By Soledad

Fandom: Sherlock BBC/Dr. Who crossover.

Genre: Action-adventure/Friendship, with a grain of humour.

Rating: Teens, just to be on the safe side.

Timeframe: past Torchwood: Children of Earth for "Dr. Who"; starting pre-series and including an alternate version of the unaired pilot for "Sherlock".

Series: Yep, this is one, okay?

Disclaimer: Dr. Who belongs to the BBC. Sherlock Holmes and the related characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. However, these particular versions of them belong to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, may they never grow tired of the series. Only the weird crossover idea belongs to me.

Summary: It is the last incarnation of the Doctor, and he's stranded on Earth with a broken TARDIS and with a serious wrong he needs to right. However, the way to that is a long and arduous one.


The basic idea to this series was born when I saw a picture of Benedict Cumberbatch as a redhead. I was reminded of the Doctor's eternal woe about never regenerating as a ginger, so I did him the favour. So, this is basically a series about the Thirteenth Doctor as Sherlock Holmes, for obvious reasons. Many other "Sherlock" characters have been replaced by "Dr. Who" characters, just for the fun of it. I strongly hope it will all make sense in the end.

There'll be some adapting of the one or other Conan Doyle story, as well as retelling certain TV canon events from a different POV. Or with a major twist. Or both. I'm also trying out a different style here, writing short, interconnected one-shots. Again, I hope it will work out in the end.

Enjoy – and if you do, give the muse a little encouragement.


Chapter 01 – The Landing

Author's note: For the sake of this story I assumed that the 12th Doctor was played by Siddig El Fadil aka Alexander Siddig. *shrugs* I like him, and he'd certainly make a good and very different Doctor. Thirteen is played by Benedict Cumberbatch, in case you haven't guessed.

Also, I adopted the canon piece of Classic!Who that Time Lords can only regenerate thirteen times altogether. I don't know if this is still the rule, but in these settings it is.

This time the regeneration turned out a very rough ride, but that was to be expected. It always took a lot out of him, and since this was his last one, his energy reserves were all but depleted and the recovery longer and more tiresome than ever before.

Twelve lives had he already lived; some of them long, some shockingly short, but this was his last chance. He'd have to be more careful with this one. His last incarnation had crossed the thousand-year-barrier, but that was still not a particularly high age for a Time Lord. In fact, going through all possible regenerations in a mere millennium could be considered a reckless thing… or particularly bad luck.

Not that he'd ever cared what other people – even other Time Lords – would think about him.

He clambered to his feet and went to the mirror, considerately provided by the TARDIS, to check his new appearance… and gave a rather undignified squeal when he saw the thick red curls. Finally ginger! It had only taken him thirteen lives and a millennium to finally get the hair colour he'd have preferred all the time!

The rest wasn't bad either, not bad at all. Pale, aristocratic features – well, the nose was a bit short but still acceptable – large, slanted blue-green eyes, arched eyebrows like the wings of a swallow… it was a surprisingly attractive face if he said so himself. Certainly the best-looking one he'd worn for a very long time.

The body going with it earned his approval, too. For starters, he was tall again – what a relief after the scruffy little man he'd been most recently! Tall and fairly thin, with long limbs and a predatory grace to its movements that his eleventh regeneration so woefully lacked. All in all, a very good body, considering that it was going to be his last one.

"You'll do just fine," he told his mirror image and was pleased with his new voice. A warm, rich baritone; the best voice he'd had so far.

The best voice he was ever going to have, all things considered.

Now he had to choose the right outfit, which promised to be a lengthy stay in the wardrobe. This new appearance demanded something distinctively elegant; something classic. Suits, most likely. And a matching coat.

As he entered the wardrobe, the TARDIS, picking up his line of thinking, gently moved one of the sections forward. There were several classic suits, in dark grey and black, with narrow-leg trousers and two-button, slim-cut jackets. He experimentally fingered the sleeve of one jacket; the cloth was really very nice to touch. Such sombre colours weren't really his thing – at least hadn't been since his ninth incarnation – but with such a flaming hair colour he had to be careful with his choices or he'd end up looking like a clown.

Been there, done that, still feeling vaguely ashamed about it.

The same aspect was to be considered by the choice of shirts; fortunately, the TARDIS had a flawless taste in such things (whenever he chose to listen to her, which was, admittedly, a rare occasion). She offered him fitted shirts in white and in deep purple or aubergine (the latter ones with a little lilac pinstripe), which accentuated his new, slim silhouette and sat perfectly. He opted for a purple one with a dark grey suit.

By such elegant clothing wearing his beloved trainers was out of question. Naturally. In fact, he didn't even feel like wearing trainers ever again. So he followed the TARDIS' lead and pulled on the proffered black leather lace-up shoes and found them surprisingly comfortable. He also selected a stainless steel Rotary watch and fastened it around his wrist.

"Brilliant," he judged, checking his greatly improved looks in the conveniently appearing large mirror. He hadn't cared much about such things during his last four lives, but now he was beginning to understand what Jack Harkness had meant about vanity and getting older.

Was he really getting older, now that he'd reached the last leg of his journeys?

He shook his head; that was a stupid line of thought, and besides, he didn't want to burden himself with memories about Jack Harkness and what he owed the man. He'd have to give that topic a great deal of thought later, but right now he was still finding his footing.

Speaking of which, he needed to get out of the TARDIS and take a look around to determine where – and, more importantly, when – had he landed. The time stamp in the control room had shown twenty-first-century Britain last time he'd managed to get a glimpse, but that needed to be narrowed down. The TARDIS could never navigate well within short time distances, so one could never know…

He had no idea in which season he'd landed, either, but weather in Britain was never particularly pleasant if memory served him well. He needed a coat, because he adamantly refused to use an umbrella. Never again. Probably a scarf and a pair of gloves, too. Who could tell what the weather was doing outside?

Already a step ahead of him, the TARDIS moved forward another section, and he could see a lovely woollen coat of classic cut. Waterproof, too, with a red buttonhole on the lapel; that reminded him of the stalk of celery he once used to wear in his buttonhole – in hindsight he couldn't understand what had ridden him to do something so idiotic. But again, his dressing choices hadn't always been very distinguished.

The dark coat came with an amazingly soft, navy blue cashmere scarf that had tasselled ends. It wasn't quite as long as the knitted one in those garish colours he'd once worn, but still long enough to double it and hook it around his neck. He loved it at once. Grabbing the pair of gloves made of black leather and dark grey wool that peeked out of the pockets of the coat, he now felt armed to face reality outside of his little cocoon.

Deciding against wearing a hat, at least for the time being, he put the sonic screwdriver into his breast pocket and leaving the TARDIS to her own devices (the old girl needed more time to reconfigure herself after a regeneration than in earlier times) he stepped out to check his surroundings.