Title: Satisfied as the Storm
Author: Milly Methodical
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC) x Doctor Who crossover.
Parings: John/Sherlock, hints of other pairings.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 5,024
Warnings/Spoilers: For the first season of Sherlock, and little bits and pieces of the older Doctor Who episodes, but since I'm so far behind I really don't think I'll be spoiling anything more recent. Warnings for some mentions of violence and domestic abuse in passing. Also be warned for some violent or weird imagery, and confusion avec temporary memory loss. Warnings also for Dear Jim, but thankfully there is no mention of the moronic Anderson in this fic, cheers.

Disclaimer: I own none of these characters, terms or episode plots, lyrics, etc. I am a poor Uni student with a deep affection and respect for the makers of these lovely people, and make no profit using them for my own kicks (I will return them posthaste, and they will be only minimally traumatized by my use).

Author Notes: I'm a fan of both Sherlock and Doctor Who cos of my little sis, who has introduced me to almost every nerdy thing out there, save Star Trek and Star Wars—which was given to the both of us as children by our lovely parents (who felt there were not enough young Trekkies out there and thus created us)—which we both love and appreciate. I wanted to create a slice of life with these two universes merging in a way that was meant to be chaotic, but hopefully somewhat understandable, I wrote this in one day and have not had it beta'd and would love feedback. I felt inspired by a song by Emilie Simon, "Song of the storm" which you should really look up, tell me what you think, I believe I would like a nice video of Sherlock or Doctor Who using this song :P any takers? Anyway it made me think of Sherlock…and as I wrote Doctor Who just inserted itself, which was odd, but I'll just respect the muses and go with the flow…

Summary: "I see you're finally ready to see the truth," is what the man says… There had been the bomb, the gun in his hands, and the only method to survive was to throw himself so openly into the Vortex, hope that Mycroft was there and capable of saving him—of saving John—who would be changed by Sherlock's adventures and violent introduction to the time/space continuum—but he would live, at the very least…even if he came to loathe Sherlock for this.

There is a city of cloudy days, lonely nights and endless traffic.

The buildings, the sky, the people are all gray.

Underneath it all is the smell of sharp chemicals, invading his senses, destroying the world and building around them in a sound that creates an unnatural silence as th—

There is a boy of endless days, lonely nights and cloudy eyes.

The boy, his life, his mind are all gray in infinite shades.

But the bright blues, reds—immeasurable sounds of everything ending, water pouring over them before the gold swallows them whole—

There is a man with an umbrella, who watches over lonely nights and has endless patience.

The man is like the Oncoming Storm—but not quite—all bundled power and acceptance of all of the boy's gray, of the cities gloom.

He thinks for a moment that it might have been this man to open the Vortex, but knows it was really himself and he wonders what happened to J—

"I see you're finally ready to see the truth," is what the man says the first time they meet, though by now the boy has lost count of the days he has spent here, time seems meaningless in this place.

Meaningless, yet still always flowing, just seen differently, is this what it is like to be in heaven, in hell? Or—

Dark clouds gather in the sky and down the alleyway two men bicker and brawl for something that seems neither here nor there; both wanting to Master something unfathomable. There is a gleaming pocket watch and beady eyes watching greedily, he can smell the acrid scent of death, of rotting, of deep, dark fears...all of them winding from and into the Untempered Schism…

Beside him, the man stands in a smart suit, too large for his body, one arm resting on an elegant, black umbrella. His smile sharp and the glint in his eye is like that found in a predator's gaze: but Sherlock feels no fear from being near this man.

"Who are you?" Is what he says to the man's peculiar words, he does not deem them worthy of the expected response, and his curled black locks bounce when he tilts his head as he studies the man more closely. The man is not as old as the boy—Sherlock—had previously guessed, in fact, he is likely much younger than his body language portrays, and even the size of his suits suggests a larger body that is not really there. "Besides a liar," is what the younger adds when the man does not speak, mirroring the assessing gaze.

"I am Mycroft Holmes," the man says, and his half-smile now is more real than the one before, as if he is amused.

"Hail the New Dawn," Sherlock says sarcastically, without thinking, feels the title sounds as pretentious as the man before him looks, but it suits him.

"You are my brother, Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft adds a breath later as if Sherlock had never spoken, and had somehow asked.

Scoffing at the man, Sherlock turns away with a muttered "What? No pretentious title?"

"No, you've never been fond of such trivialities. But there is one for you, I'm sure you know it, somewhere in that stubborn head of yours." Mycroft speaks like he really does know Sherlock, and the feeling makes gooseflesh break out on his arms. Sherlock wishes he had the jumper he often borrows from J—and the world seems to have gone mad without him. The click of the gun before it fires, the resigned look in those trusting eyes, the taste of tea on those frowning lips...he knows what he has to do even as he regrets it, regrets this game, regrets bringing the unstable and supple crack in time beneath them flaring into life—is this the reason why M—

Sherlock watches the way the two men crawl away from an officer who had just broken up the fight; the two fighting men now look nothing like the grand masters of before, but simply like plain men, like decoys too stupid to realize they have pitted against one another for the fun of greater gods.

The officer has gray hair, with stress and laugh lines equally lining his kind face, a man Sherlock has come to trust on the beat. The man's partner is a fierce and loyal woman, who rarely trusts, and dresses in a convincing costume of niceties and a mask of steal hiding sorrow and pain and love. Likely because of the years of abuse she suffered at home by a man she had known, but no longer loves, for years. There is a here is a memory of her in Sherlock's mind, trying to escape and make sense—of the woman appearing in a dress that is dirty and from another time. Her eyes are black and distressed with pain, lip bleeding and skin badly bruised, her skirts soaked in blood and her body shows that she had just given birth…but there is no baby ever found. She screams for hours until she is given a sedative, wakes into silence and it takes her weeks of healing and eating proper foods, of nights spend in a haze of sedatives as nightmares consume her before she begins to open up and speak. It is her tales of obscene weeping angels, of coming from another time and place that force her to be checked into a hospital for suffering a mental breakdown, that is, until Sherlock shows up and gives her a life she could never have imagined.

Sally still hasn't quite forgiven time for what it has given or taken from her, though Mycroft has put her in touch with her family-line, her fears of what her child must have gone through keep her up most nights, and she takes it out on Sherlock, who understands…and she hates him for it…

"I could tell them you are a child predator, or a criminal, you will not be able to escape both of them." Sherlock nods towards the police, knows he is bluffing somewhat and figures Mycroft knows this as well, but it is worth a try and in the chaos that would follow this accusation he may be able to slip away. Mycroft does not look concerned, but instead studies the way the world around them is darkening, and then how the alleyway is suddenly showing signs of far darker crimes, blood spilling in great pools and shrieks echoing in the distance.

"Ah yes, you mean Gregory, I should have realized he meant more to you than you liked to admit, even Sally…" A woman coughs lightly behind him and Mycroft, but goes ignored.

"You do realize this is not at all what it seems…Sherlock?" Mycroft speaks softly now, tapping his umbrella like he is nervously betraying a secret, and glancing backwards Sherlock sees what his supposed brother is watching; a faceless woman holding a flashing blackberry in her perfectly manicured hands. When a lightning flash crosses the sky overhead, he swears he can see her toothy grin and flashing dangerous eyes, golden and silver and all seeing—then he sees the face of his mother, young and alive, but knows it cannot be true.

"Of course I do," Sherlock answers, shaking his head in disbelief, and when he speaks his voice is younger than before, and he looks down at his hands and notices they have gotten smaller…as if he is somehow travelling backwards in time and de-aging, the rain comes then. "Just another unearthly child lost."

He remembers standing before time and space, a sucking portal that was brilliant and terrifying and amazing, and too much—and not enough—ever, and "that's what people do! That's what they do!" But the way the world ended was not right, not how it was supposed to be. "Not a hero!" flashes of men and women, of children and aliens, of people needing his help, but there are just so many of them. The sky is darkening and a powerful wave is coming, something that will make or break the lot of them. and there are whispers of a Master and a Doctor—and his doctor, his life, the golden thread of time that is crashing through them, and the red thread of their lives, the twining of it all. It was all there and more, "Sherlock!" so much going on and all at once not enough, never, ever again…and so he ran, and has never stopped running away…

"I hope you're satisfied to see the wind," is what the girl—Anthea—says and he has a strange desire to scorn Mycroft about the needless puppets he surrounds himself with. He doesn't mean his cruel words, knows he remembers this girl from his younger years, recognizes the warmth in her gaze; she understands him in ways he's never really experienced before, but she is not his, not his companion, she belongs to…his brother. Lestrade also stands beside his brother, Mycroft's newest companion, concern in his tired eyes…there's more, there's something more but he cannot quite reach it, but he remembers now, remembers his kin.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asks slowly, confused. Sees his brother looking older and more warn than usual and wonders at the grief he has caused, wonders why he should care—how is it his fault he's been raised so long on these streets, all alone? "London is my home, it's all I've ever known…and yet, it's not quite home still." Is all Sherlock can say before he is running away—in the same way he has never stopped running, even as his brother stood there inspired, and Dear Jim is sent spinning into a madness. A madness he has only ever heard of before through his Father, of the Master. "Don't you feel the earth shaking, my dear?" Sherlock runs like his father says he himself ran, and he hates himself for being so much like that man, but also feels pride and wonder. Thinks about what he could have become if he had stayed and consumed the abyss, allowed himself to be consumed, he could have been something more or something terrible—screaming a hasty apology as he sees more faceless enemies running along beside him, through glass walls, distorted through cobwebs like memories.

He leaves his own behind, wonders if nightmares can reach you through the mist of dreams…hates how his own thoughts feel pounding through his brain, too much and too fast and too vivid. Black clouds form over the sun—and creatures are there, bathing in the black sun, and he thinks it isn't quite fair how they have all turned out. But fairness has never been his problem, has never been a part of his complaint—and he thinks he sees a man standing at the end of the alleyway—now blocking his only exit. A blue police box—obsolete, yet vital—is there behind the figure and an unknown face that somehow mirrors his youth, one that he just instinctively knows and recognizes.

There are trembling moments where his brain stutters to a halt, goes over where he has seen this box, seen this man and his strange way of thinking. Sherlock remembers the way his Mummy used to stare out the window at the stars, seeming to know them better than she should have, quietly crying over an old box that held journals of stories he had been told growing up, fairy tales that seemed too fantastic to be real, but were actually the adventures of Ayanna Holmes and his father. In that box there had been a gadget that had never made much sense, not until he had picked it up at the age of 8, and had been changed much like his brother had been at the same age. These occasional glimpse of his mother's world tearing apart happened only when she thought her sons were in bed; away from the dark of her room. Sherlock never touched that device again, the first time enough, though he wonders why Mycroft never warned him of the device, of what his brother had been like before his own test, when Sherlock had been only one and has no recollection of that little boy before his 8th birthday. The test that would follow after touching the device is something that all the Children of Gallifrey had been put through, and not even Sherlock is sure if he can forgive them for that decision. Not as he remembers how it felt to stare into the abyss and know the abyss was staring back at him, all of him being known and torn and wrench asunder until he was pushed out and away, back in his mother's room, and then he was running towards his—

"Father?" the word is on the tip of his tongue. Sherlock thinks for a moment that there is a keen recognition in the man's eyes, something kind and alien and…so like Mycroft, he realizes that this is where a piece of true hatred formed for his brother, for the reminders of a man he had only heard whispered stories of and had very little concrete experience with.

"I hope you're satisfied," is what Sherlock screams at the figment in his mind and he swears he feels something breaking, shattering like a cracked globe of water, containing the lives of inferior beings swimming blissfully—through ignorance—through a container that allows for at least a glimpse of more. But they are too stupid to even look, to even stop worrying about their petty concerns and sex and food and love to look around. To question…it pisses him off, makes him growl and bite and snap, and yet behind it all is a deep love and curiosity, of protection for people who have potential, such potential that if only he could help them along, bring it out…as much as he is allowed…

"Sherlock?" He swears there is regret in that voice, of a man he has only met a few dozen times, though in his everyday life he swears he sees glimpses out of the corner of his eye. Sometimes of a man who is old and eccentric with a younger woman, obviously family, laughing and lecturing. Other times of curly haired-head bloke, features somewhat like his own, and the same curious affection for scarves, and more oftentimes of a skinny young bloke with a blonde companion, running for his life and giddily laughing. On the rarest of occasions in his childhood, it had just been of a sad looking smile, of eyes that are shaped like apologies and filled with an unneeded warrior's spirit, those of an avenging angel. His arms that were warm and answers and questions that finally challenged his mind, and didn't bother him like Mycroft with his patronizing voice did…The Doctor had kept Sherlock sane in his darkest moments, he supposes he should love the man for that alone, and some part of him does. It is the rest of it all that he cannot yet forgive…

It is hard to run away from this corner of his beloved city, but he can already see the fading blue box, hear the siren calling out of other adventures and knows he has his own life here, his own time before he can choose to maybe meet this man and his life face-on. And maybe he'll bring his own companion along…

His own…?

The way he feels when he sees his world focused into one person comes back to him now; his entire being dressed in a ridiculous parka, strapped with a bomb that wouldn't hurt his kind…but his companion is not at all a Time Lord, not even the hybrid version that Sherlock is. Already he has proven his own fragility, the bullet wound on his shoulder, the phantom pain in his leg, all psychosomatic, but so human—so lovely, and awful and then there is so much fear. Never this much fear since that time he had to stare into the Vortex and see his own fate, hate how much seemed decided and fixed, it was unbearable and not for him—he would not accept another name, had already deleted the thing from his mind; he would not be another agent of time to be told what to do, sod them all! He is Sherlock bloody Holmes and would not be told what to make of his own life, screw the rules! Rules are boring! He is almost sure that the Vortex had laughed; a deeply moving and horrific event that still keeps him up at night, screeching away at his violin and then falling into music he is sure has not yet been invented, that his fingers should not know. He has already been tainted by time, and now he must make that decision for his friend, his flatmate and his first and only love…

It isn't until he sees that the sky has turned thunderous too close that he realizes he is on the roof and above him is a full moon, and the words across the roof make him smile, "do you hear the storm coming?" He remembers seeing a peculiar pattern of phrases, and he knows they aren't for him, but it amuses him to know he has been watching closer than others for so long... "Bad Wolf," is what he whispers on the wind and he shudders to think of the power he had felt, lost amongst time and the stars…and the sorrow.

He could sense how terrible it had been for her when she had reached into the TARDIS and the power of all had come into her, and it had been destined in her case too. The way she could breathe life and death was fascinating, but Sherlock had his own cases, his own people, his own life and she was never his either. Though finally he found what he was looking for—she had seemed to reach out and pluck away at his pain, reassured him that there was something for him, something for The Unnamable Son. There was the pretentious title, if he had ever heard one, and that same deep chuckle of the Schism had sounded there, come from her tiny body, and her tears had fallen for the world, for the universe, for his race and for his time, and for his hearts and for Her Doctor—

"I hope you don't hate me," is what he wants to say to the new man before him. The eyes squint in amused confusion, of feigned blankness and Sherlock is sure he is missing a joke, or wondering if this man has begun to read his thoughts.

"Hello John," is what he says instead.

"Hello Sherlock," is what John says back, and the warm smile and the love in the man's eyes is real, is beautiful.

"Is it time to wake up yet? It feels like it has been years," John is wearing that ridiculous stripped jumper, the one that shows how strong and compact and lovely he is, and how completely silly. "You are quite ridiculous you know, I've missed that…it hasn't actually been years, has it?" Sherlock says with a grin, hand coming up to retie his own scarf and ensure his long coat is done up properly, vain git that he can be.

"I'm ridiculous? Why would you put up with someone ridiculous, Sherlock? Seems a bit irrational to me, and no, it hasn't been quite that long, but who can tell in this place?" There is a joke there now, and they are both laughing. In the distance, he is sure he can hear the beeping of a machine that is counting his hearts beating steady now, knows Mycroft would have him in a special place, hopefully away from the hopeless idiots belonging to that foolish organization that is the worst kept secret in London.

"Ah yes, not Torchwood, but that Jack bloke was here, he sends his love," is what John says. Sherlock glares, detests how he is so easily read in this place, until it starts to untangle in his mind…

"Oh, of course! You…of course!" the world clicks into place and John laughs at him, but it is easily understood, and almost as easily forgiven. Now everything is coming back to him, he smirks and says: "Oh shut up, Doctor Watson, do you not have any sympathy for a sick man in a coma?" This shuts up the laughter quite quickly, and Sherlock looks chagrined, wincing and thinking of a suitable apology.

"I am sorry John, you do realize why is it I had to do something…so terrible, I am only happy that regenerating is not the same for me as it is for Father, what a dreadful idea; changing my entire body and identity every time something near-kills me." John sighs, approaches Sherlock at his steady pace. Sherlock can now sense where the tendrils of telepathic powers are wrapping themselves around his soul, and mind, knows he is just as much reaching out as he is being reached out to. The memories finally sort themselves out, fall into place:

There had been the bomb, the gun in his hands, and the only method to survive was to throw himself so openly into the Vortex, hope that Mycroft was there and capable of saving him—of saving John—who would be changed by Sherlock's adventures and violent introduction to the time/space continuum. But he would live, at the very least…even if he came to loathe Sherlock for this. John, wonderful, normal, strangely compelling and dull John would live to see another day, and if he wasn't Sherlock's anymore…at least Sherlock could live with that. He had felt the warmth and terror of the portal he had slashed open, tasted the signed air and the weird smell of chlorine, felt the trembling limbs of John's body as his mind and physical self were stretched to their limit. Felt John's soul quake and surrender to the Schism Sherlock had unleashed, cried out as it swallowed them both whole…then felt Mycroft pulling them out—minutes, days, years, millennia's passed—even as John opened his mouth and eyes and screamed out a yell of knowledge and pain and love that was all golden light. There were tears falling for everyone and everything…for himself and Sherlock and even for Moriarty and the Master, who had been destroyed by this very place and made anew. Sherlock Knew they were safe when Lestrade was there, when Sally was looking at them with strange sympathy, rubbing her empty abdomen as she was wont to do when nervous. He felt the silly orange blanket thrown over his shoulders as he leant over John, glancing into his eyes that were still wide with shock and power. Sherlock put his own mouth over John's own gasping one, felt the way it mouthed at the air as John's body underwent the change Sherlock was dreading…he stayed awake and took in that access power from John long enough to know his companion would survive…but still not knowing the outcome before falling into complete darkness…his body beginning the regeneration he needed after taking in so much power, so much strength, better than any cocaine he'd taken, or any other type of drug...but more destructive...

"You are so lucky I love you Sherlock Holmes, but there will be hell to pay when you wake up," John pauses, gives a half smile, "do you know Mrs. Hudson knows? She referenced something about a robotic dog named K9, never saw your brother look so shocked in my life, it was quite the sight…if you are very good to the hospital staff I may even share the memory with you." John's ways of accepting apologies are wonderful things, but Sherlock knows he is still very much in a dangerous place with the man, and does not push his luck with asking for more just yet.

"Was my Father here?" John frowns deeply, and Sherlock lays his fingertips to rest on the expression, relishes the touch, the soft chapped feeling of those normal features. What had been between them had been so young, so new, and now that they had been through this together—and the cases—it felt like more, like eternity.

"Yes, Lestrade did not seem impressed with him, and he was with a blonde woman who held your hand…she felt different, peculiar…kind of familiar." Sherlock nods, but John looks disquieted with how much he can now sense, seems to feel more of a sympathy for Sherlock now that he is picking up some of the same things all around him.

"She's the one I felt, she went through something similar as you did, my dear doctor, but she came away different…time affects all of us differently, John. She's lucky the Doctor was willing to save her, to give so much to bring her back from the edge; he just didn't expect her to be so altered." Sherlock muses on the subject for a moment, looks embarrassed but then decides to share the rest of his theory with his companion, embarrassment be damned. "I think in another universe she probably went back to being the same old Rose Tyler, much as you might've gone back to being the same old John Watson, and Lestrade and even Anthea…just back to regular people with irregular memories…but…not in our universe." What Sherlock didn't add was that he was happy it had turned out this way. Even as he imagines Mycroft scolding him for involving a man he had just met, he cannot find it in himself to truly regret his decision now. Besides, both Holmes brothers had sensed that this man was extraordinary, in ways that were perfectly complementary to Sherlock. Moreover, he would never leave John, not like how his father had left companions behind, it was not in his nor Mycroft's nature, something they could directly link to their mother, who had never left them or blamed them for the sins of their father.

John watched Sherlock, could sense the Doctor and Rose leaving the hospital room, knew that things were still strangely tense there, that nothing was perfect and that there was still the future to worry about…and all the while, the way it felt to feel time and space part was still haunting John's dreams. Now the sand splattered with blood grew golden and formed a broken web around him, and the ticking of a nearby clock always seemed too nearby for him to properly rest. Staying by Sherlock's bedside kept the dreams away, and he felt soothed by the knowledge that Moriarty and the Master had been subdued for now, lost to time and their own madness, but there would always be something more…and John couldn't help but feel both distraught and excited by that promise…

The dream-world was fading around them, dark clouds parting and the moon leaving; a new day dawning and in the distance there was something mysterious gathering, something unknown, and Sherlock's thoughts about what could happen next darted so fast John grew dizzy and drunk on them. Would it always be like this when Sherlock is finally allowed to come fully online? He feels Sherlock start reaching out with all of his curiosity and his insatiable need to know, to decipher and to discover and uncover, and John wondered how much longer it would be before they would start traveling much like the Doctor did. How much more of this time Sherlock could handle before he grew too bored, even with the handgun at his disposal, and the murderous cabbies, and Jim—the twisted Master's apprentice—puzzles. John knew now how it could be for them when Mycroft recollected some of his adventures with A, saw how appealing it could be. Mycroft himself seemed to promise them to Greg with eyes full of mischief and care now that John's own eyes had been opened to things larger than himself.

"Ugh, please do not think of my brother making lustful glances at Lestrade while you are still in my brain, John." Is the first thing Sherlock says as he sits up, and he notices that John is not tired enough to send him a glare, face heated by embarrassment as both Greg and Mycroft turn to him with raised eyebrows and amusement.

"Ah, Sarah Jane – I hope you enjoyed finally shocking my brother, I told you it would be worth the wait," Sherlock glanced at a woman who had only just walked back into the room, having seen the Doctor and Rose out. She nods, smirked at the once again shocked Mycroft and then leaned over to collect a kiss on the cheek from Sherlock's blogger, companion, and lover.

"We'll talk some more soon, John, you take care of him," the woman said before he left for good, taking a smiling and lightly sniffling Ms. Hudson from the room with her.

"Happy to be back, are we? You've only been out for over a week," John comments tiredly, but Sherlock is buzzing with energy; could still taste the lightning in the air from when his father had been here, the wildness of Rose, and the taste of sex and unnatural immortality that screamed Jack. He can still sense Lestrade's worry and Mycroft's as well, but those are presences he has grown used to having around. Above it all is the feeling of John still pressing gently in his mind, and he loves the way his lover's eyes glow slightly more golden as power flows through his body.

"Of course, I wouldn't have it any other way," Sherlock answers, and he nods to his friends and family as the room clears, save for John and himself. He and John can hear the siren of another adventure calling but only Sherlock can hear a gentle: "I'm glad you're happy."

And behind those words, deeper and only barely reaching Sherlock, a dark, more sinister voice—duo-voices, really—whispers of one day burning the heart from him, and savouring the taste of the destruction of them all…

A/N: What did you think?

I'm off to do some more homework, or study some more ASL, which is amazing…and possibly smuggle some pumpkin pie from my fridge…bloody hell, my Saturday is almost completely gone, I wish I could control time and/or have a TARDIS for my birthday! :3

Oh, and I still have to re-do my other fic, the HP one that is still quite rough round the edges, I'm a lazy sod sometimes…uwah, should get to that and edit this fic too—Tell me what needs to be done, please?

I welcome all thoughts and whatnot and thank you for reading through, now please review!

-M