The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord

by Soledad

Episode 01: Ginger, At Last! (But Still Rude)

Disclaimer: Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

Author's note: No, the Watcher aka Mycroft is not a canon Time Lord. I simply made him up. And I took some poetic licence where it comes to the working of the chameleon arch. This is an AU, after all.

Part 04 – Mycroft

The inside of the Holmes residence had barely changed since his last visit, despite the decades gone by. It was still the same spacious Victorian house with its expensive old furniture, vintage wallpapers and hand-painted stained glass lamps as it had been half a century earlier when the stranded Time Lord stepped into the role of the eldest son of the old and respected family. A son who'd conveniently fallen victim to a guerrilla attack during the Aden Emergency.

Mycroft Holmes had barely changed himself; a fact that he liked to explain away with the amazing progress of plastic surgery in recent years… if indeed anyone happened to comment on it. Which rarely happened, as he preferred to interact with other people – especially with those who had known the original Mycroft – as little as possible. With the hush-hush job he was doing for the British government it was surprisingly easy to lead a solitary life.

He was waiting for the Doctor in the middle of his study – a surprisingly elegant, old-fashioned room with its French windows open to the park that could have doubled as a gorgeous film set. He was wearing a tailored three piece suit in sombre black, defined by the distinctive rounded cut of the waistcoat that made him look even taller than he already was, with a pale blue shirt and a navy tie. The silver chain of his ancient pocket watch – the one in which a great deal of his true being was stored – was threaded through the buttonhole of his waistcoat and, as always, his sleek back umbrella was leaned against his des, within reach.

Just where one would expect a powerful, well-concealed weapon to be kept.

A sinfully expensive fountain pen – black, with a gold nib, his equivalent of a sonic screwdriver – peeked out from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. The Doctor knew from personal experience that one could actually write with the bloody thing, aside from its more important functions. And while he preferred his sonic screwdriver the way it was, he couldn't deny that Mycroft's solution was the more elegant one.

"My dear Doctor!" Mycroft exclaimed with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "What a surprise to see you again! I thought you'd turned your back on this planet for good!"

"You hoped, you mean," the Doctor returned with a scowl.

"Nonsense," Mycroft said smoothly. "I never had any objections to your presence on Earth; if I had, I'd have found a way to remove you. The planet is big enough for two of us – even if you'll have to stay a little longer this time."

"What do you mean?" the Doctor tried to hedge around the truth a little; not that he'd be able to fool Mycroft and he knew that, but admitting that he, too, was stranded here, at least for the time being, wasn't easy.

Mycroft rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Oh, please! You crash-land in my back yard and expect me not to deduce that your TARDIS wouldn't go anywhere for the next couple of years? I don't even need Mummy to calculate the possibilities for that! The poor ship was already a derelict when you stole it from the junkyard and aided you by how many regenerations? Ten? Eleven?"

"Twelve, actually, and you know that," the Doctor replied coldly. How typical for Mycroft to remind him that this was the last chance given to him!

"Of course I do!" Mycroft replied with an inelegant snort. "Therefore it's safe to assume that you won't be making any new trips in the next few years – if ever. You better get used to leading a settled life."

"Like you?" the Doctor asked, his new, pleasant voice dripping with sarcasm.

"God, no!" Mycroft exclaimed. "I don't want to have you around me any more than you want to be around me all the time! You know how your behaviour upsets Mummy."

"I upset her?" the Doctor repeated in disbelief.

Mycroft's fights with his crippled TARDIS/supercomputer/whatever had always been spectacular, even though Anthea was the only one to regularly witness them. Really, he'd only got to see Mummy once or twice and barely interacted with her!

"Well, she doesn't like you," Mycroft replied testily, "and frankly, neither do I. Not too much. So no, having you stay here is not an option, not in the long run. But considering who we are, I'm willing to help you blend in as I have done."

"You never actually told me how you did it," the Doctor said. "You obviously have a completely human physiology, so you had to use a chameleon arch. That's the only way. But how comes that your memory is intact?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Why shouldn't it be?"

"Well, neither me nor the Master had any memories of our true selves after using the Arch," the Doctor replied.

Mycroft gave him one of those infuriatingly condescending smiles.

"Has it never occurred to you – either of you – that that was the side effect of a faulty chameleon arch of an outdated TARDIS?" he asked. "What good would the best disguise do if you can't remember who you actually are?"

That made sense, so the Doctor chose not to react to the slighting of his beloved timeship.

"So, des this mean that your chameleon arch is still functioning?" he asked. "Can it do the same for me?"

"The core of my TARDIS is missing," Mycroft replied grimly, "and while most auxiliary systems are in the best working order, you know as well as I do that the chameleon arch is useless without Huon energy. You'll have to use yours – and accept the loss of memories for the time being. Until your TARDIS becomes functional again."

"Terrific!" the Doctor scowled. "And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Where am I to live?"

"I'm sure you'll find enough ex-companions in Britain who'd take you in as a boarder with open arms," Mycroft replied smoothly.

The Doctor was vaguely unsure about that. His recent companions didn't really have a reason to do so, and frankly, he'd lost track of anyone before his ninth incarnation for a long time. Perhaps it had been a mistake.

"Anthea can help you tracking them down," Mycroft continued, as if he'd know what the Doctor was thinking. Perhaps he did. He used to be the Watcher, after all, keeping tab on people, especially those of his own kind, was something he did by default. "And I'm going to help you with the paper trail."

"What paper trail?" the Doctor asked in understandable suspicion.

At least he thought it was understandable. Other people might not agree; but other people didn't know Mycroft Holmes like he did.

"If you are to live here for a longer period, we'll need to create an ID for you," Mycroft explained with forced patience. "Unlike last time, you cannot count on UNIT backing you up. This time you'll need something waterproof, or you're going to draw a great deal of unwanted assistance. And believe me, after the events with the 456 the reaction wouldn't be a pleasant one."

That was very true indeed. The Doctor had experienced an alarming level of hostility to the mere idea of visiting aliens during his previous two incarnations. Being trapped on Earth while the population went through a new xenophobic phase did have its risks.

"Any ideas how we're supposed to do it?" he asked. Being dependent on Mycroft's help was something he hated very much, but in his current situation he couldn't be choosy.

Mycroft gave him one of those sickly smiles that always made his stomach churn. "Actually… yes. I'm going to adopt you."

~TBC~