Doctor Strange had seen quite a few…well, strange things during his tenure as the Master of the New York Sanctuary. But even he has to admit that a slightly catastrophic visit to the London Sanctuary takes the cake. Especially when his Cloak keeps trying to hook up with another cloak.

For clarification, this is after Strange has been at the New York Sanctuary for a bit.

When he stepped out of the London Sanctuary, Doctor Strange was not planning on getting attacked. Then again, most of the time that he'd been attacked, he hadn't been planning on it.

But the point was that he, like most regular human beings, liked food—which, after the mess that he'd just finished cleaning up, had been in short supply. And his stomach was filing complaints. Many, and to any and all departments that might care.

So stepping out onto the street into the middle of a firefight was a bit of a downer. Frankly, Strange was surprised that they hadn't stopped to wonder what that weird growling noise was. His arms lashed out and forearm shields appeared, dimensional energy lancing through his body. One of them shattered when a green light impacted it head-on, but since the light had dissipated with his shield, he disregarded it and quickly formed a new one, energy flow being directed to the now-bare arm.

The side that had sent the green light faltered when his shield blocked it—and now that he had time to think about it, what exactly were they using? Most aerial weapons (namely, bullets) had become useless against the intricate, geometric shields. These lights were not bullets, nor were they fireworks or even glowing chemicals being spat across the makeshift battlefield. As he watched them exchange the lights for a moment longer, he realized that they all did something different. Red and green lights dropped the person (sorcerer?) where they were standing, but light blue lights caused people to be cut and pink lights caused them to wobble dangerously for a moment and then fall over.


"Don't just stand there and look intimidating with your cloak and fancy glowing shields!" one of the people in the red robes yelled. "Do something!"

Do something? Okay, let's get the innocent people out of the way. Then I can figure out what the hell is going on.

He let the energy coil in his gut, before twisting it savagely and shattering it into the world, engulfing both sides of the opposition and moving them and himself to the Mirror Dimension.

They all stumbled as they landed, seemingly right where they had been.

Then they all looked at him.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm not entirely certain what you are, but I didn't want anyone innocent getting hurt. So please, go ahead. I'll just stand right here while you duke it out."

The red robe who addressed him earlier snorted, "That's not what I—we're—whatever. Don't talk anymore."


Apparently, the ones in the black robes and masks took offense, because they began targeting him. More green lights careened his way, and he dodged most of them and set shields in the way of the ones that he couldn't. He popped his neck and let one glide by his ear, before resuming his stance from before, looking completely unbothered. Strange loved doing it. It irritated everyone. He had gotten better, but he still loved being an asshole to the ones that targeted him.

A few glanced at one another.

One of them got close enough to touch, and for a moment it seemed like he would. Then the stick appeared, as if he were about to prod Strange with it. Fiery lightning sprang between his fingers in a shower of sparks, and the stick was sliced into a dozen pieces as it came down.

He smiled, and lashed out at the man's third eye. The mask cracked and the man crumpled to the ground. Something sounded like Dormamu crunching on gravel, and it took him a moment to realize that it was his stomach, trying to get attention and maybe get fed.

Dimensional energy coiled around his scarred hands, hot and orange and sparking. He could feel the Cloak lighten, as if it were preparing to either lift off of him and bash someone into unconsciousness (again) or lift him off the ground and possibly bash him into someone. Both had happened before. Multiple times. The latter, mostly because he was occupied looking at or fighting someone or something else.

"Was that supposed to be a relic?" he asked, genuinely interested. "It sucked, in case it was supposed to be a relic. Or did you steal it? A stick does not work well as a bashing tool—I used a vase-looking relic as a bashing tool. Still have no idea what it's supposed to do or how to use it."

"Oi! Concentrate on the problem, mate!"

"I personally do not see a problem," Strange said. "A bunch of easily-destroyed relics is most definitely not a problem, as well as the inept sorcerers who wield them like they're supposed to be special."

Another of the red robes choked off a laugh. A different one scoffed. "Inept? We trained for years to be this good."

"I had training for four months and had to figure the rest on my own," Strange said evenly.

The one who almost laughed grinned at him, and bright white energy curled in the man's palm. "Does this suit your fancy more, good sir?"

He studied it as well as he could from his vantage point. "Not the energy I use. What do you pull from?"

"…pull from?"

"Please don't tell me that you pull from yourselves. No, don't answer that. No wonder you're inept."

Another green light lanced its way from the dark robes, and he formed a two-handed shield in an instant. It wavered but held when the light hit.

"Look, I don't know what you're shooting at me, but it's obviously ineffective," Strange said, exasperated. "Would you stop?"

"About that, how do you do that?" the same one with the strange energy in his palm said. "And just so you know, those things that you keep blocking, they're supposed to kill you if they touch you. And they're supposed to be unblockable by anything metaphysical."

"I dislike being killed," he said dryly to the dark robes.

"No shit, Sherlock," said the one with the energy.

"No, my name is Doctor Strange."

"You most certainly are, and may I just say that you are very aptly named. How does that work for you, with the factual and the impossible?"

Strange smirked. "Not impossible. Simply very, very unlikely."

Apparently, their distraction with each other had allowed the dark robes to come up with some semblance of a plan. Three split off from their group of twelve and beelined towards him.

The Cloak lifted, billowing about him and clutching him securely as he soared over their head and landed with a quick twist to face them, the Cloak sweeping about his ankles.

A shining rod formed, infinitely harder than it looked and burning to anyone but its maker. He ducked and pivoted, under another green light and out of the way of a dark blue one, rapping the rod across the back of one's knees and sharply elbowing the same man right on the spine, precisely between the seventh cervical vertebrae and the first thoracic vertebrae. He wasn't entirely sure if he had simply popped the man's back rather painfully, or had pushed the disc out of alignment.

The following yell was really of no help.

He ducked under the man's flailing arms, resolving to come back to him later. The second and third of the dark robes lunged at him. He went low, the Cloak detaching from his shoulders and wrapping around the one on the left. The one on the right was promptly flipped over his shoulder, wrapping around his feet and letting go when he straightened. This one was at least sort of smart, tucking and rolling with the drop, though once he ran out of momentum, he laid there like a landed fish, gasping and flopping a little.

A little disappointing. His stomach filed another loud complaint. He ignored it.

He turned back to the first one, who was recovering and seeming to try to glare hatefully at him. He seemed to have forgotten he had a mask on.

Strange reached over and slammed his charged hand against the man's solar plexus and relished the bug-eyed look a split second before the man was forcefully ejected from his body and then driven back in through the natural tug between spirit and body.

Unlike his abrupt initiation, he wasn't nice enough to catch the man who tried to kill him—multiple times—before he hit the ground, wild-eyed, with no breath, no explanation, and probably thinking that he'd gone crazy.

"Did you have a good time?" he asked the winded man. "I enjoy it, personally. Makes my studies go by so much quicker."

"Are you crazy?"

He turned to the energy man. "Nope. Not as far as I know. I was a neurosurgeon, not a psychiatrist."

Green eyes studied him frankly. "So you're not crazy, I'm not crazier than I last checked, you called us sorcerers—honestly, I haven't heard that before—and you're obviously powerful but you don't register on my readings. For clarification, I am a wizard. This is a wand." He held up the stick-like, fragile relic. "Now, what is a relic?"

Strange hadn't noticed it before—he'd been more interested in the man's energy. "You've got one about your shoulders," he said, nodding to the invisible cloak that obscured part of the man's robes and arms. His own Cloak seemed to be very interested, poking and prodding the invisibility cloak draped carelessly around the man's shoulders. "The energy surrounding it is a bit more linked to the Dark Dimension than I like, but the feel is very interesting. How old is it? Do you know?"

The man suddenly swallowed—in surprise or in apprehension, Strange couldn't tell. "…as far as I know, it's an heirloom. According to family legend, it's a gift from Death. I'm guessing eight or nine hundred years old."

"Interesting," Strange murmured, watching his Cloak slowly prod the man's cloak out of hiding. "Very interesting. Cloak, don't bother the guy. If he wants to hide, that's his own prerogative."

If it were human, it would be sulking in the nonexistent corner.

"Is your cloak…pouting?"

"It does that," Strange said dismissively. "So do I, occasionally. May I?"

The man hesitated, his hand flying to his collarbone, where the cloak was attached. It seemed to go even more invisible.

"Never mind," Strange said, backing off. "My curiosity getting the better of me while I'm hungry. I know better than to piss off relics."

If it had a face, his Cloak would be glaring at him.

"Yes, I am talking about you. Possessive, overly motherly, and easily offended. Don't deny it," he said. He turned back to the man, who was glancing between him and his Cloak, and then his own cloak, as if checking to make sure that his cloak was still not personified. "I do need to know your name. And I'd like a textbook. Or perhaps a name of a bookstore that I can go to."

"Uh." The man swallowed his surprise. "Um, I'm Harry Potter. No titles that I feel warrant being called by repeatedly. Put a cork in it, Ron!"

The redhead turned away to muffle his laughter.

Potter shook his head helplessly. "As for the textbook, it would be better to go to the bookstore. There's a pub in London." He reeled off the address and explained Diagon Alley. "Look for Flourish and Blotts. That's our bookstore. You'll need to exchange money at Gringotts for galleons—it varies a lot, anywhere from seventy-five pounds to a galleon to five pounds to a galleon. Thursdays are usually best for exchanging."

"Why Thursdays?"

"I don't know," Potter admitted. "I think the goblins like screwing with us."

Goblins? First otherworldly monsters hellbent on consuming the Earth, then murderous (misunderstood, my ass) gods, and now goblins. What's next? Batman appearing out of the woodwork?

Strange blinked once, shook his head minutely, and continued on. "Thanks. I need some food now. Preferably before I get dropped into another weird firefight and think I've finally lost my mind."

Potter grinned and slapped him on the back. "Don't worry, my friend. I lost mine a long time ago."

"He was about eleven and jumped on the back of semi-murderous troll," the redhead deadpanned.

"And you were oh-so-safe as you pelted it with splinters of wood," Potter retorted, rolling his eyes. He seemed to conjure a card and passed it to Strange. "You sound American, and their Ministry is better about tech than we are. Give them a call, explain your predicament. You're a sorcerer?" he checked. Strange nodded affirmative. "It doesn't mean anything to me, so it probably won't mean anything to them, either. They might not believe you and send someone to erase your memory of the incident, but feel free to very visibly defeat them with your…energy? Magic? Spells? Am I using any of the correct words?"

"It doesn't matter," Strange said. "The concept is there."

Potter shook his head in disbelief. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation, but okay. You need to defeat them, otherwise they won't believe you when you say that you're a sorcerer. I'm one of very few wizards that can do things wandless, and I'm not anywhere near…whatever it is that you do."

"Energy manipulation is the nicest way of putting it," Strange said.

"Yes, you've said something similar before," Potter muttered. He glanced at some of his gesturing fellows. "Sorry. I have to go. The rogues are waking up again."

Strange just looked at him. "We are in the Mirror Dimension. There's no point in going anywhere."

Potter looked at him incredulously. "What—I don't even want to know. Get us out of here. I've had enough of a headache for one day."

Strange's stomach murmured in agreement as he reached for his sling ring.

the problem with having two of my favorite characters (in different fandoms, Doctor Strange and Sherlock) being starred by the same actor (and they both have a ton of smarts!) is that they tend to bleed into one another. I have tried my hardest to uproot the Sherlockian tendencies out of Strange, but I'm not entirely certain how well I did.



Edit (11-10-16)(mm/dd/yy): Corrections to dimensional terms and occasional elaborations on descriptions.