AN: I know I usually switch off universes each chapter, but I need this chapter so we can catch up to the Doctor Who world. Sorry about that. Enjoy!
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"How's that possible?" John questioned, scratching his head.
Lestrade just shrugged, "they're going to do some more DNA tests once we get him to a lab, but in all appearances it's him, just a heck of a lot older." Handing the Doctor a photograph, Lestrade stepped toward the body. In the photo was a picture of a teenage boy, and in the next was a computer generated guess of what he would look like as an old man. The Doctor held the photo up and compared it to the body. It was a perfect representation.
Nodding, the Doctor stepped forward.
"And no one's seen the boy?" John murmured.
"Aren't you listening?" the Doctor said, "That is the boy, right there. Lived to death."
John did a double take, "But Sherlock, the boy was a teenager. It doesn't make sense." He scratched his head, "maybe it's just a relative of his or something…"
The Doctor snorted, "What are the chances of that?" he walked up to John until he was nearly on top of him. John had to bend upward to look his friend in the eye. "Just because something doesn't make sense, does not mean it's not possible." He continued, tapping John on the nose with a sly grin.
Watson frowned, realizing his friend was referring to more than the crime scene. He took a step back, at the same time wondering if Sherlock had forgotten about certain social rules like personal space.
Taking a deep breath, The Doctor spun away, renewing the atmosphere with a nearly tangible energy. "Well then!" he smirked grimly. "So he looks like the boy, but that can be explained in some way or another. What other proof we have?" he crouched down without reserve to inspect the body once more.
Several police officers stood around the fringes of the room. They stepped forward along with the Doctor, but he waved them away.
Lestrade rolled his eyes, "What have you got?" he asked after approximately three seconds.
The Doctor frowned upward at the inspector, "Just give me a tick."
John nodded in agreement and both of them stepped away. At this point, Sherlock would be grinning. The Doctor, on the other hand, appeared intruded, but not joyful. He'd seen enough violence during the Time War, and although he enjoyed the fun of a mystery, he never liked the sight of a body. This was a mild crime scene, The Doctor knew, and there were far worse things than the body of a man who died of old age. But how did Sherlock deal with the more bloody deaths he investigated, day after day? His mind must be filled to the brim with violence. Then again, the Doctor thought, so is mine.
In the scheme of things, both Sherlock and the Doctor were running, distracting themselves from who they really were. As long as they didn't think about it, they could forget their past crimes, if only for a moment. The Doctor chose companions with hearts filled with overwhelming goodness to balance out his evil; Sherlock investigated and engulfed himself in the crimes of evil men to stop himself from falling into their footsteps. Both of them made rules to keep from overstepping their boundaries. They desperately clung to the light, because if they loosened their grip, even for a moment, and it would be so easy, they would drown in the night within their souls.
The Doctor worked silently, as if not to wake the corpse. He let Sherlock's eyes do their work, and quickly discovered bits of information he thought was probably unimportant, but stored away anyway.
Is that a coffee stain on his jacket?
No you idiot, its applesauce.
Applesauce?! That's like yogurt and apples all at once! Who eats applesauce on purpose?
Grown ups.
And there's another reason why I'm never growing up.
The Doctor swept away his inner argument in an attempt to concentrate. Reaching forward, he put a hand into the man's pockets with a silent apology. They were empty all except for the last one, which held a soiled handkerchief. The Doctor sniffed it and then threw it behind him in dismissal. It smelled like cough syrup.
Someone grumbled at this action, but the Doctor didn't take the time to figure out who it was, because something caught his eye. "Ah- ha." He smiled. There was a small bit stitching on the inside of the man's tweed jacket, (He noted the tweed part with satisfaction) cleverly hidden to the passing glance, but not standing a chance to the Doctor's. He reached into the pocket of Sherlock's coat and felt a collapsible magnifying glass, an IPhone, a notebook, and a small pocketknife. Withdrawing the pocketknife, the Doctor picked the stitching loose. After a moment, he was gratified to see a hidden pocket open up.
John knelt down beside his friend, watching with interest. The Doctor let him hover, reaching in and pulling out a worn leather wallet.
"What's that?" John asked.
The Doctor shrugged, opening it up. "We're about to find out," he murmured. With a small tug, The Doctor withdrew several coins and some paper money. Next he pulled out what looked like a much worn school ID. A small chuckle escaped him and the Doctor inspected the money and the ID. "They all look fifty years old, at least." He supplied. "More proof."
Lestrade frowned, "How is that proof?"
John picked up a piece of the paper money, his eyes going wide. "But that's not possible!" he gapped.
"You really need to expand you vocabulary, John." The Doctor murmured.
"What is it?" Lestrade begged, leaning in.
The Doctor glanced up. "All this money shows the wear and tear of a lifetime, and yet, a look at the date it says they were printed in…" The alien handed Lestrade the money.
"2014." The Lestrade stated, blinking, "how can it-"
"And look at this," the Doctor grinned, waving the school ID. On the front was a picture of Michal Maroon in his sophomore year- whatever sophomore means. "This card is a lifetime old, look how faded it is, but if I'm right, then it was printed this year." He pointed at the date printed on the side.
John gapped, about to again state how impossible that was, but he stopped himself. "There must be a mistake." He said instead, "Maybe we're looking at this wrong."
Lestrade nodded, "Someone must be deliberately doing this to throw us off or something."
"What's there to throw you off of?" Asked the Doctor, "He died of old age. It wasn't murder."
John nodded, "Good point. But how can this be Michal Maroon? How can this old man be him, and what's he doing with freshly printed money that looks years and years old? It's not like he's a time trav-" he stopped, remembering Sherlock's position. Perhaps he should not mention time travelers…
But it was too late. The Doctor nodded, "It almost seems that way, doesn't it? But I don't think that's possible… here." He was about to say 'this universe' but caught him self just in time. The Doctor could act human when the mood hit him, and he didn't want to hurt Sherlock's reputation anymore that he already had. Time travel was possible everywhere, but Sherlock's friends didn't know that.
Lestrade chuckled, "We'll figure it out, do some testing, see if the money is real, do some more testing and find out its age." He gathered up the wallet and its items, depositing them in a plastic evidence bag. "Until then, I suggest you boys go home." He addressed not-Sherlock; "I'll text you tomorrow when everything's gotten to the lab."
The Doctor nodded, swiveling away from the body. "Right-o" he smirked.
John rolled his eyes. Quickly, the two men walked through the hall, down the stairs, and into the living room. Several police officers stood around an old dining table chatting amiably. The room hushed the moment not-Sherlock walked in, a distinctive sign that they were talking about him. The Doctor smirked; he didn't care if they gossiped about Sherlock, he wasn't him, and he doubted Sherlock cared either.
John and the Doctor kept walking with the intention to go outside. However, a single glance at the sheets of knifelike rain quickly vetoed the idea. Instead the umbrella gently pried itself from John's fingers and thudded against the door. "I told Mycroft to meet us here. He'll be here in a few minutes." John spoke, his voice stirring the Doctor.
The Doctor nodded, wondering what Sherlock's brother was like. They stood in comfortable silence for several seconds, and the Doctor withdrew an IPhone from his left-hand pocket. Murmuring voices, whisperings of reluctant wind resumed in the adjoining room. The Doctor did his best to ignore it. It wasn't often the time traveler had to wait, and it made him jittery. Biting a fingernail, he pressed a button on the device randomly. It took only a moment to guess the passcode. Not very challenging, the Doctor thought, for a detective. The passcode was 221B.
John glanced at his friend and then at Lestrade. Sherlock appeared slightly impatient, but otherwise occupied by his IPhone. Good, he could leave him for a moment. Shifting a boot forward, John proceeded toward Lestrade's gesturing hand. Feeling a sharp gaze slide like a ripped seam across his retreating back, John turned for a moment, expecting Sherlock's eyes to meet his own; however, Sherlock's gaze hadn't moved from the screen. Slightly disturbed, John felt his eyes drawn to a statue resting in the living room behind not-Sherlock. It was the stone replica of a cherub; his lips puckered like a dog's bottom as he blew out a dandelion. The detail was remarkable, amazing even, but for a reason unknown to John, an oily slug of dread slithered down his back and into his shoes. It was almost like the statue is-
"John!" Lestrade's voice cut into his thought and broke it into two before it was fully formed.
Shaking off the feeling, John raised his eyebrows and shuffled the rest of the way to the Inspector's side.
Another similarity between Sherlock and the Doctor: they both get bored. Often. And when they got bored, the desire to do something consumed them to the point that they could think of nothing else until they fulfilled the desire. At this moment, the Doctor felt a familiar itch right between his ribs. He rolled his eyes, tapping his fingers absently. Good grief, he needed to move, speak, something. He couldn't stand another moment of this stillness! The itch grew, moving into his stomach and up his throat.
Now. He needed to do something now. Glancing around for possible items of entertainment, he wondered what Lestrade did with the Frisbee… A game of Frisbee indoors, what could be better? The Doctor was on the verge of asking for the item when his attention was claimed by a brown bob and freckled cheeks. People were even better than Frisbee! Coming toward him, the woman looked extremely nervous, biting her lip and hopping from foot to foot unconsciously. As she walked, she dropped her purse and spilled its contents on the floor. Quickly, she snatched it all up. Sherlock's reputation as an intelligent, but arrogant, rather frightening, rude arse, had obviously preceded him.
"Um- Mr. Holmes?" it was presented as a question, but the woman knew exactly whom she addressed.
The Doctor smiled, startling the woman. Her badge was in her front pocket, and he caught a glimpse of her name. "Cassandra!" He replied amiably, like she was someone he hadn't seen in forever. "What can I do for you?"
Cassandra blinked. Of all things he could have said, she did not imagine him saying that. "I-um, can you sign?" she extended a paper detectives sign after seeing a crime scene.
The Doctor nodded, albeit confused, but compliant. As his pen hit the paper, he glanced up with a quick flick of his eyes. "How's your daughter?" he asked. "A good reader I imagine." The woman didn't catch the Doctor's pleasantly surprised smirk when he automatically picked up this information.
The smile was carful and small, but genuine all the less, and pride swelled Cassandra's voice, "At the top of her class. She reads books when she's six that are meant for-"
"-children ten and above?" The Doctor finished. It more a statement than a question.
The woman realized then, that this Detective could not possibly know about her daughter, or the child's reading level for that matter… "How do-?"
"You have a children's' book in your purse," he explained, "And I picture of your daughter in the wallet you spilled on the floor. I assumed because she looked young, and the book is for older children, she must be an exceptional reader."
Brown eyebrows flew upward like bird's wings. "Wow," she chuckled, "you really are as clever as they say, although, now that you explain it, it seems pretty simple." The lady smiled, warming to the detective. She accepted back the paper and leaned against the wall next to him.
"Hey, Craig!" she shouted at another officer.
The man in question glanced up, his fiery head bobbed like a candle's flame, "For the last time, it's Carl, not Craig!"
Brown eyes flew to the ceiling in annoyance, "Yeah, whatever. Get over here!" she shouted
The Doctor's lips (or Sherlock's, if you're being technical) twitched upwards into a smile.
The brown bob turned back to the detective, "Do him," she pointed at the heavy set man called Carl, who stood uncomfortably next to Cassandra and as far away as he could be from not-Sherlock.
The Doctor blinked, "What?"
"Ya know, do what you just did with me. Deduce him." said Cassandra.
Laughing, the Doctor complied; searching through Sherlock's eyes for clues only the detective saw. "You're a new father with a wife who adores you, but you don't think you deserve. You're not quite sure how to handle your son, no matter what you tell everyone. A devoted couch potato and stay-at-home sort of guy, but you're trying to pull away from that by getting an active job like this." The Doctor smirked once more.
Carl's face slackened like a deflating balloon. His mouth dropped open as he stuttered, "I- wow, that's- that's amazing! How- how'd you do that?"
"Magic," the Doctor teased, imitating sparkles with his fingers.
Carl relaxed visibly. Maybe this Sherlock Holmes wasn't as lofty as they said...
Within three minutes flat, the Doctor was invited to the dining table where eight or so officers were. Talking and laughing casually with the group, he almost looked… normal.
What?
No one but John and Lestrade noticed when Mycroft walked in through the door. The door handle held his left hand, and his ever-present umbrella held the other. Spying his brother, the English gentlemen let shock give his face a fresh coat of white paint, and he stumbled backwards into John.
Lestrade and John were staring blankly into the dining room, wordless. Now Mycroft joined them. "Good grief." He stated, blinking. Composing himself, his jacket straightened and Mycroft turned to his brother's friends. "I got your call, but I never thought it was-"
"This bad?" Lestrade finished, also gaping. John had begun explaining Sherlock's behavior, but hadn't got far. They were too distracted by Sherlock. "What is he on?"
John sighed in exasperation, "Nothing, as far as Molly says." His lip indented when he bit it, "He's just like this."
Mycroft nodded, recalling their conversation over the phone. "And he thinks he's-?"
"The Doctor? Yeah." John answered.
Lestrade blinked in disbelief, "Wait, what? Like Doctor Who? The Sci-Fi show almost everyone likes except Sherlock?"
John smirked despite himself, "Yeah, that one."
Snorting, Mycroft twirled his umbrella. "Well I can vouch, he's never seen the show- his own decision."
"Then where's he getting all of this?" Lestrade asked.
"I haven't the faintest," the brother's mouth murmured, "I suppose he must have picked it up somewhere, he's got quite an imagination…"
John shook his head of blondish-grey hair, "It's astounding. I drilled him on the way to Molly's. He knows everything there is to know…"
"Crap." Lestrade groaned at the floor, pinching between his eyebrows with two fingers. "What do we do?"
Mycroft bounced on his toes for a moment, "I'll talk to him." He started forward.
A strong hand gripped his arm, and Mycroft gave John a 'back-off' look. Glancing away, John quickly removed his hand, "Mycroft, he might not kn-"
He stopped talking because Mycroft was already crossing the room, his shoes clapping with the floor. The gentleman hesitated for a moment like a lonely child on the edges of a playground, but soon strode forward, tapping his brother on the shoulder. Not-Sherlock turned, a question drawn on his face. "Hello." He said, neither friendly nor malevolent.
"Sherlock," Mycroft murmured sternly, but with an undertone of concern. "Come over here for a moment."
The Doctor glanced over the richly dressed man with that peculiar umbrella. It was a wonder the wind had not inverted it while he strode in. Shrugging, he left his new-found friends and followed the strange man.
Mycroft felt an unfamiliar prick of pain when he saw the lack of recognition in his brother's blue, or occasionally green eyes, like a thin needle inserted between his ribs. How could Sherlock not recognize his brother, of all people?
The pair traveled toward John and Lestrade, forming a square with their four bodies as the walls. Immediately, the Doctor met John's gaze, asking for help. John's heart sank. He didn't know who Mycroft was. He could see that Mycroft knew this also because of the sour expression somewhere between pain and anger that the gentleman wore.
John sighed, "Sherlock, this is your brother… Mycroft Holmes."
The Doctor jumped visibly, realizing how horrible it must be to think Sherlock did not recognized his own family. Quickly, he reappraised Mycroft. Just like the Doctor remembered from his reading, Mycroft was the perfect gentleman. "Well this is awkward.," not- Sherlock murmured. He attempted to regain ground, "I would have pretended to recognize you if I'd known who you are..."
The look on Mycroft's face told the Doctor that was not quite the right thing to say. "Drat it, Sherlock!" the gentleman whisper-shouted. "I would have noticed either way, and what would it matter if you pretended or not? You don't know who I am upon sight. That is not good!"
The Doctor scratched the back of his neck, "Yes, right, sorry. I'm sure Sherlock can apologize later…"
"Oh, not that again." John breathed.
"Sherlock," Lestrade said slowly, "You are Sherlock."
"Hum- yes, well, no. Not really- no, actually no, not at all. I got put inside him, but it doesn't mean I'm actually Sherlock Holmes, that's ridiculous. How many times do I have to explain this?" The Doctor was talking louder than he should have by the end of his answer, and his friends hushed him. Some of the officers glanced over in curiosity, but gradually dribbled away and joined conversations of their own when the group grew quiet.
Mycroft was visibly pale, "Sherlock, tell me you're joking."
The Doctor glanced at Mycroft Holmes sadly, "I wish I could, but as it is, until I can disprove it, which I will, you're going to have to continue believing your brother has gone mad." He gave a quirky smile, like it didn't bother him much what they thought, but of course, this was not true. It was only to settle their nerves.
John nodded, not wanting to argue, and moving the conversation along, "I think we should get you home, Sherlock."
Sighing, the Doctor rolled his eyes, "But we were having so much fun!" he teased. Everyone was too disturbed to be amused, instead aping to walk him and John to the door. John offered to go to Bakers street with not-Sherlock. They all thought it best if he stayed the night there.
The rain fled from the sky at a ferocious speed, slamming into the concrete and drumming on leaves as it fell. Reluctant, John stepped onto the porch and shifted his jacket to cover his head more efficiently. "Come on, Sherlock." He urged to his friend, who's face was completely blank. Frowning, John turned for a better look at him. "You all right?" the question was breathed into the cool night air.
The Doctor frowned, "I- I dunno." He shook himself, closing his jacket, "Just sort of dizzy for a moment. I'm alright now."
Nodding reluctantly, John turned toward the watery onslaught, "Let's go then, I'll catch us a cab."
The moment John stepped onto the brick walkway and in the rain, he felt the water sneak into his socks. Grumbling, John raced to the road, hearing not-Sherlock's footsteps behind him. He reached the curb and extended his arm, silently cursing the rain, the sky, his friend's predicament… the world in general. This whole day was putting him in a bad mood, and he wanted desperately to curl up on the couch with his wife, turn on a film, and forget about everything else. Of course, life never gives us exactly what we want, does it?
John realized then he could not hear Sherlock behind him. His arm flopping to his side, he swiveled around, expecting to see the Detective lagging behind, his interest caught by some item, however he was met by a much stranger sight.
Within the house, Cassandra frowned in confusion. She held up the signature the Detective had just signed, and another one he had done about a week ago. Biting her lip, Cassandra approached Mycroft Holmes, daunted by his air of superiority. "Mycroft Holmes?" she asked.
Mycroft shook himself from his thoughts and glanced at the small woman. "What do you want?" He glanced at his watch.
Cassandra held out the two papers. "Which signature is your brother's?" she murmured.
With a frown, Mycroft snatched them from her hands, 'both of them, obvious-" he stopped, looking in full at the papers. "Well, I-" he pointed at the older paper. "That's Sherlock's signature, who wrote the other?"
Cassandra shook her head, "That's where it's confusing, Mr. Holmes. The man who just left, he signed the paper, but if writing can say anything, the same person did not do it. It appears that that man is not your brother."
Mycroft felt worry itch his fingertips, "Preposterous! Thank you Ms. for informing me, but you are mistaken." He firmly handed her the papers.
"But, sir-"she sputtered.
"Leave it be!" He spat, confusion making him harsh, "You're mistaken," Mycroft turned away from the woman and peered out the window.
Cassandra hesitated for a moment, deciding whether she should insist on the matter or not. Frowning, she sighed and turned away. The gentleman probably knew what he was doing.
Mycroft heard the woman's footsteps as she padded catlike into the other room. Breathing a sigh of relief, he tried to spot the fleeing figures John, and his brother. What was going on? How could Sherlock not have the same signature?
He frowned, finally locating John. The blonde haired man turned at the edge of the street, appearing to search for someone. After a moment, John's eyes found Sherlock, and Mycroft saw his brother at the same moment. Not-Sherlock was standing stalk still, the rain running in rivets through his black hair. Concern filled Mycroft's normally cold stone heart. Something was wrong, really wrong. He could feel it.
Abandoning his umbrella, Mycroft yanked the door open and stumbled onto the porch. "Sherlock!" he cried. He ignored the glances of confusion from the officers
Not- Sherlock turned his head toward his brother. "I know what's happening." He shouted through the rain. A look between fear and understanding was in his blue/green eyes. John was beside the detective now.
"What?" John asked.
The Doctor's head was pounding. He knew he only had a few moments, "The statues, John, why were there so many statues? Why?"
Mycroft frowned, "What are you talking about, Sherlock?"
The Doctor coughed, stumbling. John caught him. "Everyone needs to get out of that house," the Doctor cried. He stared at John, realization dawning on the detective's face. "That's why she sent me here." He laughed.
John was terrified. "Sherlock, calm down, I'm going to take you ho-"
"NO!" the Doctor interrupted. He threw himself away from the two men. "Don't you understand? I'm not the only one who got through; I wasn't even the first!" Suddenly a spark, more like a crack of light, actually, the Doctor thought later, ripped the air in front of not-Sherlock. He collapsed over his stomach. Looking up at John for the last time, Sherlock's eyes shined impossibly gold. Then, like a puppet with cut strings, the detective collapsed in a conglomeration of rain, mud, dark hair, and a coat to match.
Not-Sherlock's last words stared up at John and echoed like a mantra, "Don't blink. For Rasillon's sake, don't blink."
AN: Oh My Gosh! I am truly evil. I'm having a hard time believing I can actually be this evil, making you hang of this cliff for a week. Maybe I'll be kind and update sooner… maybe. Several reviews would certainly motivate me. 'Evil laugh'. Yeah, so stay tuned, and reminder not to say what's happening, even though it is smacking you in the face. I do adore PMing though… Oh, and also, not sure if anyone noticed, but Carl/Craig is the 'real' parallel world version of Craig Owens, who the Doctor hasn't met yet. It was totally random, but sort of cool in my opinion. Anyway, until next time...