he was a fan of the "great detective". Perhaps he wanted Torchwood to investigate his death? Part of him, a very tiny, vain part was a little disappointed at the notion.

"I don't know," Jack sighed, shrugging his shoulders. "Not my problem. Look, I don't really deal with that kind of thing-"

"I'm not asking for your help. I just want your opinion."

His eyes steeled until they were darker than they were previously, and for a moment Jack thought that the man was actually something dangerous. But the anger passed faster than a flash of lightning, stripping away everything except the deep-seated anguish in its wake.

"Do you think it's true?"

This was unsettling to Jack, and he chanced a glance around the lot to make sure they were really alone and no one was waiting around the corner to jump him.

"Yeah, yeah I do," Jack finally replied defensively, his voice carrying its telltale authority - as if every word out of his mouth was gospel. "That man was a fake, and there are a thousand and one people out there writing up a million different ways to prove it."

The younger man recoiled unintentionally, but did not change his expression in the slightest. It was almost as if he had anticipated Jack's answer, but it didn't change how much it hurt. Why would it hurt?

"Is that really what you think?"

The words were slow and purposeful, full of double meaning, as if to be a test. And there was something new in that man's eyes now, something so out of place and far too disheartening seeping out of the cracks of what Jack was beginning to recognize as a very complex mask.

Disappointment.

Jack had never really thought about Sherlock Holmes before. He was one of those stories in the morning paper that was skipped over on the way of reviewing the obituaries. A few clips here and there possibly; enough to know that he was a complete arse and a madman. Maybe the man across from him knew that Jack was poorly informed, but something in Jack was sparked that he didn't even know had been, and suddenly, he felt the urge to defend his ignorant answer. He rose to meet this man's unspoken challenge, like he needed to prove that he was right. Because at the moment, lost in that obsidian gaze, his entire being stripped down into nothing at the intensity of that man's stare, he wasn't quite sure he knew anything at all.

"No one could ever be that clever. No one human that is," Jack continued, reminiscing about the one man who actually was that intelligent, that crazily brilliant. But that man was long gone, and he sure as hell wasn't of Earth. "No, I've seen genius. I've seen what clever looks like, and it was not Sherlock Holmes. He was too afraid to face the world, so he left it - and his supposed 'best friend' - in pieces. Innocent men don't run; they fight for what's right. Coward 'till the end."

The man sighed, his long brown hair falling over his eyes, casting shadows over his face. He looked so tired, so sad at the death of a stranger. The way he looked at Jack made him think that the man was going to cry, his eyes glazing over. The look he gave was one of pity.

"I suppose you're right," he sighed, his attention far away. "It just makes me wonder why…I can't save them all…"

"Well, I can't save everyone either. No one can. And that's life. We're only human."

The man snorted, his whole body shaking momentarily with the melancholy breath of laughter. "Only human…" They way he rolled the word 'human' off his tongue, like the term was alien, like it had upset him, made him all the more a mystery. He cast a forlorn look aside, forcing out a pained smile, before turning to go.

"And isn't that the saddest thing?"

His words echoed from behind him, his steps muting away down the empty lot, shadows stretching and fading into the streetlamps until he vanished, leaving Jack completely alone with shivers running down his spine. The words were haunting, but the meaning was lost in the nighttime chill…the saddest thing.

He was just a crazy guy trying to shake him up. What did he know?

And the memory was cast aside until a few years later the papers were pressed with the headlines of "Fake Detective No Longer a Fake" and nonsense of the like. As if lauding a martyred man now would redeem them of their past sins.

And the meaning of those man's words that Jack had failed to grasp at the time suddenly became crystal clear.

Because the public had condemned an innocent man to shame and forced him to jump to his death without any hesitation. And the whole world mourned the loss of a great man three years too late.

Because that was life.

That man – a complete stranger – knew it, but Jack, the one person in the entire universe who should've known how it felt to be an outcast, was too dense to see the truth.

Because they were only human.

And isn't that the saddest thing?