Another story I'm not planning on updating anytime soon! Sorry for being such a tease, but I couldn't help myself. Oh well, you know what to do.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or Doctor Who.

Doctor John

Everyone assumes Sherlock is the Doctor. He is brilliant after all. He seems like he's from another world, that he knows more than anyone could ever know. Well, they aren't entirely wrong. However, they are wrong about something crucial; Sherlock isn't the Doctor. And it hurts me to think that my friends don't recognise me, that they look straight through me like I'm nothing. I thought I was important to them. But obviously I'm not; otherwise they would recognise me, no matter how I look. I mean, even my 'arch-enemy' doesn't recognise me! If only River were still here… But she's not. She's dead. Dead and gone. Sherlock is the only one I can truly rely on now. He's the only one I can trust.

"Bored! Bored, bored, bored!" Sherlock yelled, throwing a pillow (of course it was John's) across the room. "John! Where's your gun?"

"Uh-uh, no. I am not giving you my gun so you can shoot the wall and drive Mrs Hudson up it." John replied, not lowering his newspaper.

"But I'm bored!"

"I don't care."

Sherlock let out an angry breath, flopping back onto the couch in a tangled, long-limbed mess. "What's wrong with criminals these days? Can't any of them use their imagination?"

"Perhaps they're afraid that the big, bad Mr Holmes will catch them." John mused.

"Oh please, John. You and I both know that most criminals are arrogant enough to assume they can best me, they just haven't the brains to come up with something interesting that has at least half-a-chance."

"Maybe if you're a good little boy, Santa'll bring you a nice serial killer for Christmas." John teased, finally lowering his newspaper. "Perhaps he'll reincarnate the 'Rhyming Reaper' for you."

Sherlock made a noise of disgust. "Really, John. I thought you would at least be above the use of such silly little names."

John shrugged. "It's easier to call him by a moniker than by his real name. I suppose it makes him less human and easier to tolerate."

"Why would making him less human make him easier to tolerate?"

"It makes what he's done seem a little less horrible. Or something like that."

"Ugh. People are so…"

"Human?" John offered.

"Yes. Human." Sherlock repeated derisively. "Sometimes I wonder how you can stand to be a part of it all; the human race."

"I don't have much of a choice." John chuckled.

Sherlock frowned, looking at John in confusion. "Then why-" He cut himself off, sitting bolt upright as the doorbell cried out. "Client." He said automatically, practically leaping three feet in the air in his haste to get to his room. "Keep them busy for a moment while I get dressed!"

"You went to the palace in nothing but a bed sheet, yet you won't face a client without at least five minutes to fix your hair." John mused.

"If you'd care to actually time it, John, you'd find it only takes two minutes." Sherlock replied. "And I do not 'fix my hair'. Would you really want me facing potential clients in my dressing gown?"

"I suppose you'd lose your air of professionalism."

"Exactly. Now, keep them busy for three minutes." Sherlock instructed, disappearing into his room.

John rolled his eyes and headed downstairs, meeting Mrs Hudson at the bottom. "It's a client." He told her.

She nodded, turning back to her apartment. "Alright, dear. Hopefully it will be something to occupy Sherlock's attention for longer than five seconds." She smiled.

John grinned in response, turning his attention back to the now frantically ringing doorbell. "Alright, alright, I'm coming." He called, opening the door. "Hi, I'm-"

"Is he here?" A red-headed female demanded in a heavy Scottish drawl.

"Sherlock? Yeah, he's here. If you go upstairs and wait he'll-"

The woman raced upstairs, obviously not listening to (or caring about) a word John said.

"-Be right with you." John finished awkwardly, glancing at the tawny-haired man who still hovered in the doorway. "Er, come in, Mr…?"

"Pond. Rory Pond. That was my wife Amy." The man said, offering John his hand and smiling tightly.

"Doctor John Watson. Nice to meet you. Sherlock's upstairs, so, if you'll follow me…" John trailed off, gesturing for Rory to follow him.

The two entered the flat to find Amy looking around, obviously searching for Sherlock.

"He'll be out in a moment. You can sit down on the sofa there and wait. Would you like some tea or coffee or something?" John offered.

"Tea?" Amy asked in disbelief, as though John had just insulter her mother. "You're offering tea at a time like this? The whole world is in danger and you're offering tea!"

"Amy." Rory said softly.

John looked from one to the other, completely bewildered, then let it go. They were Sherlock's clients after all. "Right… Er, I'll just… go get Sherlock." He muttered.

"Good idea." Amy replied.

"No need, John. I'm here." Sherlock said, appearing in the doorway, in his usual high-end suit. "So, sit down, tell me about the case, but don't bore me." He warned, perching himself on his chair.

"I want you to look at this." Amy said, pulling out what looked like a broken fob watch and shoving it under Sherlock's nose.

Sherlock took it, turning it over in his hands, sniffing it and even licking it at one stage. He pulled a face and handed it back. "Ugh, Time Lord technology. Old. Gross."

"No, wait- you- you're supposed to open it." Amy told him.

"Only a Time Lord can open it." Sherlock replied.

"Duh, so open it and be a Time Lord again."

"Amy, I don't think…" Rory began.

"I'm not a Time Lord. I can't open it."

"You are and you can. You will." Amy insisted.

"Amy." Rory said again.

"What?" Amy snapped.

"I don't think it's him."

"But… the message. It said he'd be here. Here, Rory. Who else could it be?"

"Why don't you try asking Doctor Watson?" Sherlock suggested.

The three of them turned to find John staring at the watch, completely entranced. Sherlock plucked the watch from Amy's grasp and lobbed it to John, who caught it with one hand. He stared at the watch, running his fingers along the cover. Memories rose to the surface. But… they weren't his memories. At least, strictly speaking, they seemed like they weren't his memories. He frowned at the watch. "That woman… when I was a child, so very little, only seven… she appeared to me. She said she'd keep it safe for me… it was a gift from my Grandpa… and then… she told me to run." He whispered. "Goodbye… my love. She… yelled it to me, and when I… glanced over my shoulder… she was gone. And I… the nightmares stopped. After she took it. But… when I went to… Afghanistan, they- they started again. Then, when I met Sherlock… the nightmares stopped… and I dreamed. I dreamed of stars… of worlds so very far away. Of places I could never know, yet I dreamed of them. And- and the people I dreamed of… so many friends… so many enemies. So- so many… dead."

"Open the watch, John." Sherlock urged. "Open the watch and you'll understand."

John did as he was told. And then his life changed, completely.