Ginger, At Last! (But Still Rude)

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: Yes, I know the idea is far-fetched. But I needed a halfways convincing idea why Thirteen/Sherlock would still be an addict. Sorry.

Chapter 11 – The Awakening

He came to with what felt like the mother of all headaches; as if the worst hangover of his life, the peak of cocaine cold turkey and extreme nicotine cravings had been rolled and bundled into one neat package. His mouth was dry, his vision blurred and he felt like throwing up – only that his stomach was empty.

He didn't really feel like filling it ever again, either.

He could hear muted voices talking somewhere far-away, like through a thick layer of voice. The cultured, accentuated, pretentious droning of his brother. The sharp, precise words spoken in a surprisingly soft female voice – his brother's sexy secretary with the brains of the size of a small planet. And the lilting Welsh tones produced by Mycroft's ninja butler, that annoying little sycophant, who – surprisingly enough – actually had the balls to stand up to Mycroft sometimes.

What were they doing here? Or, he corrected himself after stealing a look at his surroundings, what was he doing here? He was obviously back in his old room, at the Holmes estate, although last time he checked he was in London, having a row with his depressingly stupid landlord.

How did he get here?

A face swam into his field of vision: pale skin, dark eyes, thin lips pressed together, an aquiline nose wrinkled in vague disgust... his brother.

"Sherlock?" that pedantic voice almost sounded worried. "Can you hear me? Do you know who I am?"

He snorted, amused despite the blinding headache.

"Of course I know who you are, don't be ridiculous, Mycroft! I seriously doubt that there's another human being on this planet who'd be half as pompous and annoying as you are."

"Well," the lilting Welsh voice said somewhere outside his field of vision. "He seems to be all right, sir… and supremely himself."

"Yes, it appears so, doesn't it?" Mycroft answered in a pained tone. "He rarely gets drunk, but if he does he's even more belligerent and unpleasant than usual."

"I got drunk?" that would explain the headache, he supposed. Hangover was a bitch; which was the reason he avoided heavy drinking whenever he could. "Why?"

"You ran out of nicotine patches," Mycroft replied simply. "You know what you're like without them, especially since you gave up on your other… recreational activities. You ran out to get new ones, discovered an unexpected lead to one of the cold cases you've been working on for Detective Inspector Lestrade for quite some time, followed him to a pub, got drunk, got in a fight… the next thing I knew was I got a call from the police to collect you. Which Mr. Jones did for me."

Well, that explained why he would hurt in places he didn't even remember to exist. Must have been quite the fight.

"Oh, and your landlord called," Mycroft added. "He told me in no uncertain terms that he'd had enough of your disgusting experiments and you wrecking the flat whenever you got bored, not to mention the frequent drug busts. He'd packed all your stuff in cardboard boxes and placed them in front of the door, the locks of which have been changed since then. Mr. Jones kindly fetched the boxes for you less than an hour ago."

"Oh, the good old Jeeves," he sneered. "Always so helpful. Always so reliable."

"Someone has to be," the butler replied with a bland smile. "And the name is Jones, sir. Ianto Jones."

"Whatever," he waved impatiently. "Who cares? So does it mean that I haven't got a place to live now? I seriously hope you don't expect me to stay with you, Mycroft!"

"You can have the guest room in the London house – until you've found something suitable," Mycroft replied. "It's a temporary solution, or so I hope, for the sake of our mutual sanity. But I won't have any of your questionable experiments in the house. Not even temporarily."

"Terrific!" he scowled. "How am I supposed to work then? I need to prove my theories, or I won't be of any use for our highly incompetent police force; and then the criminal classes will undoubtedly take over the country within the week."

"I've made arrangements for you," Mycroft told him. "You'll be allowed to use the labs at St. Bartholomew's Hospital – as long as you don't wreck them in any way. Dr. Stamford will have your own set of keys by the day after tomorrow."

"Stamford?" he furrowed, trying to remember, but all his memory could come up was the vague image of a chubby little boy with glasses. He used to visit the estate with his mother sometimes. "You mean Mike Stamford? He's at Bart's now?"

"He's been since graduation," Mycroft sighed. "Really, brother dear, you should keep better tab on your friends."

He gave his brother a cold look. "I don't have friends."

"Yeah, one wonders why," the butler muttered.

"Oh, shut up, Jeeves, it isn't your concern!" he snapped in annoyance.

"Jones," the young Welshman corrected with an eyeroll; but he didn't seem particularly insulted. One could have snapped at a brick wall and got the same reaction.

"Don't annoy Mr. Jones, Sherlock," Mycroft warned, "unless you want to live on decaf for the next month or so."

"I don't care!" he declared angrily. "Just leave me bloody alone, all of you!" and with a huff, he turned his back on them and pulled the duvet over his still aching head.

"Yes, I think at the moment that would be the wisest course of action," he heard his brother's voice; then the retreating footsteps and the closing of the door.

Good. He didn't need any of them. He didn't need anyone, period. He was perfectly fine on his own.

"Was it really necessary, sir?" Ianto asked when they'd returned to Mycroft's study. "Making him an addict, I mean."

Mycroft sighed. "Unfortunately, yes. Even in human disguise, the brain of a Time Lord needs certain complicated chemicals to function properly. Chemicals that it can't produce without stimulants. Nicotine – and, sadly, also cocaine – are such stimulants, and while we'll try to keep him away from the latter, we'll have to allow him some indulgence in the former, to keep his brain chemically balanced."

"Martha didn't say anything about such things from the last time he was human," Ianto frowned.

"Last time he was human for a couple of months only," Mycroft explained. "These are long-term effects. They only emerge if we spend years in a human form. Most unpleasant effects, I must admit."

"I see," Ianto said after a lengthy pause. "Does this explain your smoking habit, sir?"

Mycroft gave him a sickly smile. "I always knew you were brilliant, Ianto. Yes, it does."

"Well, sir, in that case we'll have to see that there are nicotine patches available all the time," Ianto added the new item to his mental inventory list. "Coffee?" he then asked.

"Dying for," his boss replied, and life returned to its normal routine.

Or what counted as normal for the Holmes household anyway.

~TBC~