An Eye for an Eye (Doctor Who/Sherlock Crossover)

Hallucinations

The Point of View of John Watson

    John could still see him sometimes.

    They were usually just flashes, out of the corner of his eye. If he turned to look, by the time he blinked, the image was gone.

    But occasionally, he could see him fully. As if he had come back from the dead.

    That afternoon, John woke up from a nap to the sound of a violin playing in the other room. He’d barely touched his tea before nodding off.

    He sat up, listening while he rubbed his eyes, and felt his heart begin to swell with nerves. It couldn’t be. That violin had sat, untouched, for half a year.

    He got out of bed at a snail’s pace, terrified that the smallest noise could scare the apparition away. So it took him a full minute to open the door to his room and peer out into the living room, but when he did, he felt a grin spread on his lips.

    There, by the window, was Sherlock Holmes.

    “Sherlock,” John whispered.

    He turned quickly and returned the grin, his black curls bouncing in the light from outside. “John,” he said curtly. “Good to see you haven’t redecorated. Put the kettle on?”

    “Black?”

    “That’s how I’ve always had it, what evidence do you have that says I’ve changed my habits?”

    “Of course,” John sighed. But as he headed to the kitchen and put some water on the stove, he was more than content as the sound of the violin filled the air. It was a happier tune than Sherlock normally played, more upbeat and positive – nothing melodramatic or depressing.

    Sherlock had opened all the window shades, so the light of day was filtering in and illuminating the apartment that John had tried to keep in the dark for months. Everything was as it should be.

    But just as John was about to bring Sherlock’s tea to him, there was a knock on the door. The violin music abruptly stopped.

    “Mrs. Hudson?” John called, setting the two teacups on the coffee table. He made his way to the door and opened it, expecting their housekeeper to be standing there with the mail or a plate of cookies she’d baked. But instead, he opened the door to a wiry man wearing a bowtie. “Who the hell are you?”

    “John Watson!” the man cried, grabbing John’s hand and shaking it vigorously. “I mean, eh, you’re John Watson. Not me. But what a pleasure to meet you, finally!”

    John shook the man’s hand but was sure to stand in a way that blocked him from entering. “What – you – uh, excuse me? How did you even get in this building?”

   “Oh, simple sonic technology, it was no trouble, don’t you worry!” The man grinned sheepishly and clapped his hands together. “Now, on to business.”

    John gaped as the man pushed him aside and trotted into the flat. “I’m sorry, but you need to leave –”

    “Ooh, tea!” The man grabbed hold of Sherlock’s cup and breathed it in. “You don’t mind, do you?”

    “Listen, whoever you are –”

    “The Doctor!” He took a large sip. “Call me the Doctor.”

    “All right then…” John shut the door behind him with a heavy sigh. “You’re a doctor. So am I.”

    The Doctor was inspecting the dust on the mantelpiece as if it was a thousand year old artifact. He turned abruptly and quipped, “No, no, not that kind of doctor.”