Sherlock Squared Chapter 2, a Doctor Who + Sherlock Crossover fanfic

Explosion? Likely. No discernible incendiary, but effects of blast incontrovertible. Concussion? Possible. Dizziness. Confusion. Ringing ears. Will need to John to confirm. Smoke inhalation. Exit building.

Sherlock coughed violently and leaned against the marble facade of Museum's exterior. At least, that's what he presumed. At the moment he just thankful that he hadn't blacked out. Everything was in shadow, and ghosting images after his eyes had been assaulted by the bright light. He blinked hard, but spots still filled his vision, threatening vertigo. Was this what John had gone through?

John.

Sherlock leaned against the marble, fished his mobile from his pocket. Blindly, he tapped out the following:

Lost you in the crowd.

Regroup at the flat, earliest convenience.

I may be injured.

He sent the text, pocketed the mobile, and started to make his way down the street. Though he couldn't see well, he could taste the smoke that still billowed out of the Museum, and hear the sounds of sirens, fainter as he stumbled on. Thankful again for the hours he'd spent combing the streets of London, he pulled his collar up and kept his head low, letting instinct guide him. Back to the flat, regroup, and think.

Moriarty back. What's he after? Clock. No, not the clock — the technology. Advanced. Too advanced.

He coughed again, spat on to the asphalt. He had covered a great deal of ground, why could he still taste smoke? And was that why it was so dark? Had there been damage to his eyes? That sent a spark of panic down his spine. Sherlock blinked, squinted hard. And again.

"John," he mumbled, checking the phone. Had he missed a vibration? No. No messages.

Nothing else to do but press on.

He almost didn't make it back. He got turned around twice, an embarrassment he would be sure to omit when telling John. Was it the concussion? He clamped on to a lamp post, did another self-assessment.

Dizziness. Confusion. Ringing ears. Classic symptoms of concussion.

And then, the realization.

Symptoms presented before blast.

He'd have to think about that. Later.

The streets narrowed, familiar, but less so with every step. And yet the street signs, those he could make out anyways, indicated he was going the right way. He found himself in a back alley and that felt right. The closed-in spaces, the old building facades that faced away from the street and left mostly intact — these lead him home, to Baker Street.

Or was it?

Baker Street. Lights wrong color, wrong shape. No neon. No motor vehicles.

Wait. Vintage cars, one, far lane. And — horses?

And the stench. Overpowering filth, a mixture of dung and urine and smoke. Sherlock gagged and threw himself against the door to 221B, sure he was going to be violently ill. His key wouldn't take at first, then finally it clicked, and he staggered inside.

"John?" he called out hoarsely. When no response came, he tried again. "Mrs. Hudson?"

No answer. Just like his phone.

He panted in the darkness of the foyer, as if he could heave out all the smells and tastes in his mouth.

This at last restored his calm, and his sight. And now he knew something was wrong. He took an umbrella from the stand — too heavy, Mrs. Hudson's? — and ascended the stairs, wishing he'd kept that scimitar someplace handy. An after-image flashed across his field of vision with an intensity that send a shot of pain across his temples. He leaned against the stairwell wall, waited for the pain to pass.

And when it did, it lifted the veil of confusion that had shrouded him since his escape.

But escape from what, and to where?

He reached the top of the stairs, and used the umbrella to push aside massive palm fronds that shielded the entrance of the main floor. He let the umbrella fall low, like a sword in the hand of a dejected knight. Empty flat. Even if his visual senses had fled him utterly, there was no sound betraying any other person besides himself.

But his vision, now utterly cleared, was not failing him. Just showing him impossible things.

Flat layout identical, down to square footage. Cosmetic differences in molding, trim. Wallpaper is archaic Victorian, gaudy, felt. Furniture is also period, eclectic, international. Pieces from India, Arabia, China. Tobacco scent heavy, and unfiltered. A pipe, recently smoked. Clean, but idle. Only recently. An antique Remington on one table, a British saber on the wall. One wall completely given over to a spider's web of red silk ribbons and newspaper clippings pinned. A lifetime of mementos, half on display, the other half still used. Archaic, but used.

Used.

It wasn't a recreation; it was a still life, missing its model.

The violin stood in its stand by the window, where Sherlock knew, of course, that it would be. He lifted the instrument, a perfect copy even if it should be a hundred years old but instead bore the markings of only twenty years.

Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains …

He lifted the bow, and drew it across the strings. The instrument sang as he knew it would. And as he turned to look outside on to Baker Street — perhaps his own Baker street one day long ago, or perhaps never — he started to play.

When he heard footsteps coming up the steps, the bow almost skittered a note. Sherlock focused his senses, listening keenly.

Relaxed gait, tired. Tall man, familiar with location. Friend? Possibly.

Sherlock continued to play the only song etched into recent muscle memory, infused with loss, until he came to the same part he'd been stuck at for weeks. He drew the bow away, the unfinished melody hanging in the air like a question.

The man waited a moment at the threshold to the room. At last he said, voice utterly strange to Sherlock yet spoken with the ease of long friendship, "I always did liked that piece. Why did you stop playing it, Holmes?"

A spark went off in Sherlock's mind. He waited a long while before answering, violin bow hovering in the air, then said, "Because I haven't finished writing it yet."

Holmes pushed his way blindly through the streets, fearing the explosion had taken his sight as well as his other senses. Another thought that slammed against his ringing head is that the explosion had taken Watson as well. But escape was paramount, and regroup at Baker Street, long standing arrangements when this sorts of thing happened. As they were happening now.

If he didn't have to vomit so badly, Holmes would be enjoying this.

Instead, he ricocheted off walls, lampposts and people alike, careening out of the Museum and into the darkness of — no, stabbing daylight. Holmes covered his face and groaned.

Sunlight. Eight hours past? Unconscious? Unlikely. No black out, and crowd still panicking. Damage from the explosion?

He blinked hard again, lurched. Streets were too wide and filled with pointing, shouting crowds. The gaslights burned in his vision like raw electricity. The stench of gasoline burned just as sharply in his nose, and well as a hundred other scents hitherto unknown to him in the London he knew by taste and shape and sound. Tears streaming down his face as he rubbed away the smoke, the grit, he forced himself to stare down this place, see the images of the London he knew shatter and reshape around the London he saw in front of him now. Colors too bold, noises bright, yet the streets the same yet different.

No, not different. Changed. Of the buildings around him, there were some Holmes recognized while others were gone, replaced with new structures. But even these strange cuckoo buildings had showed wear from weather and vermin and people for decades, maybe more. And oh, the people. Hundreds of them. Dressed in ever color, faces every color, all huddled together to watch the Museum choke on the smoke from the explosion.

London, but, not London?

Holmes cast about for any guidance, and beamed when he identified a street sign bearing a name he'd not soon forget: London Wall. Which lead down Oxford, then … Baker Street.

Concussion? Probable. Break with sanity? Possible.

Decide later. When not concussed.

Holmes found the flat near two hours later, cursing himself as it had never taken that long before. But the streets! Filled with so many strange conveyances, the descendants of motorcars surely, and electricity simply everywhere. A million things to take in, and no time to understand it all. But when at last he spied the door to 221B Baker Street, looking as it always had, with the same brass numbers and black paint, whatever strength he'd recovered melted away. Would the key fit? Why should it? Why shouldn't it, he thought with a laugh. Concussion, he reminded himself, and tried the door. His hands fumbled but the key went in smooth, the door opened likewise.

Holmes took a deep, steadying breath, and entered.

Dimensions, identical. Furniture, wrong. Wallpaper, wrong. More metal. Electric lights, no gas. He ran his finger along the bottom of an ashtray. Clean, tobacco use infrequent. He proceeded, cataloguing the room and its contents. Stainless steel icebox, filled with an assortment of cans, bottles and toes. Human. Beakers and test-tubes fill the kitchen area. Scientist.

As he walked around, he stripped off the remains of the disguise, first the beard, then the stuffed belly. He rubbed away the sticky gum that had held the beard in place, and wished he had thought to bring his pipe. The living room was spartanly filled compared to Holmes's own flat, yet objects here and there sparked in his mind; the portrait in the corner, the skull on the mantle, a saber on the wall — and then, the violin.

Ah, this. This made sense.

…No matter how improbable, must be the truth.

His fingers were a hair's breath from touching the bow, when a thump sounded down below in the foyer. A decidedly non-Watson thump, he determined, heart bleak. Had he been followed? Holmes pressed himself against the wall and waited.

The man, unaware of Holmes, entered the main floor cautiously.

Male. 5'7". Familiar with environment, but expecting trouble. Ex-military. Smells faintly of smoke. One of the men from the Museum?

Holmes took the initiative and launched himself at the man's back. The man shouted as he fell forward onto his stomach. Holmes shifted to get more of his weight on the man's chest, but his opponent was indeed ex-military, twisting and rolling expertly to unpin himself. A series of grabs and counter-grabs, punches and cuffs followed. They upended the table, broke a tea set, sent papers flying. It was great fun, and Holmes had just calculated how he was going to break the man's jaw, right tibia and collar bone, when the man shouted, as clear as he could while taking a punch to the kidney, "Sherlock, if you're in here, run!"

Holmes's world rocked under him.

Familiar with environs. Ex-military.

Only one way to be sure. Holmes's scrapped the next series of planned moves and targeted a jab at the man's right shoulder.

As suspected, the man shouted in pain and alarm before crumpling due to the direct hit to the old injury. He tried to crawl away, heading straight for the nearest weapon — a poker from the fireplace. But Holmes leaped over a table, yanked the saber off the wall, and brandished it before the man could recover.

Disheveled, with short sandy hair and blood trickling down his nose, the man looked up at Holmes, tensed for a blow.

Holmes looked down the length of his blade. "Dr. Watson, I presume?"

The man — Watson — wasn't expecting a question, but he nodded warily. "Yeah, obviously. My flat, or what's left of it." He eyed the saber, then eyed Holmes with murder on his mind. "What have you done with Sherlock?"

"I assure you," Holmes said, his mouth twisting into a smile at the use of his Christian name. "I am perfectly well. You, however, are a trifle short."

Watson dropped his cane and tucked in to the safety of the door jam. He pulled out his revolver. "All right. What have you done with Holmes?"

The stranger lowered the bow in an annoyed manner, a movement so characteristic of Holmes that Watson did a double-take. But the stranger was a good four inches taller than Holmes. A poor imitation, if he was meant to be an impostor.

"I haven't done anything to your Holmes," the stranger said. "Though perhaps he has done something to me."

"What on earth are you talking about? Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he said. "I am … Sherlock Holmes." The man's words faltered on his lips, and he wobbled. As he fell, the violin slipped out of his hands. He made a desperate grab for it, catching it by the neck a moment before it hit the floor. The man who called himself Holmes landed awkwardly in the chair, and went still as though in shock.

Watson kept the revolver trained on the man, but he didn't rise. And no one, Watson knew, hands growing evermore slick on the revolver's handle, had ever been given a copy of that sheet music once that woman had vanished after the Blackwood case.

Because I haven't finished writing it yet, the man had said.

Watson exhaled sharply through his nose. "Damn it all."

Watson moved over to the closest gas lamp and turned it on, the revolver still trained on the stranger. A ruddy glow suffused the room, at least what parts it could reach with all the overgrown flora. But it was more than enough light to illuminate the man.

The man who would be Holmes.

Younger, by a decade. Taller, by quite a lot, and pale and dark haired. He had the same fine, long fingers as his friend. Clothes were strange, sleekly tailored and plain, without embellishments. He wore no waistcoat, no overcoat, no gloves — nothing that would mark his station. But when his eyes opened, startling blue where Holmes's were rich brown, Watson saw the same, knife-cruel sharpness paired with that touch of madness Watson knew only too well.

"You don't believe me," the man said.

Watson at last lowered the gun. "I don't you think you believe yourself."

"I believe," he said, then straightened up, replacing the violin in its stand, "I know, that this is Baker Street. That you are Dr. John Watson. That this is somewhere near the turn of the Twentieth Century."

"Odd choice of words. 'Turn of the Twentieth'."

"I'm more familiar with that century than this one."

"You're saying mad things now."

"Am I?" He sat down, looking so tired.

"How do you know my name?"

"You're just testing me now," he said.

"I think that's perfectly understandable."

The man slitted his eyes. "Fine. The cane you dropped was a gift to distinguished soldiers in the Afghan war, where you received your injuries. Medical science being what it was, or is I suppose, you didn't fully recover from your wound, which is why you still limp. You've returned from the scene of some event, an explosion by the marks on your coat, and you didn't expect anyone here but your Sherlock Holmes. And yet he is not, and I am, and this world, all of these things and people…" His eyes took on a glassy look, his head swayed. "There's too much. Too many details, to real, for it all to be madness."

Watson gave the smallest of nods. "Would you like a drink?"

"Cigarette would be better."

"Holmes's pipe is around here somewhere. Maybe you can navigate his nest?"

He snorted, looked around the room. Watson kept an eye on him as he sought out the stash of good brandy and two glasses. He watched the man's gaze alight on one object and then the next, puzzling through it all one piece at a time.

"Holmes, I—"

"Sherlock. Please," he said, not even looking Watson's way.

"All right. Sherlock." The familiar name sounded so odd on his tongue. "So, who are you then, his son?"

Sherlock, lost in his own world, suddenly offered, "Cousin. Of sorts. Through a slanted mirror. What year is it?"

"1891."

Sherlock smiled at this confirmation. "Have you read H. G. Well's novel, The Time Machine?"

Watson nodded cautiously, then poured them both a full glass, and handed it to him.

"So you're familiar with the concept of time travel."

"Of sorts. Are you saying you're from another time?"

"Possibly. But I don't think so. Not entirely. Why should there be two Sherlock Holmes in the world?" He noticed the brandy in his hands, and downed it in one guzzle. "Do you write? I mean, do you record the cases that your Holmes takes on?"

"I do."

"And are they published?"

"Yes. My first will be in the next the paper. I should make a small sum from it."

"Then we cannot possibly be from the same timeline. There was no Sherlock Holmes before me, just as I suspect there will be no Sherlock Holmes after yours. We may have just proven the theory of parallel universes to be true."

Watson peered down into his drink. "You're making less sense now."

"Only to you."

"So, you're really Sherlock Holmes?"

"As much as I can be, outside of my world." Sherlock held out the glass for a refill. "Then again, why not? The sun rises every morning. There are constants in the universe. Why should Sherlock Holmes be any different, no matter where, or when, he is?"

"Did you just compare yourself to a celestial body?"

Sherlock smiled.

Watson snorted. "Constants, indeed."

"Do you believe me?"

When Watson didn't answer, Sherlock started to rummage through his pockets, pulled out a small square of folded leather with strange tiny cards that meant nothing to Watson. A collection of blocky looking keys. He pulled out a leather case of small tools — this, terribly like Holmes's own, but with instruments of finer make — and then a square of metal, not much larger than a cigarette case. He ran his thumb along one edge of it and then it glowed with electric light and illuminated letters. Utterly foreign, if not outright impossible. Like so many other things this evening.

"I think I do." Watson poured himself another drink. "Where then," he said, the brandy still burning down his throat, "is my Holmes?"

"I hope to God he's with John. And that he doesn't mistake your Holmes for a lunatic."

John, from his vantage on the floor, had an excellent view of the tip of a British saber. It looked rather dull, but with enough effort, especially in the hands of a lunatic, it could be dangerous. "You're Sherlock?" he said with a careful laugh.

"In the flesh." The man looked down at the state of himself. "Though that flesh may not be featured to full advantage at the moment."

Burn marks and streaks of dust marred an old-fashioned waist coat and suit. The smell of burnt hair wafted off of him. He certainly looked like he'd been part of the blast at the Museum. John had spent the better part of an hour searching the scene but had found no trace of Sherlock anywhere, and getting a cab back had been a nightmare thanks to all the traffic.

But what held John's gaze the longest was the fevered shine in the stranger's dark eyes which did not stay focused on any one thing for more than a second. He was inventorying the entire room — while keeping John pinned to the floor — just the way Sherlock did whenever he was somewhere new, or newly turned over. Too familiar.

And yet …

John motioned to the sword with his chin. "Could you point that somewhere else?"

"As soon as you decide to be reasonable."

"Says the man wielding a saber."

"Oh, I wield much keener things than this saber."

John paused for a heartbeat. Was the man really mad, or something else? He decided to risk it. "Not at the moment." He raised his hand to push aside the sword's tip.

The man permitted this, but did not drop the sword. John got up onto his feet, massaged his shoulder.

"Which war?" the man asked.

The familiarity of the question, and the tone in which it was asked, prickled at the back of John's neck. "Er, Afghanistan." John straightened up. He put out his hand for the sword.

"Impossible," the man answered, face knotted as he worked on the puzzle. When John motioned with his hand, the man sighed and offered up the sword. "You're a bit young to have sustained that sort of injury in the Anglo-Afghan war."

"Well, actually I'm a lot young. Missed that one by a hundred years. More, really."

The man wobbled, and the saber slid point-downwards to the floor. John just managed to catch it by the hilt before it pierced the hardwood. He took the man by the shoulder and pushed him down into Sherlock's chair. The man sat there with no strength, eyes rolling.

"Okay," John said, looking at the saber. "Let's get this put away someplace safe. Safer." John spared a small moment of thanks that the man hadn't found his service revolver.

"A hundred years? Truly?"

John did some quick math as he slid the saber into the umbrella rack. "Hundred-thirty. Are we traveling down history lane?"

"Traveling down history, or traveling up it?" he said in hushed tones, almost to himself from his seat in the chair. "I've traveled a long way. What year is this?"

"What … year? Really?"

"Yes, really!" he snapped.

John stumbled on the words. "Uh, 2012."

This elicited the smallest of giggles. "Traveled quite a ways." He drummed his fingers against the arm rests, that same nervous, pent-up energy. "But how, how, how?"

John thought again about his revolver, but sat down in his chair instead. God, where the hell was Sherlock? He would have sized this man up in thirty seconds. He was no Sherlock, but John wasn't entirely ignorant. He could hear Sherlock's voice in his mind, remonstrating, Observe, John. Don't merely see, observe.

Okay, John, so observe. He looked the man up and down. Again, the burns, the smudges. Quite the makeup job if he didn't come from the Museum. And the clothing itself. At first he'd mistaken it for a costume shop suit but the closer John looked at it, the more he realized that it couldn't be out of a shop. The buttons were intricate, the pattern of the vest rich even under all that soot, and the hem lines were uneven. Hand-crafted.

That's a long way to go for crazy.

"Are you familiar with the work of a Mr. H. G. Wells?"

John barked out a laugh, and eased into his chair. "Time travel. Really? This is where we're going?" But as much as he laughed, he couldn't take his eyes off the suit.

"I am Sherlock Holmes. I could go on at length to prove it, but I don't think I have to. I know what and who I am, but I am not so sure about when. Or the how."

"Well, I didn't see a plush lawn chair with a lever and a spinning disc."

"So you have read it?"

"I've read it, but that doesn't explain what I think you're explaining. Are you, I mean, are you trying to say…" John took a deep breath, and asked the silliest question he'd ever asked. "What year do you think it is?"

The man — Holmes? Could it be, if not Sherlock, some other Holmes? — studied John for long moments before saying, "1891."

John digested this as one might a pebble. That is, not at all. "Right."

Holmes laughed. "I need a drink. You?"

"God, yes." John rose and headed to the kitchen, passing over the brandy for the good scotch.

The two men drank their scotch in front of the fireplace. John had started to believe this man, this Holmes. And it wasn't just the drink swaying him.

"So, you're telling me that you're the Sherlock Holmes from 1891."

"Yes."

"But there was no Sherlock Holmes back then. And if there was, we would have heard about it. You said the John Watson from your … time wrote articles, got them published. If that had happened, we'd know."

"Let's not use the past tense, shall we? Parallel words, then, but where the universe is shifted across time, the single thing that remains the same is that there is a Sherlock Holmes and a John Watson."

"Except you don't have a mobile phone attached to your hand."

"A what?"

"Oh, uh. This." He fished his mobile out of his pocket, and then saw the message indicator light for a missed text.

Lost you in the crowd.

Regroup at the flat, earliest convenience.

I may be injured.

"Shit, it's Sherlock!" The timestamp was an hour ago.

Holmes leaned over, peering at the mobile like it might explode. "It's what? What is that curious device?"

Several rushed minutes followed, where John tried to explain what the hell a cellular was, as he madly typed message after message.

Where are you?

There's a man here. He says he's you. From a 100 years ago.

Sherlock, answer me!

"Damn it, he's not replying."

"Perhaps he can't."

"Let's not leap to conclusions," John said, too sharply. "That's your line, isn't it? Not enough data?"

"Indeed." Holmes set down the empty glass and moved his way towards the window. He pulled apart the curtain and stared down at the street. "I am missing a great deal of data. We have changed places, somehow, your Sherlock has taken my place, and I, his. I expect it has something to do with that explosion at the Museum."

He was just about to open his mouth to ask how Holmes knew, but Holmes waved him off. "I need data," he said again through clenched teeth, a ferocious expression on his face.

John looked over the text messages, willing some sort of reply to appear, but none came. And if this man, crazy or not, was some version of Holmes, then he was also the only person that could make it right.

"All right," John said. "I'll get you your data."

They had long ago finished their brandy and now sat in silence, which suited Sherlock perfectly well. There was still so much to take in. Dr. Watson, brows knotted and mouth turned down under his ridiculous mustache, had asked as many questions as he could, and Sherlock fenced around them, worried about giving away more than he should. That the man, this John Watson believed him, or at least trusted him, was a gift he hadn't expected. They had pieced together when The Event had happened, as Sherlock had taken to calling it, but no clue as to why, or how. After, they had lapsed into silence, of a kind not unfamiliar to Sherlock.

And for that, he was thankful.

Watson cleared his throat. "I have to leave you here."

"What?" Sherlock, from his perch by the window, rose up.

"Just for a time. I have to get back to Mary, let her know … something."

"Who's Mary?"

"My wife."

Sherlock frowned. Watson replied with a frown of his own. "The more I watch you, the more of him I see." But any rancor in his voice soon faded. "I will be back. But I must tell her something. You'll be safe here for now."

"Yes. Your Holmes is currently dead, isn't he?"

"How did — never mind. It's probably clear as day for you just looking round his flat."

Sherlock nodded. "A useful trick. I will wait for you here."

"Back soon as I can."

Sherlock watched him go. Could do ought else. He had taken a picture of Watson when he wasn't looking, or at least, once he'd tired of the novelty of the camera phone. Light-haired like John, but taller. He carried himself with the same assurance, military, but with an upper class bearing totally at odds with John's easy-going countenance.

He smirked, thinking he'd need more than just a good coat now. But that wasn't all he needed. Electricity, for one, access to information. Sherlock hadn't felt this isolated since … ever, really. Was it the brandy that made him shake, or something else? He slid down onto a pile of oriental rugs and plush velvet cushions by the cold fireplace.

He pulled out the phone, checked the text messages he'd received. Nothing new. He should turn it off, save the battery. Once it was gone, it would be gone. He prayed, thumb hovering over the off switch, he would not still be trapped in this other world when that happened.

Sherlock leaned his head against the mantle, closed his eyes.

The cellular beeped, and flashed on. Sherlock sat up and checked the phone.

Where are you?

There's a man here. He says he's you. From a 100 years ago!

Sherlock, answer me!

Sherlock quickly typed a reply.

Did you receive this text?

Sherlock? Where are you? I sent those texts hours ago.

Are you alright?

'All right.'

You're correcting me at a time like this? Christ. WHERE ARE YOU?

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk as he typed his reply, even though John wasn't there to needled by it.

In the flat. Where are you?

I can't believe you're playing games.

Are you hurt? You said you'd been injured.

I feared a concussion. I suspect that it is the least of my worries.

Is the other Holmes there?

Yes.

How can this be happening?

It ties back to the explosion. We must start there.

Is he well?

Well enough for being pulled through time and space.

I can't believe I just typed that.

What about you? Are you okay?

Sherlock?

Sherlock's hand trembled again, and not from the brandy or the bitter cold that seeped in to the unheated flat. He remembered that night in the Cross Keys pub, when he'd drank, when he'd shouted at John, when he'd been afraid.

But all he felt now was the flooding warmth of relief. He rested his head against the mantle, and brought the phone against his breast bone, keeping it there for several moments, until the anticipated third text buzzed.

Are you still there? God, please answer.

Sherlock took his time typing the reply.

I am.

Conserving battery. Will check for messages in eight hours.

He waited in the darkness, hands cradling the phone. And at last came the reply.

If you can get there, you can get back.

And I will get you back. I swear it.

Sherlock rubbed his thumb against the screen, then shut off the phone for the night.