A Song of Wholock is a crack fic about the off chance that Sherlock and John are contracted by the Doctor to help Eddard Stark in Westeros. May or may not be continued. I'm currently writing on the fuel of keeping my mother's death off my mind.
I do not own Sherlock, I do not own Doctor Who, and I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire (aka Game of Thrones).
For entertainment purposes only.
John let his keys fall into the dish by the door, shrugging his coat off to hang it on the tall rack. Sherlock's coat was neatly placed, along with his shoes and that hat he'd taken on the night his photo exploded across the papers. Sliding his feet out of his black loafers, John looked up. No one sat in the livingroom. The violin sat in its stand, unused. "Sherlock," John calls into the empty space. "Sherlock, there's a police box outside our flat. Are you aware of this?"
"Just a client stopping by," Sherlock responds from the kitchen.
"I thought we agreed to see clients together," John grumbles.
Apparently none the shorter on hearing, another voice responds from the kitchen with, "Terribly sorry, there's been an incident and I had to see your friend at once. A moment later would not do."
John pauses as he steps around the corner into the kitchen, slowly taking in the voice and putting the pieces together. "Sherlock..." he starts.
Sherlock set a third teacup on the overly cluttered table, a merry look on his face. "Hello, John, please sit. The Doctor has just stopped in to ask our help."
"Right. The Doctor. Hello again," John says with a nod towards the odd man sipping tea.
His wild hair hangs down over his forehead, bright eyes speaking ages beyond what he looks. The smile never leaves his face, as he tips the teacup back and swallows the rest of the contents. He sets the cup down, shifts his bowtie with delicate fingers, and suddenly slams his hands to the table. "There's been something terrible happening in Westeros," he says suddenly.
"So he's just been telling me, John. As it happens, this defiantly ranks over a seven. Most defiantly."
"Westeros," John echos.
"Yes, John, Westeros."
"But Westeros isn't real, Sherlock," John stresses, sitting down to look across the table at the Doctor. The man's silly grin never leaves his face, and John finds himself more irate than cheerful at their situation.
"It is, certainly," the Doctor says. "It happens to be a little different than here, but really not all that much. As it happens, the absolutely brilliant George Martin is inspired directly by a certain Braavosi sailor who got stuck here on.. well, on accident."
"I assume by accident, you mean you had something to do with it," John speculates cooly.
"Well, it isn't that bad. Earth is a decent place to be stranded. There are far worse places to be stuck. Stories never told."
Sherlock pulls the chair out, sitting suddenly. "As the Doctor has been telling me, there is something strange happening. Apparently, this man named Varys has his fingers in more than a few honey pots."
"Things are running foul in Westeros and we need to stop them before something happens. Something... bad." The Doctor's eyes light up at the word, and he grins widely.
If there is one thing that unites the three, it is the scent of danger.
"We'll take the case," Sherlock and John say at once.