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

Chapter 8 – Evidence

Martin was not pleased. In reality, 'not pleased' substantially understated how much he loathed the fact that he was once again sitting in The Large Restaurant, expected to eat a meal cooked by a mediocre plumber or, worse yet, one of his so-called "chefs." Who could forget Mick the felon, the mad badger woman, or Mandy of the stolen contraceptives? Not to mention the whole bloody salad incident. No, Martin was sure nothing good could come of dining at Bert's.

But here he sat, well past his usual dinner hour, facing Louisa across a tiny table with a view of the harbor. The baby was asleep in his basket on the chair beside Louisa and she was blathering on again about baby names while they waited for their food to be served.

Their presence here was the product of Louisa's exhaustion and her unfamiliarity with Martin's cooker She'd put a shepherd's pie in the oven before going upstairs to look after the baby, without recalling that she needed to turn TWO knobs on the cooker to heat the oven – one to switch it on and one to set the correct temperature. After closing up the surgery later than he would have liked, he'd discovered Louisa giving the baby a bath upstairs, completely unaware that her planned supper was sitting raw in an unheated oven. There had been tears, and now there was penance in the form of dining out.

"I can't remember, have I asked you about Stephen? We could spell it either way – with a v or ph if you prefer." She looked at him expectantly. "Stephen is strong, traditional name, like you said you wanted."

"But he'll be called Steve which is dreadful," Martin protested. "It sounds like a brand of washing up liquid."

She sighed. "Okay, but Martin, this is getting ridiculous. He's nearly three weeks old; he needs a name." She stroked the baby's hand fondly.

Martin knew the fondness was not directed at him at this particular moment. He sighed. "How about Edward?" He'd never thought he would be particular about naming a baby, but honestly he couldn't imagine having an offspring named Steve - or Griffin, or Kevin, or Brendan or Owen, for that matter. They weren't Irish or Welsh, for God's sake, so he was mystified by her fascination with Celtic names.

"Well, I did consider that. But he'd be Eddie. Or maybe we'd call him Teddy? Does he look like a Teddy?" She paused to contemplate the baby again. "But then people would think his name was Theodore, wouldn't they?" She sighed again. "It's all so complicated."

Martin was saved from answering by the arrival of a plate of what was pretending to be the grilled cod he had ordered. It looked suspiciously like Bert had taken the haddock he used for fish and chips and microwaved it or something to get the white gelatinous mess on the plate, garnished jauntily by an enormous sprig of dill and several insipid lemon slices. Great, just bloody fantastic.

He glanced at Louisa's plate. She'd ordered pasta primavera and received what looked like spaghetti Bolognese with chunks of chopped aubergine and courgette floating in the runny sauce. He was uncertain as to which of them had made the better selection.

She caught his eye and smiled weakly, and raised her fork before twirling it in her pasta and taking a bite. She seemed to have a grim determination to overlook any failings in the kitchen department which Martin found mystifying. As Martin began eating his fish, he noticed Bert escorting another couple to a nearby table. The short man with the sandy hair looked familiar but Martin couldn't place him. He didn't think he'd ever seen the dark haired woman before. Bert fussed a bit with the menus and some kind of "welcome to the establishment" nonsense before disappearing into the kitchen.

Martin turned his attention back to his meal, although it still bothered him that he couldn't remember the man seated behind Louisa. It seemed somehow important to place his face.

"The Knightlys seem to be having a nice evening," remarked Louisa, nodding to the table on their left.

Martin looked over, seeing the diabetic bank manager and her husband, the hypertensive boat mechanic, digging into plates of fish and chips with relish. "Neither one of them should be eating like that! I swear I don't know why I even bother giving medical advice seeing as how no one seems inclined to follow it!"

"Martin." Louisa's tone was ever so slightly scolding and Martin flushed.

Over Louisa's shoulder, he saw the unknown couple in animated conversation. Looking at the back of the man's head, Martin realized the stranger was actually one of the men he'd encountered in the chemist's – not Morwenna's famous detective but the other one. He idly wondered again what the pair was doing in Portwenn and who the woman was.

"Martin!"

Louisa sounded cross. He looked back at her immediately to discern what the problem was.

"Who are you looking at?"

"What? Oh, nothing. I just realized I saw that man in the chemist's this afternoon. He was with a London detective Morwenna tells me is quite well-known. He, er, pointed out some facts about a boy that led me to diagnose scarlet fever."

"Really? Is he a doctor?"

"Apparently the detective isn't but his companion – the man behind you - is. The detective . . . whatever his name was . . . works with Scotland Yard in some capacity." He paused, and then added, "Sherlock! That's what his name is! I knew it had to be something unusual."

"You must be kidding. What kind of a name would Sherlock be for our baby?" Louisa gave him an outraged glare.

"No, not the baby, the DETECTIVE."

As Louisa took another bite of her dinner, seeming mollified for the moment, Martin heard the voices at the next table rise – an argument appeared to be brewing. He furtively watched in fascination as the woman's face grew ever more animated and the man started gesturing with his hands. It was something of a relief to Martin to realize that he and Louisa were not the only couple who sometimes clashed. He couldn't help overhearing the conversation; the other couple's voices were rising as the argument picked up steam. He couldn't make heads or tails of the words floating his direction, his ear picking up only fragments like "bleeding monkey" and "how dare you" and "Sherlock's case" and "sabotage my investigation."

"Martin!" Louisa's tone was shrill and it interrupted his observation of the other couple. "Martin, look at me!" She was clearly agitated and he knew he needed to look at her, if only to reassure her. However, at that very moment the woman at the other table threw her glass of wine in her companion's face with an angry glare and a torrent of shouts. He was mesmerized as he watched the train wreck of a dinner date at the next table unfold like a crap reality telly programme.

Louisa craned her head over her shoulder at exactly the wrong moment -the moment when the doctor dripping in wine had ducked down to find the serviette he'd dropped on the floor – so her view, the one she apparently supposed Martin had been staring at, was of a beautiful dark haired woman with fire in her eyes, leaning across the table and displaying impressive curves under her gauzy blue blouse.

Louisa looked back at Martin, gasped, and then gave a muffled cry with her hand over her mouth. She sobbed something about being as much use to him as a chocolate teapot, and then pushed back her chair and grabbed the baby's basket. With tears running down her face, she ducked past Bert and rushed out of the restaurant right on the heels of the other woman, before Martin could do anything more than call out her name.

Martin fumbled in his pocket for his wallet and threw some notes on the table as Bert bustled over to the other table with a stack of bar towels and a sympathetic ear.

Bert nodded to him as he sidled past the other table on his way out. "Better mend your fences with Louisa, Doc. Don't worry; we're open late if you want to come back for dessert." And then the older man gave Martin a lascivious wink. With a disgusted grunt, Martin strode across the terrace on his way to the stairs up to the road, but not before exchanging a brief and possibly sympathetic nod with the other scorned doctor in the restaurant, the one with red wine all over his tattersall shirt.

X

John dragged himself back to the pub and up the stairs towards his room. He looked forward at long last to a hot bath and bed, something to salvage this evening that had turned to from promising to complete pants at a mind-boggling pace. He'd been awake for nearly forty hours and he knew it was long since beginning to show. Looking down at his stained shirt and trousers, he wondered idly what else was in the carryall he'd hastily packed at silly o'clock this morning before Sherlock had dragged him to the train.

When he reached the door of room number 7, he found it ajar. He sighed. He supposed Sherlock must have remembered to bring his lock-picking kit, even if he'd likely forgotten essentials such as toothpaste and clean socks. What kind of a surprise would the mad genius have left in his room this time, he wondered?

"Sherlock!" he called as he pushed the door open and entered the room.

"John? I didn't expect you back so soon. What happened to your date with the delightful Detective Inspector Rivers?" Sherlock's voice was coming from the bathroom, and it sounded a little strange.

"Sherlock? What are you doing in there?"

"Oh, er, just a moment. I'll be right out."

John could tell from his flat-mate's voice that something was up. It was the same voice Sherlock used when trying to deflect John's attention from an explosion in the kitchen or bullet holes in the sitting room wall. "Sherlock . . ." he said, with just a touch of exasperation.

John opened the bathroom door and found Sherlock standing there, blocking the entry, mysterious rusty stains on his slim cut white silk shirt – boy, the dry cleaners were going to have to work magic to get that clean. "Sherlock what have you done? And what is that smell?" He gagged at the stench.

"I didn't expect you back so soon, I . . ."

"Sherlock, what have you been doing? And why are you doing it here?"

"I needed the bathtub . . . for the necropsy" Sherlock's hand came out of his pocket, and he brandished an elaborate Swiss Army knife with a positively enormous blade.

"Sherlock . . ." There was menace in John's voice as he pushed the taller man aside so he could see into the bathtub which was spattered with blood and filled with coils of what appeared to be snakeskin. John's army training had taught him to breathe through his mouth to avoid the noxious odors, but even battlefield surgery hadn't accustomed him to finding this kind of gore in the bath of a perfectly nice Cornish pub.

"While you kept DI Rivers occupied, I was presented with the perfect opportunity to retrieve the snake from cold storage. It has been very interesting – I was right about the species of snake, and I've identified its last meal." Sherlock was almost gleeful.

John shook his head and rubbed his fists in his eyes. He took a deep cleansing breath and immediately gagged again. "Sherlock – I just, just don't care right now. I am exhausted and covered in wine after being thoroughly humiliated in a public place and was looking forward more than you can possibly imagine to a bath and my bed and I arrive home to find you've turned my room into a mortuary!"

"Not your whole room – just your bathtub." Sherlock as always was logical even when he was being an utter prat.

"You're right. Sherlock, you're right." John exhaled heavily. "Give me your key."

"What?"

"I'll leave you to your bathtub mortuary. I'm taking your room." John held out his hand.

"But you could assist me . . ."

"No, Sherlock, I'm done. Done for today at least. I am going to bed and as a physician I recommend that you get some sleep too."

John took Sherlock's key from the pocket of his jacket hanging on the chair in the bedroom and grabbed his things from the luggage stand without looking back at his bloodstained and bewildered friend. "I'll see you in the morning."

"John?"

John ignored Sherlock and crossed the corridor to room 6. He sighed when he opened the door which bore clear evidence of his flat mate's peripatetic activities since their arrival– how Sherlock managed to create so much chaos in such a short time he would never know. He thought about returning the key to Sherlock but figured if the git had picked one lock, he could bloody-well pick this one if he wanted to get back in.

He shoved Sherlock's case off the bench at the end of the bed and opened his own to take out his wash bag and pyjamas before heading to the ensuite bath. He stopped to open the window part way and take a deep breath of sea air to eradicate the smell of Sherlock's disgusting necropsy. In the bathroom, he stripped off his wine stained clothing, and stepped under the spray of the shower.

Ahh. He needed this, he really did. The long day topped off with the disastrous evening had left him feeling spent and hollow. Damn. He'd had only modest expectations for his date with the lovely police inspector – dinner with someone who actually consumed food, a mild flirtation, perhaps interesting conversation about something other than snake venom, maybe even a polite kiss goodnight. He should have known it would all go pear-shaped because of Sherlock.

In retrospect, he should have mentioned Sherlock's conclusions about the monkey as the troublesome pickpocket earlier, but he figured there wasn't much hunting she could do in the dark, and he selfishly hadn't wanted her to cut dinner short to get back to work. That had been a significant tactical error. Whether she'd ever speak to him again was seriously in doubt at the moment.

After sluicing away the wine and all other residue of his endless day, he toweled off and dressed for bed. He stopped only to quickly clean his teeth and swallow a couple paracetamol for the exhaustion headache pounding in his temples. He switched off the lights and slid into the bed with a sigh of relief.

Sprawled on his back with his left hand tucked under the duvet and his right dangling over the edge of the bed, he shut his eyes. The sheets felt crisp and clean, the pillow was cool against his cheek, and the sound of the pounding surf outside the window was soothing. He felt the darkness envelop him like a velvet cocoon as he drifted off to sleep.

The next thing he sensed was white hot pain shooting up his arm and stopping his breath. He was no stranger to nightmares and he could tell immediately that this was real; no dream could light his flesh on fire like this, digging into every sense so deeply that all he could register was the sickening waves of angry pain washing over him. It could have been a moment since he'd fallen into bed or hours; he had no idea how long he'd slept or if he even had. He struggled to open his eyes when he heard screaming, taking a long moment before he realized it was his own voice.

"Fuck . . . bloody, fucking FUCK!" He felt as though his blood had turned to acid, and his heart hammered in his chest. He struggled to draw ragged breaths of the cool night air into his laboring lungs. Eyes wide, pupils dilated in the darkness he swung his head wildly, searching for the source of his torment.

He gasped in shock as he saw the creature's eyes glinting red in the dimness and its fangs sunk deep into his wrist. A snake. Shit. Where the hell had that come from? Sherlock's specimen was decidedly dead in the bathtub in the other room.

He flailed wildly, hoping to dislodge the gigantic snake that had attacked his trailing arm and still clung by the skin of its teeth to John. When the beast released its jaw, heavy, writhing coils dangling in the air from John's arm, the doctor rolled painfully to the far edge of the bed, shaking and struggling to control his fear. Maybe it was only the memory of his tedious discussions with Sherlock about snake venom over the course of the last two days, but John had a deep conviction that this was no ordinary snake, nor an ordinary bite.

Through the haze of panic and sleep and sheer agony, he knew he needed help immediately if there was any chance this was the type of snake he and Sherlock had been investigating. He racked his brain for the protocol for a venomous snake bite. Surely he'd had training – but all he could summon up in his frenzied mind was the scene of John Wayne sucking the venom out of his beautiful companion in True Grit. That wasn't right, but for the life of him he couldn't remember the first thing he'd been taught. Keeping his eyes on the snake, he fumbled on the bedside table with his left hand, blindly scrambling for his mobile.

Thank God Sherlock's number was the last he'd called. He managed to scroll to it and press send and then silently begged Sherlock to overcome his infuriating preference for texting and answer the bloody phone.

He hurt, damn he hurt, and with the fear and disorientation and the concentration needed just to keep breathing he wasn't sure he could speak. And he had to warn Sherlock about the snake – where would they be if that cocky git waltzed in here and got bit himself by the damn thing. Christ - it was still down on the floor, undulating in a corner. As the phone rang, John's body continued shaking so hard his teeth chattered, and he wondered if it was from terror or shock or neurological deficit.

"John – I thought you were going to sleep." Sherlock's voice was filled with annoyance and John could picture the look on his face.

"Shh . . . Shhe . . ." Fuck. His voice was a mere whisper; he hadn't imagined it would be this hard to speak.

"Couldn't you have texted? I wouldn't need both hands - I was right in the middle of dissecting the venom sac."

"Sheeeerlock. Help!" It was taking every ounce of strength to grit his teeth and try to get the words out; overcoming the sense of doom and the feeling he was being crushed. He needed to warn him. He knew there was something he needed to say. Their own personal danger code. If he could just get it out then Sherlock would come but remain alert to danger.

"John, John? What is the matter? I can't hear what you're saying?" There was mild concern in the detective's voice now, but John judged it wasn't enough for Sherlock to be arsed to cross the corridor to come to his aid.

It was now or never. His life literally depended on being able to get out the words. "Vatican . . . Vatican Cameos . . ."

John dropped the mobile and fell back on the bed and didn't hear Sherlock's sharp intake of breath or his commanding voice calling "John? John, I'm coming . . .

To be continued . . .

Author's note: A necropsy is the animal equivalent of an autopsy.