Fear...
Fear is a cold, seeping anger, a tendril that reaches around your heart and chokes it, its ice reaching to the core of your very being and setting your brain in an uncontrollable
That was not something Sherlock Holmes was used to feeling.
In fact, he tried not to feel anything at all, for the most part. Eventually, it had become habit, something as natural as sleeping, eating, breathing, although breathing was boring and the rest merely necessary for his transport.
Sometimes it became harder to not feel. John was one factor in a tangled equation. In fact, Sherlock believed he was the primary. Around him, a single smile sent warmth through Sherlock's body, a warmth he previously believed unnecesary and achievable from various other, easier methods. But now, standing upon the edge of the rooftop, looking down a dizzyingly long way to the face of John Watson, his blogger, his colleague, his friend, it was too much. So much warmth.
And pain. Pain at having to leave him, from glancing constantly out of the corner of his eye to the stone behind him, only it wasn't stone, oh no, only when he was looking, John had to keep looking-
'Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?'
And the body of his greatest enemy lying on the pavement behind him, blood slowly trickling down from the exit wound on the crown of his scalp…
Sherlock took a last look.
"Goodbye, John." And he snapped the phone shut on the protests issued from John's end of the line.
He jumped off the roof. He fell, his legs still registering the loss of solid ground from beneath his feet, going down spread eagled as he tried to maximise the amount of time before he hit the pavement.
He'd planned this, oh so carefully, made sure the second he got close to the ground his body disappeared behind the truck and John couldn't look anymore-
The last thing he registered was a stone hand gripping the back of his coat and a rush of air from beating wings.
John's breath caught in his throat. He didn't even have enough air to scream. He was frozen for no more than a second, and then he took off. Sherlock, please, Sherlock. He couldn't be dead. It was all a trick. He'd kept his eyes trained on Sherlock, like he'd asked. None of this could be possible.
Thoughts raced almost as fast as his heart as he dashed across the road, until a weight suddenly rammed into his side. He stumbled, and fell, his head hitting the ground. He blacked out, for how long he didn't know.
When he came to, his panic returned and he scrambled up off the cold ground, disoriented and groggy- a cyclist had run into him.
"Sherlock...!" He called, his words slurred as he finally reached the pavement.
He had prepared for the worst when he watched him fall. Bloody, a smashed head, Sherlock's dark curls stained and matted with blood. He'd prepared to yell and shout and scream Sherlock's name, begging him to come back. But he didn't need it.
Because Sherlock Holmes wasn't there.
There was no blood, to body, no...anything. Just the plain grey pavement lying on the ground, providing no answers. His gaze stayed on the pavement, then looked up at the roof ledge. He was gone. They were gone. The angels had left with him.
He licked his lips, shifting on the dark concrete and he looked right then left, then right again.
As he did, he saw people almost clumped around, confused looks on their faces. They all looked to be homeless...
His voice returned.
"Sherlock?"
One man turned with a shocked look on his face.
"It wasn't.. That's not how it's 'sposed to go.." He kept muttering. The others were silent and still, but not for long. A few began to disperse while the rest began looking, calling, murmuring amongst themselves.
John didn't know what to do. He turned around in a daze, and caught sight of Lestrade and Sally Donovan making their way towards him. Lestrade looked worried.
He vaguely registered the ambulance sirens blaring behind him and instead opted to run around the corner of the block. he stopped immediately to catch his breath, hands on his knees. His leg was shaking.
God damnit Sherlock. A strange humming snapped him out of his thoughts. He looked up and almost fell over in shock.
A man stood directly in front of him, twirling a torch-sized device in his hand. It was glowing blue on one end, a round bulb, and upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a… Screwdriver?
The man was tall, with sandy brown hair, brushed off to side, almost as he meant it to be messy. His suit was a darkish tan tone over a dark blue shirt, a trenchcoat draped over his slim shoulders.
And he was smiling.
What the hell…?
John pushed himself up, eyeing past the man for an escape route. He really wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone right now. That's when he noticed the blue police box behind the man that John swore wasn't there before.
"It's about time. In fact, you're right on time. Looking for someone?" The man asked, pocketing the screwdriver-device.
John swallowed, trying to coat his throat before he spoke. "Sherlock...Sherlock Holmes." He managed to say.
"Oh, that fellow? Well, come on then." He beamed, waving his hand towards himself as he motioned for John to follow.
John took a step forward,"What are you talking about? Who the hell are you?"
The man spun back around to face him, his smile seemingly brighter, almost mischievous, like he adored the question.
"Me? I'm the Doctor. And you're going to love this." He said in a sing-song tone.
John's lips parted to huff out a frustrated breath, "Love what?"
He turned on his heel again, pointing towards the blue police box, walking towards it again.
"This. It's bigger on the inside." He called over his shoulder.
John followed him, having little to no other choice,"It's just a bloody Police box, what do you mean it's bigger on the inside?"
"I mean," the man opened the door with a flourish. "What I said."
John cautiously stepped up to the door, then hesitated. Was he really going to follow a total stranger who was quite likely insane? Then he smiled wryly to himself. It wasn't like he hadn't once already.
Once inside, John gasped. The room was warmer than he expected, and a soft glow emanated from the large mechanism within.
Turbines were visible inside the large glass tube that-there was no other word for it- felt alive. The entire room offered the soft sense that something, maybe everything, was alive.
The room was huge, with high sweeping arches that looked like slightly rusted metal and nearer the sides of the room, large tubes- John compared them to metallic trees- came up from the floor to the ceiling.
"What…" Was all that John managed to stammer out.
The man, well, 'The Doctor', sighed as he looked around.
"She's a beauty, isn't she?" He hummed, flashing John a smile.
Before John could reply, he went on. He momentarily compared this man to Sherlock, because it was just like him to interrupt.
"Alright, well, if we're going to find your friend, we had better get going, yeah?"
"How?" John's lips felt numb. He went into a stance. "Where is he? How did-"
The man waited patiently until John stopped stuttering and looked around, resting his hands on a control panel.
"Well, to answer your first question, we've got a time machine, that's a good place to start. Did i mention that, that this is a time machine? She can travel through all of space and any point in time. For where he is, the better question is when, and that's where we're stuck. I can't know where the angels have taken him but I have an inkling. You, John Watson, are here for the ride." He fixed John with those blue eyes, intelligent and hiding something much deeper behind them. His mind once again flashed to Sherlock.
"Why me?" John asked. A time machine! In London, in the guise of a police box. He had no idea how he did it. This was ridiculous.
A shadow crossed over the Doctor's face and he leaned forward.
"Now, I know what you're thinking. You're dreaming, you're going to wake up in your bed and none of this will have ever happened." There was a sparkle returning to his eyes now. "But I can assure you, John, that is not true. Your friend Sherlock Holmes is out there stranded in another time, taken there by the most dangerous creatures I know. The question is, will you come with me? A man in a suit and a blue box? Seems crazy, doesn't it? Maybe a bit exciting, dangerous?
You've done something a third as dangerous already. Well, OK, maybe a quarter. Well- But that's not the point. Dr. John Watson, do you trust me?"
John opened his mouth to reply, shut it, and licked his lips. Did he? Did he really trust him? Well, honestly, maybe all of this was a bit impressive, but what could he do? Sherlock was in trouble...he had no choice.
He nodded sharply,"Yes. Yes, I trust you." He said, determined to get his friend back.
Just like that, the Doctor smiled, pleased with the answer.
"Alright then! Allons-y!" He chirped, turning to the board.
"Where-...When are we going?" John asked.
"Sherlock's most interesting turn in life, one of the most importance to him. Did he ever tell you any stories?" The Doctor asked.
John's hands tightened then relaxed into fists as he thought. He slowly shook his head.
"No, not really...I only met him less than a year ago." He replied, cautiously walking up to the panel.
Doctor let out an immature groan of disapproval and threw his hands up, stalking away from the panel,"That's a lot of help."
John scowled defensively,"What do you want me to do about it? He's stubborn and shut up in his head!"
"Not one story? Well, I suppose we're on trial and bloody error unless your meetup was that significant-" The doctor stopped, his tantrum slipping from his composure.
He spun on his heel, now walking to John,"When did you two meet? I need the month, the day, the hour- the second would be fantastic, but I won't push it that far." He demanded, looking down at him with inquiring eyes.
John backed up a bit from him. "I don't…January 29th, I think? It was the afternoon, I can't remember!"
"That's good, good enough." He huffed, and was off again, hurrying back to the panels and pushing buttons and pulling levers.
Totally and utterly confused, John just stood and watched, hoping to learn something. Something in his head clicked and he suddenly blurted, "3. It was 3'o clock."
The doctor cast him another pleased smile and moved about on the panel a bit more. Finally, he pulled down on a lever, and the turbines began to move, up and down, growing a bit faster each time. John froze, looking around. If any doubts had been left in his head, they had disappeared when it began to move.
The humming began again, and it was soft, then grew louder, then cut off a second. John went to speak when it started up again, soft then getting a bit louder as he had the faint sense that they had landed on something. The Doctor was already heading to the door just as the humming stopped, for good this time. He pushed open the doors and John expected to see the dingy alleyway again, people walking around. But this time, he saw the park Mike and himself had sat at to chat. It was now near empty, but he was still in awe as he followed the doctor out.
"Come on, then. Where to?" The Doctor urged, spinning as he stepped out to smile and tilt his head slightly at John.
"Erm, Bart's." John answered.
"Lovely." He beamed, turning again as they began to walk.
"Wait, we're walking all the way?" John asked, stepping quickly to keep up with him.
"Yes, why not? I'm sure you can handle it, Johnny." He grinned.
"Don't call me that." John scoffed.
"Spoilsport." The Doctor mumbled, so low John barely heard it.
"Excuse me?" He huffed.
The Doctor shook his head stiffly, pursing his lips,"Oh, nothing. Hurry it up, John!"
John ducked his head in annoyed and jogged after him, puffing. At least this wasn't harder than dealing with Sherlock.
His heart twisted and his throat clenched against any emotion at the thought of Sherlock again and he quickened his pace, quickening his pace to keep up with the taller man's long strides.
John and the Doctor strolled into Bart's like they owned the place. Or rather, the Doctor walked in, the doors bursting open for him while his tan overcoat billowed out impressively behind him and John was forced to remember Sherlock once again. John had to shuffle in behind him, having been forewarned that no one from this time must see him, for consequences unknown to him. Apparently it could rip a hole in the space-time continuum if he was spotted by someone who had just seen him two minutes ago.
Once through the doors of the room just before Sherlock's, John straightened up and the Doctor twirled around, a grin already lighting up his face.
"All right, well, lovely little place isn't it?" he began, rubbing his hands together. "If you don't mind, could you tell me exactly when this little meeting ends?"
"Only in a minute or so, since you had us walk instead of take a cab." John scowled, looking up from his watch.
"Dangerous, that, when you might've accidentally hailed a cab who'd just been driving you." the Doctor said breezily.
"I didn't take a- Oh, never mind." John sighed irritably. "Where's Sherlock?"
"Well, I don't know, where did he go afterwards? Were you with him?"
"He went to Baker Street." John decided to waste less time talking and looked down the hall. Sherlock would've come up the stairs, and-
He cut off his own thoughts as a familiar overcoat and dark, curly head of hair met his eyes, sitting a little ways down the hall.
Without much thought, he tugged on the Doctor's sleeve for a moment, catching his attention away from the rest of the hall.
"That's him. That's Sherlock." He breathed, overwhelmingly happy to see his friend again.
The Doctor grinned. "Perfect!"
He turned to look at John, catching the man's shoulder and turning him the other way, "Walk that way. Now, John!"
John shook off his shoulder. "What? No! I want to see him." He argued.
"It may not be the Sherlock you know. Well, technically, you do know him, just not as well yet." He huffed.
At the confused look he received from John, he rolled his eyes and continued, pushing him the opposite direction. "It might be the past Sherlock, not the present Sherlock."
John resisted a moment before he sighed and jerked forward to remove the Doctor's hands from him.
"Alright, alright, I'm going." He snapped, doing as he was told and walking down the hall.
The Doctor smiled before spinning on his heel, walking down towards Sherlock. He tapped the man's shoulder from behind before plopping himself down beside him on the next seat over. The dark-haired man had his hands clasped in his lap and gave the Doctor a cursory glance before ignoring him.
"You weren't with him." Sherlock finally said.
The Doctor looked at him, but stayed silent.
"John. Obviously. You weren't with him, so who are you and what are you doing here? I've never seen you before, you're obviously not a patient, and I know every doctor here even if I delete the ones who aren't important. But you're not new, you're not working here, and you know John, yet I've never heard of you. Who are you?"
"Well, that seems to be quite an assumption to make, you've only just met him, haven't you?" The Doctor said in a breezy tone.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "They're not assumptions, they're deductions, and you've only just met him as well, I can tell by the way you act. Yet you've known him from elsewhere, introduced by a friend who spoke of him often, perhaps, but John just came back from Afghanistan, he can't have been talking to friends." The man was muttering mostly to himself now, eyes darting every which way.
"Wow, you're quite the chatty fellow, aren't you?" The Doctor smiled, resting one arm on the back of the seat, shifting to cross his legs and turn his torso towards
him.
Sherlock glared at him.
"Shut up. So, you've only just met him, yet he was just talking to me and it's obvious Mike Stamford was the only other person he's been in contact with besides his therapist recently, it couldn't have been a planned meetup," he scoffed, "And it should be quite obvious that I'm not in the mood for talking to people right now, though it is admittedly rare that I am, and you have no clear reason to approach me. So I'll ask again; Who. Are. You?"
The Doctor tilted his head slightly, the smile still bright on his face, "I'm the Doctor."
Sherlock was silent, either waiting for an explanation or trying to deduce more about the man.
The Doctor sighed as he looked around. "This is rather lovely, hm? The building seems so new and still has those little old details. Like the Gargoyles. They do have those, right? I swore I saw some."
The Doctor turned his gaze back to Sherlock.
Sherlock moved, just a little. His eyes widened slightly and his shoulders twitched, as if to throw himself into the Doctor. He turned his face very slowly until his stare was locked onto the Doctor, searching every aspect of his face. He was interested now, actively making deductions.
"The gargoyles... Weren't there." He drawled, but some other emotion tinged his voice. He leaned forward.
The Doctor's smile faded slightly, but it was still there as he looked back at him,"You sure? They looked quite lovely. I think they were angels." He hummed, his gaze still pleasant, his smile taking the edge off his tone.
Sherlock stood, shoulders drawn up until he loomed over the man.
"Where is he?"
The Doctor stood after him, only just shorter than Sherlock.
"Come along, Sherlock." He said simply, turning on his heel. He didn't make a scene, just calmly walked down the hall towards where John had gone until they reached a turn. The Doctor paused, seeing John leaning up against the wall, patiently waiting for him. John looked up and his eyes widened, pushing off the wall, careful to keep his face hidden slightly.
"Is he..?" He said slowly. Sherlock stepped forward in answer.
"Oh, thank God." John breathed, and then he rushed forward until the two of them were caught in a tangle. It was warm, and so...Sherlock, and it was exactly what John needed after worrying so long. He finally had Sherlock back. He had his Sherlock back.
His nose was buried in Sherlock's thick coat, the slightly rough fabric concealing him for a moment.
Sherlock let out a soft grunt at the sudden movement but didn't protest or move away. "I told you-"
"Shut up, Sherlock."
"John-"
"Just be bloody quiet for a minute all right?"
They stayed like that for a moment but John could sense Sherlock was slowly becoming uncomfortable and moved away. He spared a glance at the Doctor.
The Doctor looked at Sherlock, then John questioningly.
"So, you two are-" He began, pointing a finger at the two of them
John's eyes widened and he stepped back, starting to protest like usual to this statement, and at the same time Sherlock said sharply, "There's no time for that, it doesn't matter…"
He stopped and looked at John again, whose expression was questioning. Suddenly John's gaze sharpened.
"What in the hell were you doing? Letting me think you were dead? Jumping off a bloody roof after telling me everything you lived for was fake?"
Sherlock's mouth opened, and for a rare moment, the man looked speechless.
"I… Needed you to believe that so I could take down Moriarty. If the cost was my reputation-" Sherlock began to explain.
"I'm your friend! I would have helped!" John barked.
"That's not what you said earlier." Sherlock said quietly, looking at him.
John couldn't speak. He brought up his hands for a moment, then dropped them, turning away.
"Did you really think I meant that?" He asked, not looking at Sherlock or the Doctor. "I was upset, OK? Sherlock, Christ, did you really believe that?" He finally turned back. "I'm your friend, Sherlock Holmes. I don't care how many times you push my last nerve, or how many times I tell you to shut up, or how many times we fight, I am your friend. Don't bloody forget that."
Sherlock was silent for a long minute. Then, he finally nodded. "John… I'll explain what happened up on the roof."
The Doctor intervened, looking as cheerful as ever but with a warning in his tone.
"Well, we can discuss that back at the TARDIS, yeah? This isn't the best place if we don't want to be seen."
John looked at Sherlock, and nodded. He was still angry.
"We'd better get an explanation. And from you, Doctor." he added, swinging to face him. "I'm grateful, really am, but I'd like to know what your deal is."
The Doctor merely smiled a small, secret smile and walked off, whistling, his hands in his coat pockets.
Sherlock strode off as well, John sticking close to his side.