Chapter 3
Fractured external malleolus, broken nose, mild blood loss, and eight stiches in his left temple, the Doctor thought to himself. John Watson had been through much worse. The ex-medic was sleeping at the moment, lying in a huge four poster bed in one of the Tardis's many guestrooms. It was nearly three hours since they'd brought him here, and Sherlock's worrying was reaching audible levels again.
The Doctor stood in the doorway, watching the consulting detective nervously run his fingers back and forth against the arm of his chair.
"He's not going to wake up any time soon, Sherlock. You should go and clean up. When he does come round, do you want him to see you like this?"
Sherlock had yet to leave John's side, even to change his clothes. He was spattered with blood from when he had punched Moran in the warehouse, and there was a long tear in the shoulder of his collared shirt. He flicked a glance down and shook his head. "John's seen worse."
"Right now it's not John I'm worried about. I'll sit with him, you go get some air."
"No."
The Doctor sighed and held out his hands for their usual manner of resolving the inevitable stalemates of two geniuses in a time machine (one in a fist atop the other), but Sherlock wouldn't even look at him.
"Fine!" the Time Lord sighed, kicking the detective's chair. He pulled a scroll from his suit pocket and took the seat on the other side of John's bed.
Within five minutes the detective was pacing. Sherlock Holmes, heralded for centuries as the most brilliant mind of his age, consultant to Scotland Yard, companion to the Doctor, and completely incapable of sitting still. He walked the length of the room a few times, tried to sit again, failed, and ended up walking in circles around the bed. The Doctor took a deep breath and tried to remember why he so enjoyed having this man on his Tardis.
Nearly two hours trickled by like this, and then John stirred.
Sherlock froze, standing at the corner of the bed behind John's head. He glanced at the Doctor, who gave him an encouraging smile, then turned his attention back to the medic.
John blinked a few times and tried to sit up. He hissed in pain and the Doctor gently pushed him back to the mattress.
"Where . . . where am I?"
"You're safe."
"Moran . . . "
"Don't worry, we've taken care of him."
Indeed they had. While Sherlock had bandaged John's wounds, the Doctor had put the blue police box to use as well, a police box, and dialed an anonymous tip to a slightly futuristic Scotland Yard.
"Your friend . . . the other man who was with you . . . who is he?"
The Doctor took a deep breath and looked up to where Sherlock stood concealed. The detective looked even paler than normal. He nodded, and Sherlock stepped forward into the light.
It was clear from his face that John was tempted to pass out again.
For a long moment the two friends just stared at each other. Then the Doctor licked his lips and stood up. "I'll just ah, leave you to it," he said, and left.
With the Time Lord's exit, the room fell into silence again. Sherlock swallowed nervously.
"Morning," he said softly.
John was just looking at him, blinking rapidly.
"It's really me, John." Please say something.
"I . . . I thought I was seeing things." John whispered.
Sherlock sighed in relief. "A blue police box appears out of nowhere, your dead colleague runs out, and your first assumption is that you're hallucinating? You're slipping, John."
The doctor laughed hoarsely, and Sherlock smiled. "But how, Sherlock?" he asked. "You were dead. I saw you fall, I took your pulse, there was nothing!"
Sherlock took a deep breath and sat down in the chair. He had hoped to put this off a little longer, but part of him had known John would cut straight to the chase.
"I'm alive thanks to Molly Hooper." He said quietly. "As soon as I figured out Moriarty's plan I knew that it would end with my death. My suicide. He wouldn't rest until I was completely destroyed. So I took steps to provide a way out. I would play dumb and allow Moriarty to believe he had me cornered, when in reality I would have my own escape route already in place. But to make the world believe I was dead, I would need help."
"So I went to someone I knew I could trust. Someone who knows her way around dead bodies."
"Molly."
"Yes. She and I hid an inflatable stunt bag under a truck which we parked in front of the hospital. Upon receiving my text, she pulled it out and I jumped. Then she covered me with blood I'd given her earlier, and drove away with the evidence."
"But I felt your arm!"
"A simple magic trick. Here," Sherlock reached into his pocket and took out a small rubber ball. He slipped it up his sleeve and held it tightly in the crook of his elbow. "Now feel"
John slowly reached forward and laid a finger on his wrist. "No pulse." He whispered.
"Just a trick, John."
"But why? Why jump in the first place? They found Moriarty's body on the roof—he died before you did. Why didn't you just walk away?"
Sherlock paused, thinking. How do you tell your best friend you died for them?
"Remember when we were at the pool? And you offered to . . . blow up Moriarty?"
"Course," John said. "But then—" his eyes widened in realization, "there was a sniper."
"Three." Sherlock said.
"What?"
"Three snipers. You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade."
"So . . . if you hadn't jumped . . . "
"Everyone I cared about would die, yes."
A long silence fell between them.
"Well, ah" John coughed. "Then . . . what was that box thing? How did you make it appear like that?"
"The box is called the Tardis. Time and relative dimension in space. You're inside it now."
John looked around at his surroundings, obviously confused. "It's bigger on the inside." Sherlock added helpfully. "There's no point in going anywhere with you injured, so we're parked at the moment. Someplace in the great depression I think."
"Wait, wait. Go back." John was shaking his head. "Did you say time machine?"
"Space too. Anywhere and anywhen you want. Oh, the things I've seen, John! You can't even imagine . . ."
"And who was that other man?"
"He's the Doctor."
"Doctor who?"
Sherlock chuckled at the ever-present question. "Just the Doctor. This is his ship."
"Ship." John repeated, rubbing his hair. "That little blue box is a spaceship?"
"Yes, John, do try to keep up. We're inside the Tardis, a time machine that belongs to a 900-year old alien, and right now we're parked inside—"
"I think I met someone like him."
"Can't have, he's the last of his species. They're all dead."
"He came to Baker Street about—wait, species?"
Sherlock was picking a twig from his hair and didn't answer.
Slightly shaken, John blinked and continued. "Anyway, about a year ago this man came to the door while Mrs. Hudson was out. He wanted to speak to you, said he needed your help with something. When I told him you were dead he shouted something about being early and left. And he told me his name was the Doctor."
Sherlock leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him. "What did he look like?"
"Tall, brown hair, bowtie."
"Bowtie?"
The detective closed his eyes and mentally flipped through all ten of the Doctor's faces. None of them matched.
"What else did he say?"
"Umm . . . he mentioned a girl named Amy, and something called 'Scadriel'"
Scadriel. Sherlock searched his brain and found nothing. Unless . . . Yes, that fits.
"John, I think the Doctor you met was from the future. His future. You can't let him know you've seen him, it could disrupt all our time streams."
John didn't know what a time stream was, but his brain was still on overload from everything he'd learned today and decided not to ask.
"So . . . what happens now?"
Sherlock looked at him, bright blue eyes cutting straight to the heart of the question. "You heal." The detective said softly.
"And then what?"
His friend smiled, that maniac light John had missed so much filling his eyes.
"Who knows?"
