Set after Cold Blood and The Great Game
Chapter 3: A Cold Game We Play
John sat in his armchair, newspaper folded across his lap and forgotten as he stared at his left hand closely. He had been kidnapped, held hostage and nearly blown up and shot by a madman, or a "consulting criminal" as Sherlock fancied, twice, yet there wasn't any shaking. Not even the slightest trimmer had passed through his hand during the entire fiasco. At first he had thought the adrenaline rush was what he had missed from the war, and it probably had been; but now, he was starting to suspect it was something else that calmed his nerves, something purely Sherlock.
He also contemplated why he was here, seated in this armchair across from a clearly preoccupied Sherlock, who possessed the look he always took on when deep in his pretentiously named Mind Palace, inside the main living space of 221B Baker Street. The aftermath of a traumatic experience was the perfect time to go to his current girlfriend's home and be coddled by and cuddling with a worried beauty. Yet, that was impossible as there was no current girlfriend. In fact, John hadn't accepted a single date since the night of the Yellow Dragon circus and his subsequent abrupt break-up with Sarah. She had been pretty, smart and funny, as had the rest of the girls who'd asked him out in the last month, but he hadn't been able to go out with any of them. The elusive answer as to why he couldn't say yes to any of them plagued him; not even the severed head still sitting in their fringe could take his mind off the problem.
"Brrr-ing, brrr-ing, brrr-ing". Sherlock elevated his eyelids an inch to briefly glance over at the ringing phone on the arm of the chair beside him before closing them and resting his forehead against his folded hands again.
"Aren't you going to answer that?" John asked, rubbing his temples as he felt the pressure of a headache steadily building.
"It is the British Government on the phone, and as I have no present inclinations to make a deal bartering with my soul, I think I'll just leave it be for now."
Oh no, he was not getting away with acting like that, like Sherlock- not after the day John had. "For God's sake Sherlock! We both almost just died, the cast of Stomp is rehearsing a number in my head, and you are going to answer the damn phone and talk to your brother right now, got it?"
The taller man raised his head, a biting retort prepared on his lips, but paused when he caught sight of John. Taking a few seconds to analyze his roommate, Sherlock finally nodded and quickly snatched his phone, raising it to his ear.
"Yes, brother dear, what do you require that you feel is so important as to interrupt me from my evening? I was busy waiting for John to come to a certain realization- yes, that one. It has been a long time coming and I hold high hopes that he will reach a breakthrough tonight. The wrinkles on his forehead and beside his mouth have been especially encouraging."
"Uh, what was that, Sherlock?"
"Quiet John, I'm on the phone. What are you talking about Mycroft; I have no friends. There are only arch-nemeses, annoyances, plebeians, Lestrades, Mrs. Hudsons, and Johns." Pause. "No, I don't know any doctors and John doesn't have any close co-workers at the clinic or- oh. Shit. Yes, I know him. Yes, yes, bring him here, we'll be ready." Sherlock rose after snapping the phone shut and hurried to the kitchen.
"Food, he will need food. John can get some from the market," he muttered, opening the bare cupboards in search of substance. "And… blankets. It is cool out, he is likely only in a suit- blankets are a necessity. John, are you getting all this down?"
"I'm sorry, but what the hell is going on?" John asked as he watched his usually unbelievably lazy friend flitter around the apartment, moving books from tall piles into slightly shorter stacks and stashing his long sword and prized harpoon behind the couch.
"Mycroft called to inform me that he is bringing a man who claimed to know us here; a man by the sole name of the Doctor," Sherlock replied as he taped pieces of paper over the bullet-ridden smiley face spray-painted on the wall.
John blinked in surprise. "You mean our Doctor- well, not ours, per say, but- yes? The one holding an unhealthy obsession with a police box and the color blue?"
"It would appear so."
"But why is Mycroft taking him here? Is he hurt?"
Sherlock finally stilled before hesitantly turning to face John. "Not quite. Apparently, my brother believes this man to be suicidal and wants us to watch over him. Do we have any rolls of duct tape at hand?"
~ Two Hours Earlier ~
Gone. Rory was gone, completely erased from history. Never born, alive, or dead; just gone, lost to a tear in the universe. The look in Amy's eyes as she begged him to help her remember her fiancé, the change that had come over her when his existence was wiped… it would haunt him for the rest of his days.
The Doctor turned the small red box containing the last proof of Rory's life around in his hands, wondering what he was going to do now and, for the first time in over a century, drawing a blank. There had always been a brighter future in the distance, another adventure to be had with a bright, fun companion in an exciting, unexplored moment. Yet, these cracks extending into the very fabric of time had proven themselves far more dangerous than the Doctor could have imagined, and his reckless dismissal had cost him dearly.
Something needed to be done immediately about the cracks; first, though, he had to mourn. But how could one properly mourn a death when there was no one there to share the pain with? The Doctor had already dropped Amy off back in her time, unable to stand the lack of emotion over the loss she was unaware had been suffered. Now he was alone in his TARDIS, the instrument he had originally intended to use to bring the couple together and that had ended up irreparably tearing them apart. It was just supposed to be a vacation to Rio…
The roundels surrounding him groaned softly, the lights dimming on and off in place of tears.
"Yeah, I know girl; I miss him too," the Doctor comforted, running his hand over the console. A wave of flashing lights began directing his gaze to the left, and he saw them leading to the blue switch that's purpose continued to elude him. "You're right; we should flip it once more, in honor of Rory. Maybe I will find some peace wherever it brings us." Flip. "EERrwWwoooooSHHHh"
21th Century London air greeted him outside the doors, welcoming him into her arms and offering to share his burden. Best of all: it was a Saturday evening.
"I truly do love London," the Doctor sighed. He walked out onto the streets, doing his best to fade into the sparse pedestrian crowd lining the pavement.
It was hard to feel lonely when inside the heart of the British nation, yet the feeling began to overtake him nonetheless. The Doctor was currently companionless. The people passing by knew and cared nothing for him; while the anonymity, the ability to fade into the background was one he usually savored as he so rarely possessed it, he now felt cold and more lost than he could remember ever feeling. Leaning against the railing of a bridge spanning the Thames River, the Doctor stared into the rippling black waters, trying to let the peace of the undisturbed ecosystem lying beneath its depth seep into him, calming his mind and allowing him to focus on the problem at hand. The Silence…
"No, I don't care how you do it or what it takes, just find him. That rat won't escape us again, not after this little stunt," Mycroft hissed into the phone before snapping it shut. If he weren't so agitated, he would have spent the extra energy to recall the name of whichever CIA idiot he had been talking to and thrown in a little parting advice about a cheating partner or something of that ilk, but it had been too long of a day for such divertissement. The bastard Moriarty wants to point guns at my brother? I'll show him what real firepower looks like… Stop; getting too emotionally invested leads to mistakes. The more logically I approach this situation, the more strategically planned pain I can make him suffer…
Mycroft paused in the middle of the Tower Bridge, placed a handkerchief over the unsanitary metal safety railing, and then took a rest against it. He had been retracing the route Moriarty's petty game had sent Sherlock on in the vague hopes of finding any clues on the criminal's current location, but he had forgotten how much legwork his brother's hobby entailed. While not out of shape, Mycroft simply preferred the air conditioning and soft leather chairs of his office to the moist wind of the night.
Murmurs from the other side of the bridge floated over to him as he caught his breath. "…time to end it all… must find the Silence…" Looking over his shoulder, Mycroft saw a man, who could barely be in his thirties, clutching the side of the railing in a death grip, peering into the river below.
Oh, no; Mycroft did not spend his afternoon running around London only to witness someone take their own life. It was the coward's way out of problems and every suicide he read about in the papers left a bad taste in his mouth. Bringing his cell out again, Mycroft quickly summoned his driver and prepared to phone the nearest hospital, St Bartholomew's, and inform them of a potential patient that would need to be put under suicide-watch when another fragmented sentence made its way to his ears.
"It would have been nice to run into Sherlock Holmes and the other John again... the blue switch giveth, and the blue switch taketh away…" The stranger knew Sherlock? But Mycroft had been careful to monitor his brother's interactions; for his own sake, of course. How had this man slipped past his notice?
Adjusting his tie, Mycroft made his way over to the man and took up a sentinel stance beside him. "Good evening. How are you today?"
The man turned his head and blinked at him. He then looked behind himself at the deserted sidewalk, checked to make sure Mycroft wasn't speaking into a Bluetooth, and even glanced over the bridge to see if there was anyone loitering about over the water. Finally, he turned back to face Mycroft.
"I'm… old and tried and bereaved. It is a lovely night, though, so I suppose there isn't too much to complain about." The man looked back at the river, believing the conversation to be over.
"Lovely," Mycroft commented after a pause. Yes, this defiantly needed to be investigated further. "Might I have your name, perhaps? Mine is Mycroft Holmes."
Slowly turning his head, the man stared at him blankly before remembering that there had been a conversation he'd been participating in. "My name… I can't even remember the last time someone asked me that. I used to think it was so hilarious. Or maybe I still do; I've forgotten. Call me the Doctor, or nothing at all if you'd prefer." His eyes unfocused and he seemed to zone out for a bit. Mycroft was about to either try to break to silence again or give up when the man started. "Oh, what was I saying? I'm sorry, I'm a bit…"
Mentally ill? Utterly absent? An exemplary example of exactly not what I want to be dealing with right now? "Preoccupied?" Mycroft offered. "Now, if you could just come with me for a bit-"
"Come with you? Oh, no, no; you see, I have something very important I need to do. Yes, it must be done now, though I am uncertain of how to go about it…"
"Do you know Sherlock Holmes?" Mycroft interrupted quickly. Why did he get himself involved again? Other people's business was not his concern unless they made it so, and this man was obviously content by himself. Now he was too invested to leave after hearing that last phrase; it was almost disturbing how casually the man spoke of figuring out a way to kill himself.
The Doctor perked up a bit. "Sherlock? Funny, I was just thinking about him. I've run into him twice- maybe three times- so far, though I still haven't figured out why he exists yet."
Yes, there was defiantly something fundamentally off with this man. What person in full control of their faculties would call themselves only the "Doctor"? Doctor who, exactly? Did he possess any qualification, and in what field? These were questions that would need to be saved for later.
"Well, how would you like to make that three or four times? He lives not too far from here; I'm sure he would love to have you over." He was an associate of Sherlock's, and should therefore be his little brother's problem, not his. One trip and he could go home, mix a kettle of tea, relax beside the fireplace and put this little meeting behind him.
"That sounds nice," the Doctor replied, not moving from his spot as his vacant- no, not vacant as there was definitely something in those eyes- gaze once more moved over the waters. "I wonder if other John will be there too. Maybe they still have that pretty harpoon; it could be helpful."
"Come along," Mycroft said, taking the man's elbow to lead him to his car as it pulled up, flipping open his phone. He dialed number one and waited for the static noise to cut off. The chauffer didn't even blink at the strange muttering man who came in alongside his employer, but merely started the engine and followed the familiar route to 221B Baker Street at Mycroft's signal.
Just as he was sure the call would go to voicemail, Sherlock's irked voice came across the audio.
"Yes, I'm sure you're busy Sherlock, but I'm calling about a friend of yours-…yes I am positive you're very entertained holed up in that dingy apartment of yours. You're waiting for what- oh, you refer to the one about…"
~ Present ~
The Doctor stared at the three men standing before him and the delightfully disarray room around him, a small smile stubbornly refusing to leave his face despite the sober frowns aimed towards him. It really had been too long since he had been so completely confused and he was going to savor the moment for as long as he could. This was just the type of distraction he had been needing.
"Once more," other John started slowly, keeping his gaze fixed on the Doctor's wandering eyes, "we want to help you- as much as we can, at least- but you need to tell us what's wrong. Not about how your 'sexy' is doing, not about your favorite fictitious vacationing spot, and most certainly not a detailed synopsis of all the inaccuracies in Douglas Adams's The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Can you do that?"
"I love what you've done with the place…"
"Doctor!"
"Geronimo!" The Doctor jolted violently and swung his attention from the boarded-up windows back to the lowercase "d" doctor. "No, I mean, yes, of course I can help you with… what?"
"You've never even been here before!" John took a deep breath, brought his hands up to cover his face, and stepped back to retreat in the kitchen area. "He's all yours Sherlock."
"Hush John. I'm busy," Sherlock replied. He was in the same position he had occupied earlier that day, inspecting the man sitting in John's chair. "It isn't nice to play with other people's Johns, you know."
"Hold on one bloody minute, I'm not-"
"I'm not playing with him," the Doctor countered, "I just don't understand the question. Nothing is wrong, you see, because what would be wrong in the first place never existed now because it has been Silence-ed."
"Ah."
"What do you mean 'ah' Sherlock? That makes no sense!"
"You'll have to excuse him, Doctor. I'm afraid John still isn't entirely trained for polite company."
"No offense taken. Most of my companions never really understand either, even after years of exposure."
"Polite company. In what universe am I that one inadequate for- how exactly is this polite- urgg."
"So where are your companions now? They seemed relatively well-groomed for mundane pleasantries since they got along with Sally-"
"It was Sarah and you know it, Sherlock!"
"- and John so well. That can be useful."
"Actually, they are the reason that- wait." The Doctor leaned forward as far as he could, his eyes widening in desperate hope. "Did you say 'they'?"
Sherlock hitched an eyebrow up. "Well, yes, there were two of them in attendance with you at the so-called 'circus', and the correct plural object pronoun would be-"
"Two of them? As in a red-haired female and a gangly male?" At the affirmative nod, the Doctor fell silent for a short time. Sherlock and John… they remember Rory? How? "I need a bit to process, if you'd be so patient."
"Take your time," Sherlock shrugged. He lifted the saucer in front of him and took a sip of tea. The Doctor stared at the beverage being thoroughly enjoyed before him and then looked down longingly at his own cup.
"Do you think maybe you could let me go for a moment? Just for a sip of tea? Platinum please?"
"You only just got your muzzle removed; do you want it back on?"
"Hmm." The Doctor peered down at his arms and legs where they were bound to the limbs of the chair he was in. The tape-gag had been a downer since the moment Microsoft had enthusiastically put it on, and it would only make talking and drinking and thinking harder. "Never mind. I'm content with your hospitality."
"Can I please leave now? I've work to do."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother and shook his head. "You're the one who brought a suicidal mental patient who knows me- and shouldn't that have been a glaring sign for you right away?- to my home Mycroft, so you are going to stand there and hold that paper over the smiley face until the rubber cement dries since the tape was so woefully insufficient."
"It did dry! Between my hand and the wall; that's the problem! Get over here and help me free!"
"No."
The Doctor blinked slowly at Sherlock. "Suicidal?"
~ Thirty Minutes earlier ~
Sherlock had been waiting impatiently for twenty minutes on the steps of 221B Baker Street with a foot rhythmically tapping and a roll of duct tape in hand (the other was empty because John had taken the opportunity to "hold onto for safekeeping" Sherlock's favorite "8 and up cases" Taser on his way inside after abandoning his post at the detective's side on the icy steps) by the time Mycroft's driver pulled up to the curb in front of him. However, before the man could get out of the car to open his employer's door, Mycroft threw open his own door and marched up to his brother.
"This man simply has to be your friend, or yourself in a past life, because he is just as insufferable as you. He kept claiming 'it was a nice day, except that it isn't'. And his bloody blue switch monologue… Excellent, I see you have a binding agent. This will work perfectly." Mycroft plucked the duct tape from Sherlock's hands and ascended the front stairs into the building.
A tall, suited man Sherlock couldn't successfully delete from his mental files at this point if he tried (which he had, during several occasions) poked his head from the open sunroof.
"Where did the man who knows Sherlock go? Oh, hi Sherlock. How are you this evening!"
Sherlock eyed the Doctor as he climbed up out of the car and slid down to the ground from the top of the car before turning to close the door Mycroft had exited out of. He then glanced back at the door to his apartment and recalled the image of his frazzled brother rushing unsteadily up the steps with every intention of physically restraining someone who had personally exasperated him over his boiling point with a roll of duct tape. It was… breathtaking.
Turning back to the Doctor, Sherlock nodded his head and beckoned the man forward. "I'm doing just fine, my very close, good friend, though I heard you have been having an off day. Come, the man has gone this way. We will meet up with him. Are you free now?"
The Doctor nodded, grinning at the warm welcome. "Why yes I am. In fact, I was just in the middle of a thrilling tale I was recounting to Microsoft about some sad, but still blue, thing when we stopped here that I'm looking forward to continuing."
"Oh no, I don't think you will be speaking for a while- Mycroft is in the middle of a tantrum now, totally unrelated to you, I'm sure- and John is going to try and have an emotional connecting session with you about why life is worth living and the temporary nature of human problems versus a permanent solution. All in all, you may be, well, tied up here for some time."
Humming quietly, the Doctor let Sherlock lead him up the steps towards the flat without resistance. "Honestly, that sound like just about what I need right now."
~ Present ~
"Oh, so that's why I was brought here," the Doctor pondered, sipping his cup of tea in silent triumph. He had bargained his sentence down to one bound arm and leg; his free hand nursed his drink and his free leg was crossed over the other in a position as close to his normal "business" sitting pose as possible in his current condition. "You thought I was a danger to myself and decided to bring me to a place with familiar people and restrain me. How solicitous."
John eyed the Doctor dubiously. "In what regard is that considerate; both Holmes have probably expunged that word from their vocabulary. More like self-serving..."
"Yes, well, is it safe to assume that this scenario is not the case?" Mycroft gritted out from across the room. "If so, let us wrap up this tedious matter presently and all be on our own way."
"Oh, shut up Mycroft."
"Actually Sherlock, I believe I am better now. Cured of all negativity by the shinning rays of your bright personalities. And I really must be off now; I have a companion to track down and liven up. So many options, so much time." The Doctor used his teeth to take hold of his cup by the handle and reached into his pocket, pulling out a slingshot, a Hello Kitty-tipped pen, and the ball of a whistle before reaching his sonic screwdriver. With a flourish, the Doctor freed his restricted limbs, stood up, finished his tea in one gulp, and made for the exit.
"What in the bloody hell..." John trailed off, scrunching his eyebrows at the device in the Doctor's hands.
"Oh yes; this?" The Doctor paused in the doorway and held up his second favorite lifelong companion, grinning. "That was a brand new feature. Like it? I like it." With his final parting line delivered, the Doctor left.
Sherlock watched as the man left and didn't divert his attention from the empty hall for some time after. "A disappearing blue box…a tendency to show up at places during the most convenient times … a technologically advanced device… How interesting."
"He never did tell me anything about himself. Am I losing my physician touch?"
"Somebody get me the damned adhesive remover!"
Mrs. Hudson poked her head in from the hallway. "I just got back from the store, dears. My, what is with all the yelling; are we having another domestic?"
The Doctor strolled through the London streets, the heavy feeling of conviction weighing him down to the pavement and grounding him to his beloved city. Other people remembered Rory, humans who weren't time travelers and should have forgotten about him as Amy had. It wasn't much, but it gave him hope. If he could find a memory of Rory, then maybe there was a chance of finding the man himself.
"Either way," the Doctor mused, throwing his hands in the air and tipping his head back. "Look at all of these stars! So many places to go, and a girl who has waited long enough due to my moping. Maybe something low key this time: maybe an art museum? Why not?"