This is my Sherlock Secret Santa gift to checkmyshoe123. Hope you enjoy!
John Watson isn't having the best of days at all. Living with Sherlock Holmes has its ups and downs, and today happens to be a severe down day. He stirs two mugs of tea; one extra sugary and milky, the other with no sugar and very little milk. What else can you do when your flatmate is going mad from boredom? Pin him down? John is five foot seven, Sherlock is just over six foot, unlikely. Sedative? Lestrade had banned John from doing that after the incident last month. Food, drink and a hopeful promise of a new case? Not likely to work, but will have to do.
He throws the spoon into the sink; it clatters amongst the dishes from the night before. John picks the mugs up, pads into the living room and places them on the coffee table. He then steps in front of Sherlock, interrupting his pacing. Sherlock looks down his nose at the smaller man and pulls his eyebrows together.
"What?" He grunts.
"Sit down, I made you tea," John nods at the table.
"Why?" Sherlock asks, as though someone making him tea was a completely absurd idea.
"Sherlock," John says sternly, "you need sugar or something. You know what you get like when your blood sugar is low and you're hungry, go drink it then you can go back to whatever it is you're doing."
Sherlock continues glaring down at John.
"And there he is," John mutters, "would I make you do something that wouldn't be beneficial to you?" Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but John cuts in, "don't even bother answering that. Now sit." John puts his hand at the small of Sherlock's back and pushes him towards the sofa. Sherlock doesn't move, so John employs a new method. He grabs Sherlock's shoulders and physically steers him across the room and pushes him to sit down.
John opens his mouth to begin lecturing him, but there's a sudden knock on the door. John points at Sherlock and growls, "drink your tea and don't move. I'll be back in a minute."
Sherlock crosses his arms and burrows back into the sofa, tucking his feet underneath himself.
With one last stare, John trots down the stairs to the front door. He pulls it open to be greeted by a tall man in a long tan coat and a blonde girl about the same height as himself.
"Hello!" The man starts, tucking his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels, "you haven't by any chance seen two young men with a 1967 Chevy Impala have you? One has longish hair and sideburns, other has short hair, possibly had an angel in a trench coat with them. They said they would meet us around here, but haven't shown up yet."
"No, we've barely had any traffic here today, just the usual taxis and buses," John says, "wait, angel? What are you talking about? Are you drunk?"
"Um," he starts.
"No, not at all. We're just looking for our friends," the girl interrupts, smiling sweetly, "we're going to a costume party later and planned to meet up with them."
"Wait a moment," the man interrupts the girl's interruption, his eyes flicking at the gold numbers on the door, "what's your name?"
Stunned, John blurts the simplest version of his name, "John Watson, I don't—"
He's interrupted by the odd pair grinning at each other and making 'oooh' noises at each other.
"Excuse me, but whatever you're trying to pull here," John tries to start again, but is interrupted… again.
"Oh I should have guessed from the door, 221b," he pauses and jumps from one foot to the other, "this is Baker Street, right?"
"Yes, but could you tell me who you are?"
The girl giggles and elbows the man whose face lights up, "does Mr Holmes live here by any chance?"
"He does, do you have a case for him? Please say you do," John would never admit it, but there's an obvious begging tone in his voice, "he's driving me up the wall. If you want to take him somewhere far away, feel free."
"I thought you were friends?" The girl asks.
"We are, yes. It's just some days he's completely insufferable," John smiles sweetly and steps to the side, "come in."
John closes the door and motions towards the pair to follow him up the stairs. When they step into the living room, John is surprised to find that Sherlock had followed his instructions (for once), and is quietly sipping at his tea, somehow curled into a ball so small that it couldn't have been comfortable for anyone else his height.
Sherlock narrows his eyes when they enter, flicking from their hair to their faces to their clothes in seconds. He unfolds himself, straightening his back and pulling his dressing gown further around himself, "who are you? We weren't expecting anyone today."
"They have a case for you Sherlock, can't you be at least a little enthusiastic?"
Sherlock looks between them both, "no, they don't."
The man's face breaks out into a grin, "well done, Mr Holmes," he holds out his hand, "I'm the Doctor, this is Rose."
Sherlock eyes the hand suspiciously, but takes it anyway, "you still haven't told me who you are."
When the Doctor opens his mouth to protest, Sherlock continues, "you told us your names, not who you are." He stops before he can continue, quickly dropping the Doctor's hand. "Your pulse, that's not possible."
The Doctor raises his eyebrows, "time lord. Two hearts."
Sherlock is silent for a moment, "prove it," he spits. He'd heard of time lords before, but had never really found that much of an interest in them. Where had he heard of them before? Sherlock sifts through his mind palace at lightning speed, unable to find anything.
The Doctor gapes, obviously not used to be spoken to in such a tone.
"How can we be sure you're telling a pack of lies?" Sherlock shrugs, "you've got John fooled, but he's fairly gullible so, you know. I, on the other hand, don't believe you."
The Doctor frowns, clearly working something out in his head. Rose leans across and whispers, "do you think we could show them?"
He contemplates for a moment, before a wide grins spreads across his face, "follow me." He sets off at a quick walk down the stairs, motioning for Rose, John and Sherlock to follow. Obediently, they do, after Sherlock drops his dressing gown in favour of his coat. They follow him to a blue box. As he's walking, he talks back at the three of them, gesturing wildly with his arms, "we're supposed to be meeting Sam and Dean soon, but I suppose a short trip wouldn't hurt much."
"That's a police box, they haven't been used in years," John deadpans, feeling as though he's been left out of some sort of joke or prank.
"Really?" The Doctor shrugs, "you might want to take a look inside first." He unlocks the door with a snap of his fingers, unable to stop the childish grin taking over his face, and motions for them to go inside.
Sherlock's eyes dart everywhere at once, cataloguing as much of the huge room as he can in a single glance. John on the other hand, gapes, mumbling "it's bigger on the inside," under his breath.
Rose stands next to them, "a lot to take in at first, right?" She smiles, "it's like, alien tech or something. I don't understand how it works, but it's pretty cool."
The Doctor had been ignoring them, for the most part. Until he pulls a lever, making the control panel make loud groaning noises, "there might be some turbulence, you might want to grab hold of something," he says, grinning manically.
John quickly gets hold of the railing, but Sherlock doesn't quite react in time, his brain still processing the TARDIS itself, instead falling against John and clinging for dear life. Thirty seconds and a loud whoop from the Doctor later, the TARDIS stops.
The Doctor confidently strides to the door and pauses with his hand resting against it, "I will warn you, you can't speak to anyone here. If you do, who knows what could happen."
"What's going on? Where are we?" John starts forward, trying to loosen Sherlock's grip on his arm.
"Well, we're in a different world where you're documented as living in the late 1800s through a Doctor Watson's journals, a fictional tale written by a man named Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. They're very good, and very popular, so lots of directors have adapted them into television shows and films," the Doctor explains, "you've heard of parallel worlds, surely?"
John pales, "in this world, we're not real?" The Doctor nods. "At all? We're just some characters in a book?" John folds his arms across his chest, "what are you showing us then? Surely there's nothing for us to see here."
"Just wait," the Doctor opens the door with a squeak, revealing Trafalgar Square.
"I don't see anything special—" John is cut off by the Doctor.
"'You see, but you do not observe,' is how it goes, isn't it, Sherlock?" He grins and motions towards several large television cameras and some busy looking people carrying all sorts of props, "modern adaptation for the BBC. They changed the stories to being modern, rather than the Victorian era, like in the books."
Sherlock and John watch as two actors walk by them, laughing and sipping at their matching mugs of tea. As they look closer, they notice more people, a grey haired man carefully studying his script and a man in a suit carrying an umbrella.
"Good lord, there's even a Mycroft here," Sherlock growls, "one is enough for both worlds."
"That's not Mycroft, he's one of the writers, and also plays the role of your brother," Rose points towards the laughing pair, "they're you. The tall one plays Sherlock and the other is you, John."
John watches both of them carefully for a few moments, "he looks nothing like me," he concludes, "we have completely different facial structure, and I would never wear that jumper."
"Really?" Sherlock snorts, "he's a perfect match for you, John. He, on the other hand, I understand the hair, but the face? Definitely not. Excellent choice of clothing for both though, they chose just the right type of jumpers for you, John."
The Doctor and Rose look at each other and smile, they'd never expected to run into Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Rose watches as John grabs Sherlock's collar when he tries to stalk in the direction on the camera. She cups a hand next to her mouth, "do you boys want to see some more?" Nudging the Doctor's arm, she starts back to the TARDIS, the three men curiously following.
She leans against the control panel and shouts, "to America!"
This time, both John and Sherlock manage to hold onto the railing and remain on their feet. Sherlock is the first thought the door, finding himself on a Victorian London street.
"Ah," the Doctor smiles, "film adaptation. This is the third they've done together, I believe."
Two men are currently playing a scene involving a lot of shouting and cursing. John giggles, accurate in that sense, I suppose. But what are they shouting about? Had someone killed?
They watch for a few minutes until Sherlock asks, "so, who is who?"
Rose, obviously more knowledgeable about such things points, "the smaller one is you, Sherlock. The one with the scarf and hat is John."
John nods, handsome enough, he thinks.
They stand for a little while longer, eventually the Doctor sighs, "we should get you boys back, we have somewhere we need to be."
They march back inside he TARDIS and set off back to Baker Street. Over the shouts of the TARDIS, John, unable to wipe the huge smile from his face, speaks, "thank you for this. At least now I know if no one is reading my blog, they're getting enjoyment out of what we do anyway."
When the TARDIS stops this time, they step out greeted by three men sat on the bonnet of a car, talking quietly amongst themselves. They spot them immediately, "who are they?" the one wearing a tan trench coat asks.
"This is Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. We've been on a short trip," the Doctor's hands are shoved into his pockets and he bounces on the balls of his feet.
One of the men stands; he's rather tall, John notes, straightening his shoulders subconsciously. He relaxes quickly when the man stands close to him, practically vibrating.
"I- wow, hey, I- you're- well-," he tries to say, after stuttering for a moment he finally settles with, "you're awesome."
The third man steps forward, glaring at the Doctor, "now is not the time to fan boy, Sammy. We've got more important stuff to worry about, like the apocalypse," he growls, turning to the Doctor, "we going or not?"
"Time Lord, remember," the Doctor turns to Sherlock and John, "it was brilliant to meet you both, but I hope it's obvious that you can't tell anyone about this. Not even your closest friends like Mrs Hudson or Lestrade from the police or even Ms Adler."
"How did you—"
"I read the books," he smiles, "hopefully we'll bump into each other again at some point. See you boys around," the Doctor smiles and turns back into the TARDIS. Rose, Dean and Castiel wave and follow. Sam lingers for a moment, still vibrating with excitement, before nervously raising a hand and disappearing inside, shutting the door behind them.
The TARDIS disappears with a loud 'vworp'. Sherlock and John stare at where it had been and sigh, still slightly overwhelmed. They go back to the flat, the door thankfully still unlocked. When John reaches the living room he tuts at the cold, half-drunk mugs of tea. He stoops to pick them up, but notices Sherlock examining a big red book. He cocks his head, trying to read the cover, "what is that?"
"Should we read this?"
"Where did you get that?" John reaches out to hold the book. It's very thick and heavy, and has a man smoking a pipe on the cover, "the Complete Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conon Doyle? Sherlock, where did you get this?"
Sherlock hops from one foot to the other, "I stole it when the Doctor wasn't looking," he grabs it back and flicks it open to the contents page, "should we read it?"
"No way, I've seen that episode of Doctor Who. If you read it, it has to come true. If someone we know is killed somehow I don't—wait," John gasps, "so, if Doctor Who is a tv show, we just met the Doctor, the actual Doctor. Doctor Who is just on tv here, but he's real in that other world, like how we're real here but fictional there. They know all about our lives, even the stuff that hasn't happened yet," John rubs his face with his hands, "I think I need to lie down," he runs his fingers through his hair, leaving it sticking out and sighs heavily, "goodnight, Sherlock, and don't read that book yet."
Sherlock chuckles and watches John ascend the stairs to his room. He sets the book down; he might take a peek later, while John is still in bed. His phone bleeps, Lestrade had texted with a case. Sherlock leaves all thoughts of the "Complete Sherlock Holmes" and the Doctor behind him; he has an interesting closed room murder to solve.