Magic One Shots (Sherlock BBC Fic)
AN – this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.
Warning – slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.
Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.
Time Slip 5
AN – Last one for the timeslips? Explanations ensue… also HobNobs to those who figure out when in ACD's cannon this is happening.
Geoff looked up from where he was sitting, watching John apply butterfly strips to a deep cut on his forearm. The sitting room door was rattling loudly and Sherlock came in from the kitchen where he'd been making tea of dubious quality to look at it with curiosity, followed by a glance at John, who was concentrating heavily on Geoff's arm.
The door flung itself open, yet stayed closed at the same time. The room swum before Geoff's eyes and he wondered for a moment if there was something in the poultice and salve that John had used earlier to turn his almost crippling wound into something minor that caused hallucinations. For a moment he had been sure he saw different furniture, a fire in the fireplace and gaslight burning on the walls. Two men entered – the men from the sewers all those months ago – the tall Sherlock look-alike supporting the shorter John look-alike.
"Easy, dear chap," Holmes spoke tenderly, "Almost there."
"Holmes, I'm fine. It's a scratch, honestly. Evans took me by surprise, that's all," Watson sounded tired, pained and mildly exasperated. Geoff realised that the man from their past had torn trousers and a scarf wrapped firmly around one thigh.
"He shot you," the tangle of emotions in that short sentence made even Sherlock squirm uncomfortably; "He could have killed you."
"Fetch my box, there's a good chap, and some hot water," Watson evidently decided ignoring that statement was the better part of valour and pressed Holmes hand between his for a moment. Holmes straightened and then startled, apparently recognising that they were no longer alone – that Geoff was seated in the armchair opposite with his John Watson tending a wound in his arm.
"Still clumsy, Lestrade?" Holmes asked snidely, a vague edge of hysteria in his voice. John glanced up from his crouch sharply, anger on his face.
"He saved Sherlock's life," John snapped, "Get hold of yourself man. Your Mage needs his box!"
Holmes blanched even further at the command evident in that short burst of speech and hurried past his younger?older? self in search of said box.
"Don't," Watson from the past warned, "He's… fragile. How are you, Lestrade?"
"Even in the past, you're a worrywart," Geoff grumbled to John, getting a smile from both Watson's in the room, "I'm fine, sir. John's got me just where he wants me."
He didn't mention their arrival at Baker Street, the blinding agony and the panic that he was about to lose his arm, his worry for his Pet – who was still out, hunting the thing that had attacked him – and his fear that this time, John wouldn't be able to pull off a miracle with his cures.
"Good," Watson nodded, "Thank you dear boy," he added as Holmes hurried back to his side, depositing a carved wooden chest on a table that didn't exist in the twenty first century. Geoff shook his head and lifted his arm to be bandaged as the kettle in Sherlock's kitchen whistled. The consulting pest disappeared for a moment, reappearing with two cups of tea in one hand and the still steaming kettle in the other. He put the tea next to Geoff on the floor and then poured the water into the bowl that Watson was taking out of the chest.
There was an odd shimmer to the room for a moment and then the water disappeared from the kettle and reappeared in the bowl. Sherlock gave the Watson in the chair a long look, then smiled gravely and returned to the kitchen with the now empty kettle. John huffed in amusement and finished securing Geoff's bandage.
"Drink your tea, Geoff," John advised, "We'll need to be going out again soon."
"Take care, Watson," Sherlock said from the doorway of the kitchen where he was leaning once more, his own tea in hand.
"And you," Watson replied. John nodded to Holmes, a small smile on his face and Holmes nodded in return, his hand resting on his Watson's shoulder. Geoff grinned as Watson kissed the back of said hand, loving the startled look on Holmes' face: a look that gentled to affection as they faded away.
Once more the front room of 221B Baker Street was as it should be.
"Ok, I have to know," Geoff shook his head, "How is it that the past and the present are overlapping?"
"It's John's fault," Sherlock announced, striding over to sit in the now empty chair opposite Geoff, slanting an affectionate look at the Mage sitting on the floor that was a powerful echo of the one on past-Holmes' face.
"We're… echoes of each other. Distant ancestor's maybe, or maybe it's a crack in the fabric of reality that allows other versions of us to manifest…" John shrugged, "It's not dangerous, if that's what you're worried about."
"Whenever an event occurs that is… I suppose you'd say of extreme importance… in our lives, it's echoed by a similar event in theirs. Emotions run high and the two Mages seem to form a connection of sorts, one that lets them support each other," Sherlock drew John to lean comfortably against his legs, John's head falling naturally against one knee, "We're seeing them – and they're seeing us – at the best and worst times of their lives."
"But not their Lestrade," Geoff frowned, and John reached out a foot to tap against Geoff's in an oddly comforting manner.
"My guess is that their Lestrade doesn't know about Watson being a Mage. Victorian London was a lot more repressed than ours – no matter how much Lestrade is liked, it's unlikely that Watson has included him in the Magic side of their lives."
Geoff considered that for a moment, imagining what it would be like to be held forever at arms length from the madness that was 221B Baker Street. No demons, Magic, Pets or attempts to reshape the physical world. No shenanigans at four in the morning, odd texts, encounters with outrageous criminals, fake drug busts or consulting pests invading his office to review files and 'chat'. Instead, they'd have a professional relationship, dictated by their common cases: only coming in contact with each other when there was a dead body between them. Geoff would never have to worry about defending his family from a threat they couldn't see: would never have to risk life and limb battling against things he didn't understand. He could have lost an arm tonight – or have been crippled for life, unable to work.
"Glad we're not living in that time, then," Geoff grinned at the watchful detective in the chair opposite, pressing the toe of his shoe back against John's.
End (for now…)
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