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tweedandtinsel2010-12-15 11:36 pm
oxfordtweed) wrote in tweedandtinsel2010-12-15 11:36 pm
Mislaid Memories (4/4)– Time and Space
Fandom: Sherlock; Doctor Who
Character/s: Holmes, Watson, the Doctor (12), Moriarty, River Song, Mycroft Holmes
Word Count: 2500
Rating: G
Summary: The Doctor and his companion investigate a very evil and dastardly being who calls himself Moriarty.
Notes/Warnings: Spoilers for everything, and very likely anything up to and through the fifth series of Doctor Who. To avoid any confusion, we’ll just say that this is the 12th incarnation of the Doctor (unless you’re reading this after Matt Smith has handed the sonic screwdriver over to the next guy, at which point we’ll just call it a full-blown AU).
There was a scene in that I’d written for this chapter that I must have cut out and put back in about ten times. I’m still not sure if the scene benefited or hurt the story, but depending on how I feel about this thing over the next few weeks, I may take that scene and recut it to work into a prequel/sequel to this. I haven’t decided, though, and this note is just wasting everyone’s time, so I’ll shut up and just let you read the last chapter now.
Sherlock didn’t even need to think about it. He just strode toward the door, but before he could open it, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“No,” the Doctor said sternly. “You will not do this.”
“Do what?” Sherlock asked.
“Whatever it is you think you’re doing.”
He and Sherlock locked eyes, both as determined and stubborn as the other, and twice as reckless.
“He’s going to kill you,” Sherlock said, as though this piece of information were brand new.
“Which is exactly why you’re staying here,” the Doctor hissed.
Loyal and broken. Moriarty had managed to get at least that much right. Sherlock had been his companion for twice as long as anyone else in recent history, the five-year gap during their little undercover project notwithstanding, in spite of – because – he had been the least attached to anyone or anything else and had nothing to go back for. He was exactly the sort of companion the Doctor avoided having, and everything in one that he needed. And like everyone else the Doctor seemed to cross paths with, too bloody important to be doing any of this.
“I’m going,” Sherlock said determinedly, reaching for the door.
“You’re not.”
“You still need time,” Sherlock argued. “You just opened that watch. You need to recover.”
“It’s not like a regeneration,” said the Doctor. “I’m fine. I’m going. You’re staying here.”
“You’re both being stupid boys, and running out of time,” River reminded them. “Somebody go, or I will.”
The Doctor sighed. “Sherlock, come on,” he said. “River, stay here and do something very, very clever.”
He had every faith that she would, and walked out of the TARDIS just behind Sherlock, expecting to get shot as soon as they appeared. He’d say that Moriarty wouldn’t be that boring, but he’d been surprised about these things before.
The pool was still dark, lit only by the ambiance light from the TARDIS, which cast long and heavy shadows in every direction, and making everything seem almost ghost-like.
“Why don’t we do this like gentlemen?” asked the Doctor. “Send your men away and level the playing field.”
Moriarty grinned at them. “That’s not really fair,” he said. “Not if you get to keep your little puppy.”
Sherlock grinned right back at him, terribly smug, even for him. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep him on a lead.”
“Ohhh, all right,” said Moriarty, and with an almost delighted giggle, he waved his hand in the air. “You heard him, boys. Time to go.”
After a few seconds, the sound of heavy steel doors slamming shut echoed through the pool.
“So,” Moriarty said slowly. “The Doctor. I was wondering when we’d meet again. You do make yourself so easy to find, though. And your little companion from long ago. I didn’t even notice him at first. Funny. He seemed to almost appear out of nowhere. Torchwood’s good at creating identities and hiding people, but I have my own spies, too. There never was a Dr John Watson. Funny, that you’d let him play at being a doctor. If just for a little bit.”
The Doctor and Sherlock both rolled their eyes at him, and the Doctor wondered quickly if maybe Moriarty’s idea of research for ‘blending in’ was to have watched every Bond film ever made.
“You can’t keep doing this,” Sherlock said coldly.
“Oh, I think I can,” said Moriarty with an odd little wiggle of his head. “Who’s going to stop me? You?”
The Doctor shifted his jaw slightly, trusting that whatever Sherlock was trying to do wouldn’t get them killed. “Don’t be so sure of yourself,” he said.
“I’m unstoppable!” Moriarty boasted.
“You’re a sadist,” Sherlock spat. “It’s one thing not to show remorse or empathy toward anyone, but to take delight in hurting people... You can’t be allowed to do that.”
He stood stiffly, staring Moriarty down with an intensity that could have set the man on fire if Sherlock had had any more willpower. Sherlock knew exactly what he was, and how to channel that flaw into something useful. When the Doctor had found him, cold and starving on the streets, he was just one step away from becoming something terrible. Something that very easily would have hurt people for his own gain. But objectively seeing the damage caused by monsters who did more than just hurt – monsters that hurt because they could – and the Doctor insisting that he was meant to be better than that made Sherlock realise that he was better than that. Not caring at all meant that he didn’t feel compelled to behave one way or the other toward people. Without that compulsion to do harm meant that he didn’t have to control any urges, and that made him so much better than Moriarty.
Sherlock stood still for a long moment, processing everything; letting every piece of observable and learned information settle. Something was filed away, somewhere, just out of reach and very important. A word was said, and it was important because it had everything to do with this situation.
“You’re Krian,” he said, still trying to think. That was important, but the reason it was important must have been deleted, because he couldn’t seem to access it. “Oh! I know this!”
He ruffled his own hair, trying to rattle loose the required information from wherever it had been stored, out of the way from everything else.
“Kria,” he said. “It’s a sensitivity. Completely shuts down the central nervous system. Think!”
The Doctor kept his eyes focused on Moriarty, not wanting to let the man out of his site. He clicked his tongue several times, knowing that it would annoy Sherlock.
“I’m trying to think!” Sherlock snapped at him. “Stop making that sound! Oh.”
The smugness on Moriarty’s face began to melt, replaced with something between annoyance and fear. Sherlock ignored this, turning his attention back to the Doctor.
“What do you suppose would happen if a sonic device operating at its highest frequency were amplified through an entire mobile phone network?” Sherlock asked casually.
The Doctor shrugged, managing somehow to seem even more casual. “I’m not sure. Seems like an interesting experiment to me.”
Sherlock pulled his mobile and the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver from his jacket, punched a few buttons, and held the sonic up to the phone’s receiver. The entire building shook. The entire street shook. The whole of London shook as every mobile device on the exchange erupted at once with a wailing feedback. Before Sherlock’s eardrums ruptured, the Doctor clapped his hands over Sherlock’s ears, gritting his teeth over the pain.
It hurt both of them, but not nearly as badly as it hurt Moriarty. He dropped to the ground, wailing inhumanly as the sound attacked his body. He shook and convulsed, and fought against every tensing of his muscles as he reached for a device in his jacket.
The Doctor opened his eyes just in time to see what the device was.
“No!” he shouted.
He left Sherlock, diving for Moriarty before he could activate the vortex manipulator. The aural assault too much for Sherlock to handle, he dropped the phone and the sonic screwdriver and fell to his knees just as Moriarty vanished into an artificially created event horizon.
“No!” shouted the Doctor again. He bit the back of his hand as he kicked at the spot where Moriarty had lie. “No!”
Sherlock looked up at him, pale and trembling. “What was that?” he asked cautiously, trying not to exert too much energy in talking.
“He got away!” the Doctor spat, almost red with rage.
“He didn’t go very far.” River stepped out of the TARDIS wearing her usual slightly arrogant smirk.
“Please tell me,” said the Doctor.
“The problem with vortex manipulators,” said River calmly, “is that they have to borrow signal. Open signals are easily hacked.”
The Doctor grinned widely. “Where is he?” he asked.
“He’s still in London,” River said. “I was able to quantum lock him, but before I lost him before I could set a date. He’s gone backwards, but I’m not sure how far. I didn’t see when he was going.”
Sherlock looked up at the two of them, having only a vague idea of what they were talking about. But he had a feeling that a vague idea is all he needed. Still panting lightly, he got back to his feet and started straightening his jacket as the metal door slammed shut again. The three of them all jerked their attention toward the door, expecting to see more little red dots lighting up around them.
They did not see little red dots, though. Instead, they were greeted to the Minister of Special Defence walking in like he owned the place.
“I do wish you’d warn us before you pull those little stunts, Doctor,” Mycroft said as he approached the group.
“You got here fast,” said the Doctor.
“Earthquake in London. Only one person who could have caused that.” Mycroft looked around the pool, not bothering to hide his disappointment.
“He’s still in London,” the Doctor said, answering a question that didn’t need to be asked. “We’re just working out when he is.”
Mycroft smiled a pleased little smile. “And I trust that when you locate him, you’ll be taking this one off our hands as well.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, I think I’ll be going,” Sherlock agreed.
“Good,” said Mycroft. “And do us all a favour. Don’t come back.”
He was looking at Sherlock when he said it, making it clear without saying a single word more than he needed that Sherlock Holmes would not survive his next appearance in the 21st century.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock shot back coolly.
“Good. Doctor.” Mycroft nodded at him. “I trust you can see your own way out.”
He turned to leave as the Doctor ushered Sherlock and River back into the TARDIS. The Doctor moved slowly around the centre console, stroking bits with his hands and fingers, taking time to soak in every last detail. Even if John Watson couldn’t remember what it was like to be the Doctor, the Doctor could remember everything about John Watson, including just how long it had been since he’d been in this one safe and familiar place in the Universe.
“I think I’d like to go home, now,” Sherlock declared, unapologetically breaking the Doctor from his trance.
The Doctor looked up at him and nodded lightly. “Right. I suppose you’ll be wanting to pick up a few things, then. You’ve probably gotten rather attached to some of it.”
“No,” Sherlock said simply. “Torchwood will take care of all that. I just want to go home.”
“Oh. You mean...”
Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”
“Right.”
The TARDIS landed in a small alley, wet from a recent rain.
“You haven’t missed anything,” the Doctor assured. “Same night we met. It’ll be like you never left.”
Sherlock sighed lightly. “Not that there’s anyone to notice,” he said.
Still, being back in London – the London he was born in – felt right somehow. This was where he was supposed to be, and the one place he came closest to feeling like he fit.
“Get yourself a hobby and get off the streets,” the Doctor said softly. “I mean it.”
“I plan on it,” said Sherlock distantly.
He turned suddenly, giving the Doctor a lopsided grin and after a quick nod, he was gone. As he walked to the main road, he heard the TARDIS door shut. He didn’t look back as it took off, instead only wrapping his jacket tightly around him. He’d forgotten that it was the middle of winter when he’d been caught trying to pick the Doctor’s pockets, which meant that it was still the middle of winter now.
Only seconds after that TARDIS took off, Sherlock heard it landing behind him again. He turned sharply to see the Doctor walking back out, holding something large and flimsy in his arms.
“I know you said you’d let Torchwood take care of it,” the Doctor said, handing him the large coat and scarf. “But I think you might need this more than they do.”
Realising what it was, Sherlock grinned widely as he slid into the tailored coat. “Yeah, it is a bit brisk out, isn’t it?”
Accepting that this was about as close to gratitude as was possible to get from Sherlock, the Doctor smiled and nodded.
“Right,” he said.
Like Sherlock, he avoided saying anything resembling a goodbye, and turned to retreat back into the TARDIS. This time, Sherlock did watch it take off as he wrapped the scarf snugly around his neck. As the strange and wonderful blue box disappeared, Sherlock sunk his hands into the coat’s familiar pockets, and was surprised when his fingers touched unfamiliar objects.
He pulled them out, taking a moment to look over each of them; psychic paper, and a sonic screwdriver. Neither were the Doctor’s. Sherlock recognised this at once. They were his, as they had always meant to be from the start. There was also about £20 in assorted time-appropriate coins in the bottom of one of his pockets – no doubt a step taken to make sure he did indeed get off and stay off the streets.
Sliding both objects back into his pocket, Sherlock curiously pulled out his mobile phone, and was delighted to find that somehow, miraculously, he still had Vodafone coverage. Of course, after a few seconds of thought, this was not miraculous at all. Torchwood had provided the phone to him, and it was no doubt designed to work well outside of Vodafone’s usual range.
He pulled up the map, and while it seemed rather empty without having chip shops and tube stations to highlight, it did tell him exactly where he was. Sliding the phone back into his pocket, Sherlock all but sprinted down the wet road, splashing through deep puddles in the uneven ground.
When he got to the house, he was amazed to find that it was still there. Or rather, that it was there already. Taking a quick moment to straighten himself out in an effort to not look like he had just run all the way from Glentworth, Sherlock knocked on the door. When the door opened and an older woman peered out cautiously, Sherlock smiled warmly – well rehearsed and familiar.
“Hello,” he said easily. “Is your upstairs flat available?”
It took less than two days for him to get bored again. On the first day, he rather carelessly spent a sizable amount of the money the Doctor had left him on a violin, which he had been forced to stop playing after four hours when his new landlady threatened to evict him when he didn’t stop.
On the second night, he got curious. He turned his phone on (which he had been keeping off to conserve its power for as long as possible) and closed his eyes, trying to recall mentally the phone number that had been slipped to him only a few days earlier.
Confident that he had remembered it correctly, he entered it into his phone and sent a simple text to the number. The text went through, which Sherlock had fully expected.
What surprised him was that the owner of the number responded. Reading the text, a wide grin spread across Sherlock’s face. Of course he’d been right.
Maybe he wouldn’t be so bored, after all.
Character/s: Holmes, Watson, the Doctor (12), Moriarty, River Song, Mycroft Holmes
Word Count: 2500
Rating: G
Summary: The Doctor and his companion investigate a very evil and dastardly being who calls himself Moriarty.
Notes/Warnings: Spoilers for everything, and very likely anything up to and through the fifth series of Doctor Who. To avoid any confusion, we’ll just say that this is the 12th incarnation of the Doctor (unless you’re reading this after Matt Smith has handed the sonic screwdriver over to the next guy, at which point we’ll just call it a full-blown AU).
There was a scene in that I’d written for this chapter that I must have cut out and put back in about ten times. I’m still not sure if the scene benefited or hurt the story, but depending on how I feel about this thing over the next few weeks, I may take that scene and recut it to work into a prequel/sequel to this. I haven’t decided, though, and this note is just wasting everyone’s time, so I’ll shut up and just let you read the last chapter now.
Sherlock didn’t even need to think about it. He just strode toward the door, but before he could open it, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“No,” the Doctor said sternly. “You will not do this.”
“Do what?” Sherlock asked.
“Whatever it is you think you’re doing.”
He and Sherlock locked eyes, both as determined and stubborn as the other, and twice as reckless.
“He’s going to kill you,” Sherlock said, as though this piece of information were brand new.
“Which is exactly why you’re staying here,” the Doctor hissed.
Loyal and broken. Moriarty had managed to get at least that much right. Sherlock had been his companion for twice as long as anyone else in recent history, the five-year gap during their little undercover project notwithstanding, in spite of – because – he had been the least attached to anyone or anything else and had nothing to go back for. He was exactly the sort of companion the Doctor avoided having, and everything in one that he needed. And like everyone else the Doctor seemed to cross paths with, too bloody important to be doing any of this.
“I’m going,” Sherlock said determinedly, reaching for the door.
“You’re not.”
“You still need time,” Sherlock argued. “You just opened that watch. You need to recover.”
“It’s not like a regeneration,” said the Doctor. “I’m fine. I’m going. You’re staying here.”
“You’re both being stupid boys, and running out of time,” River reminded them. “Somebody go, or I will.”
The Doctor sighed. “Sherlock, come on,” he said. “River, stay here and do something very, very clever.”
He had every faith that she would, and walked out of the TARDIS just behind Sherlock, expecting to get shot as soon as they appeared. He’d say that Moriarty wouldn’t be that boring, but he’d been surprised about these things before.
The pool was still dark, lit only by the ambiance light from the TARDIS, which cast long and heavy shadows in every direction, and making everything seem almost ghost-like.
“Why don’t we do this like gentlemen?” asked the Doctor. “Send your men away and level the playing field.”
Moriarty grinned at them. “That’s not really fair,” he said. “Not if you get to keep your little puppy.”
Sherlock grinned right back at him, terribly smug, even for him. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep him on a lead.”
“Ohhh, all right,” said Moriarty, and with an almost delighted giggle, he waved his hand in the air. “You heard him, boys. Time to go.”
After a few seconds, the sound of heavy steel doors slamming shut echoed through the pool.
“So,” Moriarty said slowly. “The Doctor. I was wondering when we’d meet again. You do make yourself so easy to find, though. And your little companion from long ago. I didn’t even notice him at first. Funny. He seemed to almost appear out of nowhere. Torchwood’s good at creating identities and hiding people, but I have my own spies, too. There never was a Dr John Watson. Funny, that you’d let him play at being a doctor. If just for a little bit.”
The Doctor and Sherlock both rolled their eyes at him, and the Doctor wondered quickly if maybe Moriarty’s idea of research for ‘blending in’ was to have watched every Bond film ever made.
“You can’t keep doing this,” Sherlock said coldly.
“Oh, I think I can,” said Moriarty with an odd little wiggle of his head. “Who’s going to stop me? You?”
The Doctor shifted his jaw slightly, trusting that whatever Sherlock was trying to do wouldn’t get them killed. “Don’t be so sure of yourself,” he said.
“I’m unstoppable!” Moriarty boasted.
“You’re a sadist,” Sherlock spat. “It’s one thing not to show remorse or empathy toward anyone, but to take delight in hurting people... You can’t be allowed to do that.”
He stood stiffly, staring Moriarty down with an intensity that could have set the man on fire if Sherlock had had any more willpower. Sherlock knew exactly what he was, and how to channel that flaw into something useful. When the Doctor had found him, cold and starving on the streets, he was just one step away from becoming something terrible. Something that very easily would have hurt people for his own gain. But objectively seeing the damage caused by monsters who did more than just hurt – monsters that hurt because they could – and the Doctor insisting that he was meant to be better than that made Sherlock realise that he was better than that. Not caring at all meant that he didn’t feel compelled to behave one way or the other toward people. Without that compulsion to do harm meant that he didn’t have to control any urges, and that made him so much better than Moriarty.
Sherlock stood still for a long moment, processing everything; letting every piece of observable and learned information settle. Something was filed away, somewhere, just out of reach and very important. A word was said, and it was important because it had everything to do with this situation.
“You’re Krian,” he said, still trying to think. That was important, but the reason it was important must have been deleted, because he couldn’t seem to access it. “Oh! I know this!”
He ruffled his own hair, trying to rattle loose the required information from wherever it had been stored, out of the way from everything else.
“Kria,” he said. “It’s a sensitivity. Completely shuts down the central nervous system. Think!”
The Doctor kept his eyes focused on Moriarty, not wanting to let the man out of his site. He clicked his tongue several times, knowing that it would annoy Sherlock.
“I’m trying to think!” Sherlock snapped at him. “Stop making that sound! Oh.”
The smugness on Moriarty’s face began to melt, replaced with something between annoyance and fear. Sherlock ignored this, turning his attention back to the Doctor.
“What do you suppose would happen if a sonic device operating at its highest frequency were amplified through an entire mobile phone network?” Sherlock asked casually.
The Doctor shrugged, managing somehow to seem even more casual. “I’m not sure. Seems like an interesting experiment to me.”
Sherlock pulled his mobile and the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver from his jacket, punched a few buttons, and held the sonic up to the phone’s receiver. The entire building shook. The entire street shook. The whole of London shook as every mobile device on the exchange erupted at once with a wailing feedback. Before Sherlock’s eardrums ruptured, the Doctor clapped his hands over Sherlock’s ears, gritting his teeth over the pain.
It hurt both of them, but not nearly as badly as it hurt Moriarty. He dropped to the ground, wailing inhumanly as the sound attacked his body. He shook and convulsed, and fought against every tensing of his muscles as he reached for a device in his jacket.
The Doctor opened his eyes just in time to see what the device was.
“No!” he shouted.
He left Sherlock, diving for Moriarty before he could activate the vortex manipulator. The aural assault too much for Sherlock to handle, he dropped the phone and the sonic screwdriver and fell to his knees just as Moriarty vanished into an artificially created event horizon.
“No!” shouted the Doctor again. He bit the back of his hand as he kicked at the spot where Moriarty had lie. “No!”
Sherlock looked up at him, pale and trembling. “What was that?” he asked cautiously, trying not to exert too much energy in talking.
“He got away!” the Doctor spat, almost red with rage.
“He didn’t go very far.” River stepped out of the TARDIS wearing her usual slightly arrogant smirk.
“Please tell me,” said the Doctor.
“The problem with vortex manipulators,” said River calmly, “is that they have to borrow signal. Open signals are easily hacked.”
The Doctor grinned widely. “Where is he?” he asked.
“He’s still in London,” River said. “I was able to quantum lock him, but before I lost him before I could set a date. He’s gone backwards, but I’m not sure how far. I didn’t see when he was going.”
Sherlock looked up at the two of them, having only a vague idea of what they were talking about. But he had a feeling that a vague idea is all he needed. Still panting lightly, he got back to his feet and started straightening his jacket as the metal door slammed shut again. The three of them all jerked their attention toward the door, expecting to see more little red dots lighting up around them.
They did not see little red dots, though. Instead, they were greeted to the Minister of Special Defence walking in like he owned the place.
“I do wish you’d warn us before you pull those little stunts, Doctor,” Mycroft said as he approached the group.
“You got here fast,” said the Doctor.
“Earthquake in London. Only one person who could have caused that.” Mycroft looked around the pool, not bothering to hide his disappointment.
“He’s still in London,” the Doctor said, answering a question that didn’t need to be asked. “We’re just working out when he is.”
Mycroft smiled a pleased little smile. “And I trust that when you locate him, you’ll be taking this one off our hands as well.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, I think I’ll be going,” Sherlock agreed.
“Good,” said Mycroft. “And do us all a favour. Don’t come back.”
He was looking at Sherlock when he said it, making it clear without saying a single word more than he needed that Sherlock Holmes would not survive his next appearance in the 21st century.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock shot back coolly.
“Good. Doctor.” Mycroft nodded at him. “I trust you can see your own way out.”
He turned to leave as the Doctor ushered Sherlock and River back into the TARDIS. The Doctor moved slowly around the centre console, stroking bits with his hands and fingers, taking time to soak in every last detail. Even if John Watson couldn’t remember what it was like to be the Doctor, the Doctor could remember everything about John Watson, including just how long it had been since he’d been in this one safe and familiar place in the Universe.
“I think I’d like to go home, now,” Sherlock declared, unapologetically breaking the Doctor from his trance.
The Doctor looked up at him and nodded lightly. “Right. I suppose you’ll be wanting to pick up a few things, then. You’ve probably gotten rather attached to some of it.”
“No,” Sherlock said simply. “Torchwood will take care of all that. I just want to go home.”
“Oh. You mean...”
Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”
“Right.”
The TARDIS landed in a small alley, wet from a recent rain.
“You haven’t missed anything,” the Doctor assured. “Same night we met. It’ll be like you never left.”
Sherlock sighed lightly. “Not that there’s anyone to notice,” he said.
Still, being back in London – the London he was born in – felt right somehow. This was where he was supposed to be, and the one place he came closest to feeling like he fit.
“Get yourself a hobby and get off the streets,” the Doctor said softly. “I mean it.”
“I plan on it,” said Sherlock distantly.
He turned suddenly, giving the Doctor a lopsided grin and after a quick nod, he was gone. As he walked to the main road, he heard the TARDIS door shut. He didn’t look back as it took off, instead only wrapping his jacket tightly around him. He’d forgotten that it was the middle of winter when he’d been caught trying to pick the Doctor’s pockets, which meant that it was still the middle of winter now.
Only seconds after that TARDIS took off, Sherlock heard it landing behind him again. He turned sharply to see the Doctor walking back out, holding something large and flimsy in his arms.
“I know you said you’d let Torchwood take care of it,” the Doctor said, handing him the large coat and scarf. “But I think you might need this more than they do.”
Realising what it was, Sherlock grinned widely as he slid into the tailored coat. “Yeah, it is a bit brisk out, isn’t it?”
Accepting that this was about as close to gratitude as was possible to get from Sherlock, the Doctor smiled and nodded.
“Right,” he said.
Like Sherlock, he avoided saying anything resembling a goodbye, and turned to retreat back into the TARDIS. This time, Sherlock did watch it take off as he wrapped the scarf snugly around his neck. As the strange and wonderful blue box disappeared, Sherlock sunk his hands into the coat’s familiar pockets, and was surprised when his fingers touched unfamiliar objects.
He pulled them out, taking a moment to look over each of them; psychic paper, and a sonic screwdriver. Neither were the Doctor’s. Sherlock recognised this at once. They were his, as they had always meant to be from the start. There was also about £20 in assorted time-appropriate coins in the bottom of one of his pockets – no doubt a step taken to make sure he did indeed get off and stay off the streets.
Sliding both objects back into his pocket, Sherlock curiously pulled out his mobile phone, and was delighted to find that somehow, miraculously, he still had Vodafone coverage. Of course, after a few seconds of thought, this was not miraculous at all. Torchwood had provided the phone to him, and it was no doubt designed to work well outside of Vodafone’s usual range.
He pulled up the map, and while it seemed rather empty without having chip shops and tube stations to highlight, it did tell him exactly where he was. Sliding the phone back into his pocket, Sherlock all but sprinted down the wet road, splashing through deep puddles in the uneven ground.
When he got to the house, he was amazed to find that it was still there. Or rather, that it was there already. Taking a quick moment to straighten himself out in an effort to not look like he had just run all the way from Glentworth, Sherlock knocked on the door. When the door opened and an older woman peered out cautiously, Sherlock smiled warmly – well rehearsed and familiar.
“Hello,” he said easily. “Is your upstairs flat available?”
It took less than two days for him to get bored again. On the first day, he rather carelessly spent a sizable amount of the money the Doctor had left him on a violin, which he had been forced to stop playing after four hours when his new landlady threatened to evict him when he didn’t stop.
On the second night, he got curious. He turned his phone on (which he had been keeping off to conserve its power for as long as possible) and closed his eyes, trying to recall mentally the phone number that had been slipped to him only a few days earlier.
Confident that he had remembered it correctly, he entered it into his phone and sent a simple text to the number. The text went through, which Sherlock had fully expected.
What surprised him was that the owner of the number responded. Reading the text, a wide grin spread across Sherlock’s face. Of course he’d been right.
Maybe he wouldn’t be so bored, after all.