The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord

By Soledad

Episode 01: Ginger, At Last! (But Still Rude)

Disclaimer: Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

Author's note: Mike's background is my doing. Obviously. Brownie points to those who've guessed his Whoniverse connection.

Chapter 10 – A Favour For Mr. Holmes

Mike Stamford was content with his life; well, most of the time.

Teaching at St. Bart's, where he, too, had absolved his medical training, was satisfying, as a whole. Oh, he liked to joke about hating his students, but that wasn't exactly true. Yes, they did drive him to the verge of madness more often than not; but they were young, bright and mostly eager, so the truth was, he like them well enough. He was just careful not to show it. That would have undermined his authority, and authority was already a precarious thing with today's youth.

Aside from the professional satisfaction, the job also paid well. He had a comfortable life, a lot of friends and occasionally even got to work with the girl he had a crush on – a sweet little thing in the morgue who, sadly, didn't return his feelings, but some things simply couldn't be helped.

He'd been lucky so far, and he knew it. Therefore he reacted with a sense of impending doom when on an otherwise bright and sunny day – and wasn't that a rare pleasure in London? – the sleek black limousine stopped in front of the hospital. The door on the driver's side opened and out got a young man in a sharp suit, displaying the unreadable smile of a sphinx. A young man named Jones, the PA of Mr. Holmes.

Or one of his PAs. The man with a somewhat nebulous job within the British government had several of those, each with a different task specially assigned to him or her, one stranger than the other. Mike could never figure out what they were actually doing for Mr. Holmes, and frankly, he didn't even want to know.

Not that he'd dislike Jones; that would have been near impossible. Jones was eminently likeable with his impeccable manners, smart suits and quiet snark. He was relatively new, to Mike's knowledge, yet he could make the impression as if he'd always been part of Mr. Holmes' staff and seemed to know everything due to his photographic memory.

Plus he brewed the best coffee on the planet, and like every doctor, Mike appreciated that very much.

So there was nothing wrong with Jones as a person. But his appearance – granted, a fairly rare occasion – usually meant that Mr. Holmes wanted something. And considering that Mike owed his career a scholarship founded by the Holmeses and his current job to the patronage of Mr. Holmes himself, saying no to whatever Mr. Holmes might want wasn't really an option.

Especially in the light of the fact that Mr. Holmes was the British government, more or less.

Not that the man would ask for impossible or even illegal things. Usually, he wanted information that he'd get in other ways, too; it was just faster to get them through Mike. Sometimes he asked for Mike's professional opinion as a doctor – mostly related to his younger brother's drug addiction, a shameful but not too well-kept secret of the family. And sometimes, which was downright frightening, he just seemed to want to chat.

At such times Mike almost hated him. One didn't just chat with the British government. Not without being scared shitless, at least, and Mike hated being scared. He was a simply, friendly guy who wanted a quiet life. Having tea – well, coffee since the arrival of the impeccable Mr. Jones – with the British government wasn't his idea of a quiet life.

For a brief, futile moment he considered running and hiding, but the realistic half of his mind had already calculated the chance of that; which was somewhere between zero and nothing. So he sighed in defeat and waited patiently for Mr. Holmes' PA/ninja butler/coffee god/whatever to catch up with him. He even plastered a fake smile across his face; after all, Jones was a pleasant-mannered guy, too.

"Mr. Jones," he said as they shook hands. "It's an unexpected pleasure."

Jones' smile broadened at that, actually reaching his eyes – another rare phenomenon.

"With emphasis on the unexpected, I'm sure," he replied, his lilting voice full of understanding.

Which was another reason why Mike liked him. He was so much more personable than that intimidating woman… Althea, Andrea, Athena, or whatever her name was. As pretty as she might be, she was definitely creepy, glued to that Blackberry device all the time.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your daily routine, Dr. Stamford," Jones continued, "but Mr. Holmes would like to speak with you. In private."

Mike gave the limousine a meaningful look. "Yeah, I've figured that much. The sings are hard to ignore."

Jones shrugged apologetically. "Well, he does have a hang for the dramatic," he admitted, "but he's also a very busy man. And since his family practically owns St. Bart's… he shrugged again and opened the door for Mike. "Please get in, Dr. Stamford."

He then walked around the limousine to take the driver's seat again; a clear sign that whatever Mr. Holmes wanted was confidential. Otherwise he'd have brought his usual driver.

The powerful man himself was elegantly sprawled on the back seat, wearing a Gieves and Hawkes tailored three piece suit in charcoal grey, which matched the upholstery of the limousine seamlessly, the inevitable umbrella placed firmly between his knees. He looked supremely elegant and just a touch sinister.

His entire appearance made Mike feel hopelessly plebeian and vaguely inadequate. He hated the feeling. For his standing, he counted as moderately well clad, but, of course, he could never compare himself with a Holmes. Or with the personal staff of a Holmes, for that matter.

Mr. Holmes greeted him with an aristocratic nod. "Dr. Stamford, how good of you to join us."

As if I had a choice, Mike thought morosely. He hated what he called being kidnapped in the middle of the street. The faint smile playing around the older man's lips revealed that Mr. Holmes had an inkling of what he was thinking.

"Look, Mr. Holmes," he said, perhaps a bit more forcefully than intended, but he was nervous, he couldn't help it. "Why don't we cut the niceties and go where you just tell me what do you want from me this time?"

It came out rather rude, he realised with a jolt, but Mr. Holmes didn't seem to mind.

"What I want – no, what I need from you, my dear doctor, is a favour," he replied. "A personal favour, in fact, and not a small one. I assume you do remember my little brother?"

Mike nodded. He did have vague memories of a precocious child, all knees and elbows, with a mass of ginger curls covering his head and with almost frighteningly intense, near-colourless grey eyes. He also knew that the younger Holmes had a recurring cocaine problem and had already had several therapies (all in very expensive clinics) behind him. Hadn't he been in one of those clinics for the last two years or so?

"Well, he seems to have recovered from his most recent relapse surprisingly well and has moved back to London," Mr. Holmes continued. The police have agreed to work more directly with him in the future…"

Of course they have. The police wouldn't want to get on the bad side of the government, Mike thought cynically. Besides, the younger Holmes was fabled for his brilliant deductions that had already solved the one or other mysterious crime, despite his often questionable condition.

"…and I have arranged for him to use the labs at St. Bart's for his forensic experiments," Mr. Holmes went on. Again, nothing surprising in that.

"What do you want from me then?" Mike asked. "It seems you've got everything covered."

"He doesn't work well alone," Mr. Holmes admitted with a sigh. "I need you to be his assistant if he needs one; his friend if he lets you. Otherwise, just keep an eye on him for me."

"I thought that's what surveillance systems are for," Mike said. He didn't like the idea of spying on somebody; especially not on a Holmes. They were unpredictable at best.

Mr. Holmes nodded. "And we intend to put those to good use, of course. However, he can't turn to a CCTV camera for help if he needs it. I want him to be able to turn to you, Dr. Stamford. He's not one to make friends easy, and he can be very irritating, more often than not. I need someone who'd be patient with him, no matter what."

Mike understood. He was a good-natured guy with endless patience – that he hadn't murdered any of his students yet proved that – therefore he was probably the best choice to work with the young Holmes until he got used to have people around him again.

"I'll do what I can, Mr. Holmes," he promised.

"Excellent," Mr. Holmes knocked the handle of his umbrella on the plastic shield that separated the driver from the passengers. "Ianto, I think this is where Dr. Stamford will get off," he offered Mike one of those elusive smiles. "It is your street, isn't it?"

~TBC~