Convergence of the Twain, a Doc Martin and Sherlock Crossover Story

Doc Martin belongs to Buffalo Pictures. Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I own nothing but my imagination.

Set between episodes 3 and 4 of Doc Martin series 5 and between episodes 1 and 2 of Sherlock series 2

Author's Notes:

My apologies for the delay in continuing the story; I was overly distracted by the Olympics .

To the Doc Martin fans who may be less familiar with Sherlock, please remember that in this universe, there is no famous literary character from the past named Sherlock Holmes. Ergo, Martin's unfamiliarity with the detective's name only means he hasn't been reading the recent London papers or following the blogosphere.

This story, and this chapter in particular, owes a great deal to my ten year old daughter whose fascination with the Arthur Conan Doyle stories led us to the BBC Sherlock series, and who created the original female character who is introduced in this chapter. Thanks to C for inspiring me and pushing me to write this tale.

Many thanks to all of you who have read, reviewed, alerted and favorite this story. I am grateful to all of you and hope you enjoy this latest installment.

Chapter 7 – Deductions

Morwenna looked up from the reception desk as a woman in a broad-brimmed hat tentatively pushed open the front door to the surgery and shuffled into the room, dragging a small boy by the hand with two young girls trailing grumpily behind her.

"Erm - Hullo? I'm Sarah Conroy? The, um, doctor, saw my son in the chemist's shop and told us to come at three?" Her tone was uncertain and the look on her face indicated she would rather be just about anywhere on Earth than in this surgery. She glanced nervously around the room, taking in the outdated décor and worn furniture, neither of which seemed to inspire much confidence.

"In the chemist?" asked Morwenna, looking puzzled. That would be strange, even for Doc Martin. She handed the woman a registration card and a pen, recognizing immediately that this woman, whoever she might be, wasn't a local. Not with the whole family dressed in swim suits for a trip to the surgery.

"Yes, he told me Nicky had scarlet fever – I just thought he was sunburnt." She gestured to the small boy beside her. "I mean what was I to do? I stopped off in the chemist's for some aloe before we headed back to the beach and suddenly some weird toff in a black suit started going on about why would I put sunscreen on only two of the kids and how it wasn't that sunny and then the doctor was sticking a thermometer into Nicky's mouth and . . . well it was all a bit confusing actually."

Morwenna saw Mrs. Conroy look up expectantly at the Doctor who was striding through the door from his consulting room at this point; and noticed how the woman's face fell when he paid her no mind and went directly to the filing cabinet.

"A toff in a black suit? I wonder who that was." Though Morwenna had been the surgery receptionist for only two weeks, she had lived in Portwenn her whole life and that description didn't sound like anyone she knew. Besides the Doc, the undertaker and the vicar were the only ones who regularly wore a suit, and neither of them would be described as a toff by any stretch of the imagination, even by a grockle.

"I don't know," said the woman, writing furiously on the form. "We're just visiting - came over from Gloucestershire yesterday to start our holiday."

"We live in Lower Slaughter," said the little boy, to no one in particular before settling himself on the window seat.

Martin looked up from the patient notes he was filing and Morwenna looked at him expectantly, assuming he would chime in about the identity of the black-suited mystery man.

Martin guessed what she wanted to know. "No idea. Never seen him before =. Dark hair; looked to be thirty-something." He paused. "Very observant, though."

Morwenna rolled her eyes. The Doc was not known for remembering people other than by their symptoms; that much she knew for sure. A mysterious man in a black suit, now that sounded quite interesting – any new, hopefully eligible, man in Portwenn was newsworthy, as far as she was concerned.

The girls giggled behind their hands. "He said he was 'Holmes Sherlock Holmes,'" they chorused in unison, reveling in exaggerating their vowels in imitation of a fruity, posh accent.

"What a STUPID name!" said the taller one.

"Yeah, STUPID!" echoed the younger.

The mother gave them a stern look.

"Did you say Sherlock Holmes?" asked Morwenna, excitedly. "The real Sherlock Holmes? He's here? Here in the village?"

"Who is that, then?" asked Martin.

Morwenna's face registered shock at Martin's ignorance. "He's that famous London detective! He's been in all the magazines and in the papers." Morwenna dug in her shoulder bag and came out with several tabloids and a glossy women's magazine. After a moment she found what she was looking for and waved one at Martin. "See – is this the bloke you saw?"

Morwenna pushed the magazine across the desk to Martin so he could get a good look at the photo on the cover. "It might be," he said, after a moment. "He wasn't wearing that hat but he was with a man who looked somewhat like him," he said, pointing at the celebrated photo of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson exiting a London theater wearing odd hats as ineffective disguises.

"Imagine that – a real celebrity here in Portwenn!" Morwenna sighed heavily, gazing dreamily at the photograph. "And he was at Mrs. Tishell's! If she hadn't sacked me, I might have been the one to serve him."

Martin snorted. "Back to work, now, and put the reading material away while you're on the clock," he ordered. "Send them through as soon as she's finished the registration form. And don't let the boy near anybody – he's infectious." He turned on his heel and walked into the consulting room without a backwards glance.

Morwenna rolled her eyes again. She thumbed through the magazines for just a moment more before returning them to her bag. A girl could dream, couldn't she?

X

"Two pints of Tribute, please," John asked the beefy publican as he drummed his fingers idly on the bar. "And you wouldn't happen to have a couple of pasties or anything? We missed lunch."

"Nah, no pasties left. Lunch stopped at three and dinner won't be on until after six." After a long pause, he added, "I could do you up a ploughman's maybe, if you like." The barman passed John the first pint as he spoke.

"Ta, that'd be just the ticket." John placed some notes on the bar and looked around, taking a long draught of his beer. Ahh. Nothing like it on a warm day.

Including Sherlock, who was typing furiously on his Smartphone over by the window, there were scarcely twenty people in the cavernous pub. Two blokes in rough clothes sat at a table in the corner with an animal carrier at their feet, the kind you'd use to take a cat to the vet's; a handful of teenage girls gossiped around the fruit machine; a family of weary holiday-makers, who looked American by the state of their trainers, drank Cokes and thumbed through their guidebook; a couple of fishermen in oilskins drank silently and steadily on one side of the bar. There was only one other person on this side of the bar – a woman in a soft blue trouser suit scrolling furiously through something on her iPad, an empty glass beside her handbag on the bar in front of her. A brunette, John noticed. Long, dark hair fell in soft curls over her shoulders. Pretty, he thought. He smiled in her direction but she was still engrossed with whatever was on the screen in front of her.

John was interrupted in his inspection of the woman when the second pint was placed in front of him. He nodded to the barman who had turned to serve a man with the reddest mustache John had ever seen and a grubby white bandage on his arm. With a backward admiring glance at the woman at the bar, John took the pints back to the table where Sherlock sat.

His flatmate held his hand up with the palm facing John and mumbled something that could have been "just a minute" when John put the pint in front of him, and John knew better than to interrupt. Taking another sip of his beer, John idly glanced up at on the telly mounted in the corner and saw a perky blonde reporter standing in front of the sign for Portwenn Harbor.

Prime Minister David Cameron and his family returned to Downing Street today after a glorious ten day holiday in Portwenn. But for celebrity spotters in North Cornwall, all is not lost. Keep your eyes peeled for celebrated London detective, Sherlock Holmes, darling of New Scotland Yard. The dashing Mr. Holmes was seen arriving at the Bodmin Parkway train station this morning in the company of his constant companion, Doctor John Watson. No official word on whether the trip is business or pleasure, but the two men seemed in high spirits as they drove off in a hired Jaguar late this morning. I don't know about you, Ken, but I'll be watching to see how these two eligible bachelors spend their seaside holiday. This is Nicola Bishop reporting live from Portwenn.

John snorted as videotape of their arrival in Cornwall rolled across the screen in living color. So much for keeping a low profile. He took another drink and therefore missed the sly glances that came their way from other patrons in the pub, and the look of consternation on the face of the man whom the bartender was serving.

The waiter delivered a plate of cheese and ham with pickles and half a loaf of bread with a flourish. John nodded, "Cheers, mate," and dug right in. He nudged the plate to the middle of the table as a suggestion to Sherlock that eating something might be a good idea, but he didn't really expect the detective to respond. That would be typical. This was not such a bad result as John was clearly hungry enough to tuck into the whole thing.

Sherlock looked up from his mobile. "She's single."

John swallowed. "Who is? The news dolly?"

"The girl at the bar. She's single."

John looked around wildly, realizing the brunette he had noticed earlier was the only person who could possibly be described as 'the girl at the bar'. "How could you possibly know that?"

Sherlock took a drink of his beer and gave John a bemused smile. "You mean besides the lack of a ring? She's glued to a dating website on her iPad for starters. Not exactly the behavior of someone in a committed relationship is it? She fancies you."

John sputtered "You can't know that!"

"You didn't see the shufti she gave your arse."

"Sherlock!" John felt his ears turn pink.

"Well go on then. Make yourself useful. Show us some of that Three Continents Watson charm. You know you want to."

"How would that be useful? What about the case?"

Sherlock gave John his patented exasperated look. "She's a police officer. In plain clothes which makes it likely she's CID. When we asked that idiotic constable about doing a post mortem on the snake, he told us he had to check with 'the detective' and I don't think he was referring to me."

"How . . ."

"Honestly John, you were ogling her. How did you not notice the radio in her handbag, the outline of her warrant card showing through her jacket pocket and the handcuffs clipped to the back of her belt? Not to mention the shoes."

"Shoes? What do shoes have to do with anything?"

"John, she's wearing a trouser suit – business clothes. But look at her shoes. No pumps, no tasteful wedge heels, not even ballet flats. No, she's wearing rubber-soled, suede lace-ups. No one's idea of a fashion statement. This is a woman who needs to be able to sprint after a suspect." Sherlock shook his head, apparently reminding himself of John's inferior brain power.

John closed his mouth. He hadn't looked past her hair, her figure or the curve of her cheek, of course. Like any normal bloke. Which Sherlock wasn't - not by a long shot.

"Go on then – chat her up, see what you can find out. Bonus points if you can finagle a look at the snake corpse."

John looked over at the woman. Maybe she was looking back at him, from under those long, dark lashes. He wondered what color her eyes were.

"Well. . ."

"I'm off to see a man about a dog." And with that, Sherlock was gone. John presumed the detective was looking for the loo, but you never knew with him. In this case, there might just be a dog.

John polished off his pint and wiped his hands on his jeans. No time like the present. He walked to the bar and stood closer to the object of his attentions than he had before.

"Another round?" asked the publican.

"Just one this time." John turned and flashed a smile. "And one for the lady."

She looked up at him, startled.

Blue. Her eyes were blue, he thought, blue like the waves crashing against the harbor outside. He nodded to let her know yes, he did mean her.

"Oh, no. I'm not drinking. Still on the job." She gave a little shrug, which John found endearing, as she pointed at the little notebook on the bar in front of her.

"Well it's a warm day and you've obviously had something in that glass. A lemonade perhaps?" John had a pang of guilt for approaching her on Sherlock's instructions, but it certainly wasn't a hardship, not by a long shot. And it had been a dry spell on the dating front. After Sherlock chased Jeanette off with his rudeness at the ill-fated Christmas party, John hadn't had the guts to bring anyone else back to their flat.

"Alright then, another Ribena. And thank you." She did have a lovely smile.

The bartender nodded to indicate he'd heard the order, and rolled his eyes, clearly disapproving of serving Ribena to anyone over the age of six.

"I'm John, John Watson." He hoped he sounded friendly and not creepy.

She held out her hand. "Maia Rivers. Detective Inspector Maia Rivers. And before you pretend to be impressed, I know just who you are, Dr. Watson." She looked bemused as she glanced up at the television.

"Oh, well . . ." he wasn't quite sure what to say. He took her hand and shook it in a business-like fashion. He liked the way her hand felt – small and cool without being clammy. She wasn't nervous, even if he was.

The barman brought John's pint, a dusty bottle of Ribena and a glass. He jerked his head to indicate the ice bucket on the end of the bar and went back to polishing pint glasses.

"Ice?" John asked. He noticed her blouse was the same color as her eyes. She really should wear that color every day.

Maia nodded and handed over her glass.

"Do you live in the village, then?" John asked Maia as he used the tongs to carefully place three ice cubes in the glass.

"No, I'm from Plymouth. I'm here on secondment, actually, to help investigate a rash of pick-pocketing."

"Pick-pocketing? Really? I'd better keep an eye on my wallet, then, hadn't I?"

"I would recommend it." There was a twinkle in her eye as she said that which John found completely captivating.

She took a sip of her drink. "So are you in Cornwall for business or pleasure, Dr. Watson?"

"Well, not sure really. Sherlock's got a case and I came along to get a bit of a break from London, really." He hoped she wouldn't see through that little lie. He wanted her to like him, and not just because Sherlock needed information from her.

"What kind of a case, then?"

He flushed a bit. This would take a bit of finessing. "I dunno the details. Something about a dead American in London. Scotland Yard and all that." He tried to avoid mentioning any connection to Cornwall, and realized he needed to change the subject quickly to avoid suspicions. "So would you take pity on a stranger and have dinner with me tonight? Sherlock's busy with his work, and I'm at loose ends and new in town." He gave what he hoped was a charming smile and leaned over the bar, closer to her.

She laughed at this. "You don't beat around the bush, then, do you?"

"I suppose not." He was getting desperate and decided it was now or never. The Army card, he thought, would be the right play. "In Afghanistan, you know, I learned to seize the moment – life's too short to wait around for something to happen. Or to have dinner with a pretty lady . . ." He purposefully let his voice trail off and gave her the look Harry had always called his 'puppy dog eyes.'

"Alright," said D.I. Rivers, raising her hands in mock surrender. "It's not like I'm dying to eat another pasty at the police station with P.C. Penhale. There's a place up Rosscarrock hill called The Large Restaurant. Shall I meet you there, about eight o'clock?"

"Brilliant! I'll see you there, then, Maia."

"Right. Good. I'll see you later. Must dash, now, though. Crime waits for no woman or something like that." She slid her iPad into her bag and gave John a little wave before heading towards the door.

John stood and looked at her leaving with a silly grin on his face and then took his beer back to the table. He noticed the two men in the back corner were fiddling with the pet carrier and wondered what the landlord would have to say about a cat in the pub. He was enjoying the last bit of ham from his lunch when Sherlock sidled up to the table in that cat-like way of his and sat down across from John.

"So?" Sherlock nodded to John as he took a sip of his beer.

"What?"

"So did you speak with her? Come on, I haven't got all day, you know."

"Yes, I spoke to her. Yes, you were right. She's D.I. Maia Rivers, sent over from Plymouth to deal with a rash of pick-pocketing down here. Oh, and I'm having dinner with her tonight." John looked smugly at Sherlock.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow in response. "Excellent. I've booked us in here at the pub," he added, pulling from his pocket two keys, each attached to a large brass number to indicate the room it opened. "I'm in 6 and you're in 7 – I took the one with the harbor view but only a shower cubicle and they put you in the one with the full bath." He handed the seven to John and returned the six to his pocket.

"Right. I think I'm going to get my bag and avail myself of that bath right now . . ."

"Now? But I've just found out where the snake's corpse is. The pub owner has a cold storage facility nearby that the police have requisitioned."

"Sherlock. The dead snake isn't going anywhere while I am in the bath."

Just then, Sherlock grabbed at his coat pocket. "Bloody hell! He took my key!" He spun around and John leapt up to follow him, looking wildly for the pickpocket.

"It's a MONKEY!" shouted Sherlock, dashing to the door of the pub.

John saw a small monkey scampering away with Sherlock in pursuit. The animal turned and chattered at Sherlock, almost taunting him, holding up the brass number 6. Sherlock lunged after it, and John hurried to catch up.

Just then he heard a whistle. The monkey stopped, dropped the key and nimbly clambered up, disappearing up the drainpipe of the pub.

Sherlock picked up the key, examining it while John ran around the corner to see if there was any sign of the monkey. As far as he could see, there were no open windows and no indication of who had whistled.

"Better tell your D.I. Rivers she's looking for a monkey," muttered Sherlock.

John was speechless.

To be continued . . .