The Art of Reanimation and PVA Glue

Disclaimer: I don't own either Doctor Who or Sherlock...they both belong to The Beeb and The Moff...

Disclaimer Take Two: I don't own any of the songs from the album 'A Hundred Million Suns and Stars'...They all belong to the incomparable Snow Patrol, I'm just borrowing them for a while...

Dedications: For my darling slutty little tea boy, Ianto (ConfusedinTime) as a VERY belated Christmas and 18th birthday present...My little tea boy's all grown up! =]

Rating: M...for ahem dancing...kiddies look away now...(well, look away at chapter three...)

Paring(s): Alt!Ten/Rose, Sherlock/Rose, Sherlock/Molly

A/N: So after a huge hiatus when I just didn't write anything thanks to stupid university coursework and even more stupid writer's block, I now feel comfortable enough with my work to publish the first few chapters of a Doctor Who/Sherlock crossover that I have been writing for at least six months. I have the first three chapters completed, plus a couple of the later ones but there's still a lot of work that needs to go into it, so it may take a while to be completely uploaded, although I am determined to finish this one completely!

A/N Take Two: This is set after the whole Metacrises debacle, so Rose is stuck in the Parallel Universe with Handy!Doctor and a certain high-functioning sociopath super sleuth...

A/N Take Three: Reviews feed the plot bunnies and get them off my back...They're also very much appreciated so once you've finished reading, have a go at pressing that purdy li'l button at the bottom of the page...Pretty please with an even prettier Time Lord and/or Consulting Detective on top?

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I: The Planets Bend Between Us

The winters marked the Earth,
It's floored with frozen glass.
You slip into my arms,
And you quickly correct yourself.

It's too cold to wear a dress but as he is so fond of pointing out, 'it's summer on Melissa Majoria, so who cares if it's a bit chilly here?' Personally I just think he likes to wear nothing but shorts and t-shirts all the time…or maybe he thinks that pretending that it's permanently summer will convince me to wear shorts and t-shirts all the time. It's funny, you know, I'm so damn used to dreaming about the Time Lord he used to be that it becomes so easy to forget that he's human now. A human man, with all the idiocy and sex that goes hand-in-hand with that. Sometimes I wonder if I'd have been just the same for staying with Mickey…but that's not really fair, is it?

But the dress, this damnable dress…Big society parties have never been my thing. I grew up on a council estate in a rough area of London, so it wasn't like it was immediately going to be second nature to me, but even after two years of sycophancy, I hate it. I hate the dressing up, the preening, the false compliments under chandeliers, surrounded by flashy interior design that even Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen would find too over-the-top. Of course, he's in his element, especially if he's the centre of attention, which usually happens because he makes it so. And I'm the accessory. Oh, he doesn't see it like that, I know…but I know better. I know what I am to the rabble of lions that make up this particularly affluent den. Rose Tyler; the Doctor's faithful companion, so fucking in love with him…isn't it sweet! I suppose it is. Or it would be if I was wearing the same rose-tinted spectacles as the rest of the world, but the fact is that behind closed doors, it's a very different story. In front of the photographers, I smile into his kisses and look up at him adoringly while he goes off on one about how I was his salvation and he's never loved anyone like he loves me. I spout the same stuff, of course; you've got to keep your stories straight, after all. But for me it's all lies. I don't love him like he loves me; in fact, I don't even think I like him very much. I have loved someone the way he loves me, but it's not him. It's not the pretender standing next to me. The one who slips his fingers in between mine as I pretend not to notice that they're warmer than they should be; the one who kisses me and whispers his love in my ear as I pretend not to remember that he shouldn't be able to express it in words; the one who fucks me like he thinks I've always wanted to be fucked as I pretend not to know that he was never the one I wanted. It's almost like living with a photocopy; the picture's the same but it's too rough around the edges where the ink has smudged across the paper.

But this dress…all scarlet and short and shivering. The silk feels synthetic as it slides roughly along my thighs and it all feels like a lie; the symbolism of red for love, when the truth is that my love crossed The Void and stayed there in the nothingness. It hasn't been replaced; there's just an empty, desperate need that devours me from the inside out. He picked it out for me. The dress, I mean. Wrapping his gift up in a ribbon of a suggestive smirk, presumably in the hope that I'll reciprocate. I don't. It fits like a glove but it feels like it's suffocating me. Mum just shoves a drink into my hand and tells me to smile; neither the drink nor the smile last more than thirty seconds. So now I'm at the bar, staring at the olive at the bottom of my martini glass, 'cause some society darling would just die if they served anything as common as a nice cold pint of beer. It's then that I see him; tall and skinny, with curling black hair and an expression as bored as my own. He's arguing with another man who I'm sure I've seen at one of these things before.

"Yes, thank you, Mycroft, I'm well aware that it's Mother's birthday next week, but I've got a lot on at the moment. Very busy. You must know how it is, what with all that spying on the Russians. How's that working out for you, by the way?"

I feel a warm hand in the small of my back but I don't bother to turn around. "Do you want to get out of here?" he asks, his voice low and infinitely tempting…but just not tempting enough.

"We can't. My mum would kill us." I say flatly.

"I didn't mean leaving the party completely…but your mother has excellent taste in coats…"

He winks. I shudder. "We came for the party."

"You hate these things…"

"When did you become Mr Observant?"

He steps back as if I've just slapped him, the hand on my back retreating quickly into his sleeve. "Rose…" It's the same voice; the one that whispers to me in my dreams…in my nightmares, surrounded by tiny grains of silver sand and two words written in gold, shimmering Time.

I shake my head. He isn't Him.

"We fight too much." The statement is blunt, no nicely rounded edges or beating around the proverbial bush. I almost break. Almost. Because I realise that that would be exactly how He would say it. Only it's not. I focus my attention back on the stranger across the room, a small shiver running down my spine as he moves away from me. I seem to be feeling the cold a lot more these days.