(A/N - so I actually I wrote this to put on my tumblr account but I figured I'd make the most of this place, so I'll post it here. I really only intended it to be a mini-fic, but there's room for me to add more, so idk. Let me know. None of these characters belong to me, and all rights go to the amazing writers and producers of Doctor Who and Sherlock. Enjoy!)
"So I hear you're the best. The best of the best."
John Watson gazed upon the bizarre, mysterious man, whose eyes seemed to shine with the glow of a billion secrets. His features were hidden behind the dark shadows of the room, but he could see enough of the man to know that he was no ordinary doctor.
John had not been looking for him. Not at first. No mere doctor could save the one person John needed more than ever. Not even John himself could do that. No, he had not been searching for this strange, abnormal man with stars in his eyes and sorrow in his heart. Except, perhaps he was. Exactly seven months after the death of him, and six months after John began tracking down any psychic, medium, Wiccan or voodoo practitioner he could find, he began to hear things. Whispers, rumours of the man – the doctor - with the big blue box who travelled the universe, the man who stopped the greatest threats in the universe and saved the world with no one the wiser, and John had to know more. Not to say he honestly believed these stories, but there was . . . something about the accuracy and similarities of each story. Usually, when a story gets passed down, certain aspects of its plot begin to change. Not this story. Always the same wonderful, brilliant man, always the same luminous blue box; travelling through space and time, helping people and having adventures. John was not one to ignore a coincidence.
And nor was Sherlock, he thought. Sherlock was a man of facts, but never disregarded anything as coincident. No matter how absurd.
John winced as he felt the familiar twinge in his chest, the one that followed him constantly, reminding him, "You're not okay. You'll never be okay. He's gone, John. You failed him, John. It's your fault, John."
"You miss him, don't you, doctor Watson?" the man said, without a trace of questioning. How curious; John couldn't remember ever giving his name to the stranger. He would have been suspicious, but there was something, something about his eyes, they way they stared deep into his very being and filled him with such peace. He was safe with this man, this doctor, who was kind and pure and just, and he found himself trusting him without a fraction of doubt.
"So much, Doctor," John found himself whispering, unable to contain this secret he's been keeping for seven months without fault. "So, so much. It . . . it feels like I'm drowning. Like I'm underwater, and I'm so close to the surface, but someone's pulling me down with them. It's him. He's pulling me down. And I know that if I reach the surface I'll be happy and at peace with it all, but a part of me . . . a part of me just wants to drown; to let him pull me down into the blackness, because I know that if I reach the surface, I'll move on, on from him, and I don't want to let go. I can't let go of him. I won't. I l –" John's voice cracked, and he cut off, panting, trying to reel himself in. Never before had he revealed his feelings of the event in such detail, not even to his psychiatrist, and certainly not a strange, awkward looking man with a bowtie and a big blue box.
The Doctor sighed. "I suppose that's why you found me, isn't it, doctor Watson? Mr Holmes meant a great deal to you, I can tell. You came to find me, to ask for my help."
John nodded, filled with relief. He had no need to explain. This man knew. He could help him. He felt his eyes prickle with tears, but he did not cry. "I want you to bring him back, yes. Bring him back to life."
The Doctor sighed. John observed with dread the small, sad smile across the man's face.
"John . . ." he began, running his fingers through his hair wearily. "I'm a doctor, like you. Well, not actually like you, I'm a whole different board game, I'm like monopoly and twister and LIFE all mixed into one really, really cool game." He stopped, noticing John's impatient grunt, and then continued. "The point is, John, doctor's like you and me – we deal with the living. I can't bring anybody back from the dead. Nobody can. It's against the laws of physics."
John said nothing for a long time. He didn't have words to express the disappointment he felt, and the dull pang in his chest. He felt numb, and broken. It was all for nothing. Sherlock was dead.
To his and his companions surprise, he heard himself begin to laugh. It was quiet a first, a small chuckle, but it soon grew to a manic, deafening hysteria.
"You think," said John. "That I give a fuck about physics? You meet me here, for the first time, and you know all about me, but, truth is, you know fuck all. Because if you think, for one second, that some law is going to stop me from saving Sherlock, then you are sadly mistaken. And you're also an idiot. I'm not giving up, doctor . . . whoever the hell you are. I'm never going to give up. He wouldn't." He spun around and began to walk away.
This time, it was the Doctor who laughed. "You're very alike, you and Sherlock. I never would have guessed. I guess opposites attract." He said.
"What do you mean, 'are'" John asked, turning around. "Sherlock's dead, didn't you get the memo? He's gone, and you're just wasting my time."
This made the Doctor laugh even harder. "Oh, John. I said I couldn't bring people back from the dead. I was telling the truth."
"Right. So what now?"
"What now," the Doctor replied, stepping into the light. "Is that Sherlock Holmes is still alive."
(A/N – dun, dun, duuuun! Well, I hope you enjoyed that poorly written, awkward piece of rubbish, and if you did, I would LOVE YOU FOREVER if you left me a review with any tips or criticism or praise. Or, you know, whatever. Thank you!)