A little Wholock for you to finish off the drabbles. I'm hoping to write more for this crossover in the future, so stay tuned, I suppose :3 And I don't know, you guys, it's Eleven both times. I just really didn't want to have to work in regeneration. And he can travel through space and time, after all.
4. Blue Christmas
Sherlock Holmes, at nine years old, is sitting on the hillside, frost seeping through his trousers as he stares up at the night sky. It blazes above him, blacks and blues all swirling together and studded with stars, cascading over the countryside like a soft blanket thrown across the rough grasses who shiver beneath it.
Mostly, he hates the country - not enough to see or to do, so dreadfully, terribly boring. But out here, at night, he can feel the cold seeping into his limbs and the dark encroaching, ever closer, and he senses the danger just beyond their country house; can see it as clearly as the warm puffs of air that come just slightly faster in front of his face.
He hugs his knees to his chest, and continues to look up at the sky while his mind drifts. He wonders if he might freeze to death out here. Wonders if anyone has before. Wonders if, were he to stand up and spin in a circle, he would get lost and spend his life wandering rather than wondering.
But maybe they're one and the same, sometimes. Both just as cold. As lonely.
His eyes rake over the sky, trailing through the constellations. Orion sits in the east, studded belt blinking brightly through the clear air. Pegasus in the west - though it still didn't look like a horse at all. Ridiculous. And up... he frowns, blinks once. Right by Cassiopeia, just there - a glowing, blue thing, growing steadily larger...
He leaps to his feet, but doesn't run or panic. Watches the crazy descent of the machine. A police box, yes, he can see it now. But a flying police box... now, those weren't in Da's big history book. Not at all.
Small, dark eyebrows squash across his silver eyes as the box careens toward him, and he wonders if he ought to step out of the way. The puffs of breath in front of him are huge and fast, now, but still he doesn't move, even as the blue box moves to engulf his vision.
He feels the air of it ruffle his hair as it swoops down over head, barely missing his small frame. Suddenly, his pulse is loud in his ears, as the box touches down and rocks dizzily before coming to a stiff and silent halt.
It's not even second thought - he is rushing down to it, peering through the smoke and raising a tiny fist to knock on the door.
"Hello? Is the driver of this box still alive, or did he," he considers a moment, "or she, manage to kill himself? Or herself?" Not unlikely. With that kind of driving it was impossible to imagine how it had stayed up as long as it had, going by the wear at its sides.
He's just contemplating walking in to see for himself - he had asked first; bugger off anyone, alien or otherwise, who thought that wasn't polite enough -when the door opens, and a man stumbles out amidst a cloud of smoke, waving his hand absentmindedly in front of his face. He gives a weak cough. "Driver? Nobody drives it; she drives herself. Though wouldn't that be fun?" A big smile is turned in his direction. Sherlock stares suspiciously back.
"Then who are you? You look human, but..."
"...well, you have just flown a police box into my pasture. And since nobody actually uses police boxes anymore, I'd have to say you're from the past. Or you've been there. Maybe the future, too, since that's not a normal police box inside," he adds, peering hastily inside before the strange man can slam the doors. "And your eyes."
The man is staring at him curiously, a lop-sided smile perched awkwardly on his odd face. "What about them?"
"They're very, very... old."
"Well you are clever, aren't you, Mr...?"
"Sherlock Holmes. But just call me Sherlock."
"Alright then, Mr. Sherlock, well you are clever. Children, always so clever, yet no one listens - when really, if you lot listened to children half the time half your problems wouldn't exist all the time." The man squats down to his level, peering very closely into his face with those ancient eyes. He fidgets under such an expansive gaze. "But you are cleverer than most, aren't you?" he breathes. "Clevererer. Er. Almost as clever as me, but then, you are only human."
Sherlock's as clever as a lot of people, and more clever than most, but even he doubts he is as clever as this man. There's just something about him... "So who are you, then?" he chooses to ask instead, phrasing it carefully.
The man, who is traipsing around his box and patting it in various places, looks up from around his arm, twisting back to look at Sherlock. "I'm the Doctor."
His eyes narrow suspiciously. "But Doctor who?"
"Right, well, it seems just a typical engine misfire of the calibrate-y things. Should be right back up. I'm due in the Omegalad court in about eighteen years. Well, eighteen years ago, depending on which way you point it," he says, hands twisting in example. Despite himself, Sherlock cracks a smile. "And they owe me a very nice hat."
He starts walking around the box, then whirls to face Sherlock, and it's a miracle he doesn't trip over his own feet. "I don't think that was a typical engine misfire at all, though," he muses softly, coming over to where the boy is standing small against the overwhelming darkness of the field. "Nothing typical about anything, though that would be the point. No coincidences."
"What's not a coincidence?" Sherlock asks, annoyance tinging his tone as he struggles to keep up with the wild threads this man - the Doctor - follows. This usually isn't a problem. He can't decide whether he hates it or thinks it's... fine.
"Me meeting you." That broad grin takes to his face again, and he offers a hand to the boy, which, after a moment's deliberation, he takes gingerly in his own. It is warm against his palm, almost as warm as those ageless eyes when he looks back up into them. "And I think we'll meet again."
He's just moving to turn away, when Sherlock feels the words push past his throat. "What if I just came with you now?"
The Doctor stops, and looks to be considering it. "How old are you, Sherlock?"
"N- old enough to be going on adventures with you," he asserts brashly, stepping forwards.
"Oh, yes, definitely old enough. Old and young, just like me." The sad smile now lingers on his face. "But there's still some things left for you here on earth, I think, and that could be the biggest adventure of all. I'll be back for you, Sherlock Holmes!" he shouts, and with a gleeful wave he steps into the blue police box.
Uncertain of anything after the encounter, he can only watch as the big blue box exits with none of the bravado of its entrance, just making a curious noise as it slowly, deftly vanishes. The blackness of the sky seems darker somehow in its absence, the quiet more complete. He shivers once.
Instead of maybe getting lost or running away or any of the things that might have been in his head before the Doctor, he squares his shoulders and makes for the cottage.
He doesn't for certain believe it until the next morning - had to gather all the evidence; it was very likely to be just a dream - when he sees the grass stains on his wet and muddied trousers. But from then on, Sherlock waited for his Doctor.
"Is this gonna be the year, then?" John asks, as they lie in the field, side-by-side. John, with his feet by Sherlock's head, peers down at him.
Ever since Sherlock had told him about the Doctor, he'd believed it without question. It'd been a long time with Sherlock Holmes, but after that time you could tell when he really believed something. He'd seen the light behind his eyes when he knew the killer; had watched that brilliant brain spin out through effusive gestures and large grins when he unraveled the puzzles of London's criminal classes. And he'd seen enough to know, if trust hadn't been enough (which, of course, it always was), that this was just one of those times when Sherlock was right and that was that.
And so also ever since, they'd made the trek out to the field and waited on Christmas night. A couple of crazy, alien-hunting men, but John had a thing for madmen as it was.
Sherlock smiles at the thought, and again when John shuffles closer, wincing against the hard ground. "Perhaps," he says slowly, expression carefully schooled into nonchalance.
John huffs. "Better be. I'm getting too old for this."
Abruptly, a noise cuts through the end of John's sentence. They both sit up, and Sherlock can feel his heart in his throat. John reaches out a hand, catches it on Sherlock's chest to feel the whump whump whump under his fingers. He gives a shaky inhale, and they both turn to see a blue police box slowly coming into view, materializing as if from nothing.
John pulls a dazed Sherlock to stand, not letting go of his hand as the box becomes more and more solid, and finally, as the noise stops and it is before them in all the glory Sherlock had so often described.
A moment later, and the door is creaking open. "No, never too old, always just old enough," someone is saying, and moments later it is revealed to be none other than the Doctor. His old grin is still the same as he fixes it on Sherlock. "Hello, Sherlock."
Sherlock swallows, almost at a loss. "Hello, Doctor."
The alien's gaze darts down to where John and Sherlock's hands are desperately entwined at their sides, gliding easily over John's surprised but surprisingly calm face and returning to Sherlock. "Had that earth adventure?" he asks gently, nodding towards their fingers.
Sherlock can feel their rings slide alongside one another as John gives his clammy hand a tender squeeze. "Yes," he manages, and he cannot figure out why his voice sounds so wet.
"How about a non-earthy one, then? Some nice things, and bits, and whatchamacallitsand thingamabobs up in the big blue... big blue box, big blue sky," he asks, sounding as if he's puzzling out the meaning for himself. A winning, eager smile is tossed in their direction, and it's one they can't help to answer.
Sherlock turns to John and finds his gaze, and discovers in that blue all the adventure he could ever have asked for. But knowing there is more out there; more yet to be seen and touched and understood...
"Yes," John answers for the both of them, eyes eventually turning back to the Doctor. "Yes, we're ready. I'm John, by the way," he says, stepping forward and reaching out his other hand.
The Doctor stares at it before patting it awkwardly with both of his own. "Yes, hello, that's quite - nice, boring name," he decides on, before nearly falling over himself with glee as he beckons them into the box. "Well, come on then, we don't have all night!" He pops his head back around the frame, looks at them both. "Well, actually, we do. We actually have really quite a lot of time."
He disappears again, and, with a last, shared smile and clench of their hands, they follow him together.
...and that rounds off my Christmas drabbles! I did hope there would be more, but it seems the day has gotten away from me. However, the possibility of just converting this into a holiday series always remains. And in the event that it doesn't, well, there's always next year :) Hope you enjoyed, and I hope that if you celebrate it, you had a very Happy/Merry Christmas, and if you don't, that the holidays brought you much joy.