Word Count: 5627
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.
Beta'd and brit-picked by theonewiththeobsessions.

"You shimmy shook my bone, leaving me stranded, all in love on my own." – Kings of Leon

Once, somewhere in between their first kiss and their rubbish wedding, someone kidnaps her. She isn't quite sure how it happens – one minute they're chasing after a suspect and the next, someone's knocking her on the back of the head. She opens her mouth to call out to Sherlock, but everything goes all fuzzy and black before she can. She wakes up in some flat she's never seen before, tied to a chair with the suspect grinning at her in this stupidly smug way.

Turns out he's some sort of crazed 'fan' of Sherlock's. One who has followed his work for as long as he can remember. And he plans to make her his next victim – use her as some sort of message to show Sherlock that he's ready to play. And, really, she's terrified. How can she not be when she's been kidnapped by some sort of mental serial killer? She may chase them for a living, but chasing someone and actually being held hostage by them is kinda not the same thing, ya know?

Still, she refuses to let him see it. Dramatic crying isn't really her thing and she has absolutely no intention of starting now. So Amy just puts up her bravest face, points out how cliché his plan is, and acts as if she's bored by the whole thing.

"We'll see how cliché you think it is when you're dead."

"That's another thing: you talk real big for someone who's just made the biggest mistake of his life. Just wait until Sherlock gets here."

He laughs at her. Loudly and mockingly. And for a moment her fear fades and all she wants to do is knock that stupid smirk off his bloody face. "You really believe he'll be upset over you? Ha! You're nothing more than that doctor's replacement. Just another person to stand there and listen to him talk. He'll find someone else when you're gone. You can't honestly believe you mean something to him, can you?"

Amy smirks. "Actually, I'm sort of his girlfriend."

It's sort of funny watching the expressions flash across his face – to go from surprise to horror to absolute disbelief to anger to some sort of bitter amusement. He forces a smirk. "You're lying."

"Oh, come on. I've been working with Sherlock for how long? You can't actually tell me you've been spying on him for so long and haven't noticed that I live with him. Pur-lease. What did you think was going on there?"

"Shut up."

"So tell me, if you know really know Sherlock so well, how do you think he's going to react to you kidnapping me now?"

"I said shut up!" he snaps.

Turns out Mental Serial Man doesn't take too kindly to being proven wrong. (Or threatened. She's not actually sure which it is.) He responds by pointing his gun at her forehead. Her mouth snaps shut and her eyes widen. He immediately smirks and traces the gun around her face, from her forehead to her nose to her jaw. And this time, this time she really is too scared to do anything.

In fact, she's so bloody scared that she doesn't even notice Sherlock until her captor's lying unconscious on the ground. She isn't quite sure what happens after that – it all sort of blurs together into one giant mess – but Lestrade and Donovan come in with their guns pointed at Mental Serial Man and suddenly Sherlock is crouched in front of her, untying her from the chair.

His hands remain steady as he inspects her for any signs of an injury and his voice is even as he asks her if he did anything to her and if she's alright. Still, she can see the anger dancing in his eyes when he looks up at her and, for a moment, she wonders what would have happened to Mental Serial Man if Lestrade and Donovan weren't here to protect him from Sherlock.

She shakes the thought from her head and takes a deep breath. Even with the psycho cuffed up, they still have a job do. They can't both afford to be so emotional right now and let's face it: Sherlock's not exactly the best at controlling his anger. So she forces a smile onto her face and stands up. Looks like she'll have to be the reasonable one. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

Sherlock frowns and stands up. "Well, you were just kidnapped and threatened."

"Psh. That guy? Please, it'll take more than some deranged fanboy to get to me." She waves him off as Donovan drags the cuffed criminal out of the flat. Amy pushes past Sherlock and walks over to Lestrade. "Oi, Inspec-tor. Today's your lucky day – the moron confessed everything to me. Are you ready for my statement?"

She doesn't give him the chance to respond. Instead, she grabs him by the arm and drags him out of the room as she explains everything. She ignores Sherlock and the look in his eyes that clearly says he knows she's not alright. The one that says he knows she's lying.


It takes her an entire week to convince herself to find his grave. She doesn't bring flowers or anything like that when she goes. Sherlock always hated those sorts of things, after all – said he never understood the point in them. He never fully grasped the whole sentiment thing, even after the time she sat him down and tried to explain it. He'd just asked ridiculous questions that she hadn't quite known how to answer and it just ended in them screaming at one another.

Amy smiles softly, sadly. They really were an impossible pair, the two of them. They spent so much of their time just arguing with one another, both of them too bloody stubborn to ever admit that the other might possibly not be wrong. They once went an entire week without speaking over something she can't even remember. But, somehow, that didn't matter. They could fight, scream, and bicker to the ends of the Earth, but it just sort of worked for them, ya know?

It wasn't anything like being married to Rory. Don't get her wrong, because she loves Rory – she really does – but it's just… different. Rory is safe, he's sane. He's her little piece of normalcy, the one that keeps her grounded and attached and real. But Sherlock, he's… well, he's one of the maddest men she's ever met in her life (and she's travelled with the Doctor). He was annoying and brilliant and drove her up the stupid wall way too often. But it was exciting and challenging and absolutely impossible.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. When she opens them again, they land on the headstone. Her fingers brush against the top of the stone and for a moment she has no idea what to do. What exactly are you supposed to do in front of the grave of a man you've never actually met, but remember being married to? How do you even react to that sort of thing? (You think after all the timey-wimeyness, she'd be better at this.)

"You know," she finally says, "Sometimes I wondered if we were meant to meet. If there could have been an Amelia Pond and Sherlock Holmes out there, solving crimes in a universe that actually made sense. One that didn't have pterodactyls flying in parks or cars attached to hot air balloons or any of that nonsense," she laughs and a few tears slip from her eyes. "I wondered if we could ever have existed in a world where time hadn't gone wrong. But now... now I don't think that's possible. Maybe we were just some sort of a freak accident – two mad people who just sort of collided, ya know?

"And you know what? Maybe we weren't supposed to be. But, I don't care, because we did. And you might have been an arse, but I probably drove you just as mad. And I know you probably don't know who I am, but I don't think I'll ever forget you, Sherlock. I remember all those cases we solved, those adventures we had, all those times... the ones you'll never know."

She has more to say – how she hopes he was happy in this life, how she doesn't believe the things they say about him being a fake, how he's an arse for leaving her before she could ever find him. How much she misses him – but her visions all blurred and it's kind of hard to think, much less talk.

She takes a deep breath and tries to calm herself, because a part of her thinks she needs to say this. Needs to get this all out so that maybe she can let go and move on with everything. He isn't her husband anymore. Hell, technically, he never was her husband to begin with. And now he's gone. Dead. No more. That's it. Show's over ladies and gentlemen – Sherlock Holmes has left the building.

But it doesn't work. Because the thing is, she doesn't think she can let it go. She loves Rory – she's happy with him and she has absolutely no intention of ever leaving him. But how in the world can she just let this go? He wasn't just some stupid stranger she met on the street somewhere. He was Sherlock bloody Holmes, her partner, her husband. Fake universe or not, there was a time when a part of her thought he was always going to be there. That was her life and there was no changing that, because that was what she wanted.

That was what she loved.

Amy shakes her head and tries to blink back the tears. Because the thing is, she has to let it go. She has no choice. She never had a choice. Not when it came to meeting him and definitely not when it came to leaving him. It was him or the universe – there was never a competition. And yeah, it sucked. It still sucks.

But she doesn't have a choice, so she turns around and leaves. She leaves because she has a husband and a daughter and a career here. She has life here, one that Sherlock was never part of. One that he could never be a part of. Not now. Not anymore. So she turns around and leaves and tells herself that there's no looking back.

No matter how much she wants to.


She doesn't sleep that night, of course. She tosses and turns in her bed, counts sheep, and all those stupid other tricks that are supposed to help, but none of it works. Because every time she gets close – every time she closes her eyes – she sees him. Amy knows that, logically, that can't happen. Mental Serial Man's gone, taken away, locked behind bars. But even when she knows that and even though she can fake the tough act, she can feel the gun pressed against her forehead, tracing the edge of her face, his finger ready to pull the trigger any moment.

So she tosses the blanket, tired of just lying in bed like some sort of scared moron, and peers out the bedroom door. For a moment, she considers going to Sherlock's room, and she makes it all the way to his door, her fingers just short of his doorknob, before she stops herself. She shakes her head and almost wants to laugh at herself. Sherlock and her might be, well, whatever the hell they are, but she doubts he's the comforting type. The arse would probably just get annoyed with her. He's faced how many crazed serial killers? He's probably used to the whole thing by now.

So instead, she grabs a glass from the kitchen and a bottle of scotch from the cabinet, and turns the telly on. A rubbish show will help her forget. Something so awful that it could only be on at this hour.

It doesn't even take Sherlock half a glass of scotch to come out of his room, his blue robe careless thrown on over his pyjamas. He's even got a bit of a bedhead, which means she probably even woke him up. The tiniest bit of guilt swells in her stomach, but she can't bring herself to apologise. Instead, she finishes her glass, shrugs, and flips through the channels.

"Couldn't sleep," she mumbles without being asked.

"Obviously," he answers automatically.

She glares at him for a moment, but he just stands there, staring at her, and she can practically feel him deducing her. Part of her considers throwing something at him and telling him to knock it the hell off, but she doesn't. Instead, she pours herself another glass and flips through some more of the channels. It can't possibly be this hard to find a rubbish show. What else would they be willing to air at this stupid hour?

He sighs behind her. "Amelia, I understand that today must have been frightening for you. I would also understand if you decided you no longer wanted to work with me."

"I'm not quitting," she snaps back.

She can practically hear him frown as if he had been expecting her answer to be something else. "Are you sure? I imagine anyone else in your situation–"

Amy turns her head back and glares at him. "Yeah, well, I'm not anyone else so I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

He pauses for a moment and she knows he's reading her, trying to deduce whether she actually means it. She does and it doesn't take him long to come to that conclusion. A small, almost proud smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "As you wish," he tells her. She doesn't say anything, but she smiles back at him.

Sherlock turns to leave and her eyes immediately widen. Without stopping to think about it, she calls after him. "Stay for a bit, will ya?" He freezes and Amy doesn't have to see his stupid face to know he's surprised – genuinely taken back by her request. This is Sherlock, after all. There's a reason she picked the telly over his room. She shakes her head. "Never mind. Forget I said it," she mumbles.

She turns back to the telly and goes back to flipping through the channels like some sort of madwoman. She makes it through at least twenty or so channels before Sherlock takes the controller from her hands. An 'oi' jumps out of her lips, but he ignores it. Instead, he mumbles something about choosing what to watch as he sits down beside her and turns it to some sort of news program.

Amy watches him for a moment before she smiles. Without even bothering to think about it, she leans her head against him. He tenses up for a second – it doesn't surprise her; even after what they've become, he's still not completely used to her touch – but he doesn't move away. The tension stays, but after a beat or two, he moves his arm around her shoulders, and her head falls against his chest.

They sit like that, slightly awkward and tense, with their eyes both locked on the telly. She doesn't know how long they stay like that, but at some point her vision blurs, no matter how hard she tries to blink the tears back. They fall from her eyes, quietly at first. Slowly it turns into soft sobs and eventually she can't breathe. And so she cries into his chest while he sits there, being absolutely rubbish at comforting her.

But still, he stays. He stays through all of her rubbish tears and wordless emotions, until she cries herself to sleep. He stays with her through the night until the sunrises and she wakes up with a crick in her neck and a stiff body. He stays there even after she finally pulls back and looks at him through widened eyes. He coughs awkwardly and asks her if she's alright now. It's only when she says that she is, he mumbles something about washing up and finally stands up.

Amy just sits there and watches him, too bloody surprised to move, because he stayed. Him. – Sherlock Holmes – Mr Unaffectionate himself, stayed. He stayed with her. He stayed for her.

And she thinks that's the day she decides that she's never going to leave him either.


As far back as she can remember, Amy's never really been a normal girl. She thinks that part of that is probably because as far back she can remember isn't always the same every time she remembers it. You see, as far back as she can remember changes based on what life she's remembering. She remembers growing up alone with only Aunt Sharon in that big empty house, but she also remembers a life where her mum and dad raised her in a home that never once felt empty or alone. Two separate lives in her head. Both of them, in her head, at the same time. And it shouldn't be okay, it shouldn't work, but it does.

The Doctor once told her that time is a bit impossible like that. There are a million different universes out there, each with their own little histories, each based off a different set of events, a set of decisions. They stay apart from one another, but sometimes, just sometimes, they collide. In that case, one reality consumes the other and most people don't even notice. But there are a few people who do.

He told her that it doesn't matter if she remembers two events that contradict each other. All that matters is that she can remember them. You see, if you can remember it – if you can see it when you close your eyes, hear it in your head, feel it in your heart – then it happened. That's all there is to it. It's that simple.

Except she wishes it wasn't. Because, you see, she remembers this other universe – this mad impossible one where she lived this entirely different life – and in this universe, she remembers making a decision to let it go. She remembers leaving Sherlock to find the Doctor and save the universe so that she could save everyone in it, including Sherlock. She remembers leaving her ring and her note for him to find and telling herself that it would be okay, because he won't remember any of it anyway. Because she will fix everything and he will return to his life without her – a normal, happy life where he survives without her.

Thing is, he didn't survive, now did he?

He lived in this world, built his career from the ground, only to lose it all too early. And that never happened in the other universe, the one where she worked with him, lived with him, married him. He lived his life fully and obsessively, always ready for the next case. In that universe no one ever accused him of being a fake, drove him to such extremes. In that world, he lived.

And that was the deal, wasn't it? If she left him and fixed everything, he wouldn't have her, but he would be alive and alright. He was supposed to survive without her. So what if she hadn't done it then? What if she had just stayed in that other stupid universe and just let things run their course? Maybe it would have been a disaster and maybe nothing would be right, but at least she'd know they were all okay. River, Rory, the Doctor, Sherlock – their lives would be all sorts of chaos, but at least they would all be alive!

But she made her decision, she left Sherlock and found River and tried to fix time. She captured the Doctor and brought him to River and just stood there and let him die. She came back to this universe only to find out that Sherlock jumped off a building and died too. She made her decision to save the people she loved, only to lose half of them in the process. Funny how that works out, eh? After all, it's just like the Doctor said – there are millions of universes out there and the things that distinguish them are the events that happen. The decisions they make.

The decision she made.


Every now and then she catches him playing a certain song on his violin. He usually does it when she thinks she can't hear him, so it doesn't happen very often. But sometimes she catches him off guard – usually as she's getting out of the shower or coming home with groceries. Even then, she only catches thirty or so seconds, because he stops or changes the song the moment he notices her. Then the arse avoids the topic in a way that only Sherlock can.

One night she wakes up to the sound of violin playing that song and the moment she recognizes the tune, a smirk tugs at her lips. She's got him this time, she thinks as she grabs his blue shirt off the floor and pulls it on. She only bothers to button a few buttons before she get too impatient and leaves the room with nothing else on.

The music drowns the sounds of her feet pattering against the floor. Still, she doesn't get too close in case he notices her and decides to stop again.

But he doesn't stop; he just keeps playing and, for the first time, Amy finally hears the whole song. The melody is a bit soft, but somehow still playful and alive. It's an odd combination and it shouldn't work, but it somehow does. An awed smile tugs at her lips, because she's heard Sherlock play a million times before, but never like this. He plays to think, to focus his mind. But this time, it doesn't seem like that. This time, he's playing for some other reason and it's probably the most beautiful thing she's ever heard.

Eventually the tune fades away and he stands still for a moment. "I'm told it's rude to stare," he says as he lowers his violin and turns to face her.

"Psh. You're one to talk." She rolls her eyes, but finally moves closer. "Is that the same piece you've been pretending not to work on?"

He nods, not in the least bit surprised to her being onto his poorly kept secret. "It is."

"It's beautiful," she tells him. And then, after a beat, adds, "So what's the deal with the secrecy then?" He's never bothered to hide his violin playing from her before. Hell, when she moved in, he made it perfectly clear that he had no intention of not playing just because she was around.

He coughs and avoids her gaze. "It wasn't finished."

Amy frowns. That's a rubbish reason if she ever heard one. He's composted half written songs in front of her more times than she can even begin to count. Why would he keep this one from her? What's so special about this one? She opens her mouth to ask him, but shuts it the moment his eyes meet hers, because suddenly she gets it. You see, this wasn't just an ordinary piece he composed to help think, to focus his mind. No, he wrote this piece with a purpose. He wrote it for a specific reason. And she thinks that reason might just be her.

It's almost funny, she thinks, how the world calls him cold and heartless. He's a bloody machine, they say, he doesn't have any emotions. But the truth is, he does. He has so many stupid emotions – he's angry and jealous and passionate. He's protective when he feels threatened, gentle when he needs to be, and even kind… in his own ridiculous Sherlock way, that is. Truth be told, he's the most emotional man Amy's ever met. They just can't see it because they don't want to. But she does.

And standing there in the middle of the night, watching him awkwardly waiting for her response, she can see it all – the compassion, the tenderness, the affection. All the things he doesn't exactly know how to articulate properly. You see, he doesn't express himself like other people, but that doesn't mean it's not all still there. She understands because, in a way, she's just as rubbish as he is. They make quite the pair, don't they?

Amy smiles and closes the distance between them. She pecks him on the lips. "Come back to bed, moron."

They're not exactly what you would call a functioning couple. Hell, she's not even sure you could call them a couple at all. They spend most of their "late nights" studying murder victims, they never really share affectionate words, and their idea of a nice dinner is Chinese takeout in the morgue. Sometimes she thinks they spend more time bickering or discussing serial killers than they do on normal conversations. But maybe, just maybe, that's what makes it okay. Because, you see, they're okay with it being like this. They're happy this way.

And you know what? They may not say those three stupid words like everyone else does, but that doesn't mean they don't say it in their own little way.


One morning she gets a note from River saying that she'll pop in for a visit later. It's sort of a ritual they have now – River breaking out from Stormcage every now and then to visit her. The first time she did it was the night after the Doctor brought them to their new house. She didn't give them any explanation as to how she knew they were there. She just smiled and let herself in with a key Amy assumes she'll give River at some point in her future.

That evening, she breaks out a bottle of her favourite wine and waits for her daughter to come home. She tries to be happy and focus on the time she rarely gets to spend with her time-headed baby girl.

"Where are you?" River asks, taking a sip of her wine.

Amy stares at her journal for a moment before she takes a deep breath and puts the book down. "The Doctor's dead," she tells her.

"How are you doing?"

She wrinkles her nose and forces a sad smile. "How do you think?" The Doctor, Sherlock, a whole other stupid universe is gone. "I killed someone."

"In an aborted timeline in a world that never was."

"But I can remember it, so it happened, so I did it. So what does that make me?" she asks. River doesn't answer her question so sighs and just takes another sip of her wine. "I need to talk to the Doctor, but I can't now, can I?"

River doesn't answer her directly. She talks around her answer, asking Amy if seeing him would help. And of course it would, but he's dead. Gone. There's no bringing him back now. Except her daughter has this mischievous glint in her eye – the stupid one that drives her mad every time she answers a question with 'spoilers.'

"Oh, that man." River grins wickedly. "Always one step ahead of everyone. There's always a plan."

She spills after that – tells her the whole truth. And Amy jumps out of her seat, knocking her glass of wine over the moment the words leave River's mouth. But she doesn't care. The Doctor isn't dead. He faked his death to throw the Silence off his path. Her stupid moron of a Doctor is alive. And for the first time in what feels like ages, Amy laughs. She laughs so full and loud that she even starts dancing like some sort of ridiculous moron. But she doesn't care because he's still alive.

They spend the night laughing and celebrating and probably drinking far too much wine. River stays until two in the morning, long after Rory's already gone off to bed. Amy cleans off the table in the garden and takes the wine glasses back to the kitchen. She yawns, stretches, and turns off the lights. It's just as she's climbing up the stairs that she sticks her hand in her pockets and stops in her spot the moment she does.

She stands there for a moment, before she wraps her fingers around the ring and pulls it out. She stares at it and the thought finally rings in her mind, loud and clear. The realisation. And she knows that it's absolutely ridiculous and she's probably just had too much to drink, because there's no stupid way it can be true. It's one thing for the Doctor to do it, but Sherlock? There's no way he could. It isn't actually possible, ya know?

Still, River's words ring in her ears and refuse to shake off. "Oh, that man. Always one step ahead of everyone. There's always a plan."

Except if anyone else in the world – in the whole bloody universe – could do it, it would be him. He was always quicker than everyone else, always prepared for what others couldn't see.

So what if he knew something was about to happen? Something big? The reports she read said Sherlock had hired a man named Moriarty to act as villain. That Sherlock was nothing more than a fake. But he wasn't. – He isn't. She knows he isn't. – So what if he found a way? What if he knew something was coming and he found a way to do it? Because if any human could do it, it would be him. He could do it. He would do it.

It's absolutely ridiculous, but the more she thinks about it, the more it makes sense. A hell of a lot more sense than what the news reports tell her. Just because everyone else can't see it, just because they can't notice something like this, doesn't mean it can't happen. And, okay yeah, it's not probable, but that doesn't mean it's not possible. And once you've eliminated the impossible...

Sherlock's alive.


When Sherlock gets bored, he becomes almost unbearable. He nags and complains and destroys their flat until he finds something to do. When Amy gets bored, however, she finds a more mischievous way to entertain herself. Ones that usually involves annoying him.

One evening when she has nothing to do and he's busy in the dining room, working on some experiment or another, a wicked idea comes to her. Part of her knows that she shouldn't do it, but a bigger part of her decides that indulging is definitely the best thing to do. What else is she going to do? Watch the same rubbish show on the telly? Yeah, no thanks.

So instead, she gets up from the sofa and walks into the dining room. She knows Sherlock notices her, but he doesn't react; he just continues on with his boring experiment. Amy rolls her eyes but smirks as she pulls his chair away from the table. An angry protest comes from his mouth, but quickly falls silent when she plants herself on his lap instead. He gives her a look that she assumes is meant to be annoyed, but a bit of curiosity slips through and he just ends up looking ridiculous instead.

Amy slips her arms around his neck and she gives him a mischievous grin. He opens his mouth to question her, but doesn't get much further than her name before she silences him with a kiss. And not just any kiss – oh no. It's the mother of all kisses – long, hard, and passionate. It's just as he begins to kiss her back that she smirks against his lips and pulls back. She stands up, straightens her skirt down, and turns around and walks back to the sofa.

Without a word, she turns the telly on and leaves Sherlock alone, clueless, and probably more than slightly annoyed.


This time when she goes to the cemetery, she brings flowers just because she knows he'd hate it. And she knows she probably looks like the strangest thing, wandering over to his grave with a bundle of sunflowers and a wicked grin, but she doesn't care. Let them think her mad – she knows the truth. And she knows she can't prove it or tell anyone, but she knows that she's right and right now that's all that matters.

"You're an arse," she tells the tombstone as if it has any sort connection to its supposed owner. "And I really mean it this time. You actually had me believing your stupid act for a while there too. The great Sherlock Holmes and his dramatic death. Although that part really shouldn't surprise me – you always were such show off, weren't ya? You'd go on and on about things no one else cared about, just so we could know how bloody brilliant you are. – But this? This might have been a bit much, even for you.

"I don't know why you did it – I'm sure you think you had your reasons – but I am going to figure them out, okay? Because you may have the rest of the world fooled, but not me. Not anymore." She crouches down and places the flowers in front of the stone. "I know you're alive. You're out there somewhere and I'm going to find you, Sherlock Holmes. Just try and stop me," she promises him.

She stands up and straightens her skirt before she turns and leave. She doesn't hesitate, doesn't linger – she has work to do, after all.

The game is on.

Note: The last chapter is gonna take a little while to get out, because I need to take a pause from this fic to work on my Sherlock/Amy little bang. Sorry guys.